by Mary Shelley
“You are dying!” cried Faustina: “you have saved my life, and are killed yourself.”
Ippolito tried to smile. “I am not dying,” he said, “but I am hurt.”
“Where? how?” cried Angeline. “Dear Faustina, let us send for a carriage for him, and take him to the villa.”
“O! yes,” said Faustina: “go, Caterina — run — tell papa what has happened — that a young cavalier has killed himself in saving my life.”
“Not killed myself,” interrupted Ippolito; “only broken my arm, and, I almost fear, my leg.”
Angeline grew deadly pale, and sank on the ground.
“And you will die before we get help,” said Faustina; “that stupid Caterina craws like a snail.”
“I will go to the villa,” cried Angeline, “Caterina shall stay with you and Ip — Buon dio! what am I saying?”
She rushed away, and left Faustina fanning her lover, who again grew very faint. The villa was soon alarmed, the Signor Conte sent off for a surgeon, and caused a mattress to be slung, with four men to carry it, and came to the assistance of Ippolito. Angeline remained in the house; she yielded at last to her agitation, and wept bitterly, from the effects of fright and grief. “O that he should break his vow thus to be punished — would that the atonement had fallen upon me!” Soon she roused herself, however, prepared the bed, sought what bandages she thought might be necessary, and by that time he had been brought in. Soon after the surgeon came; he found that the left arm was certainly broken, but the leg was only bruised: he then set the limb, bled him, and giving him a composing draught, ordered that he should be kept very quiet. Angeline watched by him all night, but he slept soundly, and was not aware of her presence. Never had she loved so much. His misfortune, which was accidental, she took as a tribute of his affection, and gazed on his handsome countenance, composed in sleep, thinking, “Heaven preserve the truest lover that ever blessed a maiden’s vows!”
The next morning Ippolito woke without fever and in good spirits. The contusion on his leg was almost nothing; he wanted to rise: the surgeon visited him, and implored him to remain quiet only a day or two to prevent fever, and promised a speedy cure if he would implicitly obey his mandates. Angeline spent the day at the villa, but would not see him again. Faustina talked incessantly of his courage, his gallantry, his engaging manners. She was the heroine of the story. It was for her that the cavalier had risked his life; her he had saved. Angeline smiled a little at her egotism. “It would mortify her if I told her the truth,” she thought: so she remained silent. In the evening it was necessary to return to the convent; should she go in and say adieu to Ippolito? Was it right? Was it not breaking her vow? Still how could she resist? She entered and approached him softly; he heard her step, and looked up eagerly, and then seemed a little disappointed.
“Adieu! Ippolito,” said Angeline, “I must go back to my convent. If you should become worse, which heaven forbid, I will return to wait on you, nurse you, die with you; if you get well, as with God’s blessing there seems every hope, in one short month, I will thank you as you deserve. Adieu! dear Ippolito.”
“Adieu! dear Angeline; you mean all that is right, and your conscience approves you: do not fear for me. I feel health and strength in my frame, and I bless the inconvenience and pain I suffer since you and your sweet friend are safe. Adieu! Yet, Angeline, one word: — my father, I hear, took Camilla back to Bologna with him last year — perhaps you correspond?”
“You mistake; by the Marchese’s desire, no letters have passed.”
“And you have obeyed in friendship as in love — you are very good. Now I ask a promise also — will you keep one to me as well as to my father?”
“If it be nothing against our vow.”
“Our vow! you little nun — are our vows so mighty? — No, nothing against our vow; only that you will not write to Camilla nor my father, nor let this accident be known to them; it would occasion anxiety to no purpose: — will you promise?”
“I will promise not to write without your permission.”
“And I rely on your keeping your word as you have your vow. Adieu, Angeline. What! go without one kiss?”
She ran out of the room, not to be tempted; for compliance with this request would have been a worse infringement of her engagement than any she had yet perpetrated.
