by Ouida
Deathless as themselves, their shadows stood; and the worm and the lizard and the newt left them alone and dared not wind about their calm clear brows, and dared not steal to touch the roses at their lips, — knowing that ere the birth of the worlds these were, and when the worlds shall have perished they still will reign on, — the slow, sure, soundless, changeless ministers of an eternal rest, of an eternal oblivion.
A little light strayed in from the gray skies, pale as the primrose-flowers that grow among the reeds upon the shore, and found its way to them trembling, and shone in the far-seeing depths of their unfathomable eyes.
To eyes which spake and said: “Sleep, Dreams, and Death; — we are the only gods that answer prayer.”
With the faint gleam of the tender evening light there came across the threshold a human form, barefooted, bareheaded, with broken links of golden chains gleaming here and there upon her limbs, with white robes hanging heavily, soaked with dews and rains; with sweet familiar smells of night-born blossoms, of wet leaves, of budding palm-boughs, of rich dark seed-sown fields, and the white flower-foam of orchards shedding their fragrance from about her as she moved.
Her face was bloodless as the faces of the gods; her eyes had a look of blindness, her lips were close-locked together; her feet stumbled often, yet her path was straight.
She had hidden by day, she had fled by night; all human creatures had scattered from her path, in terror of her as of some unearthly thing: she had made her way blindly yet surely through the sweet cool air, through the shadows and the grasses, through the sighing sounds of bells, through the leafy ways, through the pastures where the herds were sleeping, through the daffodils blowing in the shallow brooks; — through all the things for which her life had been athirst so long and which she reached too late, — too late for any coolness of sweet grass beneath her limbs to give her rest; too late for any twilight song of missel-thrush or merle to touch her dumb dead heart to music; too late for any kiss of clustering leaves to heal the blistering shame that burned upon her lips and withered all their youth. And yet she loved them, — loved them never yet more utterly than now when she came back to them, as Persephone to the pomegranate-flowers of hell.
She crossed the threshold, whilst the reeds that grew in the water by the steps bathed her feet and blew together softly against her limbs, sorrowing for this life so like their own, which had dreamed of the songs of the gods and had only heard the hiss of the snakes.
She fell at the feet of Thanatos. The bonds of her silence were loosened; the lips dumb so long for love’s sake found voice and cried out:
“How long? — how long? Wilt thou never take pity, and stoop, and say, ‘Enough’? I have kept faith, I have kept silence, to the end. The gods know. My life for his; my soul for his: so I said. So I have given. I would not have it otherwise. Nay, — I am glad, I am content, I am strong. See, — I have never spoken. The gods have let me perish in his stead. Nay, I suffer nothing. What can it matter — for me? Nay, I thank thee that thou hast given my vileness to be the means of his glory. He is immortal, and I am less than the dust: — what matter? He must not know; he must never know; and one day I might be weak, or mad, and speak. Take me whilst still I am strong. A little while agone, in the space in the crowds he saw me. ‘So soon?’ he said, — and smiled. And yet I live! Keep faith with me; keep faith — at last. Slay me now, — quickly, — for pity’s sake! Just once, — I speak.”
Thanatos, in answer, laid his hand upon her lips, and sealed them, and their secret with them, mute, for evermore.
She had been faithful to the end.
To such a faith there is no recompense, of men or of the gods, save only death. On the shores of the river the winds swept through the reeds, and, sighing amidst them, mourned, saying, “A thing as free as we are, and as fair as the light, has perished; a thing whose joys were made, like ours, from song of the birds, from sight of the sun, from sound of the waters, from smell of the fields, from the tossing spray of the white fruit-boughs, from the play of the grasses at sunrise, from all the sweet and innocent liberties of earth and air. She has perished as a trampled leaf, as a broken shell, as a rose that falls in the public ways, as a star that is cast down on an autumn night. She has died as the dust dies, and none sorrow. What matter? — what matter? Men are wise, and gods are just, — they say.”
The moon shone cold and clear. The breath of the wild thyme was sweet upon the air. The leaves blew together murmuring. The shadows of the clouds were dark upon the stream. She lay dead at the feet of the Sons of Night.
The Red Mouse sat without, and watched, and said, “To the end she hath escaped me.” The noisome creatures of the place stole away trembling; the nameless things begotten by loneliness and gloom glided to their holes as though afraid; the blind newts crept into the utter darkness afar off; the pure cool winds alone hovered near her, and moved her hair, and touched her limbs with all the fragrance of forest and plain, of the pure young year and the blossoming woodlands, of the green garden-ways and the silvery sea. The lives of the earth and the air and the waters alone mourned for this life which was gone from amidst them, free even in basest bondage, pure though every hand had cast defilement on it, incorrupt through all corruption — for love’s sake.
