The female who has once erred, and who does not hate the author of her
error, should beware of confiding in her own strength, or relying on the
firmness of repentant virtue;--for her, there is no safety but in
flight; and if she desire to retrieve her path, she should never
_behold_ him who caused her to wander aside. This, without further
comment, may be sufficient to illustrate, that the protracted residence
of Gabrielle, beneath the roof of her lover, was attended with those
fatal consequences against which no human foresight or resolution could
have shielded her, who lingered in so much danger. Gabrielle knew not
the extent of the hazard she ran, till that knowledge became useless,
and bitter self-reproach, and horror, roused her from her delusive
security. When the mind is unwarily led to the commission of deep and
irretrievable error, it seeks, naturally seeks, to reconcile itself to
what is past recall. Thus was it with the unhappy Gabrielle. She sought
to persuade herself, when the first sensations of remorseful agony were
somewhat abated, that Angelo was now altered; that, indelibly impressed
with the remembrance of the misfortunes that he had heaped upon her, he
would never more neglect or forsake her; but, in endeavours to expiate
the past, remain for ever fond, faithful, and sincere. Yet, still
something remained behind which would not bear the touchstone of
argument, or refletion; why, if such were his feelings towards her,
hesitated he to bind his fate eternally to her’s? Ah! This was a
thought which, like an intrusive creditor, was hastily dispatched with
an evasive reply;--but, independently of such refinement of scrutiny,
the conduct of Angelo was such, certainly, as to allow the indulgence of
sanguine hope.
Time stole on, and two years elapsed of a re-union that, had Gabrielle
possessed less virtue, or sensibility, might have rendered her for the
present happy, and tranquil as to the future. Angelo became the father
of a son, and his conduct was characterised by the best and finest
attributes of the husband, and the parent; as a husband, he was tender,
attentive, domesticated---- as a father, fond, to idolatry, of his
child: Gabrielle endeavoured to banish the terrifying idea, that her
children would live to reproach her for giving them existence, and to
indulge the flattering hope, that the effects of her errors would never
be extended to them.
At the commencement of their re-union, Angelo had expressed an ardent
wish, to behold his daughter, and intreated Gabrielle, that she would
propose to Madame Bertrand, to quit Switzerland for ever, to bring their
daughter with her, and to reside with them. “But no,” wrote this
excellent friend, “my dear Gabrielle, I will neither quit our peaceful
retreat myself, which almost induces me to forget there is such a place
beyond, as the busy world you reside in; nor, if I may be allowed a
voice, shall our beloved child quit it either.--Ah, my dear young
friend, be not offended with me, if I would venture to insinuate, that,
though you have at present every reason to be satisfied with the conduct
of D’Albini, and that he is as the best of husbands to you, in all but
the name, yet that name, so far from being an inconsiderable idea, or
unnecessary to ensure the happiness of your situation, is the only thing
which could render it either prudent, or safe, for me to resign your
daughter to you.--At this time, she is taught to respect a fond, though
absent mother; her juvenile mind conceives of you the highest sentiment
of which it is capable; why then would you desire, unnecessarily, to
give birth to, and gradually to impress upon it, different and
perplexing ideas? Trust me, D’Albini has not yet passed the fiery
ordeal,--the season of folly is not yet at an end. If his reformation
were perfect and sincere, he would not hesitate, nay, he would be
anxious, to rivet by those bonds to which mankind have justly affixed
the idea of virtue and propriety, your present union, to preclude from
himself the power, or the possibility, of forming other ties. Till then,
or till age shall have taught him, with a smile of contempt, to look
back on the follies of youth, rely not wholly, nor securely upon him;
nor snatch your child from the positive safety of her present asylum, to
introduce her, perhaps to misfortune, but certainly to danger, for which
you would suffer unavailing repentance and remorse.
“You have already with you, one child, my dear Gabrielle; if children
are a bond of union between the sexes, is not one child sufficient to
ensure it?--If it is not, one is too much; and miserable would be the
fate of more. Thus, then, let me implore you, forego your wish for the
present. Consent to wait, at least till the character of D’Albini is
more fixed; till it has stood the test of time, and till you have
better ascertained his principles of action; then, if you will insist,
you shall be at liberty to reclaim your daughter.”
This letter produced upon Gabrielle a most salutary effect; her mind,
which present peace had rendered hopeful for the future, was now taught
to look within itself, and admit the painful probability, that this
comparative felicity might not last for ever;--the idea made her
tremble, and even over-clouded the peacefulness of the present; it
humbled her mind from the vain and insecure eminence of sanguine hope;
it prepared her, by anticipation, for any future blow, and taught her,
with rational and pensive eye, to regard and appreciate passing events.
In the impassioned eyes of Angelo, she read, it is true, no mysterious
intimation of future fickleness, or indifference; yet unalloyed pleasure
was not thus conveyed to her heart, for she could remember, with pain,
that the eyes of a lover are but an uncertain index of his soul, and
never presage the _future_ to her he seems to love. She did not
communicate to him the too just observations of Madame Bertrand, but
merely that she desired earnestly to be permitted to retain, yet a
little longer, the child, that from infancy she had nursed and
cherished. Angelo formed no objection to the request of Madame Bertrand;
he possessed one child, and he possessed its mother, and he could endure
to resign, for a while, to a dear and sincere friend, the one he had
never beheld.
It is necessary we now return to Oriana, whose perfidy and ingratitude
had furnished the unguarded Angelo with an additional example, to the
many he had already had, of the danger resulting from an association
with those females, whose depravity forms their only rule of action, and
who never admit, for a moment, the influence of feeling, honor, or a
shadow of principle, to regulate their conduct.
