terrible were the thoughts, the raging tumult of ideas that filled my
soul. At the end of that time I slept; I had not before since the third
sunset; and I dreamt that I was at Juliet’s feet, and she smiled, and
then she shrieked—for she saw my transformation—and again she smiled,
for still her beautiful lover knelt before her. But it was not I—it was
he, the fiend, arrayed in my limbs, speaking with my voice, winning her
with my looks of love. I strove to warn her, but my tongue refused its
office; I strove to tear him from her, but I was rooted to the ground—I
awoke with the agony. There were the solitary hoar precipices—there the
plashing sea, the quiet strand, and the blue sky over all. What did it
mean? was my dream but a mirror of the truth? was he wooing and winning
my betrothed? I would on the instant back to Genoa—but I was banished. I
laughed—the dwarf’s yell burst from my lips—_I_ banished! Oh no! they
had not exiled the foul limbs I wore; I might with these enter, without
fear of incurring the threatened penalty of death, my own, my native
city.
I began to walk towards Genoa. I was somewhat accustomed to my distorted
limbs; none were ever so ill-adapted for a straightforward movement; it
was with infinite difficulty that I proceeded. Then, too, I desired to
avoid all the hamlets strewed here and there on the sea-beach, for I was
unwilling to make a display of my hideousness. I was not quite sure
that, if seen, the mere boys would not stone me to death as I passed,
for a monster; some ungentle salutations I did receive from the few
peasants or fishermen I chanced to meet. But it was dark night before I
approached Genoa. The weather was so balmy and sweet that it struck me
that the Marchese and his daughter would very probably have quitted the
city for their country retreat. It was from Villa Torella that I had
attempted to carry off Juliet; I had spent many an hour reconnoitring
the spot, and knew each inch of ground in its vicinity. It was
beautifully situated, embosomed in trees, on the margin of a stream. As
I drew near, it became evident that my conjecture was right; nay,
moreover, that the hours were being then devoted to feasting and
merriment. For the house was lighted up; strains of soft and gay music
were wafted towards me by the breeze. My heart sank within me. Such was
the generous kindness of Torella’s heart that I felt sure that he would
not have indulged in public manifestations of rejoicing just after my
unfortunate banishment, but for a cause I dared not dwell upon.
The country people were all alive and flocking about; it became
necessary that I should conceal myself; and yet I longed to address some
one, or to hear others discourse, or in any way to gain intelligence of
what was really going on. At length, entering the walks that were in
immediate vicinity to the mansion, I found one dark enough to veil my
excessive frightfulness; and yet others as well as I were loitering in
its shade. I soon gathered all I wanted to know—all that first made my
very heart die with horror, and then boil with indignation. To-morrow
Juliet was to be given to the penitent, reformed, beloved
Guido—to-morrow my bride was to pledge her vows to a fiend from hell!
And I did this!—my accursed pride—my demoniac violence and wicked
self-idolatry had caused this act. For if I had acted as the wretch who
had stolen my form had acted—if, with a mien at once yielding and
dignified, I had presented myself to Torella, saying, I have done wrong,
forgive me; I am unworthy of your angel-child, but permit me to claim
her hereafter, when my altered conduct shall manifest that I abjure my
vices, and endeavour to become in some sort worthy of her. I go to serve
against the infidels; and when my zeal for religion and my true
penitence for the past shall appear to you to cancel my crimes, permit
me again to call myself your son. Thus had he spoken; and the penitent
was welcomed even as the prodigal son of Scripture: the fatted calf was
killed for him; and he, still pursuing the same path, displayed such
open-hearted regret for his follies, so humble a concession of all his
rights, and so ardent a resolve to reacquire them by a life of
contrition and virtue, that he quickly conquered the kind old man; and
full pardon, and the gift of his lovely child, followed in swift
succession.
Oh, had an angel from Paradise whispered to me to act thus! But now,
what would be the innocent Juliet’s fate? Would God permit the foul
union—or, some prodigy destroying it, link the dishonoured name of
Carega with the worst of crimes? To-morrow at dawn they were to be
married: there was but one way to prevent this—to meet mine enemy, and
to enforce the ratification of our agreement. I felt that this could
only be done by a mortal struggle. I had no sword—if indeed my distorted
arms could wield a soldier’s weapon—but I had a dagger, and in that lay
my hope. There was no time for pondering or balancing nicely the
question: I might die in the attempt; but besides the burning jealousy
and despair of my own heart, honour, mere humanity, demanded that I
should fall rather than not destroy the machinations of the fiend.
