Wretched is the policy which too often puts at variance the best feelings of human nature; which sets the parent against the child, because expences either affect his ease, or are painful to his avarice; which estrange the brother from the sister, and make enemies of the amiable and lovely group, who, but a few, a very few years before, were happy associates in the innocent, thoughtless hours of childhood. — Ah! wretched is the policy which makes the son, too, often rejoice, when she who bore him and nourished him mingles with the dust; when those eyes are closed which have so often been filled with tears of tender anxiety as they gazed on him! — and yet all the contrivances, which cunning and caution have invented for the security of property, have a direct tendency to occasion all this, while mistaken views of happiness, unfortunate mistakes in the head, or deficiency of feeling in the heart, do the rest, and occasion more than half the miseries of life.
Montalbert, on receiving the letter that gave him notice of his mother’s danger, felt, for a moment, that he was her son; but almost as soon as this sense of filial duty and affection was lost in an involuntary recollection of the release which her death would give him from the pain of concealing a clandestine marriage, or reducing himself and his posterity to indigence if he betrayed it.
He had no sooner felt this sentiment arise in his mind than he was shocked at and resisted it; but again it arose, and he found all his affection for his mother weak, when opposed to the idea of the advantages he might derive from her quitting the world where she alone was the barrier between him and happiness with the woman he adored.
It was not, however, a time to investigate these sentiments deeply, but to act in pursuance of the letter. He hastened, therefore, to inform his wife of its contents, who agreed with him entirely as to the urgency of his immediate departure, yet wept and hung about him as if impressed with some unusual apprehension of future sorrow; and, as she kissed her child, she almost drowned it with her tears.
Montalbert, who felt none of this violent grief at an absence, the duration of which would, as he thought, depend on himself, consoled her with views of future prosperity and uninterrupted happiness.
Alozzi had a few days before left Messina, and was gone to Agrigentum, where he intended to remain for some time. Montablert, therefore, who had no doubt but that he should return within five or six weeks, felt no uneasiness at the thoughts of leaving to frequent interviews with his wife, in his absence, a man whom all his reason did not enable him to see with her, in his presence, without pain.
The letter Montalbert had received was written in such pressing terms, that there was no time to be lost, and he determined to begin his journey on the next day.
Rosalie, far from feeling even the usual tranquility, saw the moment of his bidding her adieu arrive with agonies of sorrow, for which she knew not how to account — yet could not stifle or command. Nothing new had occurred in her situation to make this absence more dreadful than the two preceding ones; indeed it should have been otherwise, for the presence of her infant, on which she doted with all the fondness of a first maternal affection, was what was most likely to console her in this temporary parting from its father: nor had she to say, with the unhappy Dido ——
“Si quis mihi parvulus aula
“Luderet Æneas, qui te tatem ore referret;
“Non equidam omnino capta aut dferta viderer.”
VIRGIL’S ÆNEID.
The servants about her were the same as those with whom she had formerly reasoned to be satisfied. The situation around her offered all that the most lovely scenes of nature could do to assuage the pain inflicted by her husband’s involuntary and short absence. All this she urged to appease the tumult of her spirits; she owned the justice of it all, but nothing gave her any consolation, and, when she at last allowed him to tear himself away, the resolution to see him depart was acquired by an effort so painful, that he was hardly out of sight before her senses forsook her, and it was many hours before the remonstrances of Zulietta, her Italian maid, and of an older woman who assisted in the care of her infant boy, so far roused her from the despondence into which she fell, as to engage her to attend to the care of her own health, on which depended that of the child she nourished at her breast.
By degrees, however, she became more composed; she received cheerful letters from Montalbert, sent by a vessel which passed them at sea. It mentioned, that they were becalmed, but that he was perfectly well, and had no doubt of writing to her the next day from Naples. Ashamed of fears and of despondence, which seemed, as soon as she could reason upon it, to have so little foundation, she returned once more to the the amusements which used to beguile the hours of her husband’s absence, and all that were not dedicated to the care of her child, whom she attended to herself, she passed in cultivating those talents which Montalbert loved, and in which he had assisted and marked her progress with such exquisite delight.