Humiliated, foiled, and entirely defeated, at once in her views and
calculations, the rage of the abandoned Oriana knew no bounds; she
breathed only death and vengeance; and her chiefest desire was to
inflict the first with her own hand, upon the supposed Eugene, who, in
that character, had obtained knowledge, so complete, of her infamy, and
used that knowledge only to circumvent, and render it abortive. Nothing
so much excites the rage of an artful and unprincipled mind, as the idea
of having been deceived, and of having betrayed its inmost guilty
workings. The superiority of virtue never strikes them in a point of
view so manifest, and so detested, as when it possesses the resolution
and the power to frustrate their evil machinations. That virtue should
be combined with policy, and be endowed, at once, with the energy and
ingenuity to confound vice, and to entangle it in its own snares, seems
to be a sort of supererogation, and a detraction from its own peculiar
prerogative, as if it were incompatible with virtue to be wise, and vice
alone, from its superior cunning, should ever triumphantly bear off the
palm. In such case, virtue would be weaker, and have fewer means of
defence than vice; consequently, it would be the latter that ever would
be lord of the ascendant.
The death of her associate Fiorenza, however when her wandering eyes had
selected a newer object of passion she might have considered it
desirable, now that, with all its stinging and mortifying concomitants,
she had in that experienced the most aggravating disappointment, became
to her matter of most serious moment, and regret. Fiorenza had been
throughout her meretricious career, when personal regard for her had
ceased to exist, and assumed, as he pretended, the more valuable
character of a regard for her interest, as a sort of tutelar dæmon,
advising, forwarding, and directing her in plans, of his own suggestion,
to the injury and destruction of others, for her, or rather his
advantage;--and Oriana, though she duped the unwary, was herself the
dupe of superior artifice.--Still his death left her alone in the world;
in the prosecution of her desired revenge, who could have participated
with, or assisted her, like Fiorenza? But she was sufficiently imbued
with the spirit of her late master, to determine on it, if necessary,
singly, and unaided, though she should perish in the attempt.
During the two years which the objects of her hate and envy had
continued to exist in seeming happy union, beneath her eyes, her revenge
had not slumbered, nor had her vigilance relaxed; every mean that the
vilest artifice, and the most determined resolution to insure could
suggest, was instantly had recourse to. Now, calumniating anonymous
letters accused them to each other of the blackest crimes and
intentions, and mutual treachery. Now the allurements of love, in the
form of tender confession from some susceptible Italian fair-one,
appointing an assignation, were held out to the vanity and warm
temperament of Angelo.--Now, similar arts were practised against the
unshaken constancy and firm principles of Gabrielle;--and now, in
despair at the failure of every attempt, various pretexts of urgent
occasion were contrived to delude each, separately, from
home, at various hours of the night, for the basest purpose of
destruction--secret assassination!
Hitherto, however, every machination had proved abortive, either from
exciting suspicion, or from being detected in time. These two persons,
at this juncture so dear to each other, had neither inclination nor
leisure to punish a feeble, though malicious enemy. Suspicion of aught
that appeared equivocal, had now become so habitual to them, that, added
to their perfect knowledge of the infamous Oriana, they considered
themselves as sufficiently protected from her power to injure them, and
from the possibility of being betrayed by her into a situation of
danger.
It was with the utmost difficulty, indeed, that Angelo could ever be
induced from the long untasted charms of domestic comfort, but at the
earnest solicitations of Gabrielle, who, with her usual fine sense,
could endure that he should sometimes be amused, even out of _her_
society; he was occasionally prevailed on to pass a few hours among
friends of his own rank of life, rendered agreeable to him by similarity
of disposition and long association. One night that he was returning
home late from a select party of male companions, with whom he had
dined, and in convivial converse, heightened by the juice of the grape,
in social gaiety passed the evening, he imagined he heard, at a short
distance from him, female plaints.
Ever alive to the impulse of humanity, he stopped immediately, and
listened; a young mournful voice continued to bewail, and he soon
ascertained that the object could not be far off. Instantly conceiving
it possible there might be some cause of grief which he could remedy,
and distressed at hearing the accents of sorrow from a tender female, in
the streets at this unseasonable hour, he hastened onwards, and soon
discovered her who had attracted his attention, seated beneath a
portico, leaning on the cold step, and weeping bitterly: he advanced
towards her, and remarking that she was extremely young, his compassion
encreased, while in a soothing voice he enquired the cause of her
distress.
“Alas, Eccellentissimo Signore,” she replied, timidly raising her eyes,
and instantly again looking down, “neither you nor any one can assist
me, for my misfortune is beyond the reach of aid.”
“But what misfortune,” asked Angelo, “can occasion a young and innocent
girl, as you appear, to be unprotected in the streets at this hour of
the night?”
“Oh, do not ask me, Eccellentissimo Signore--do not ask me, for it
reminds me of every thing.”
“Reminds you of what?” enquired Angelo.
“I cannot, no, I cannot bear, Signore,” cried the young girl, suddenly,
“that such a kind Signore as you should think ill of me; therefore, I
must tell you, that it was my father--yes, Signore, it was my father,
who turned me into the streets this night, and bade me never return
till--till----”
“Till what?--” asked Angelo, impatiently.
“Till---- till----” she answered, bursting afresh into tears, “I can
determine to marry Castro Nardi, the old fisherman; he has asked me of
my father, only to beat and misuse me; to make me carry his fish to
market, and half kill me with blows and hard treatment, as he did his
first wife; and he is so old and so ugly, Signore, my heart rises
against him. No, no, I will never return home, never, sooner than marry
Castro Nardi.”
This artless narrative sensibly affected Angelo, though, at the same
time, he could not avoid smiling at its simplicity; he persuaded the
young girl, however, to return home, for he was shocked at reflecting on
the consequences that might ensue to such guileless innocence, if
remaining, unprotected, during a night, in the street; and to induce her
compliance, he promised, that in the morning he would call upon her
father, and prevail upon him to forego his intention of marrying her to
the hated Castro Nardi.