CHAPTER XVIII.
In the springtime of the year three reapers cut to the roots the reeds that grew by the river.
They worked at dawn of day: the skies were gray and dark; the still and misty current flowed in with a full tide; the air was filled with the scent of white fruit-blossoms; in the hush of the daybreak the song of a lark thrilled the silence; under the sweep of the steel the reeds fell.
Resting from their labors, with the rushes slain around them, they, looking vacantly through the hollow casements, saw her body lying there at the feet of the gods of oblivion.
At first they were shaken and afraid. Then the gleam of the gold upon her limbs awakened avarice; and avarice was more powerful than fear. They waded through the rushes and crossed the threshold, and, venturing within, stood looking on her in awe and wonder, then timorously touched her, and turned her face to the faint light. Then they said that she was dead.
“It is that evil thing come back upon us!” they muttered to one another, and stood looking at one another, and at her, afraid.
They spoke in whispers; they were very fearful; it was still twilight.
“It were a righteous act to thrust her in a grave,” they murmured to one another at the last, — and paused.
“Ay, truly,” they agreed. “Otherwise she may break the bonds of the tomb, and rise again, and haunt us always: who can say? But the gold — —”
And then they paused again.
“It were a sin,” one murmured,— “it were a sin to bury the pure good gold in darkness. Even if it came from hell — —”
“The priests will bless it for us,” answered the other twain.
Against the reddening skies the lark was singing.
The three reapers waited a little, still afraid, then hastily, as men slaughter a thing they dread may rise against them, they stripped the white robes from her and drew off the anklets of gold from her feet, and the chains of gold that were riven about her breast and limbs. When they had stripped her body bare, they were stricken with a terror of the dead whom they thus violated with their theft; and, being consumed with apprehension lest any, as the day grew lighter, should pass by there and see what they had done, they went out in trembling haste, and together dug deep down into the wet sands, where the reeds grew, and dragged her still warm body unshrouded to the air, and thrust it down there into its nameless grave, and covered it, and left it to the rising of the tide.
Then with the gold they hurried to their homes.
The waters rose and washed smooth the displaced soil, and rippled in a sheet of silver as the sun rose over the place, and effaced all traces of their work, so that no man knew this thing which they had done.
In her death, as in her life, she was f
riendless and alone; and none avenged her.
The reeds blew together by the river, now red in the daybreak, now white in the moonrise; and the winds sighed through them wearily, for they were songless, and the gods were dead.
The seasons came and went; the waters rose and sank; in the golden willows the young birds made music with their wings; the soft-footed things of brake and brush stole down through the shade of the leaves and drank at the edge of the shore, and fled away; the people passed down the slow current of the stream with lily sheaves of the blossoming spring, with ruddy fruitage of the summer woods, with yellow harvest of the autumn fields, — passed singing, smiting the frail songless as they went.
But none paused there.
For Thanatos alone knew, — Thanatos, who watched by day and night the slain reeds sigh, fruitless and rootless, on the empty air, — Thanatos, who by the cold sad patience of his gaze spoke, saying, —
“I am the only pity of the world. And even I — to every mortal thing I come too early or too late.”
THE END
Pascarel
Subtitled Only a Story, this novel was published in 1873 by Chapman and Hall, in the customary three volume set. This format was an expensive investment for any publisher compared to “floating” a story in serialised form in a magazine to assess its popularity; it is another indication of Ouida’s great popularity that publishers went straight to book format. However, the novel was actually first published in Italian – Ouida’s first Italian language publication – in the high class prestigious Florentine journal Nuova Antologia; Chapman and Hall published the novel in English two months later. A central message of the story is that art and culture as entertainment and diversion is as important to the health of society as any moral message it might also convey and that a balance must be found between artistic altruism and commercialism in culture. A reviewer in the Athenaeum declared the novel to be “far in advance of Ouida’s earlier novels,” and fellow author and contemporary of Ouida’s, Willa Cather (1873-1947), said: “There is poetry enough in Pascarel for a dozen novels.” Certainly, the lyrical descriptions of Italy in the novel were highly praised at the time; they are presumably taken from personal observations, as it is thought that Ouida and her mother may already have been living in Italy when she wrote it, eventually settling permanently in Florence in 1874 (hence the initial Italian edition). Her descriptions have the timbre of an elegantly worded travel guide of the period, although they are more eloquent when it comes to atmosphere than facts and information, as befits a work of fiction. It has more recently been suggested by academics that Ouida also drew inspiration for this novel from two older French novels (Consuelo by Georges Sands and Corinne by Madame de Stael), using the themes from these and applying them to revolutionary Italy.