CHAPTER 21
IN Sicily there is no winter such as is felt in more northern countries, and now, in the month of February, spring every where appeared in the rich vales that stretch toward the sea from the base of Etna. His towering and majestic summit alone presented the image of eternal frost, and formed a singular but magnificent contrast to the vivid and luxuriant vegetation of the lower world.
Having only Italian or Sicilian servants about her, her former knowledge of the language was so much improved, that Rosalie now spoke Italian with ease, and read it with as much pleasure as English; but, since Montalbert had been gone this time, she felt the want of new English books; she read over the few she had with her, repeated frequently some pieces of poetry she was fond of, and sometimes longing to hear the sound of an English voice, and fancying, that if Montalbert’s absence was lengthened, she should forget her native tongue, or pronounce it like a foreigner. From this train of thought her mind was naturally carried to England, and when she reflected how entirely she was secluded from all knowledge of what passed there, she felt her tenderness and solicitude return for Mrs. Vyvian, and would have given half a world, had she possessed it, to have known how that beloved parent bore her absence, and what was the state of her health. Even the passionate fondness she felt for her child most forcibly recalled that affection which she owed her mother.....”Just so, (said she, as she studied with delight, in the features of her little boy, the resemblance of Montalbert), just so, perhaps, my poor mother, as soon as she dared indulge herself with a sight of me, endeavoured to make out, in my unfortunate lineaments, the likeness of my unhappy father — that unfortunate Ormsby, whose uncertain fate has thrown over her days the heavey gloom of anxious despondence, more difficult, perhaps, to bear than despair itself....Dear, unhappy parents! — never shall your daughter see either of you perhaps again — never shall she know the blessing of being acknowledged by a father; of being pressed to the conscious heart of a mother proud to own her!”
A flood of tears followed this soliloquy; but she remembered for how many misfortunes such a husband as Montalbert ought to console her, and tried, though in vain, to call a train of more cheerful ideas. The gloom, however, which hung over her mind, and for which she could not herself account, was neither to be reasoned with, nor dissipated entirely; and having neither books nor conversation to beguile the time, her spirits became more and more depressed. A thousand vague apprehensions beset her for the health of her child; she now never quitted him a moment, and watched him incessantly with a vigilance which fed itself with imaginary terrors.
This state of mind had continued some time, with no other relief than what the hope of Montalbert’s speedy return afforded, when, sitting in a lower apartment with her infant in her arms, Rosalie was surprised by a singular motion in the floor, which seemed to rise under her feet; she started up, and saw, with horror and amazement, the walls of the room breaking in several directions, while the dust and lime threatened to choke her, and so obscured the air, that she could hardly distinguish Zulietta, who ran from another room, and seizing her by the hand, drew her with a
ll the strength she could exert through a door which opened under an arch into the garden. Zulietta spoke not; she was, indeed, unable to speak.
Rosalie, to whom the tremendous idea of an earthquake now occurred, followed as quickly as she was able, clasping her boy to her breast. They were soon about fifty yards from the house, the ground heaving and rolling beneath them like the waves of the sea, and beyond them breaking into yawning gulfs, which threatened to prevent their flight; Rosalie then looked round, and saw, instead of the house she had just left, a cloud of impenetrable smoke, which prevented her knowing whether any of it remained about the convulsed earth that had entirely swallowed part of the shattered walls. No language could describe the terror and confusion that overwhelmed this little group of fugitives; for no other fearful spectacle can impress on the human mind ideas of such complicated horrors as now surrounded them. They heard the crash of the building they had just left, as it half sunk into a deep chasm; before them, and even under their feet, the ground continued to break; the trees were torn from their roots, and falling in every direction around them; and vapours of sulphur and burning bitumen seemed to rise in pestilential clouds, which impeded the sight and the respiration.
