became, from this point on, so rhapsodical that a keen observer only
could guess at the true coherence of the story. Her baby, a daughter,
born during her husband’s absence, was spirited away from the house,
and all search for it was fruitless. Her grief at this loss deepened to
despair, when she received a message from her father stating that her
husband, whom all believed to be in Pisa, had been found dying of heart
trouble in Angelica’s home in X----, and that Angelica herself had
become a dangerous maniac. The old Count added that all this horror had
so shaken his own nerves that he feared he would not long survive it.
“As soon as Gabrielle was able to leave her bed, she hurried to her
father’s castle. One night, prevented from sleeping by visions of the
loved ones she had lost, she seemed to hear a faint crying, like that
of an infant, before the door of her chamber. Lighting her candle she
opened the door. Great Heaven! there cowered the old gypsy woman,
wrapped in her red shawl, staring up at her with eyes that seemed
already glazing in death. In her arms she held a little child, whose
crying had aroused the Countess. Gabrielle’s heart beat high with
joy--it was her child--her lost daughter! She snatched the infant from
the gypsy’s arms, just as the woman fell at her feet lifeless. The
Countess’ screams awoke the house, but the gypsy was quite dead and no
effort to revive her met with success.
“The old Count hurried to X---- to endeavor to discover something that
would throw light upon the mysterious disappearance and reappearance
of the child. Angelica’s madness had frightened away all her female
servants; the valet alone remained with her. She appeared at first to
have become quite calm and sensible. But when the Count told her the
story of Gabrielle’s child she clapped her hands and laughed aloud,
crying: ‘Did the little darling arrive? You buried her, you say? How
the feathers of the gold pheasant shine in the sun! Have you seen the
green lion with the fiery blue eyes?’ Horrified the Count perceived
that Angelica’s mind was gone beyond a doubt, and he resolved to take
her back with him to his estates, in spite of the warnings of his old
valet. At the mere suggestion of removing her from the house Angelica’s
ravings increased to such an extent as to endanger her own life and
that of the others.
“When a lucid interval came again Angelica entreated her father, with
many tears, to let her live and die in the house she had chosen.
Touched by her terrible trouble, he granted her request, although he
believed the confession which slipped from her lips during this scene
to be a fantasy of her madness. She told him that Count S---- had
returned to her arms, and that the child which the gipsy had taken
to her father’s house was the fruit of their love. The rumor went
abroad in the city that Count Z---- had taken the unfortunate woman to
his home; but the truth was that she remained hidden in the deserted
house under the care of the valet. Count Z---- died a short time ago,
and Countess Gabrielle came here with her daughter Edwina to arrange
some family affairs. It was not possible for her to avoid seeing her
unfortunate sister. Strange things must have happened during this
visit, but the Countess has not confided anything to me, saying merely
that she had found it necessary to take the mad woman away from the
old valet. It had been discovered that he had controlled her outbreaks
by means of force and physical cruelty; and that also, allured by
Angelica’s assertions that she could make gold, he had allowed himself
to assist her in her weird operations.
“I would be quite unnecessary,” thus the physician ended his story,
“to say anything more to you about the deeper inward relationship of
all these strange things. It is clear to my mind that it was you who
brought about the catastrophe, a catastrophe which will mean recovery
or speedy death for the sick woman. And now I will confess to you that
I was not a little alarmed, horrified, even, to discover that--when I
had set myself in magnetic communication with you by placing my hand on
your neck--I could see the picture in the mirror with my own eyes. We
both know now that the reflection in the glass was the face of Countess
Edwina.”
I repeat Dr. K----’s words in saying that, to my mind also, there is
no further comment that can be made on all these facts. I consider it
equally unnecessary to discuss at any further length with you now the
mysterious relationship between Angelica, Edwina, the old valet, and
myself--a relationship which seemed the work of a malicious demon who
was playing his tricks with us. I will add only that I left the city
soon after all these events, driven from the place by an oppression I
could not shake off. The uncanny sensation left me suddenly a month or
so later, giving way to a feeling of intense relief that flowed through
all my veins with the warmth of an electric current. I am convinced
that this change within me came about in the moment when the mad woman
died.
