THE PEARL-DIVERS.
At the commencement of the last year's fishery, there was a man whom, go wherever I would, I was always certain to meet. Like myself, he was a diver, and like myself moreover, he pretended to have no surname, but went simply by the name of Rafael. At the cleansing-trough, beneath the surface of the sea, no matter where it was, we were always thrown together, so that we quickly became intimate; and his remarkable skill as a diver had inspired me with considerable esteem for him. Alike courageous as skillful, he snapped his fingers at the sharks, declaring his power to intimidate them by a particular expression of the eye. In fine, he was a fearless diver, an industrious workman, and, above all, a most jovial comrade.
Matters went smoothly enough between us, till the day when a girl and her mother took up their abode at the island Espiritu Sante.[3] Some business that I had to transact with the dealers in this island afforded me an opportunity of seeing her. I fell desperately in love; and as I enjoyed a certain amount of reputation, neither she nor her mother looked with an unfavorable eye on my suit or my presents. When the day's work was over, and every body supposed me asleep in my hut, I swam across to the island, whence I returned about an hour after midnight without my absence being at all surmised.
Some days had elapsed since my first nocturnal visit to Espiritu Sante, when, as I was one morning going to the fishery just before daybreak, I met one of those old crones who pretend to be able to charm the sharks by their spells. She was seated near my hut, and appeared to be watching my arrival. As she perceived me, she exclaimed, "How fares it with my son, José Juan?"
"Good morning, mother!" I replied, and was passing on, when she approached me, and said, "Listen to me, José Juan; I have to speak to you of that which nearly concerns you."
"Nearly concerns me!" I repeated, in great surprise.
"Yes. Do you deny that your heart is in the island of Espiritu Sante, or that you cross the strait every night to see and converse with her on whom you have bestowed your love?"
"How know you that?"
"No matter; I know it well. José Juan, for you this voyage is fraught with a twofold peril. The foes whom my charms can hold harmless during the day only lie in wait for you each night beneath the waves; on the shore, foes more dangerous still, and over whom my arts are powerless, dog your steps. I come to offer you my aid to combat these double dangers."
My only answer was by a loud laugh of contempt. The old Indian's eyes sparkled with fiendish fury as she exclaimed, "And because you are without faith, you deem me without power? Be it so; there are those who believe in the influence you but scoff at."
As she spoke, she drew from her pocket a little case of printed cloth, and producing amid pearls of inferior value one of a large size and brilliant water, she replied, "Know you aught of this?" It was one I had given to Jesusita; for such was the girl's name.
"How came you by it?" cried I.
The witch gave me a look of hatred.
"How came I by it? Why, 'twas given me by a damsel the fairest that ever set foot on these shores; a damsel who would be the glory and happiness of a young man, and who came to crave my protection—that protection you hold so cheap—for one she fondly loves."
"His name!" I exclaimed, with a fearful sinking at my heart.
"What matters it," jeeringly returned the hag, "since his name is not the one you bear?"
I hardly know how I resisted the impulse to crush the cursed witch beneath my feet; but after a moment's reflection, I turned my back to her that she might not read in my face the anguish of my soul, and coolly saying, "You are a lying old dotard," I walked on to the fishery.
On the evening of that day, which seemed as if it would never close, I went as usual to Jesusita, and the welcome she gave me soon dispelled all lurking suspicions. I felt no doubt but that the old woman, in resentment of my contemptuous treatment, had purposely deceived me as to the name of him for whom Jesusita had craved that protection which I had despised.
I had utterly forgotten my scene with the witch, when, one night, I was as usual crossing the strait on my return home. The sky was dark and lowering, yet not so cloudy but that I could distinguish amid the waves something which, from its manner of swimming, I could make out to be a man. The object was alongside of me. The old crone's words rushed upon my memory, and I felt a thrill of agony convulse my frame. For an enemy I cared but little; the idea that I had a rival unnerved me at once.