“Will you, indeed, Signore?” cried she, hastily rising, and displaying,
suddenly, to the astonished Angelo, beneath the feeble rays of the lamp,
some traits of a countenance that seemed of most surpassing beauty, “if
you will promise to call upon my father, I will return home immediately;
he could not, sure, refuse such a Signore as _you_,” she added, timidly,
“whatever he should request.”
“Well, well, we will try,” returned Angelo, with a smile; “but see first
how he receives you to-night; perhaps he may relent, and there may be
even no occasion for my intercession.”
“Then, if he receives me kindly, Signore, I shall never see _you_ any
more?” returned the girl, with bewitching _naiveté_, and in a tone of
regret.
“Oh!” cried Angelo, involuntarily, a little flattered, and desiring,
even unknown to himself, to behold that beautiful countenance by the
light of day, “you can easily, if you wish it, let me know how he
receives you in the morning.”
“How can I, Signore? For I should like to inform you, after all your
kindness, if I could,” faltered the maid.
“Well, then,” stammered Angelo, who felt he was verging on the confines
of wrong, “well, then, you can meet me, if you please---- on the hill of
Pausilyppo, near the church of Santa Maria a Fortuna.”
“Near the church;--I will be punctual, Signore--I will, indeed, be
punctual; and I humbly thank you for your goodness towards a poor girl;
and if my father, Eccellentissimo Signore, should continue hard, you
will deign to speak a word for me, Signore?”
“Assuredly I will;---- but---- but I had forgot; I must know your name.”
“My name is Paulina Mezzotetto, Signore.”
“Paulina Mezzotetto;--well, I shall remember; return at once, then,
Paulina--and good night.”
“Good night, Eccellentissimo Signore, and a thousand blessings attend
you.” Her sylph-like figure then bounded down the steps of the portico,
with graceful movement; she hastened on, and was out of sight in a
moment.
Angelo returned home; he walked quicker than usual, for his mind not
being perfectly at rest, he sought, by rapidity of motion, to escape
those reflections which could not be shaken off. He clearly felt, that,
in having promised to meet the young girl, he had acted decidedly wrong,
and conscience told him, that to keep a promise improperly made, would
be still more wrong. But the sophistry of inclination urged in reply,
that, however hastily, or injudiciously a promise were given, that
nothing, certainly, could excuse the performance of it. “And I need
never see her again,” added Angelo to himself; “then why not inform
Gabrielle of the whole?” demanded conscience, “and if aught, in a mere
case of humanity, requires to be done, act in conjunction; since
Gabrielle, under such circumstances, would not hesitate, but unite with
you in the desire to render service. And why,” objected his worser
reason, “run, unnecessarily, even the chance of rendering Gabrielle
uneasy upon a subject, in itself so trifling, and which may be
concluded, for ever, in less time than it would take me to relate it? I
am growing ridiculously conscientious.”
So argued Angelo, who forgot, in the midst of his delusive reasoning,
that “Virtue is arbitrary, nor admits debate.” Gabrielle, in
consequence, received no information; Angelo retired to rest, harbouring
concealment in his mind from the friend of his bosom; he endeavoured,
therefore, to persuade himself that he did no wrong; and this very
toleration jarred, in a degree, those delicate fibres of affection,
which are ultimately broken and destroyed by repeated disloyalties to
its faith.
Morning came, and as yet only half decided, Angelo prepared to keep his
appointment; still undecided, he found himself at the spot agreed on,
and did not fully know that he had determined, till he beheld, bounding
towards him, the heavenly beauty he was to meet. Thus progressively are
men led on to evil; too weak to be more than negatively virtuous, nor
firm enough to resist from the first the temptations of vice.
The moment the irresolute Angelo beheld Paulina, his doubts and
hesitations vanished; unknowing, with alacrity, he flew to meet her, and
involuntarily held out to her his hand. Paulina, with a modest
diffidence, gave him her hand, and advanced, raising her eyes of
cerulean blue, to the countenance of Angelo. If he had been struck,
with amazement, at the slight view he had of her charms the preceding
night, he now felt that sentiment in a stronger degree, and was
absolutely confused with admiration, as he looked upon her. Paulina was
simply habited, her dress, indeed, bespoke that the lovely wearer was
not rich; yet this very circumstance, joined to her modesty and the
blushing innocence of her deportment, gave her only new and exquisite
graces in the eyes of the susceptible Angelo.
Seeming unconscious of the admiration she excited, in simple and artless
language, she related to Angelo her success with her father; she said
that he had received her kindly, his anger being over, and professed
himself grieved for the rashness he had been guilty of, but absolutely
refused to relax a tittle of his determination swearing by the holy
virgin, that she must marry Castro Nardi. “Thus, Signore, you see,” she
continued, “you must condescend to speak with him at last.” Angelo
promised her, that whenever her father should name the day for her
nuptials, provided she informed him of it, he would make use of such
arguments as should cause him speedily to resign his intentions, by
convincing him that it would be for his interest to do so.
Here, as this was alone the given motive of the meeting, the interview
might have terminated; but, not so, Angelo felt himself irresistibly
drawn on, and he endeavoured to believe it was compassionate interest
merely that influenced him in the fate of a beautiful girl; he prolonged
the conversation, and was only recalled by the observation from Paulina,
that she must hasten home. Angelo longed to ask the fair girl when he
should behold her again, but honor and conscience made for once
successful opposition. He resigned reluctantly the hand which a second
time he had taken, and returned home with less alacrity than he had
departed thence.