She returned to Este, anxious, yet happy; secure in her lover’s faith, and praying fervently that he might speedily recover. For several days after, she regularly went to Villa Moncenigo to ask after him, and heard that he was getting progressively well, and at last she was informed that he was permitted to leave his room. Faustina told her this, her eyes sparkling with delight. She talked a great deal of her cavalier, as she called him, and her gratitude and admiration. Each day, accompanied by her father, she had visited him, and she had always some new tale to repeat of his wit, his elegance, and his agreeable compliments. Now he was able to join them in the saloon, she was doubly happy. Angeline, after receiving this information, abstained from her daily visit, since it could no longer be paid without subjecting her to the risk of encountering her lover. She sent each day, and heard of his recovery; and each day she received messages from her friend, inviting her to come. But she was firm — she felt that she was doing right; and though she feared that he was angry, she knew that in less than a fortnight, to such had the month decreased since she first saw him, she could display her real sentiments, and as he loved her, he would readily forgive. Her heart was light, or full only of gratitude and happiness.
Each day, Faustina entreated her to come, and her entreaties became more urgent, while still Angeline excused herself. One morning her young friend rushed into her cell to reproach, and question, and wonder at her absence. Angeline was obliged to promise to go; and then she asked about the cavalier, to discover how she might so time her visit, as to avoid seeing him. Faustina blushed — a charming confusion overspread her face as she cried, “O, Angeline! it is for his sake I wish you to come.”
Angeline blushed now in her turn, fearing that her secret was betrayed, and asked hastily, “What has he said?”
“Nothing,” replied her vivacious friend; “and that is why I need you. O, Angeline, yesterday, papa asked me how I liked him, and added that if his father consented, he saw no reason why we should not marry — Nor do I — and yet, does he love me? O, if he does not love me, I would not have a word said, nor his father asked — I would not marry him for the world!” and tears sprung into the sensitive girl’s eyes, and she threw herself into Angeline’s arms.
“Poor Faustina,” thought Angeline, “are you to suffer through me?” and she caressed and kissed her with soothing fondness. Faustina continued. She felt sure, she said, that Ippolito did love her. The name fell startlingly on Angeline’s ear, thus pronounced by another; and she turned pale and trembled, while she struggled not to betray herself. The tokens of love he gave were not much, yet he looked so happy when she came in, and pressed her so often to remain — and then his eyes —
“Does he ever ask anything about me?” said Angeline.
“No — why should he?” replied Faustina.
“He saved my life,” the other answered, blushing.
“Did he — when? — O, I remember; I only thought of mine; to be sure, your danger was as great — nay, greater, for you threw yourself before me. My own dearest friend, I am not ungrateful, though Ippolito renders me forgetful.”
All this surprised, nay, stunned Angeline. She did not doubt her lover’s fidelity, but she feared for her friend’s happiness, and every idea gave way to that — She promised to pay her visit, that very evening.
And now, see her again walking slowly up the hill, with a heavy heart on Faustina’s account, and hoping that her love, sudden and unreturned, would not involve her future happiness. At the turn of the road near the villa, her name was called, and she looked up, and again bending from the balustrade, she saw the smiling face of her pretty friend; and Ippolito beside her. He
started and drew back as he met her eyes. Angeline had come with a resolve to put him on his guard, and was reflecting how she could speak so as not to compromise her friend. It was labour lost; Ippolito was gone when she entered the saloon, and did not appear again. “He would keep his vow,” thought Angeline; but she was cruelly disturbed on her friend’s account, and she knew not what to do. Faustina could only talk of her cavalier. Angeline felt conscience-stricken; and totally at loss how to act. Should she reveal her situation to her friend? That, perhaps, were best, and yet she felt it most difficult of all; besides, sometimes she almost suspected that Ippolito had become unfaithful. The thought came with a spasm of agony, and went again; still it unhinged her, and she was unable to command her voice. She returned to her convent, more unquiet, more distressed than ever.