THE ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES
[Attribution: From “Wolfert’s Roost.”]
A LEGEND OF ST. BRANDAN, THE PHANTOM ISLE
By WASHINGTON IRVING
In the early part of the fifteenth century, when Prince Henry of
Portugal was pushing the career of discovery along the western coast
of Africa, and the world was resounding with reports of golden regions
on the mainland, and new-found islands in the ocean, there arrived at
Lisbon an old bewildered pilot of the seas, who had been driven by
tempests, he knew not whither, and raved about an island far in the
deep, upon which he had landed, and which he had found peopled with
Christians and adorned with noble cities.
The inhabitants, he said, having never before been visited by a ship,
gathered round, and regarded him with surprise. They told him they were
descendants of a band of Christians, who fled from Spain when that
country was conquered by the Moslems. They were curious about the state
of their fatherland, and grieved to hear that the Moslems still held
possession of the kingdom of Granada. They would have taken the old
navigator to church, to convince him of their orthodoxy; but, either
through lack of devotion, or lack of faith in their words, he declined
their invitation, and preferred to return on board of his ship. He was
properly punished. A furious storm arose, drove him from his anchorage,
hurried him out to sea, and he saw no more of the unknown island.
This strange story caused great marvel in Lisbon and elsewhere. Those
versed in history remembered to have read, in an ancient chronicle,
that, at the time of the conquest of Spain, in the eighth century, when
the blessed cross was cast down and the crescent erected in its place,
and when Christian churches were turned into Moslem mosques, seven
bishops, at the head of seven bands of pious exiles, had fled from the
peninsula, and embarked in quest of some ocean island, or distant land,
where they might found seven Christian cities, and enjoy their faith
unmolested.
The fate of these saints errant had hitherto remained a mystery,
and their story had faded from memory; the report of the old
tempest-tossed pilot, however, revived this long-forgotten theme; and
it was determined by the pious and enthusiastic that the island thus
accidentally discovered was the identical place of refuge whither the
wandering bishops had been guided by a protecting Providence, and where
they had folded their flocks.
This most excitable of worlds has always some darling object of
chimerical enterprise; the “Island of the Seven Cities” now awakened as
much interest and longing among zealous Christians as has the renowned
city of Timbuctoo among adventurous travelers, or the Northeast passage
among hardy navigators; and it was a frequent prayer of the devout,
that these scattered and lost portions of the Christian family might be
discovered and reunited to the great body of Christendom.
No one, however, entered into the matter with half the zeal of Don
Fernando de Ulmo, a young cavalier of high standing in the Portuguese
court, and of most sanguine and romantic temperament. He had recently
come to his estate, and had run the round of all kinds of pleasures and
excitements when this new theme of popular talk and wonder presented
itself. The Island of the Seven Cities became now the constant subject
of his thoughts by day and his dreams by night; it even rivaled his
passion for a beautiful girl, one of the greatest belles of Lisbon, to
whom he was betrothed. At length his imagination became so inflamed on
the subject, that he determined to fit out an expedition, at his own
expense, and set sail in quest of this sainted island. It could not
be a cruise of any great extent; for, according to the calculations
of the tempest-tossed pilot, it must be somewhere in the latitude
of the Canaries; which at that time, when the new world was as yet
undiscovered, formed the frontier of ocean enterprise. Don Fernando
applied to the crown for countenance and protection. As he was a
favorite at court, the usual patronage was readily extended to him;
that is to say, he received a commission from the king, Don Ioam II.,
constituting him Adelantado, or military governor, of any country he
might discover, with the single proviso, that he should bear all the
expenses of the discovery, and pay a tenth of the profits to the crown.
Don Fernando now set to work in the true spirit of a projector. He sold
acre after acre of solid land, and invested the proceeds in ships,
guns, ammunition, and sea-stores. Even his old family mansion in Lisbon
was mortgaged without scruple, for he looked forward to a palace in one
of the Seven Cities, of which he was to be Adelantado. This was the
age of nautical romance, when the thoughts of all speculative dreamers
were turned to the ocean. The scheme of Don Fernando, therefore, drew
adventurers of every kind.