No appointment existed for the ensuing day, yet Angelo mechanically bent
his steps towards the spot; the lovely Paulina, however, was not there;
he measured back his way, restless and disgusted, and could not avoid
feeling that he was so. The succeeding day, he renewed his attempt, and
was more successful; he persuaded himself that he neither wished, nor
expected to see the fair object who had so much interested him; yet,
spite of himself, his eyes wandered eagerly round, and, with a sudden
joy, he beheld her at a great distance, holding a small basket on her
arm.
Involuntarily his pace quickened; he sought to restrain his feet, but
the principle that actuated the movement was too strong for mechanical
regulation, and he found himself at her side, confused, perturbed at his
own sensations. The fair Paulina, however, received him with joy, though
timid, unembarrassed, and affected not to disguise the pleasure she felt
at beholding him. She offered him some fruit from her basket, and
artlessly observed that she had gathered and brought it out, on purpose
for him, in case chance should procure her the pleasure of meeting with
him. How Angelo admired this bewitching simplicity! He admired it too
much; and the conflict between a sense of duty, and the feelings he
experienced, kept him silent. Paulina, however, prattled on, gay,
unrestrained, and seeming unconscious of an idea that she ought to
suppress.--Again it devolved on her to pronounce the parting, and again
the uneasy, conscience-stricken Angelo bade her a reluctant “farewell.”
Weak, deluded man; each day he became more deeply entangled in the web
weaving for his destruction; each day his misguided sentiments acquired
fresh strength, and his peace and happiness diminished. In vain he
represented to himself, that the course he was pursuing was not
imprudent merely, but dishonorable, and base; and not more dishonorable
and base towards the injured Gabrielle, than towards the innocent object
that had allured him. What could be foreseen as the result, but the
misery of the one, and the ruin of the other? Could he act consistently
with honor, towards both, if he pursued his infatuation? no; for honor
to one, must inevitably be baseness to the other.
Sometimes these reflections spoke so powerfully above the weakness of
his heart, that he determined he would no more behold the fair girl who
had excited this commotion in his breast; but these resolutions were,
unhappily transient, displaced when he beheld her by opposite thoughts.
Then he would endeavour to persuade himself, that simply conversing with
a young artless girl, to while away sometimes a few moments which would
not have been better employed, could not surely be a very momentous
crime. But these moments might have been more innocently employed, and
consequently better. Besides, it was not the conversations merely, but
their tendency and effect that made the danger, and led progressively
to the crime.
On those mornings when Angelo did not behold Paulina, he became
influenced for the day; he was fretful, restless, and uneasy. Gabrielle
began to observe a change in the naturally gay and happy disposition of
Angelo; she attributed it, in a great degree, to the uniformity of his
life, and solicited him to go frequently among his friends, and to seek
amusement. Moreover, she studied, by every possible attention, to
increase his comforts at home; but vain was every effort; the
dissatisfaction and gloom of Angelo became daily more apparent, and
peace having dwelt with them so long, now spread her fair wings, and
fled their habitation.
The interviews of Angelo with Paulina were now become habitual.
Gradually he struggled less against the pleasure he experienced in her
society, but he sought to dupe himself into a belief, that that pleasure
was harmless, because it contained no positive injury to any one, and
because, being unknown, it could not even convey an imaginary one. He
would not acknowledge that he loved, but simply that he was charmed with
Paulina. For a time he thus aimed to deceive his reason, but soon could
no longer conceal from himself the depth and extent of the sentiments
with which she had inspired him.
One morning that, deeply affected by the soft smiles of his child, and
the gentle unvaried kindness of Gabrielle, he had taken himself more
severely to task than usual for the system he was now pursuing, yet
even, while he so arraigned himself, was walking on to the accustomed
spot to meet Paulina, and she perceiving him at a distance, hastened
forward to meet him; when taking his arm, with that innocent familiarity
which wore such charms to Angelo, she said to him, after a short
silence, with an air of melancholy, “Signore, I shall certainly be
obliged to marry Castro Nardi,--and I hate him more than ever.”
This subject for some time past had not been touched on, it appeared
even to have been forgotten by both, but now that it was thus revived,
and introduced by Paulina, the feelings of Angelo, at the moment,
convinced him how much he loved. The most beautiful, the most innocent,
and delicate of creatures, become the companion of a vile fisherman; be
subject now, perhaps, to his disgusting tenderness, and now, to the
unfeeling brutality of savage ill treatment. The idea was sacrilege, it
could not be endured, and Angelo swore, with an emotion that could never
have been excited by compassionate interest merely in the fate of a
lovely girl, that such an unheard-of impious sacrifice must not, nor
should not be.
“But, Signore,” cried Paulina, in a mournful voice, though her eyes
sparkled with delight, at the warmth of Angelo, “if you were even to
succeed with my father, and prevail on him to forego his intention of
marrying me to Castro Nardi, even then,---- I,---- should not be happy.”
“And why not, lovely Paulina? what could then remain to afflict such
innocence?”
“If I,--if I,--Signore,”--she stopped confusedly.
“Proceed, proceed;” cried Angelo.--
“If I then, Signore, had never seen you, I think,---- I might have been
happy,--but,”----
“But what,” cried Angelo out of breath.--
“But now I think so much of you, Signore, I always see you before
me,---- and,”---- again she stopped, and Angelo too was silent from
conflicting emotion. The blood which had been kindling in his cheek,
from the commencement of Paulina’s speech now, at its conclusion, had
mounted into a crimson blush, and his heart beat with violence against
his bosom as he faltered to himself, “She loves me!”
“I hope, Eccellentissimo Signore,” resumed Paulina, timidly raising her
eyes to his face; “I hope that I have not said any thing to offend,
or----”
“Offend me, sweet girl!--No, no!” cried Angelo; “you have given me only
too much pleasure--pleasure which I tremble to feel--yet know not how to
repress.”