I determined to ascertain who the unknown might be; and not wishing to be seen, I swam under water in his direction. When, according to my calculation, we must have crossed each other, he above and I below the surface, I rose above water. The blood had rushed to my head with such violence as to render me unable for some time to distinguish aught amidst the darkness beyond the phosphorescent light that played upon the crest of the waves; unerring signs of a coming storm. Nevertheless, I held on my course in the direction of Espiritu Sante. Some few minutes elapsed ere I again beheld the swimmer's head. He clove the waves with such rapidity that I could scarce keep pace with him. But one alone among all I knew could vie with me in swiftness; I redoubled my efforts, and soon gained so much on him as obliged me to strike out less quickly. In short, I saw him land upon a rock and ascend it; and as a flash of lightning played upon sea and shore, I recognized the face of Rafael. Here, as elsewhere, were we doomed to cross each other's path. A feeling of hatred, deadly and intense, was busy at my heart, and methought it were well we met but once again. However, we were destined to meet on one more occasion than I had reckoned upon.
At first I determined upon calling him by name and discovering my presence; but there are moments in one's life when our actions refuse to second the will. Spite of myself, I suffered him to pursue his way, while I gained the eminence he had just quitted. Thence was it easy for me to watch his course. I observed him take the same direction I was so wont to take, then knock at the door of that hut I knew so well. He entered, and disappeared.
I fancied for one moment I heard, borne along the howling of the gale, the old witch's scoffing laugh as she croaked out, "What matters it to you, since his name is not the one you bear?" and, looming amid the darkness, methought I saw her shriveled and withered arm stretched out in the direction of Jesusita's dwelling; and I rushed forward, knife in hand. A few strides, and I stood before the door, and stooped down to listen; but I heard naught beyond indistinct murmurings. I had now partially recovered my sang-froid, and bent my whole thoughts upon revenge.
I drew my knife, and passed it along a stone to assure its edge; but I did so with such carelessness or agitation that it shivered to the hilt. Thus deprived of the sole weapon that I could rely upon for my revenge, I felt that I had not an instant to lose. I ran in all haste to the beach, and unmoored a boat that lay alongside. My rage renewed my energies: I crossed the strait, rushed to my hut, procured another knife, and again set out to Espiritu Sante. The gale increased in violence. The sea gleamed like a fiery lake. The gavista's[4] wailing cry re-echoed along the rocks; the sea-wolf's howl was heard amid the darkness. All at once sounds of another kind broke upon my ear: they seemed to proceed from the very bosom of the ocean. I listened; but a sudden squall overpowered the confused murmurings of the waves, and I fancied my senses had deceived me, when, some seconds afterward, the cry was repeated. This time I was not mistaken: the cry I heard was that of a human being in the very extremity of anguish and despair. As the voice proceeded from the direction of the island, I at once conjectured it was Rafael who was calling for help. I looked out, but looked in vain; the obscurity was too thick, and I could distinguish nothing. Suddenly, I again heard the voice exclaim, "Boat ahoy, for God's blessed sake!"
It was Rafael's voice. 'Tis all very well to have sworn to do your enemy to death, to wreak your just revenge on him who has so bitterly aggrieved you; yet when, on a night murky and dark as that his tones arise from forth a sea swarming with monsters, and when those tones are uttered by a fearless man, and, albeit, wrestling in mortal peril, there is in that cry of last anguish somewhat that strikes awe to the very soul. I could not repress a shudder.