The guests departed—the lights began to disappear; it was evident that
the inhabitants of the villa were seeking repose. I hid myself among the
trees—the garden grew desert—the gates were closed—I wandered round and
came under a window—ah! well did I know the same!—a soft twilight
glimmered in the room—the curtains were half withdrawn. It was the
temple of innocence and beauty. Its magnificence was tempered, as it
were, by the slight disarrangements occasioned by its being dwelt in,
and all the objects scattered around displayed the taste of her who
hallowed it by her presence. I saw her enter with a quick light step—I
saw her approach the window—she drew back the curtain yet further, and
looked out into the night. Its breezy freshness played among her
ringlets, and wafted them from the transparent marble of her brow. She
clasped her hands, she raised her eyes to heaven. I heard her voice.
Guido! she softly murmured—mine own Guido! and then, as if overcome by
the fulness of her own heart, she sank on her knees;—her upraised
eyes—her graceful attitude—the beaming thankfulness that lighted up her
face—oh, these are tame words! Heart of mine, thou imagest ever, though
thou canst not portray, the celestial beauty of that child of light and
love.
I heard a step—a quick firm step along the shady avenue. Soon I saw a
cavalier, richly dressed, young and, methought, graceful to look on,
advance. I hid myself yet closer. The youth approached; he paused
beneath the window. She arose, and again looking out she saw him, and
said—I cannot, no, at this distant time I cannot record her terms of
soft silver tenderness; to me they were spoken, but they were replied to
by him.
“I will not go,” he cried: “here where you have been, where your memory
glides like some heaven-visiting ghost, I will pass the long hours till
we meet, never, my Juliet, again, day or night, to part. But do thou, my
love, retire; the cold morn and fitful breeze will make thy cheek pale,
and fill with languor thy love-lighted eyes. Ah, sweetest! could I press
one kiss upon them, I could, methinks, repose.”
And then he approached still nearer, and methought he was about to
clamber into her chamber. I had hesitated, not to terrify her; now I was
no longer master of myself. I rushed forward—I threw myself on him—I
tore him away—I cried, “O loathsome and foul-shaped wretch!”
I need not repeat epithets, all tending, as it appeared, to rail at a
person I at present feel some partiality for. A shriek rose from
Juliet’s lips. I neither heard nor saw—I _felt_ only mine enemy, whose
throat I grasped, and my dagger’s hilt; he struggled, but could not
escape. At length hoarsely he breathed these words: “Do!—strike home!
destroy this body—you will still live: may your life be long and merry!”
The descending dagger was arrested at the word, and he, feeling my hold
relax, extricated himself and drew his sword, while the uproar in the
house, and flying of torches from one room to the other, showed that
soon we should be separated. In the midst of my frenzy there was much
calculation:—fall I might, and so that he did not survive, I cared not
for the death-blow I might deal against myself. While still, therefore,
he thought I paused, and while I saw the villanous resolve to take
advantage of my hesitation, in the sudden thrust he made at me, I threw
myself on his sword, and at the same moment plunged my dagger, with a
true, desperate aim, in his side. We fell together, rolling over each
other, and the tide of blood that flowed from the gaping wound of each
mingled on the grass. More I know not—I fainted.
Again I return to life: weak almost to death, I found myself stretched
upon a bed—Juliet was kneeling beside it. Strange! my first broken
request was for a mirror. I was so wan and ghastly, that my poor girl
hesitated, as she told me afterwards; but, by the mass! I thought myself
a right proper youth when I saw the dear reflection of my own well-known
features. I confess it is a weakness, but I avow it, I do entertain a
considerable affection for the countenance and limbs I behold, whenever
I look at a glass; and have more mirrors in my house, and consult them
oftener, than any beauty in Genoa. Before you too much condemn me,
permit me to say that no one better knows than I the value of his own
body; no one, probably, except myself, ever having had it stolen from
him.
