too short night, entranced in bliss, as if the bright form of his
beloved were still shining beside him. Gradually every beauty of the
wondrous and far-famed Bay of Naples impressed itself upon his
attention. The broad and beamless moon sinking behind the tall elms of
Posilippo; the broken starlight on the surface of the waves—their
rippling sound as they broke at his feet; Sorrento’s purple promontory,
and the gentle wind that blew from it; the solitary grandeur of Capri’s
mountain-island rising out of the middle of the bay, a colossal sphinx
guarding two baths of azure light; Vesuvius breathing its smoke, and
flame, and sparks, in the cloudless ether;—all became mingled in
inexplicable harmony with his new-born passion, and were indelibly
associated with his recollection of that night.
The next morning Idalie was sketching in the Villa Reale. She had seated
herself on the outside of a shady alley. Two persons passed behind her,
and the childish petulant voice of one of them drew her attention. That
voice, so sweet even in its impatience, certainly belonged to her
fugitive sister. “It is she!” exclaimed Idalie, gliding swift as thought
between the trees, and folding the speaker to her bosom. “Marietta—my
dear little Marietta! at last you are come back again. _Cattivella!_ now
promise to stay with me. You know not how miserable I have been about
you.”
“No! I cannot promise anything of the kind,” replied Marietta, playing
with the ribands of her guitar. “I choose to have my liberty.”
Idalie’s arms sunk, and her eyes were cast upon the ground when she
heard the cold and decided tone in which this refusal was pronounced. On
raising the latter, they glanced upon the companion of her sister, and
were filled with unconquerable emotion at discovering Ladislas, the
elected of her heart.
“I met your sister here a few minutes ago,” explained he, partaking her
feelings; “and having been so fortunate the other day as to render her a
slight service”—
“Oh yes,” interrupted Marietta; “I sung for him a whole evening at
Gaeta. It was a curious adventure. His carriage was overturned close to
the inn. I had arrived there half an hour before, and was walking in an
orange grove near the spot, and saw the accident happen, and heard him
speak in Polish to his servant. My heart beat with joy. He looked
wondrous melancholy. I thought it must be about his country, so I crept
as softly as a mouse among the trees under his balcony, and sung him a
salve-song in Polish. I improvised it on the spur of the moment. I do
not very well recollect it, but it was about azure heavens, southern
winds, myrtle and lemon blossoms, and the illustrious unfortunate; and
it ought to have pleased him. Just as I had finished, out starts our
blessed brother, Giorgio, from the inn, and began one of his most
terrific bothers. Imagine how frightened I was, for I thought he was
gone to Sicily with his regiment. However, they got him away, and I
followed this stranger into his room, and sang to him the rest of the
evening. All my best songs,—the ‘Mio ben quando verrà,’ ‘Nina pazza per
Amore,’ the ‘All’ armi’ of Generali; the ‘Dolce cara patria,’ from
_Tancredi_; the ‘Deh calma,’ from _Otello_,—all my whole stock I assure
you.” Thus rattled on Marietta; and then, as if her quick eye had
already discovered the secret of their attachment, she added, with an
arch smile, “but don’t be frightened, Idalie, though his eyes filled
with tears whilst I sung, as yours often do, not a word of praise did
the Sarmatian bestow on me.”
“Then return and live with me, dear Marietta, and I will praise you as
much, and more than you desire.”
“_Santa Maria del Piê di Grotta!_ What a tiresome person you are,
Idalie. When you have got an idea into your head, an earthquake would
not get it out again. Have I not told you that I will not. If you knew
the motive you would approve my resolution. I said I liked my liberty,
and so forth; but that was not the reason of my flight. I do not choose
to have anything to do with Giorgio and the Princess; for, believe me,
dearest Idalie, disgraceful as my present mode of life seems to you, it
is innocence itself compared with the crimes they were leading me into.”