One person alone regarded the whole project with sovereign contempt
and growing hostility. This was Don Ramiro Alvarez, the father of the
beautiful Serafina, to whom Don Fernando was betrothed. He was one
of those perverse, matter-of-fact old men, who are prone to oppose
everything speculative and romantic. He had no faith in the Island of
the Seven Cities; regarded the projected cruise as a crack-brained
freak; looked with angry eye and internal heart-burning on the conduct
of his intended son-in-law, chaffering away solid lands for lands in
the moon; and scoffingly dubbed him Adelantado of Cloud Land. In fact,
he had never really relished the intended match, to which his consent
had been slowly extorted by the tears and entreaties of his daughter.
It is true he could have no reasonable objections to the youth, for Don
Fernando was the very flower of Portuguese chivalry. No one could excel
him at the tilting match, or the riding at the ring; none was more bold
and dexterous in the bull fight; none composed more gallant madrigals
in praise of his lady’s charms, or sang them with sweeter tones to the
accompaniment of her guitar; nor could any one handle the castanets
and dance the bolero with more captivating grace. All these admirable
qualities and endowments, however, though they had been sufficient to
win the heart of Serafina, were nothing in the eyes of her unreasonable
father.
The engagement to Serafina had threatened at first to throw an obstacle
in the way of the expedition of Don Fernando, and for a time perplexed
him in the extreme. He was passionately attached to the young lady;
but he was also passionately bent on this romantic enterprise. How
should he reconcile the two passionate inclinations? A simple and
obvious arrangement at length presented itself,--marry Serafina, enjoy
a portion of the honeymoon at once, and defer the rest until his return
from the discovery of the Seven Cities!
He hastened to make known this most excellent arrangement to Don
Ramiro, when the long smothered wrath of the old cavalier burst forth.
He reproached him with being the dupe of wandering vagabonds and wild
schemers, and with squandering all his real possession, in pursuit of
empty bubbles. Don Fernando was too sanguine a projector, and too young
a man, to listen tamely to such language. A high quarrel ensued; Don
Ramiro pronounced him a madman, and forbade all farther intercourse
with his daughter until he should give proof of returning sanity by
abandoning this madcap enterprise; while Don Fernando flung out of
the house, more bent than ever on the expedition, from the idea of
triumphing over the incredulity of the graybeard, when he should return
successful. Don Ramiro’s heart misgave him. Who knows, thought he, but
this crack-brained visionary may persuade my daughter to elope with
him, and share his throne in this unknown paradise of fools? If I could
only keep her safe until his ships are fairly out at sea!
He repaired to her apartment, represented to her the sanguine, unsteady
character of her lover and the chimerical value of his schemes, and
urged the propriety of suspending all intercourse with him until he
should recover from his present hallucination. She bowed her head
as if in filial acquiescence, whereupon he folded her to his bosom
with parental fondness and kissed away a tear that was stealing over
her cheek, but as he left the chamber quietly turned the key in the
lock; for though he was a fond father and had a high opinion of the
submissive temper of his child, he had a still higher opinion of the
conservative virtues of lock and key, and determined to trust to them
until the caravels should sail. Whether the damsel had been in anywise
shaken in her faith as to the schemes of her father’s eloquence,
tradition does not say; but certain it is, that, the moment she heard
the key turn in the lock, she became a firm believer in the Island of
the Seven Cities.
The door was locked; but her will was unconfined. A window of the
chamber opened into one of those stone balconies, secured by iron bars,
which project like huge cages from Portuguese and Spanish houses.
Within this balcony the beautiful Serafina had her birds and flowers,
and here she was accustomed to sit on moonlight nights as in a bower,
and touch her guitar and sing like a wakeful nightingale. From this
balcony an intercourse was now maintained between the lovers, against
which the lock and key of Don Ramiro were of no avail. All day would
Fernando be occupied hurrying the equipments of his ships, but evening
found him in sweet discourse beneath his lady’s window.