But my emotion was of short duration. I heard the sounds of a strong arm buffeting the waves, and I rowed in that direction. Amidst a luminous shower of spray and foam I discovered Rafael. Singular enough, instead of availing himself of his strength to gain the boat, he remained stationary. I quickly perceived the cause. At some distance from him, a little below the surface of the water, there was a strong phosphoric light; this light was slowly making way toward Rafael. Right well I knew what that light portended; it streamed from a tintorera[5] of the largest size. One stroke of the oar, and I was close to Rafael: he uttered a cry as he perceived me, but was too much exhausted to speak. He seized the gunwale of the boat by an effort of despair, but his arms were too wearied to enable him to raise his body. His eyes, though glazed with fear, yet bore so expressive a glance as they encountered mine, that I seized his hands in my own, and pressed them forcibly against the sides of the boat. The tintorera still gradually advanced. For a moment, but one brief moment, Rafael's legs hung motionless; he uttered a piercing shriek, his eyes closed, his hands let loose their hold, and the upper part of his body fell back into the sea. The shark had bitten him in two.
Ay! I might, perchance, have grasped his limbs too firmly in mine, possibly I prevented him from getting into the boat, but my knife was innocent of his blood; besides, was he not my rival—perchance my successful rival? However, scarcely had he disappeared than I plunged after him; for although the tintorera had ridded me of a hated foe, still I bore it a grudge for its brutal proceedings in thus summarily disposing of poor Rafael. Besides, the honor of the corporation of divers was at stake. Having once tasted human flesh, the shark would doubtless attack us in turn. Well, nothing so much excites the ferocity of the tintorera as such tempestuous nights as the one that bore its silent testimony to my rival's fate. A viscous substance that oozes from porous holes around the monster's mouth diffuses itself over the surface of the skin, rendering them as luminous as fire-flies, and this particularly during a thunderstorm. This luminous appearance is the more visible in proportion to the darkness of the night. By a merciful dispensation of nature, they are almost unable to see; so that the silent swimmer has at least one advantage over them. Moreover, they can not seize their prey without turning on their backs; so that it is not difficult to imagine that a courageous man and a skillful swimmer has some chances in his favor.
I dived to no great depth, in order to husband my wind, and also to cast a hasty glance above, beneath, and around me. The waves roared above my head, loud as a crash of thunder; fiery flakes of water drove around like dust before the winds of March; but in my immediate vicinity all was calm. A black and shapeless mass struck against me as I lay suspended in my billowy recess; 'twas all that was left of Rafael. Surely it was written in the book of doom that I should always find that man in my path.
I surmised that the brute I was in quest of would be at no great distance, for the fiery streak I had perceived waxed larger and larger. The tintorera and myself must, I inferred, be at equal depths; but the shark was preparing to rise. My breath began to fail, and I was unwilling to allow the monster to get above me, as then he could have made me share Rafael's fate without troubling himself to turn on his back. My hopes of obtaining the victory over it depended upon the time it required to execute this manœuvre. The tintorera swam diagonally toward me with such rapidity that at one time I was near enough to distinguish the membrane that half-covered its eyes, and to feel its dusky fins graze my body. Gobbets of human flesh still clung around the lower jaw. The monster gazed on me with its dim, glassy eye. My head had that moment attained the level of its own. I drank in the air with a gurgle I could not suppress, and struck out a lusty stroke in a parallel direction and turned round: well for me I did so. The moon lighted up for a single instant the whitish-gray colored belly of the tintorera—that instant was enough for as it opened its enormous mouth, bristling with its double row of long pointed teeth, I plunged the dagger I had reserved for Rafael into its body, and drew it lengthwise forth. The tintorera, mortally wounded, sprung several feet out of the water, and fell striking out furiously with its tail, which fortunately did not reach me. For a space I struggled, half blinded by the crimson foam that beat against my face; but as I beheld the huge carcass of the enemy floating a lifeless mass upon the surface, I gave vent to a triumphant shout, which, spite of the storm, might be heard on either coast.
Day-light began to dawn as I gained the shore, in a state of utter exhaustion from the exertion I had undergone. The fishermen were raising their nets, and, as I arrived, the tide washed upon the coast the tintorera and Rafael's ghastly remains. It was soon spread abroad that I had endeavored to rescue my friend from his horrible fate, and my heroic conduct was lauded to the echo. But one person, and one alone, suspected the truth—that person is now my wife.