“Some suspicion of this did once cross my mind,” her sister replied with
a sigh, “but I rejected it as too horrible. Dear child, think no more
about them. Do you not know that I have left the Princess’ house, and am
living by myself in a little pavilion far up on the Strada Nuova. There
you need not fear their molestations.”
“Is not Giorgio then with you?”
“No; I have not seen him for some time. I doubt if he be in Naples.”
“So Messer Giorgio, you have deceived me again. But I might have known
that, for he never speaks a word of truth. Be assured, however, he is in
Naples, for I caught a glimpse of him this morning, mounting the hill
that leads to the barracks at Pizzofalcone, and he is as intimate with
the Princess as ever, though she pretends to disown him. As for me, I am
engaged at San Carlos; the writing is signed and sealed, and cannot be
broken without forfeiting a heavy sum of money; otherwise I should be
happy to live peacefully with you; for you know not, Idalie, all I have
had to suffer; how sad and ill-treated I have been! how often pinched
with want and hunger; and worse than that, when Giorgio takes it into
his head to pursue me, and plants himself in the pit, fixing his
horrible looks upon me as I sing! how many times I have rushed out of
the theatre, and spent the nights in the great wide Maremma, beset by
robbers, buffaloes, and wild boars, till I was almost mad with fear and
bewilderment. There is a curse upon our family, I think. Did not our
father once live in a splendid castle of his own, with a hundred
retainers to wait upon him; and do you remember the miserable garret in
which he died? But I cannot stay any longer. I am wanted at the
rehearsal: so, farewell, dearest Idalie. Be you at least happy, and
leave me to fulfil the evil destiny that hangs over our race.”
“No! no!” exclaimed Ladislas, “that must not be—the writing must be
cancelled,”—and then, with the affection and unreserve of a brother, he
entered into their sentiments; with sweet and persuasive arguments
overcame their scruples of receiving a pecuniary obligation from him;
and finally, taking Marietta by the hand, led her away to San Carlos, in
order to cancel her engagement.
And in another hour it was cancelled. Marietta was once more free and
joyful; and, affectionate as old friends, the three met again in the
little pavilion, which was Idalie’s home. It stood alone in a myrtle
wood on the last of the green promontories which form the Strada Nuova,
and separate the Bay of Naples from the Bay of Baia,—a lonely hermitage
secluded from the noise and turmoil of the city, whose only visitors
were the faint winds of morning and evening, the smiles of the fair
Italian heaven, its wandering clouds, and, perchance, a solitary bird.
From every part of the building you could see the Baian Ocean sparkling
breathlessly beneath the sun; through the windows and the columns of the
portico you beheld the mountains of the distant coast shining on, hour
after hour, like amethysts in a thrilling vapour of purple transparent
light, so ardent yet halcyon, so bright and unreal, a poet would have
chosen it to emblem the radiant atmosphere that glows around elysian
isles of eternal peace and joy. Marietta soon left the building to join
some fisher boys who were dancing the tarantella upon the beach below.
Idalie took her drawing, which was her daily employment, and furnished
her the means of subsistence, and Ladislas sat by her side. There was no
sound of rolling carriages, no tramp of men and horse, no distant
singing, no one speaking near; the wind awoke no rustling amid the
leaves of the myrtle wood, and the wave died without a murmur on the
shore. Ladislas’ deep but melodious voice alone broke the crystal
silence of the noonday air. Italy was around him, robed in two
splendours of blue and green; but he was an exile, and the recollections
of his native land thronged into his memory. During the three months it
had taken him to effect his escape from Warsaw to Naples, his lips had
been closed in silence, whilst his mind had been wrapt in the gloom of
the dreadful images that haunted it. In Idalie’s countenance there was
that expression of innocence and sublimity of soul, of purity and
strength, that excited the warmest admiration, and inspired sudden and
deep confidence. She looked like some supernatural being that walks
through the world, untouched by its corruptions; like one that
unconsciously, yet with delight, confers pleasure and peace; and
Ladislas felt that, in speaking to her of the dark sorrows of his
country, they would lose their mortal weight and be resolved into
beauty, by her sympathy. In glowing terms he described the heroic
struggle of Poland for liberty; the triumph and exultation that had
filled every bosom during the few months they were free; the hardships
and privations they had endured, the deeds of daring bravery of the men,
the heroism it had awakened in the women; and then its fall—the return
of the Russians; the horrible character of Russian despotism, its
sternness and deceit, its pride and selfish ignorance; the loss of
public and private integrity, the disbelief of good, the blighted,
hopeless, joyless life endured by those whom it crushes beneath its
servitude.