Twice she visited the villa, and still Ippolito avoided her, and Faustina’s account of his behaviour to her, grew more inexplicable. Again and again, the fear that she had lost him, made her sick at heart; and again she re-assured herself that his avoidance and silence towards her resulted from his vow, and that his mysterious conduct towards Faustina existed only in the lively girl’s imagination. She meditated continually on the part she ought to take, while appetite and sleep failed her; at length she grew too ill to visit the villa, and for two days, was confined to her bed. During the feverish hours that now passed, unable to move, and miserable at the thought of Faustina’s fate, she came to a resolve to write to Ippolito. He would not see her, so she had no other means of communication. Her vow forbade the act; but that was already broken in so many ways; and now she acted without a thought of self; for her dear friend’s sake only. But, then, if her letter should get into the hands of others; if Ippolito meant to desert her for Faustina? — then her secret should be buried for ever in her own heart. She therefore resolved to write so that her letter would not betray her to a third person. It was a task of difficulty. At last it was accomplished.
“The signor cavaliere would excuse her, she hoped. She was — she had ever been as a mother to the Signorina Faustina — she loved her more than her life. The signor cavaliere was acting, perhaps, a thoughtless part. — Did he understand? — and though he meant nothing, the world would conjecture. All she asked was, for his permission to write to his father, that this state of mystery and uncertainty might end as speedily as possible.”
She tore ten notes — was dissatisfied with this, yet sealed it, and crawling out of her bed, immediately despatched it by the post.
This decisive act calmed her mind, and her health felt the benefit. The next» day, she was so well that she resolved to go up to the villa, to discover what effect her letter had created. With a beating heart she ascended the lane, and at the accustomed turn looked up. No Faustina was watching. That was not strange, since she was not expected; and yet, she knew not why, she felt miserable: tears started into her eyes. “If I could only see Ippolito for one minute — obtain the slightest explanation, all would be well!”
Thinking thus, she arrived at the villa, and entered the saloon. She heard quick steps, as of some one retreating as she came in. Faustina was seated at a table reading a letter — her cheeks flushed, her bosom heaving with agitation. Ippolito’s hat and cloak were near her, and betrayed that he had just left the room in haste. She turned — she saw Angeline — her eyes flashed fire — she threw the letter she had been reading at her friend’s feet; Angeline saw that it was her own.
“Take it!” said Faustina: “it is yours. Why you wrote it — what it means — I do not ask: it was at least indelicate, and, I assure you, useless — I am not one to give my heart unasked, nor to be refused when proposed by my father. Take up your letter, Angeline. O, I could not believe that you would have acted thus by me!”
Angeline stood as if listening, but she heard not a word; she was motionless — her hands clasped, her eyes swimming with tears, fixed on her letter.
“Take it up, I say,” said Faustina, impatiently stamping with her little foot; “it came too late, whatever your meaning was. Ippolito has written to his father for his consent to marry me; my father has written also.” Angeline now started and gazed wildly on her friend.
“It is true! Do you doubt — shall I call Ippolito to confirm my words?” Faustina spoke exultingly. Angeline struck — terrified — hastily took up the letter, and without a word turned away, left the saloon — the house, descended the hill, and returned to her convent. Her heart bursting, on fire, she felt as if her frame was possessed of a spirit not her own: she shed no tears, but her eyes were starting from her head — convulsive spasms shook her limbs; she rushed into her cell — threw herself on the floor, and then she could weep — and after torrents of tears, she could pray, and then — think again her dream of happiness was ended for ever, and wish for death.
The next morning, she opened her unwilling eyes to the light, and rose. It was day; and all must rise to live through the day, and she among the rest, though the sun shone not for her as before, and misery converted life into torture. Soon she was startled by the intelligence that a cavalier was in the parlour desirous of seeing her. She shrunk gloomily within herself, and refused to go down. The portress returned a quarter of an hour after. He was gone, but had written to her; and she delivered the letter. It lay on the table before Angeline — she cared not to open it — all was over, and needed not this confirmation. At length, slowly, and with an effort, she broke the seal. The date was the anniversary of the expiration of the year. Her tears burst forth; and then a cruel hope was born in her heart that all was a dream, and that now, the Trial of Love being at an end, he had written to claim her. Instigated by this deceitful suggestion, she wiped her eyes, and read these words:
“I am come to excuse myself from an act of baseness. You refuse to see me, and I write; for, unworthy as I must ever be in your eyes, I would not appear worse than I am. I received your letter in Faustina’s presence — she recognized your handwriting. You know her wilfulness, her impetuosity; she took it from me, and I could not prevent her. I will say no more. You must hate me; yet rather afford me your pity, for I am miserable. My honour is now engaged; it was all done almost before I knew the danger — but there is no help — I shall know no peace till you forgive me, and yet I deserve your curse. Faustina is ignorant of our secret. Farewell.” The paper dropped from Angeline’s hand.