Incoherently I at first talked of the dwarf and his crimes, and
reproached Juliet for her too easy admission of his love. She thought me
raving, as well she might; and yet it was some time before I could
prevail on myself to admit that the Guido whose penitence had won her
back for me was myself; and while I cursed bitterly the monstrous dwarf,
and blest the well-directed blow that had deprived him of life, I
suddenly checked myself when I heard her say, Amen! knowing that him
whom she reviled was my very self. A little reflection taught me
silence—a little practice enabled me to speak of that frightful night
without any very excessive blunder. The wound I had given myself was no
mockery of one—it was long before I recovered—and as the benevolent and
generous Torella sat beside me, talking such wisdom as might win friends
to repentance, and mine own dear Juliet hovered near me, administering
to my wants, and cheering me by her smiles, the work of my bodily cure
and mental reform went on together. I have never, indeed, wholly
recovered my strength—my cheek is paler since—my person a little bent.
Juliet sometimes ventures to allude bitterly to the malice that caused
this change, but I kiss her on the moment, and tell her all is for the
best. I am a fonder and more faithful husband, and true is this—but for
that wound, never had I called her mine.
I did not revisit the sea-shore, nor seek for the fiend’s treasure; yet,
while I ponder on the past, I often think, and my confessor was not
backward in favouring the idea, that it might be a good rather than an
evil spirit, sent by my guardian angel, to show me the folly and misery
of pride. So well at least did I learn this lesson, roughly taught as I
was, that I am known now by all my friends and fellow-citizens by the
name of Guido il Cortese.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
X.
_THE SWISS PEASANT._
WHY is the mind of man so apt to be swayed by contraries? why does the
imagination for ever paint the impossible in glittering tints, and the
hearts of wayward mortals cling, with the greatest tenacity, to what,
eel-like, is bent on escaping from their grasp? Why—to bring the matter
home—is solitude abhorrent to me, now that I enjoy it in perfection? I
have apostrophized the coy nymph in ball-rooms, when the bright lamps of
heaven were shamed by brighter earth-stars, and lamented her absence at
a picnic party, where the nightingale was silenced by the fiddle.
And now, O solitude! I abjure thee, in thy fitting temple—in
Switzerland—among cloud-piercing mountains, by the resounding waves of
the isle-surrounding lake. I am beside the waters of Uri—where Tell
lived—in Brunen, where the Swiss patriots swore to die for freedom. It
rains—magic word to destroy the spell to which these words give rise—the
clouds envelop the hills—the white mists veil the ravines—there is a
roar and a splash in my ears—and now and then the vapours break and
scatter themselves, and I see something dark between, which is the hoar
side of a dark precipice, but which might as well be the turf stack or
old wall that bounded Cumberland’s view as he wrote the _Wheel of
Fortune_.
The sole book that I possess is the _Prisoner of Chillon_. I have read
it through three times within an hour. Its noble author composed it to
beguile weary hours like these when he remained rain-bound for three
days in a little inn on the shores of the Lake of Geneva; and cannot I,
following with unequal steps, so cheat the minutes in this dim spot? I
never, by the by, could invent the commonest incident. As a man of
honour, of course I never lie; but, as a nursery child and schoolboy, I
never did; simply, as I remember, because I never could concoct one;—but
a true tale was lately narrated to me by its very heroine, the incidents
of which haunt my memory, adorned as they were by her animated looks and
soft silvery accent. Let me try to record them, stripped though they
must be of their greatest charm.
I was, but a week ago, travelling with my friend Ashburn in a coupée, in
the district of Subiaco, in the ecclesiastical territory. We were jolted
along a rough ravine, through which the river Anio sped, and beetling
mountains and shady trees, a distant convent and a picturesque cell on a
hill, formed a view which so awoke the pictorial propensities of my
friend, that he stopped the coupée (though we were assured that we
should never reach our inn by nightfall, and that the road was dangerous
in the dark), took out his portfolio, and began to sketch. As he drew, I
continued to speak in support of an argument we had entered upon before.
I had been complaining of the commonplace and ennui of life. Ashburn
insisted that our existence was only too full of variety and
change—tragic variety and wondrous incredible change. “Even,” said the
painter, “as sky, and earth, and water seem for ever the same to the
vulgar eye, and yet to the gifted one assume a thousand various guises
and hues—now robed in purple—now shrouded in black—now resplendent with
living gold—and anon sinking into sober and unobtrusive grey, so do our
mortal lives change and vary. No living being among us but could tell a
tale of soul-subduing joys and heart-consuming woes, worthy, had they
their poet, of the imagination of Shakespeare or Goethe. The veriest
weather-worn cabin is a study for colouring, and the meanest peasant
will offer all the acts of a drama in the apparently dull routine of his
humble life.”