This being above the comprehension of Paulina, she merely said, with a
smile, and gently pressing his hand to her lips, “It is enough for me
that you are not offended--for worlds I would not offend, or pain you!”
“I believe it, indeed, sweet girl!” answered Angelo, not daring to look
at her: “But, for the present, I must leave you;--I must fly from
you!--To-morrow we will meet again.”
Paulina cast down her eyes, and in a broken voice she said, “Now then I
see that you are indeed angry with me;--for never, never yet, did you
propose to leave Paulina.”
“Oh! distraction!” cried Angelo; pressing her in his arms, and as
suddenly releasing her. “No, no, sweet Paulina, I am not angry; believe
me, I am not, but I must leave you, I have no power to converse with you
any longer.” So saying he kissed her hand--pressed it for a moment to
his heart, and tore himself away.
CHAP. XIV.
Angelo returned home; his head and heart filled with the wildest anarchy
of sensation--passion, remorse, delight, and wretchedness; he now began
to see, too plainly, the error he had been guilty of, in trusting
himself so frequently in the society of a fascinating object; but felt,
alas! that it was now impossible to recede; and though his vivid
imagination presented to him images of horror around, he felt that he
must inevitably rush among them; for the long-smothered passion, that
now flamed in defiance of reason and honor in his breast, had too
furiously burst forth to be restrained; he had fled--hastily fled, and
so far, for the moment, had struggled successfully against the dangerous
voice of delusion, from the lovely and too captivating Paulina. But with
dismay, and bitter regret, he acknowledged, that he could never more be
capable of such resolution. The remainder of the day, and the whole
night, he passed in misery and self-accusation, but above all in
thinking of his love. The images of the injured Gabrielle and his
unconscious child stood before him in melancholy and reproachful
seeming, but above all towered that of Paulina; now that he had
discovered she loved him, to aim at victory over himself was vain, and
though he felt his error, the seducing conviction of her tenderness, so
innocently avowed, relaxed his energy, and incapacitated him even from
the attempt.
On the following morning, according to promise, he hastened, with
trembling eagerness once more to behold her; she was not on the
accustomed spot--he waited with agonizing impatience--but she did not
come--he wandered to a considerable distance--his straining eyes sought
her in every direction--all was vain--and, in a state of mind raging
with grief and disappointment, he was compelled to abandon all hope of
seeing her for the day, and return homewards.
The idea which tortured him most was, that the tender and artless girl,
affected at his seeming coldness of the preceding day, in hastening from
her, could not find courage to encounter him again, and in the anguish
that this thought inspired, he accused himself of unnecessary cruelty
and insensibility towards her, and too great severity towards himself.
In consequence of this impression, the weakness of his heart obtained a
triumph over his better reason, and he determined, when next he beheld
her, by yielding with less reserve to the sweet influence of her love,
that he would endeavour to retrieve her happiness. When the gloomy day,
which he had passed without feasting his eyes upon her beauty, had
expired, and the sleepless and perturbed night had likewise passed away,
he repaired at an earlier hour than usual to the hill, and soon had the
now unspeakable happiness of beholding her on whom his mind was fixed.
He saw, and flew to meet--but how was his happiness converted into
sorrow and alarm, when he observed that beauteous countenance suffused
in tears.
“Heaven, my beloved Paulina!” he exclaimed, seizing her hand, “why these
tears?”
“Alas!” answered Paulina, with redoubled grief, “the day, the hour is
fixed; I cannot escape, my father is now determined.”
“To marry you, Paulina?”
“Yes, yes, to the hateful Castro Nardi; never, never _now_, can I bring
my mind to consent; sooner would I die; oh, if I had never seen you!”
Angelo trembled; “No, dear Paulina, it shall not be, trust me; but tell
me the day that it is intended to----”
Paulina fixed her eyes of heavenly blue upon the face of Angelo, with an
expression of anguish and despair, and exclaimed, “To-morrow!”
Angelo started back; “To-morrow, Paulina!” he cried; “then no time is to
be lost; lead me instantly to your father, and I will speak to him.”
“Will you; will you, indeed?” cried Paulina, clapping her hands and
smiling through her tears, “Come, then, let us hasten; perhaps to you he
may relent.”
The warm, precipitate Angelo put forth his hand; Paulina seized it, and
flew with, rather than led him to a retired spot, where, situated on the
borders of a thick wood, and almost hidden by trees, rose a lowly hut,
but seeming the abode neither of comfort nor content--attendants often
in the cottage of the poor. Here Paulina stopping, looked at Angelo with
a timid blush, and, pointing to the cottage, said, “There I live; can
such a one as you deign to enter that place?”
“Can you ask me such a question?” said Angelo, reproachfully; and
Paulina, without waiting for more, hurried on, and raising the latch,
she entered the cottage, whither Angelo followed, unhesitatingly.
At the further end of the room, employed in mending a fishing net, sat
the father of the fair Paulina, whom age and ugliness rendered less
forbidding than the stern ferocity of aspect which fully conveyed the
idea, that such a man could remain for ever inflexible to the pleadings
of youth and beauty, and insensible to the feelings of humanity. An aged
female, his counterpart in expression of countenance, was busied over
the fire; as the door opened, the eyes of both momentarily glanced
towards it, and though Paulina came accompanied by a stranger, the man
did not arise, neither did the female relax her employment.