At length the preparations were completed. Two gallant caravels lay at
anchor in the Tagus ready to sail at sunrise. Late at night by the pale
light of a waning moon the lover had his last interview. The beautiful
Serafina was sad at heart and full of dark forebodings; her lover full
of hope and confidence. “A few short months,” said he, “and I shall
return in triumph. Thy father will then blush at his incredulity, and
hasten to welcome to his house the Adelantado of the Seven Cities.”
The gentle lady shook her head. It was not on this point she felt
distrust. She was a thorough believer in the Island of the Seven
Cities, and so sure of the success of the enterprise that she might
have been tempted to join it had not the balcony been high and the
grating strong. Other considerations induced that dubious shaking
of the head. She had heard of the inconstancy of the seas, and the
inconstancy of those who roam them. Might not Fernando meet with other
loves in foreign ports? Might not some peerless beauty in one or other
of those Seven Cities efface the image of Serafina from his mind?
She ventured to express her doubt, but he spurned at the very idea.
“What! be false to Serafina! He bow at the shrine of another beauty?
Never! Never!” Repeatedly did he bend his knee, and smite his breast,
and call upon the silver moon to witness his sincerity and truth.
He retorted the doubt, “Might not Serafina herself forget her plighted
faith? Might not some wealthier rival present himself while he was
tossing on the sea; and, backed by her father’s wishes, win the
treasure of her hand!”
The beautiful Serafina raised her white arms between the iron bars
of the balcony, and, like her lover, invoked the moon to testify her
vows. Alas! how little did Fernando know her heart. The more her father
should oppose, the more would she be fixed in faith. Though years
should intervene, Fernando on his return would find her true. Even
should the salt sea swallow him up, never would she be the wife of
another! Never, _never_, NEVER! She drew from her finger a ring gemmed
with a ruby heart, and dropped it from the balcony, a parting pledge
of constancy.
With the morning dawn the caravels dropped down the Tagus, and put
to sea. They steered for the Canaries, in those days the regions
of nautical discovery and romance, and the outposts of the known
world, for as yet Columbus had not steered his daring barks across
the ocean. Scarce had they reached those latitudes when they were
separated by a violent tempest. For many days was the caravel of Don
Fernando driven about at the mercy of the elements; all seamanship was
baffled, destruction seemed inevitable and the crew were in despair.
All at once the storm subsided; the ocean sank into a calm; the clouds
which had veiled the face of heaven were suddenly withdrawn, and the
tempest-tossed mariners beheld a fair and mountainous island, emerging
as if by enchantment from the murky gloom. They rubbed their eyes and
gazed for a time almost incredulously, yet there lay the island spread
out in lovely landscapes, with the late stormy sea laving its shores
with peaceful billows.
The pilot of the caravel consulted his maps and charts; no island like
the one before him was laid down as existing in those parts; it is true
he had lost his reckoning in the late storm, but, according to his
calculations, he could not be far from the Canaries; and this was not
one of that group of islands. The caravel now lay perfectly becalmed
off the mouth of a river, on the banks of which, about a league from
the sea, was descried a noble city, with lofty walls and towers, and a
protecting castle.
After a time, a stately barge with sixteen oars was seen emerging from
the river, and approaching the caravel. It was quaintly carved and
gilt; the oarsmen were clad in antique garb, their oars painted of a
bright crimson, and they came slowly and solemnly, keeping time as they
rowed to the cadence of an old Spanish ditty. Under a silken canopy in
the stern, sat a cavalier richly clad, and over his head was a banner
bearing the sacred emblem of the cross.
When the barge reached the caravel, the cavalier stepped on board. He
was tall and gaunt; with a long Spanish visage, moustaches that curled
up to his eyes, and a forked beard. He wore gauntlets reaching to his
elbows, a Toledo blade strutting out behind, with a basket hilt, in
which he carried his handkerchief. His air was lofty and precise, and
bespoke indisputably the hidalgo. Thrusting out a long spindle leg, he
took off a huge sombrero, and swaying it until the feather swept the
ground, accosted Don Fernando in the old Castilian language, and with
the old Castilian courtesy, welcoming him to the Island of the Seven
Cities.
Don Fernando was overwhelmed with astonishment. Could this be true? Had
he really been tempest-driven to the very land of which he was in quest?