Rosalie called faintly, and with a sickening heart, as conscious of its inutility, on the name of Montalbert. Alas! Montalbert was far off, and could not succour her. To the mercy of Heaven, who seemed thus to summon her and her infant away, she committed him and herself; and laying herself on the ground, with her child in her arms, and Zulietta kneeling by her, she resigned herself to that fate which appeared to be inevitable.
Flight was vain — all human help was vain, but nature still resisted dissolution, and she could not help thinking with agony of the state of Montalbert’s mind, when the loss of his wife and child should be known to him. Another thought darted into her mind, and brought with it a more severe pang than any she had yet felt: Montalbert proposed about this time to return; within a few days she had begun to expect him, in consequence of his last letters. It was possible — alas! it was even probable, that he was already at Messina, and he too might have perished: he might at this moment expire amid the suffocating ruins — crushed by their weight, or stifled by subterraneous fires. The image was too horrible; she started up, as if it were possible for her feeble arms to save him; she looked wildly round her — all was ruin and desolation, but the earth no longer trembled as it had done, and a faint hope of safety arose almost insensibly in her heart. She spoke to Zulietta, who seemed petrified and motionless; she counjured her to rise and assist her — yet whither to go she knew not, nor what were her intentions, or her prospects of safety.
While Rosalie yet spoke incoherently, almost unconscious that she spoke at all, a second shock, though less violent than the first, again deprived her of the little presence of mind she had collected — and, again prostrate on the ground, she commended her soul to Heaven!
In a few moments, however, this new convulsion ceased, and the possibility that Montalbert might be returning, might be seeking her in distracted apprehension, restored to her the power of exertion. The hope that she might once see her husbad, served as a persuasion that she should see, and she advanced heedless of any danger she might incure by it towards the ruins of the house, where it was probable he would seek for her; but between her and those ruins was a deep and impassable chasm, which had been formed during the last shock.
Zulietta, from her abrupt and wild manner, had conceived an idea that her mistress meant, in the despair occasioned by terror and grief to throw herself into this gulf. Impressed with this fear, she seized her by the arm, and making use of such arguments as the moment allowed, she drew her away, and they walked together, as hastily as they had strength, through the garden and up a rising ground beyond it, which was terminated by a deep wood, which had been less affected than the lower ground, though one or two of the trees were fallen and some half uprooted. Unable to go father, Rosalie sat down on one of their trunks, and Zulietta placed herself near her.
Evening was coming on, but the deep gloom that hung over every object made the time of day imperceptible. Almost doubting of her existence, Rosalie seemed insensible to ever thing till the feeble cry of her infant boy, missing its accustomed nourishment at her breast, awakened the terrible apprehension of seeing him perish before her eyes for want of that nourishment.
“Zulietta, (said she, in a mournful and broken voice) — Zulietta! what will become of my child?”— “Ah! what will become of us all? — (answered the half-senseless girl). — O Dio! we shall die here, or we shall be murdered by the men who frequent these woods.”
“Could I but save my child! (exclaimed, Rosalie, little encouraged by her companion). —— Could I but know whether Montalbert lives! — O Montalbert! where are you — if you exist?” ——
A shriek from Zulietta interrupted this soliloquy. She started from the tree where they sat, and fled to some distance; Rosalie involutarily followed her, looking back toward the dark woods. “I saw some person move among the trees, (cried Zulietta, in answer to her lady’s eager inquiries), I am sure I did — banditti are coming to murder us.”