“Father,” began Paulina, while Angelo wondered in secret how so
celestial a creature could call such a being parent, “I have brought you
here a kind Signore, who does not wish that you should marry me to
Castro Nardi; and who promises, if you will give up your cruel
intention, that he----”
“Ho, ho!” cried the fisherman, Mezzotetto, interrupting his daughter
with a hideous grin, “this, then, is the Signore that has turned your
brain, and promised you that he would make me alter my will; well, then,
Signore,” added he, with insolent contempt, looking towards Angelo, and
still continuing his employment, “hear, now, what I am going to say; for
when I’ve told you my mind, I shall not speak another word, though you
stood here till night. This girl, whom you are so obliging as to
interest yourself about, is not to be sold, like other poor girls, to
any Signore that will bid for her; she was not brought up with that
intention,[A] and you must look among my neighbours for another. Now,
then, Signore, this girl is my daughter, and therefore my property; she
shall marry my old friend Castro Nardi--and more than that, she shall
marry him to-morrow. You have heard my mind; neither all your gold will
move me to change a tittle of it, nor all your fair speeches to say
another word.”
[A] It is the infamous practice of some of the lower orders of
Italians, to sell their daughters to the young nobility, or to their
parents or guardians for them, who prefer that mode as the most
effectual security against early or imprudent marriages.
Angelo was indignant at the insolence and abruptness of the fisherman,
while Paulina appeared covered with confusion at such language being
addressed to him, and knew not where to hide her head; but indignant as
was Angelo, when he looked at the lovely girl, he suppressed his rage,
and condescended, for her sake, to address her father. This he did in a
gentle and persuasive accent, representing to him the cruelty of the
sacrifice he was about to make; and, notwithstanding what he had
observed, offering, upon condition that he would abandon his purpose, to
make him any compensation he would require.
It was in vain, however, that Angelo thus descended; the fisherman
answered not a word; but when he found that, still entertaining hope of
effecting a change, he made use of different arguments, and various
inducements, he suddenly rose from his chair, and opening the door of
the hovel, looked at Angelo with a significant nod, and pointed towards
it. The indignation of Angelo now rose to a height; he looked fiercely
at the rude ruffian before him, and his arm was raised to
strike.--Paulina flew towards him, and seizing his uplifted arm,
whispered at the same moment, “Save me!”
This recalled his self-possession; contempt took the place of rage in
his breast; he looked tenderly and expressively at Paulina, and with a
glance of scorn at the savage Mezzotetto, he quitted in silence the
cottage.
Soon, however, the remembrance of the insolence he had met with was
displaced by considerations more momentous, and of deeper interest. If
he did not devise some prompt means of saving Paulina, on the morrow she
would be immolated at the shrine of grossest barbarism, by the most
unprecedented and savage obstinacy; every exertion would then be vain.
“No, no;” said he, quickening his pace, in the attempt to justify
himself for the keen solicitude he felt; “nature and common humanity
forbid that such a sacrifice should be permitted; it becomes a duty to
endeavour to prevent it, and I will use my best efforts.” As he
proceeded he considered the means of putting his designs in execution: a
thousand various plans suggested themselves to his heated fancy, and in
turn were eagerly embraced and rejected.
At length, after deeply pondering, he decided that he would return about
night-fall to the cottage, seek some means of seeing Paulina, and not
leave the spot till he had succeeded; then, if she still stated her
father to remain inflexible, withdraw her at once from a power he so
much abused, and place her in some secure asylum. But withdrawing a
young girl from her parents, and placing her in another asylum, becoming
responsible for her future fate, entailing new duties on himself, and
new difficulties! How afterwards to dispose of her? These reflections
entered not the giddy mind of Angelo, or if they did, he repressed, and
would not allow himself to attend to them. One difficulty which
presented itself, and which gave him most consideration to surmount, was
where, if it should be necessary immediately to withdraw her, he might
for the present place her.
Suddenly he recollected that a man, who had formerly been his servant,
but who was now married and lived in the suburbs, near Pausilyppo, would
with alacrity perform any thing he should require, and in his house he
determined, till a more eligible situation could be discovered, to place
her. Thus far arranged, his mind became somewhat lightened; for, on the
impropriety, rashness, and danger, exclusive of other considerations,
of involving himself in an affair of this nature, he would not for a
moment think. Anxiously passed the hours with him till dusk came on, he
left his home, no longer pleasing to him, because of the reproaches it
conveyed to his heart, and wrapped in the concealment of a loose cloak,
directed his steps towards the hut of the fisherman.
By the time he arrived, it had become dark; he approached the lowly
hovel, and through the crevice of the shutter espied a light
within;--drawing still nearer, he could perceive what was passing; he
applied his eye to a small aperture, and beheld the fair Paulina, with
her father and mother, seated round a table, in jovial supper, and
apparent good fellowship; the mother was laughing heartily; the
sternness of the father’s features had considerably relaxed, and the
ever-beautiful Paulina wore upon her’s a triumphant smile.
“How is this?” said Angelo to himself, pausing in dismay, when the idea
suggested itself that the lovely Paulina had consented to become the
wife of Castro Nardi, and thus had re-established the harmony which
appeared to reign among them: he trembled at the thought, for he felt,
if so, that his interference would be undesired; and however in the
morning he had pretended to himself, that duty and humanity alone called
him to active exertion, in this case he now felt that if that duty
existed no longer, he should be miserable, for that he had a motive
still more powerful to impel him. While he still continued gazing, but
without being able to distinguish their conversation, he beheld Paulina
rise from the table, and approaching the door, pause close to it, and
seem to listen as for some sound without.
This movement revived his hopes: he quitted instantly the window, and
advancing towards the door, ventured gently to tap against
it.--Immediately an answering tap from within convinced him he had been
heard;--his heart bounded--and he remained immoveable against the door,
listening for every breath, and at every slight movement supposing
Paulina would appear. At length, sick at heart with the delay, once more
he looked through the casement, the lamp was extinguished, and the only
light which remained was emitted from the wood fire, which still
continued to blaze on the hearth. Neither the father nor mother of
Paulina were longer visible, but in a few moments he beheld herself,
like the goddess of night, stealing along on tip-toe, covered with a
large mantle of grey cloth, and a long veil, which, for the present
however, depended from the back of her head, and shewed in full
perfection the alabaster forehead, round which luxuriantly twined the
amber ringlets, and wantoned over her graceful shoulders, in rich
elastic waves of gold.