“This is pure romance,” I replied; “put it to the test. Let us take, for
example, yonder woman descending the mountain-path.”
“What a figure!” cried Ashburn; “oh that she would stay thus but one
quarter of an hour!—she has come down to bathe her child—her upturned
face—her dark hair—her picturesque costume—the little plump fellow
bestriding her—the rude scenery around”—
“And the romantic tale she has to tell.”
“I would wager a louis that hers has been no common fate. She steps a
goddess—her attitude, her looks, are all filled with majesty.”
I laughed at his enthusiasm, and accepted his bet. We hurried to join
our fair peasantess, and thus formed acquaintance with Fanny Chaumont. A
sudden storm, as we were engaged conversing with her, came, driven down
from the tempest-bearing hills, and she gave us a cordial invitation to
her cottage.
It was situated on a sunny, yet sheltered slope. There was a look of
cheerfulness and _aisance_ about it, beyond what is usually met in that
part of Switzerland, reminding me of the cottages of the inhabitants of
the free States. There, also, we found her husband. I always feel
curious to know on whom a woman, who bears the stamp of superior
intellect, who is beautiful and refined—for peasant as she was, Fanny
was both—has been induced to bestow herself.
Louis Chaumont was considerably older than his wife; he was handsome,
with brown lively eyes, curly chestnut hair, a visage embrowned by the
sun, bearing every mark of having led an active, even an adventurous
life; there was, besides, an expression which, if it were not ferocity,
resembled it, in his vivacious glances, and in the sternness of his
deeply-lined forehead; while she, in spite of her finely-formed brow,
her majestic person, and her large expressive eyes, looked softness and
patience itself. There was something incongruous in the pair, and more
strangely matched they seemed when we heard their story. It lost me my
louis, but proved Fanny at once to be a fitting heroine for romance, and
was a lesson, moreover, to teach the strange pranks love can play with
us, mingling fire and water, blending in one harmonious concord the
harsh base and melodious tenor of two differently stringed instruments.
Though their child was five years old, Fanny and her husband were
attached to each other with the tenderness and passion of early love;
they were happy—his faults were tempered by her angel disposition, and
her too melancholy and feeling-fraught spirit was enlivened and made
plastic to the purposes of this world by his energy and activity.
Fanny was a Bernese by birth: she was the child of humble cottagers, one
among a large family. They lived on the brow of one summit and at the
foot of another. The snowy mountains were piled about them; thaw-fed
torrents brawled around; during the night a sound like thunder, a crash
among the tempest-beaten pines would tell of an avalanche; or the
snowdrift, whirring past the lattice, threatened to bury the little
fabric. Winter was the season of peace in the deep vales, not so in the
higher district. The peasant was often kept waking by the soft-falling
snow which threatened insidiously to encroach on, and to overwhelm his
habitation; or a straying cow would lead him far into the depths of the
stormy hills, and his fearful family would count in agony the hours of
his absence. Perpetual hardship and danger, however, rather brutify than
exalt the soul of man; and those of the Swiss who are most deeply
planted among the rocky wilds are often stultified and sullen.
Fanny opened her youthful eyes and observation on this scene. She was
one of those lovely children whose beauty is heartfelt but
indescribable: hers was the smooth candid brow, the large hazel eyes,
half soft, half wild; the round dimpled cheek, the full sensitive mouth,
the pointed chin, and (as framework to the picture) the luxuriant curly
chestnut hair, and voice which is sweetest music. The exceeding beauty
of little Fanny gained her the observation of the wife of the owner of
the chateau which overlooked and commanded the district, and at ten
years of age she became a frequent visitor there. Fanny’s little soul
was love, so she soon twined herself round the kind lady’s heart, became
a pet with her husband, and the favourite playmate of their only son.