Thus passed the hours of the forenoon. Then Ladislas fixing his eyes
upon the coast of Baia, and expressing at the same time his impatience
to visit that ancient resort of heroes and of emperors, Idalie led the
way by a small path down the hill to the beach. There they found a
skiff, and, unmooring it from its rocky haven, embarked in it. It had
been sweet to mark the passage of that light bark freighted with these
happy lovers, when borne by its sails it swept through the little
ocean-channel that lies between the beaked promontories of the mainland
and the closing cliffs of the island of Nisida; and when with gentler
motion it glided into the open expanse of the Bay of Baia, and cut its
way through the translucent water, above the ruins of temples and
palaces overgrown by seaweed, on which the rays of the sun were playing,
creating a thousand rainbow hues, that varied with every wave that
flowed over them. In all that plane of blue light it was the only moving
thing; and as if it had been the child of the ocean that bore it, and
the sun that looked down on it, it sped gaily along in their smiles past
the fortress where Brutus and Cassius sought shelter after the death of
Cæsar; past the temples of Jupiter and Neptune; by the ruins of that
castle in which three Romans once portioned out the world between them,
to the Cumean hill that enshadows the beloved Linternum of Scipio
Africanus, and in which he died. The whole of this coast is a paradise
of natural beauty, investing with its own loveliness the time-eaten
wrecks with which it is strewn; the mouldering past is mingled with the
vivid present; ruin and grey annihilation are decked in eternal spring.
The woody windings of the shore reveal, in their deep recesses, the
gleaming marble fragments of the abodes of ancient heroes; the verdurous
hues of the promontories mingle with the upright columns of shattered
temples, or clothe, with nature’s voluptuous bloom, the pale funereal
urns of departed gods; whilst the foliage and the inland fountains, and
the breaking waves upon the shore, were murmuring around their woven
minstrelsy of love and joy. Earth, sea, and sky blazed like three gods,
with tranquil but animated loveliness; with a splendour that did not
dazzle—with a richness that could not satiate. The air on that beautiful
warm coast was as a field of fragrance; the refreshing sea-breeze seemed
to blow from Paradise, quickening the senses, and bringing to them the
odour of a thousand unknown blossoms. “What world is this?” exclaimed
Ladislas in a tone of rapture that nearly answered its own question. “I
could imagine I had entered an enchanted garden; four heavens surround
me,—the one above; the pure element beneath me with its waves that shine
and tremble as stars; the adorned earth that hangs over it; and the
heaven of delight they create within my breast. ‘Morning is here a rose,
day a tulip, night a lily; evening is, like morning, again a rose, and
life seems a choral-hymn of beautiful and glowing sentiments, that I go
singing to myself as I wander along this perpetual path of flowers.’”
It was night ere they again reached the pavilion. It stood dark and
deserted in the clear moonshine; the door was locked. After calling and
knocking repeatedly without obtaining any answer, it became evident that
Marietta had quitted the dwelling. In the first moment of surprise which
this occurrence occasioned, they had not observed a written sheet of
paper, of a large size, which lay unfolded and placed directly before
the door, as if to attract attention. Idalie took it up and read the
following lines, traced by Marietta:—
“Oh, Idalie! but a few hours ago, how calm and secure we were in
happiness—now danger and perhaps destruction is our portion. One
chance yet remains; the moment you get this, persuade—not only
persuade—but compel that adorable stranger to fly instantly from
Naples. He is not safe here an instant longer. Do not doubt what I
say, or his life may be the forfeit. How can I impress this on your
mind? I would not willingly betray any one, but how else can I save
him? Giorgio has been here. Oh! the frightful violence of that man.