Angelo gazed with rapture and delight, yet scarce could he gaze, from
impatience to behold her near him. Paulina advanced, carefully undrew
the slender bolt, gently raised the latch, and in a moment was in his
eager arms.
“Hush!” she cried, withdrawing herself, “you must not speak while we are
here;” and, seizing his arm, she led him rapidly along, till they had
advanced a considerable way. “Now then,” said Paulina, suddenly
stopping, “now then you must determine; my father and mother are both
asleep--I seized the opportunity, and boldly ventured past their bed,
knowing from your signal that you were without. Say, say then at once,”
she presently added, clasping one of his hands between both her’s, “do
you wish to save the poor Paulina? If you do, I shall be too happy--if
you do not, death or the bitterest misery must be my portion, for return
home I never will to be the wife of Castro Nardi!”
Angelo pressed the weeping beauty to his breast; again, in the assumed
form of humanity, spoke the powerful voice of passion, “Yes, yes, fair
creature,” he ardently exclaimed, “I will save--I will protect you;”
when, jealous doubt for a moment intervening, he added, “but tell me,
Paulina, how was it, that with the horror of this dreaded marriage in
perspective, I could behold you a short time ago gaily sporting and
laughing with your parents at supper?”
“What,” cried Paulina, hastily, “were you there so early? and did you
not readily conceive my motives for such conduct? I wanted to make my
father believe, that having no longer any hope of his changing his
resolution, I was desirous to obey him as cheerfully as I could. I
feared, by appearing still disposed to resist, he might have used hard
measures with me, confined and watched me till the very moment arrived
for my marriage with Castro Nardi. When they found me seeming so patient
and dutiful, they had no suspicion, but praised me to the skies, and
were kinder to me than ever.--I know it was very wrong to deceive my
parents, but----”
“Enough, enough, dear Paulina, you have, I confess, taken a weight off
my mind, by the avowal of your innocent stratagem, so well imagined, and
under all circumstances so perfectly excuseable!”
“Ah, then! could you believe that I was _really_ happy? could you
suppose, for a moment, that I would agree to marry the handsomest
Cavalier in all Italy, after seeing you? much less the odious old Castro
Nardi, who is besides as wicked as he is ugly!”
The words so artlessly expressed, “after seeing you,” shot through the
heart of Angelo; he drew the hand of Paulina through his arm, and
pausing a moment, looked tenderly at her, and in a tremulous voice,
said, “Paulina, sweet girl, I fear you love me.”--
“Ah, I do indeed; but why do you fear it?”
“Why should I?” said Angelo, to himself, “And do you really love me,
Paulina?,” he cried.
“Oh, I loved you,” cried Paulina, with animation, “from the first moment
that I saw you; and when I learnt that you was my Lord il Conte
D’Albini, I was afraid, indeed, to continue to love you, and I tried all
I could to overcome my passion; but, instead of that, all my trying only
made me love you the more!”
Angelo was almost wild at this seducing confession; the very artlessness
of which rendered it doubly dangerous; he forgot in a moment his
self-possession; his virtue! reason! honor! all, all was lost, in the
overpowering delusion of the moment; he pressed Paulina in his arms, and
now felt, beyond the power of sophistry to prevent, how much, and how
completely he was, and had been throughout, the slave of the most
consuming passion! All further hesitations, all further struggles, were
now from the question; he seized the hand of the bewitching girl, and
led her rapidly along, till they reached the abode where, for the
present, he desired to place her. Arrived, by the help of certain
arguments that speak in a language ever most convincing to vulgar minds,
the possessors of the house, who were besides under extensive
obligations to Angelo, received, without a single question, and without
the slightest demur, the lovely Paulina beneath their roof; for
indifferent were they to the fate of youth and innocence, careless
respecting its sacrifice or preservation, further than their own
interest might be concerned.
Here, then, in a tumult of love and agitation, the rash imprudent Angelo
left, reluctantly, his beauteous charge, after giving every order for
her accommodation, and tenderly promising that he would see her early on
the following day. He had now entered too dreadfully deep in the path of
error, to think even of retracting; his whole thoughts were of
Paulina.--She agitated his heart with the strongest emotions of
passion;--his brain she filled with eternal anarchy;--he visited her
daily;--he could enjoy no happiness when out of her presence;--the hours
he passed not with her, hung heavy with disgust;--and perpetual fears
tormented him, lest the beloved of his heart should be discovered in her
present asylum, so ineligible, so unworthy of her, by her father, or
perhaps by Castro Nardi; but, above all, lest Gabrielle, that injured
Gabrielle, of whom he dreaded to think, should learn his apostacy, and
seek in person to convince herself of the truth.
These were the ideas that racked and disquieted him, and were some alloy
to the guilty pleasures he enjoyed. One morning Paulina informed him,
that on the preceding evening she had observed two men walking to and
fro, beneath her window, one of whom, she was almost certain, was her
father. Angelo, alarmed, felt all his fears on the point of being
verified; his mind became filled with a thousand different plans for the
security of his cherished prize; he would have moved her instantly to
another habitation, but remembered that all places might be equally
insecure beyond the moment.
How much, however, were his apprehensions increased, when on the
following morning she told him, with a countenance of alarm, that so
late as after his departure the night before, standing as usual at the
window to catch a last glance of his person, she beheld a female of a
commanding figure, and wrapped in a loose mantle, issue as it were from
the house, (though of that she could not be certain, as the situation of
her window prevented her from having a view of the door,) and follow him
at a slow pace as long as he remained in sight, still keeping a short
distance from him.