It was even so. That very day the inhabitants were holding high
festival in commemoration of the escape of their ancestors from the
Moors. The arrival of the caravel at such a juncture was considered
a good omen, the accomplishment of an ancient prophecy through which
the island was to be restored to the great community of Christendom.
The cavalier before him was grand chamberlain, sent by the alcayde to
invite him to the festivities of the capital.
Don Fernando could scarce believe that this was not all a dream. He
had known his name and the object of his voyage. The grand chamberlain
declared that all was in perfect accordance with the ancient prophecy,
and that the moment his credentials were presented, he would be
acknowledged as the Adelantado of the Seven Cities. In the meantime
the day was waning; the barge was ready to convey him to the land, and
would as assuredly bring him back.
Don Fernando’s pilot, a veteran of the seas, drew him aside and
expostulated against his venturing, on the mere word of a stranger, to
land in a strange barge on an unknown shore. “Who knows, Señor, what
land this is, or what people inhabit it?”
Don Fernando was not to be dissuaded. Had he not believed in this
island when all the world doubted? Had he not sought it in defiance
of storm and tempest, and was he now to shrink from its shores when
they lay before him in calm weather? In a word, was not faith the very
corner-stone of his enterprise?
Having arrayed himself, therefore, in gala dress befitting the
occasion, he took his seat in the barge. The grand chamberlain seated
himself opposite. The rowers plied their oars, and renewed the
mournful old ditty, and the gorgeous but unwieldly barge moved slowly
through the water.
The night closed in before they entered the river, and swept along past
rock and promontory, each guarded by its tower. At every post they were
challenged by the sentinel.
“Who goes there?”
“The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.”
“Welcome, Señor Adelantado. Pass on.”
Entering the harbor they rowed close by an armed galley of ancient
form. Soldiers with crossbows patroled the deck.
“Who goes there?”
“The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.”
“Welcome, Señor Adelantado. Pass on.”
They landed at a broad flight of stone steps, leading up between two
massive towers, and knocked at the water-gate. A sentinel, in ancient
steel casque, looked from the barbican.
“Who is there?”
“The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.”
“Welcome, Señor Adelantado.”
The gate swung open, grating upon rusty hinges. They entered between
two rows of warriors in Gothic armor, with crossbows, maces,
battle-axes, and faces old-fashioned as their armor. There were
processions through the streets, in commemoration of the landing of the
seven bishops and their followers, and bonfires at which effigies of
Moors expiated their invasion of Christendom by a kind of auto-da-fé.
The groups round the fires, uncouth in their attire, looked like the
fantastic figures that roam the streets in carnival time. Even the
dames who gazed down from Gothic balconies hung with antique tapestry,
resembled effigies dressed up in Christmas mummeries. Everything, in
short, bore the stamp of former ages, as if the world had suddenly
rolled back for several centuries. Nor was this to be wondered at.
Had not the Island of the Seven Cities been cut off from the rest of
the world for several hundred years; and were not these the modes and
customs of Gothic Spain before it was conquered by the Moors?
Arrived at the palace of the alcayde, the grand chamberlain knocked at
the portal. The porter looked through a wicket, and demanded who was
there.
“The Adelantado of the Seven Cities.”
The portal was thrown wide open. The grand chamberlain led the way up
a vast, heavily molded, marble staircase, and into a hall of ceremony,
where was the alcayde with several of the principal dignitaries of the
city, who had a marvelous resemblance, in form and feature, to the
quaint figures in old illuminated manuscripts.
The grand chamberlain stepped forward and announced the name and title
of the stranger guest, and the extraordinary nature of his mission. The
announcement appeared to create no extraordinary emotion or surprise,
but to be received as the anticipated fulfilment of a prophecy.
The reception of Don Fernando, however, was profoundly gracious, though
in the same style of stately courtesy which everywhere prevailed. He
would have produced his credentials, but this was courteously declined.
The evening was devoted to high festivity; the following day, when he
should enter the port with his caravel, would be devoted to business,
when the credentials would be received in due form, and he inducted
into office as Adelantado of the Seven Cities.