He raved like an insane person, and let fall such dark and bloody
hints as opened worlds of horror to me. I am gone to discover what I
can. I know his haunts, and his associates, and shall soon find out
if there be any truth in what he threatens. I could not await your
return, neither dare I leave the pavilion open. Who knows if, in the
interval between my departure and your return, an assassin might not
conceal himself within; and your first welcome be, to see the
stranger fall lifeless at your feet. His every step is watched by
spies armed for his destruction. I know not what to do—and yet it
seems to me that my going may possibly avert the catastrophe.”
“MARIETTA”
Ladislas listened to these lines unmoved; but the effect they produced
on Idalie was dreadful. She gave implicit credence to them, and every
word sounded as a knell. She lost all presence of mind; every reflection
that might have taught her to avert the stroke she so much dreaded, was
swallowed up in anguish, as if the deed that was to be consummated were
already done. What task can be more difficult than to describe the
overwhelming agony which heavy and unexpected misery produces. To have
lived the day that Idalie had just lived—a day in which all the beauty
of existence had been unveiled to its very depths; to have dreamt, as
she had done, a dream of love that steeped her soul in divine and almost
uncommunicable joy; and now to sink from this pinnacle of happiness into
a black and lampless cavern, the habitation of death, whose spectral
form and chilling spirit was felt through all the air! This is but a
feeble metaphor of the sudden transition from rapture to misery which
Idalie experienced. She looked upon Ladislas, and beheld him bright and
full of life; the roseate hues of health upon his cheek, his eyes
beaming with peaceful joy, his noble countenance varying not in the
least from that imperturbable self-possession which was its habitual
expression. And as her imagination made present to her the fatal moment,
when beneath the dagger of the assassin this adored being should sink
bleeding, wounded, and then be for ever lost in death, her blood rushed
to her heart, a deadly pause ensued, from which she awoke in a
bewildering mist of horror. Ladislas beheld her excess of emotion with
pain, in which, however, all was not pain, for it was blended with that
triumphant exultation that a lover ever feels when he for the first time
becomes assured that he is beloved by the object of his love with an
affection tender and intense as his own.
As soon as Idalie recovered some presence of mind, with passionate
supplications she entreated Ladislas to leave her, to fly this solitary
spot, and to seek safety amid the crowded streets of Naples. He would
not hear of this; he gently remonstrated with her upon the
unreasonableness of her terrors, urging how little probable it was that
his passing _rencontre_ with Giorgio at Gaeta could have awakened in him
such a deadly spirit of revenge as Marietta represented. He viewed the
whole thing lightly, attributing it either to the vivacity of Marietta’s
imagination, which had made her attach a monstrous import to some angry
expressions of her brother, or looking upon it as a merry device which
she had contrived in order to frighten them; and tranquillized Idalie by
assurances that they would shortly see her wild sister return laughing,
and full of glee at the success of her plot. In this expectation two
hours passed away, but still no Marietta appeared, and it had grown too
late to seek another shelter without exposing Idalie to the slander of
evil-minded people. They passed the rest of the night therefore in the
portico, Idalie sometimes pale and breathless, with recurring fears, and
sometimes calm and happy, as Ladislas poured forth his tale of
passionate love. His feelings, on the contrary, were pure and unalloyed.
Where Idalie was, there was the whole universe to him; where she was
not, there was only a formless void. He had an insatiable thirst for her
presence, which only grew intenser with the enjoyment of its own desire;
and he blessed the fortunate occurrence that prolonged his bliss during
hours which otherwise would have been spent pining in absence from her.