This intelligence struck him with dismay far exceeding what he had yet
felt, and it was not diminished when he suddenly remembered, that on
returning home last night, Gabrielle was not as usual sitting up for
him; but on enquiry he had learned, that she had retired early to her
own apartment. Instantly this vague association of circumstances struck
him with the idea that she must have watched his steps, traced him to
the house, remained till she saw him leave it, and then, following him
home, have returned secretly to her own apartment. He immediately
concluded, therefore, that he was betrayed to her by the very persons
with whom Paulina was placed, and whom, although he had not confided to
them aught, might, if they chose, inform her of sufficient to excite her
jealousy and suspicion.
These reflections filled him with confusion and perturbation; he
perceived the necessity, so deemed by him, of taking instantly some
certain measures to preserve Paulina from the dreadful consequences of
discovery. To his terrified imagination it now appeared that she was
beset by danger, and that not a moment must be lost to withdraw her
from its power. Paulina, who appeared to read in his varying countenance
the distraction of his mind, affectionately pressing his hand to her
bosom, said, “Ah, dearest Angelo, would we were in another land; any
where that I might behold you happy, and at ease.”
Angelo, who had been revolving in his mind the best plan to follow, was
roused by this sentiment--he looked at Paulina; a dreadful idea glanced
through his brain--he trembled to pursue it, more still to indulge it;
yet, involuntarily, in an eager voice, he exclaimed, “Could you, could
you be happy with me in another land, Paulina?”
“Happy!” returned Paulina, with an air of reproach, and fixing on him,
with the softest tenderness, her dark blue eyes, “Now surely, Angelo,
you have asked that question in sport, for you cannot doubt that I
could be happy with you on the top of the wildest rock--in a cave--in a
savage forest--any where.”
“Oh, say no more--say no more,” cried Angelo, pressing his hand to his
forehead, “say no more, unless you would distract me, and make me more a
wretch than I am!--Did I bid you be silent? Could I? Oh, repeat again
what you have so sweetly said.”
“Nay, dearest Angelo, look not so wildly, and I will repeat, that I
could be happy with you any where; without you, no where.”
“’Tis done,” cried Angelo, starting up and gazing upon her; “this, this
is the work of fate; such transcendant beauty as your’s should never
have been thrown in the path of one whose duties forbade him to be
enslaved by it;--but--but the die is now cast;” and, pressing her in his
arms, “mine you are by choice, and mine now, in despite of every
consideration, you shall continue to be; not fate itself shall have
power to break those ties it hath so closely entwined.---- I leave thee,
Paulina, for a short time; I leave thee--heaven be thy guard meanwhile.”
Like every determination, however rash, wild, or imprudent, which
entered the erring mind of Angelo, he dwelt on this with a spirit of
infuriate ardor and adherence, which, till put in force, allowed him
repose neither night nor day. To quit Italy with a girl whom scarcely he
could be said to know, but whose uncommon personal beauty had fascinated
his senses and enslaved his reason,--who was devoid of the divine charm
which alone adds interest to beauty--mind;--and who possessed, to
compensate, nothing but a graceful _naiveté_ of manner, or expression;
all this appeared no longer a plan of folly and of danger, or replete
with injury or baseness to others; his violent and uncontrollable
passion carried all before it, and superseded every consideration of
reason, honor, or duty.
“It is in vain, it is in vain,” he would say to himself; “I respect, I
venerate the virtues of Gabrielle, but I adore to distraction the too
beauteous Paulina. Loving another, then, I can no longer make _her_
happy; to remain with her, while my whole soul is another’s, would be an
insult to the undivided tenderness she still bears me, but which I,
alas! unhappy that I am, can no longer with equal ardor return. I leave
her then;”--when suddenly the thought of his child intervening, whom,
next to Paulina, he most tenderly doated on, gave a fresh turn to his
thoughts; and the cruel idea of robbing him from Gabrielle, to make him
the innocent partner of his intended flight, for the moment suggested
itself and was paused on: “but, no, no;” he would suddenly exclaim,
“that would be too barbarous--she shall retain the beloved boy; he--he
may console her for the unavoidable dereliction of which his father is
guilty.” Then, urged by a reproaching conscience not to inflict upon the
unconscious Gabrielle an unnecessary pang, he would reluctantly
consider, for a moment, the feasibility of his still continuing with
her, and whether it might not be possible to retain, secure and
unmolested, the fair object of his love, without departing from Italy;
but soon this idea he rejected, on the plea of future discovery, if it
were not already certain; then should he have to encounter bitter,
because merited reproaches and wretchedness at home; restraint and
perpetual apprehension when abroad. He recurred, then, with eagerness to
the first suggestion--the sad and cruel alternative of departure.
Once decided on this point, home became dreadful to him, from the
poignant yet silent reproaches which it made him; intoxicated with the
beauty of Paulina, resolved, yet involuntarily hesitating to strike the
dreadful blow upon the head of the wretched Gabrielle, his blood in an
unceasing ferment with passion, anxiety, and remorse, he became
impatient to fix at once the cruel moment of departure--for the
consciousness of intended crime was still more dreadful than the
commission of it; he desired to escape objects and scenes which rung in
his ears the perpetual larum of his guilt; and, with the fury of
madness, he desired to leap down the frightful precipice, without
pausing on the verge to contemplate it.
The fatal step was taken; suddenly and secretly, with Paulina he quitted
Naples;--he deserted the unhappy Gabrielle! he deserted his child! he
yielded to the seductions of an ignoble passion; and, while he stamped
_himself_ a wretch, hurled misery and destruction on the head of
others.