One fête day Fanny had dined at the chateau. It had been fine warm
spring weather, but wind and storm came on with the setting sun; the
snow began to fall thickly, and it was decided that Fanny must pass the
night in the chateau. She had been unusually eager to return home; and
when the tempest came on, she crept near her protectress, and begged to
be sent to her mother. _C’est impossible_—Fanny pressed no further, but
she clambered to a window, and looked out wistfully to where, hidden by
the hills, her parents’ cottage stood. It was a fatal night for her: the
thunders of frequent avalanches, the roaring of torrents, the crash of
trees, spoke of devastation, and her home was its chief prey. Father,
mother, brothers, and sisters, not one survived. Where, the day before,
cottage and outhouse and flower garden had stood, the little lawn where
she played, and the grove that sheltered her, there was now a monumental
pile of snow, and the rocky path of a torrent; no trace remained, not
one survivor to tell the tale. From that night Fanny became a constant
inmate of the chateau.
It was Madame de Marville’s project to give her a bourgeois education,
which would raise her from the hardships of a peasant’s life, and yet
not elevate her above her natural position in society. She was brought
up kindly, but humbly; it was the virtues of her disposition which
raised her in the eyes of all around her—not any ill-judged favour of
her benefactress. The night of the destruction of her family never
passed away from her memory; it set a seal of untimely seriousness on
her childish brow, awoke deep thoughts in her infant heart, and a strong
resolve that while she lived, her beloved friends should find her, as
far as her humble powers admitted, a source of good alone—a reason to
rejoice that they had saved her from the destruction that had
overwhelmed her family.
Thus Fanny grew up in beauty and in virtue. Her smiles were as the
rainbows of her native torrents: her voice, her caresses, her light
step, her unalterable sweetness and ceaseless devotion to the wishes of
others, made her the idol of the family. Henry, the only child of her
protectors, was of her own age, or but a few months her senior. Every
time Henry returned from school to visit his parents, he found Fanny
more beautiful, more kind, more attractive than before; and the first
passion his youthful heart knew was for the lovely peasant girl, whose
virtues sanctified his home. A look, a gesture betrayed his secret to
his mother; she turned a hasty glance on Fanny, and saw on her
countenance innocence and confidence alone. Half reassured, yet still
fearful, Madame de Marville began to reflect on some cure for the
threatened evil. She could not bear to send away Fanny; she was
solicitous that her son should for the present reside in his home. The
lovely girl was perfectly unconscious of the sentiments of the young
seigneur; but would she always continue so? and was the burning heart
that warmed her gentle bosom to be for ever insensible to the despotic
and absorbing emotions of love?
It was with wonder, and a curious mixture of disappointed maternal pride
and real gladness, that the lady at length discovered a passion dawning
in fair Fanny’s heart for Louis Chaumont, a peasant some ten years older
than herself. It was natural that one with such high-wrought feelings as
our heroine should love one to whom she could look up, and on whom to
depend, rather than her childhood’s playmate—the gay, thoughtless Henry.
Louis’s family had been the victim of a moral ruin, as hers of a
physical one. They had been oppressed, reduced to poverty, driven from
their homes by a feudal tyrant, and had come poor and forlorn from a
distant district. His mother, accustomed to a bourgeois’ life, died
broken-hearted: his father, a man of violent passions, nourished in his
own and in his son’s heart, sentiments of hatred and revenge against the
“proud oppressors of the land.” They were obliged to labour hard, yet in
the intervals of work, father and son would read or discourse concerning
the ills attendant on humanity, and they traced all to the social
system, which made the few the tyrants of the many.
Louis was handsome, bold, and active; he excelled his compeers in every
hardy exercise; his resolution, his daring, made him, in spite of his
poverty, a kind of leader among them. He had many faults; he was too
full of passion, of the spirit of resistance and revenge; but his heart
was kind; his understanding, when not thwarted, strong; and the very
depth of his feelings made him keenly susceptible to love. Fanny, in her
simple but majestic beauty, in her soft kindness of manner, mingled with
the profoundest sensibility, made a deep impression on the young man’s
heart. His converse, so different and so superior to those of his
fellows, won her attention.
Hitherto Fanny had never given utterance to the secrets of her soul.
Habitual respect held her silent with Madame, and Henry, as spirited and
as heedless as a chamois, could ill understand her; but Louis became the
depository of the many feelings which, piled up in secrecy and silence,
were half awful to herself; he brought reason, or what he deemed such,
to direct her heart-born conclusions. To have heard them talk of life
and death, and all its shows, you would have wondered by what freak
philosophy had dressed herself in youth and a peasant’s garb, and
wandered from the schools to these untaught wilds.