“And were that all I had to dread, (said Rosalie, collecting some portion of resolution) — were that all I had to dread, how gladly would I give up my life and that of this infant. But recollect yourself, Zulietta; who should at this time pursue us? — I have heard —— —— —— — (she paused, for her memory was confused and distracted) — I have heard, that it is among the ruins of houses that, at such times as this, the robber and the assassin throw themselves.....Oh! would we could find any nourishment; but where to look for it — I cannot see my baby die, Zulietta — ah! what are any fears I may have for myself, compared to those I feel for him! — In the woods, perhaps, we might find some fallen fruits.” — Zulietta was not a mother, and the apprehensions of these banditti had taken such strong possession of her startled and dissipated senses, that every noise she either heard or fancied, she imagined to be their steps among the woods; and the reddening light of the declining day, as it faintly glimmered among the trees, was supposed to be their fires at a distance in the forest.
Had Rosalie, however, been accompanied by a person who had more fortitude, there would have been less occasion for her to exert that resolution which her superior good sense gave her, and which was now absolutely necessary for the preservation of them all. A moment’s steady reflection lent her courage to attempt at least appeasing the groundless fears of Zulietta — enough of real apprehension, alas! remained.
It was not, however, without great difficulty, that she could prevail on her servant to follow her, not into the wood, for that she peremptorily refused, but round one of its extremities to a small eminence which Rosalie thought must command a view of Messina; at least it was not far from this spot, as she now remembered, that she had once been shown a prospect of the town by Montalbert. They exerted all their strength, and slowly gained a still higher ground, which commanded an extensive view of the city, the surrounding country, and the sea. The country remained, but not at all resembling what it had been only a few hours before; the sea too was visible, though heavy and dark clouds hung over it, and it seemed mingled with the threatening atmosphere above it; but Messina was distinguished only by more dismal vapours, and by the red gleam of fires that were consuming the fallen buildings. — Rosalie listened if, from among the desolate ruins, she could hear the wailings of the ruined! — but silence and death seemed to have enwrapt this miserable scene in their blackest veil, and such an image of horror presented itself to her mind, as that which since inspired the sublime and fearful description of the destruction of the army of Cambyses in the desert, ending thus ——
“Then ceas’d the storm. — Night bow’d his Ethiop brow
“To the earth, and listen’d to the groans below
“Grim horror shook: — a while the living hill
“Heav’d with convulsive throws — and all was still.”
DR.
DARWIN’S ECONOMY OF VEGETATION.
Maternal love, the strongest passion that the female heart can feel, still sustained the timid and delicate Rosalie amidst the real miseries of which she was herself conscious, and those which the disturbed and agitated spirits of Zulietta represented. — She must struggle to sustain herself, or what would become of her child? Could she not bear any immediate evils better than the dreadful idea of leaving this lovely, helpless creature to the mercy of the elements? — Tears, hitherto denied to her, filled her eyes as she carried her mind forward to all the possibilities to which this fearful image led her; she found relief in weeping, and once more acquired voice and courage to ask Zulietta what it would be best for them to do? — Some time passed before Zulietta was capable of giving a rational answer; at length, however, they agreed, that it would be better, before it became entirely dark, to endeavour to find some house where they might be received for the night— “for surely (said Rosalie) some must remain, wide as the desolation has been.”
In this hope, Rosalie and her attendant moved on as well as their strength permitted them; but it was by this time nearly dark, and round the skirts of the wood it became very difficult for them to discern their way.
Languid and desponding, Zulietta some times declared she could go no farther, and the spirits of her unhappy mistress were exhausted in vain to reanimate her courage.
A path, which they thought might lead to some habitation, had insensibly bewildered them among the trees, and the darkness, which now totally surrounded them, again raised new terrors in the mind of Zulietta, who, clinging to Rosalie, insisted upon it that she heard the footsteps of persons following them: they listened — a dreary silence ensued; but presently Rosalie was convinced that at least this time the fears of her woman were but too well grounded; the voices of two men talking together were distinctly heard, and, on turning round, they saw a light glimmer among the trees. As these persons, whoever they were, followed the path they had taken, and were advancing quickly towards them, escape or concealment became impossible; half dead with fear, and almost unconscious of what she did, Rosalie now stopped, determined to await the event.
Complete Poetical Works of Charlotte Smith Page 228