No other considerations intruded. Blessings kindled within his eyes as
he gazed upon that lovely countenance and faultless form, and angels
might have envied his happiness.
Morning came, bright and serene; the sun arose, the ocean and the
mountains again resumed their magic splendour; the myrtle woods and
every minuter bloom of the garden shone out beneath the sun, and the
whole earth was a happy form made perfect by the power of light. They
recollected that they had promised to join the Princess Dashkhoff, and a
large party of her friends, at eight o’clock, in an excursion to Pæstum.
The point of meeting was the shore of the Villa Reale, where the
numerous guests were to embark in a steamer which had been engaged for
the occasion. In Idalie’s present homeless and uncertain condition, this
plan offered some advantages. It would enable them to pass the day in
each other’s society under the auspices of the Princess, and it was to
be hoped that on their return the mystery of Marietta’s disappearance
would be unravelled, and Idalie find her home once more open to her.
They had scarcely settled to go, ere one of those horse calessini which
ply in the streets of Naples was seen coming towards them. Its driver, a
ragged boy, sat on the shaft, singing as he drove; another urchin, all
in tatters, stood as lacquey behind, and between them sat Marietta; the
paleness of fear was on her cheeks, and her eyes had the staggered,
affrighted look of one who has gazed upon some appalling horror. She
hastily descended, and bade the calessino retire to some distance, and
await further orders.
“Why is he yet here?” said she to her sister. “You foolish, blind
Idalie, why did you not mind my letter?—too proud, I suppose, to obey
any but yourself; but mark, you would not hear my warnings—we shall lose
him, and you will feel them in your heart’s core.” She then, with all
the violent gesticulation of an Italian, threw herself at the feet of
Ladislas, and with a countenance that expressed her own full conviction
in what she said, besought him to fly instantly, not only from Naples,
but from Italy, for his life would never be safe in that land of
assassins and traitors. With entreaties almost as violent as her own,
Ladislas and Idalie urged her to explain, but this only threw her into a
new frenzy; she declared the peril was too urgent to admit of
explanation—every moment was precious—another hour’s stay in Naples
would be his death.
The situation of Ladislas was a curious one. He had served in the
Russian campaigns against Persia and Turkey, and had been there daily
exposed to the chances of destruction; in the late struggle between
Poland and Russia, he had performed actions of such determined and
daring bravery as had made his name a glory to his countrymen, and a
terror to their enemies. In all these exploits he had devoted himself so
unreservedly to death, that his escape was considered as a miraculous
interposition of Heaven. It was not to be expected that this Mars in a
human form, this Achilles who had braved death in a thousand shapes,
should now consent to fly before the uplifted finger and visionary
warnings of a dream-sick girl; for such Marietta appeared to him to be.
He pitied her sufferings, endeavoured to soothe her, but asserted he had
seen no reason that could induce him to quit Naples.
A full quarter of an hour elapsed before an explanation could be wrung
from Marietta. The chaos that reigned in her mind may easily be
imagined. She had become possessed of a secret which involved the life
of two persons. Ladislas refused to save himself unless she revealed
what might place her brother’s life in jeopardy. Whichever way she
looked, destruction closed the view. Nature had bestowed on her a heart
exquisitely alive to the sufferings of others, a mind quick in
perceiving the nicest lines of moral rectitude, and strenuous in
endeavouring to act up to its perceptions. Any deviations in her conduct
from these principles had been the work of a fate that, strong and
fierce as a tempest, had bent down her weak youth like a reed beneath
its force. She had once loved Giorgio; he had played with and caressed
her in infancy—with the fond patronage of an elder brother had procured
her the only indulgences her orphaned childhood had ever known.
Fraternal love called loudly on her not to endanger his life; gratitude
as loudly called on her not to allow her benefactor to become his
victim. This last idea was too horrible to be endured. The present
moment is ever all-powerful with the young, and Marietta related what
she knew.