Nella Uccello is a motherless girl, virtually abandoned by her feckless father and along with her brothers, is raised by a loyal peasant woman, Mariuccia and a gentle musician, Floria. Her best friend is a little boy about her own age, Raffaelino, with whom she sings and dances. Virtually the whole of Book One is devoted to Nella’s childhood story, told in the first person, with an abundance of picturesque scenes depicting peasant life in Italy at the time.
In Book Two, after Mariuccia die, Nella sets out on her travels and encounters Pascarel, a well educated nobleman, who has an almost socialist view of society. He is tender and gentle, with a “beguiling” voice. This is her second meeting with him; in the first, magical encounter, he had given her an onyx ring and she had never forgotten him; at a time when she has no one and nothing in the world, he is there again to save her. He has an open-air theatre made from canvas and wood, in which his troupe of entertainers perform almost exclusively for the local impoverished peasants – even those who cannot afford an entrance fee are let in and the upper classes are allowed in with reluctance. Aristocrats, seeking ephemeral diversion from their lives of boredom and social constraint, are anathema to Pascarel. He will not let Nella sing in the cities they visit, lest her innately ladylike sensibilities are compromised. Despite this, Pascarel treats her as his intellectual equal and as they wander as a travelling group from place to place, they talk at length about literature, culture and architecture; eventually, Nella falls in love with Pascarel. However, he has a secret, which could threaten Nella’s hopes of happiness…
This is a well written romance with a picturesque setting, good characterisations and some charming scenes of everyday life in Italy – no doubt romanticised, but appealing nonetheless. There are one or two places where the present day reader’s eyebrows may be raised by Ouida’s comments regarding the relationships between men and women – such as her remarks articulated through Nella that men were far too kind and laissez-faire in their attitude towards women and it would be better if they were more controlling and even brutal - but all one can do is take these comments in the context of the times and treat them as of historical interest.
The first edition’s title page
CONTENTS
BOOK I. THE CITY OF CATULLUS.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
BOOK II. THE CITY OF LILIES.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
BOOK III. THE DAUGHTER OF HERCULES.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
BOOK IV. THE WANDERING ARTE.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
BOOK V. THE FEAST OF THE DEAD.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
BOOK VI. THE QUARTER OF THE DOVE.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
BOOK VII. THE FIELD OF FLOWERS.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
“LOVE IS ENOUGH; though the World be a-waning,
And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining,
Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover,
The gold-cups and daisies fair blossoming thereunder,
Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder
And this day draw a veil over all deeds passed over,
Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter;
The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter,
Those lips and those eyes of the loved and the lover.”
TO THE READER.
WITH feminine obstinacy the Donzella sacrifices truth to pictorial effect, and justice to high-coloured contrast, touching Rome. (p. 103.) The love that Rome begets is different to that which Florence inspires; but it is never less strong and is even more reverent;
less familiar, and more close on awe; as tender, but more solemn. In Rome, Art and Nature strain together in perpetual conflict for supremacy; a struggle of a Titan with a God that holds mortal onlookers breathless; in Florence, Art and Nature clasp hands and smile on men, and even the Mercury Agoreus, being in Florence, borrows the flowers of Dionysus to deck his scales of barter. But who, with any power of vision or soul of artist in them, can live a day blind to the vast and sublime beauties of the Capital of the World? — who can fail to grow at once the humbler and the greater by dwelling on that sacred soil? — who will not draw nearer to God himself as they see how mighty human genius can be? — who will not yield to Rome a homage that is a passion as well as a religion? If any such there be, let them see the sun fall once on the face of the Faun, let them see the moon shine once on the Palace of the Cæsars: — and surely they will repent.
BOOK I. THE CITY OF CATULLUS.
CHAPTER I.
King Carnival.
IT was the first day of Carnival.
The populace was out all over the city in a many-coloured and ever-changing swarm of human life. The gay masque reeled madly round the marble iron-bound flanks of the Duomo, and flung its hail of toys and flowers against the frowning masses of the old palaces and prisons; and surged in its foam of mirth and mischief all along the length of the green Adige in the light of the winter noon.