PHANTOMS AND REALITIES.—AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.[6]
PART THE SECOND—NOON.
IX.
Things happen in the world every day which appear incredible on paper. Individuals may secretly acknowledge to themselves the likelihood of such things, but the bulk of mankind feel it necessary to treat them openly with skepticism and ridicule. The real is sometimes too real for the line and plummet of the established criticism. It is the province of art to avoid these exceptional incidents, or to modify and adapt them so that they shall appear to harmonize with universal humanity. Hence it is that fiction is often more truthful than biography; and it is obvious enough that it ought to be so, if it deal only with materials that are reconcilable with the general experience.
But I am not amenable to the canons of art. I am not writing fiction. I am relating facts; and if they should appear unreasonable or improbable, I appeal, for their vindication, to the candor of the reader. Every man, if he looks back into the vicissitudes of his life, will find passages which would be pronounced pure exaggeration and extravagance in a novel.
When I met Astræa the next morning, I could perceive those traces of deep anxiety which recent circumstances had naturally left behind, and which the flush and excitement of the preceding evening had concealed. She was very pale and nervous. She felt that the moment had come when all disguises between us must end forever, and she trembled on the verge of disclosures that visibly shook her fortitude.
The day was calm and breathless. Scarcely a leaf stirred in the trees, and the long shadows slept without a ruffle on the turf. The stillness of the place contrasted strangely with the tempest of emotions that was raging in my heart. I longed to get into the air. I felt the house stifling, and thought that I should breathe more freely among the branches of the little wood that looked so green and cool down by the margin of the stream. There was a rustic seat there under a canopy of drooping boughs, close upon the water and the bridge, where we could enjoy the luxury of perfect solitude. Requesting her to follow me, I went alone into the wood.
The interval seemed to me long before she came; and when she did come, she was paler and more agitated than before. I tried to give her confidence by repeated protestations of my devotion; and as she seemed to gather courage from the earnestness of my language, I again and again renewed the pledges which bound me to her, at any risk our position might demand.
"It is that," she exclaimed, "which gives me hope and comfort. You have had time to reflect on these pledges, and weigh the consequences they involve, and you now repeat them to me with an ardor which I should do you a great wrong to doubt. I entirely trust to you. If I am deceived, I will try still to be just, and hardly blame you so much as the world, which few men can relinquish for love."
There was a pause, during which she gradually recovered her self-composure. I felt that these expressions gave me a nobler motive for surrendering every thing for her sake. She seemed to make me a hero by the penalties my devotion enforced upon me; and I was eager to prove myself capable of the most heroic sacrifices. In the abyss of an overwhelming passion, where reason is imprisoned by the senses, every man is willing to be a martyr.
"You have required of me, Astræa," said I, "no, not required; but you have placed before me the possibility of sufferings and trials resulting from our union—loss of friends, the surrender of many things that enter into the ordinary scheme of married life, and that are considered by the world indispensable to its happiness. I am ready to relinquish them all. I have looked for this end. I know not why it should be so, nor does it give me a moment's concern. I only know that I love you passionately, and that life is desolation to me without you. Let us therefore have no further delay. All impediments are now out of our path. We have our destinies in our own hands. Let us knit them into one, and disappoint the scandal and malignity which, from that hour, can exercise no further influence over us."
"You spoke," returned Astræa, looking with a calm, clear gaze into my face, as if she penetrated my soul, "you spoke of married life."
The question surprised me. It was her look more than her words that conveyed a meaning, indistinct, but full of terrible suggestions. It was a key to a thousand painful conjectures, which flashed upon me in an instant, leaving confusion and giddiness behind, and nothing certain but the fear of what was to follow. I could not answer her; or, rather, did not know how to answer her, and merely tried to reassure her with a smile, which I felt was hollow and unnatural.