It were vain to describe the variety of grief that the poor girl endured. Her piety, her resignation, her noble, generous nature came to her assistance, and supported her when she felt that without them, she must have died. Faustina wrote to say that she would have seen her, but that Ippolito was averse from her doing so. The answer had come from the Marchese della Toretta — a glad consent; but he was ill, and they were all going to Bologna: on their return they would meet.
This departure was some comfort to the unfortunate girl. And soon another came in the shape of a letter from Ippolito’s father, full of praises for her conduct. His son had confessed all to him, he said; she was an angel — heaven would reward her, and still greater would be her recompence, if she would deign to forgive her faithless lover. Angeline found relief in answering this letter, and pouring forth a part of the weight of grief and thought that burthened her. She forgave him freely, and prayed that he and his lovely bride might enjoy every blessing.
Ippolito and Faustina were married, and spent two or three years in Paris and the south of Italy. She had been ecstatically happy at first; but soon the rough world, and her husband’s light, inconstant nature inflicted a thousand wounds in her young bosom. She longed for the friendship, the kind sympathy of Angeline; to repose her head on her soft heart, and to be comforted. She proposed a visit to Venice — Ippolito consented — and they visited Este in their way. Angeline had taken the veil in the convent of Sant’ Anna. She was cheerful, if not happy; she listened in astonishment to Faustina’s sorrows, and strove to console her. Ippolito, also, she saw with calm and altered feelings; he was not the being her soul had loved; a
nd if she had married him, with her deep feelings, and exalted ideas of honour, she felt that she should have been even more dissatisfied than Faustina.
The couple lived the usual life of Italian husband and wife. He was gay, inconstant, careless; she consoled herself with a cavaliere servente. Angeline, dedicated to heaven, wondered at all these things; and how any could so easily make transfer of affections, which with her, were sacred and immutable.
THE ELDER SON
MY father was the second son of a wealthy baronet. As he and his elder brother formed all the family of my grandfather, he inherited the whole of his mother’s fortune, which was considerable, and settled on the younger children. He married a lady whom he tenderly loved; and having taken orders, and procured preferment, retired to his deanery in the north of Ireland, and there took up his abode. When I was about ten years old he lost my mother: I was their only child.
My father was something of an ascetic, if such name can be given to a rigid adherence to the precepts of morality, which arose from the excess, and not the absence of feeling. He adored my mother; he mourned for her to the verge of insanity; but his grief was silent, devouring, and gloomy. He never formed another matrimonial engagement: secluding himself entirely from society, and given up to the duties of his sacred calling, he passed his days in solitude, or in works of charity among the poor.
Even now I cannot remember him without awe. He was a tall and, I thought, a venerable-looking man; for he was thin and pale, and he was partly bald. His manners were cold and reserved; he seldom spoke, and when he did it was in such measured phrase, in so calm and solemn a voice, and on such serious topics, as resembled rather oracular enunciation than familiar conversation. He never caressed me; if ever he stroked my head or drew me on his knee, I felt a mingled alarm and delight difficult to describe. Yet, strange to say, my father loved me almost to idolatry; and I knew this and repaid his affection with enthusiastic fondness, notwithstanding his reserve and my awe. He was something greater, and wiser, and better, in my eyes, than any other human being. I was the sole creature he loved; the object of all his thoughts by day and his dreams by night. Abstracted and even severe as he seemed, he has visited my bedside at night, subdued by womanly fears, and hung over me for hours, to assure himself of my life and well-being. He has watched by me in sickness night after night with unwearied assiduity. He never spoke harshly to me, and treated me at once with a distance and gentleness hard to be understood.