"One word," she proceeded, in the same tone, "must dispel that dream forever. It is not for us that serene life you speak of. It is not for me. Our destinies, if they be knit together, must be cemented by our own hands, not at the altar in the church, but in the sight of heaven—a bond more solemn, and imposing a more sacred obligation."
I will not attempt to describe the effect of these expressions. A cold dew crept over my body, and I felt as if a paralysis had struck my senses. Yet at the same moment, and while she was speaking so quietly and deliberately, and uttering words, under the heavy weight of which the fabric I had reared in my imagination crumbled down, and fell with a crash that smote my brain—a crowd of memories came upon me—isolated words and gestures, the dark allusions of the dwarf, and the warnings of Astræa herself—a crowd of things that were all dark before were now lighted up. As the stream of electricity flies along the chain, traversing link after link and mile after mile, with a rapidity that baffles calculation, so my thoughts flashed over every incident of the past. I now understood it all—the mystery that lay buried in Astræa's words and abstractions—the vacant heart—the hope that looked out from her eyes, and then fled back to be quenched in silent despair—her yearnings for solitude and repose—the devotional spirit that, blighted in the world, and condemned to be shut out from seeking happiness in social conventions, had fallen back upon its own lonely strength, and made to itself a faith of passion! It was all plain to me now. But there were explanations yet to come.
"Astræa!" I cried, hoarsely, and I felt the echoes of the name moaning through the trees. "Astræa! What is the meaning of these dreadful words? Have you not pledged your faith to me?"
"Irrevocably!" she returned.
"Then what new impediment has arisen to our union?"
"None that has not existed all along. Have you not seen it darkening every hour of our intercourse? Have you not understood it in the fear that has given such intensity to feelings which, had all been open before us, would have been calm and unperturbed?—that has imparted to love, otherwise sweet and tranquil, the wild ardor of obstructed passion? Your instincts must have told you, had you allowed yourself a moment of reflection, that the woman who consents to immolate her pride, her delicacy, her fame, for the man she loves, must be fettered by ties which leave her no alternative between him and the world. Why am I here alone with you?"
This was not said in a tone of reproach, but it sounded like reproach, and wounded me. It was all true. I ought to have understood that suffering of her soul which, now that the clouds were rolling back from before my eyes, had become all at once intelligible. But to be surprised into such a discovery, to have misunderstood her unspoken agonies and sacrifices, jarred upon me, and made me feel as if my nature were not lofty enough to comprehend, by its own unassisted sympathies, the grandeur of her character. I imagined myself humiliated in her presence, and this consideration was paramount, for the moment, over all others. It stripped my devotion of all claim to a heroism kindred to her own, and deprived me of the only merit that could render me worthy of her love. Yet in the midst of this conflict, other thoughts came flooding upon me; and voices from the world I was about to relinquish for her rung like a knell upon my ears. There were still explanations to come that might afford me some refuge from these tortures.
"Yes, Astræa, I was conscious of some obstruction; but how could I divine what it was? Even now I must confess myself bewildered. But as all necessity for further reserve is at an end, you will be candid and explicit with me. What is the impediment that stands in the way of our union?"
I did not intend it, but I was aware, while I was speaking, that there was ice in my voice, and that the words issued from my lips as if they were frozen.
"You mean," she replied, coldly, but in a tone that conveyed a feeling of rising scorn, "you mean our marriage?"
"Certainly."
"I never can be your wife."
As I had anticipated some such statement, I ought not to have betrayed the amazement with which I looked at her; but it was involuntary. I did not ask her to go on; seeing, however, that I expected it, she added,
"I am the wife of another!"
I started from my seat, and, in a paroxysm of frenzy, paced up and down before her. I did not exclaim aloud, "You have deceived me!" but my flashing eyes and flushed brow expressed it more eloquently than language. She bore this in silence for a few minutes, and then addressed me again,
"I said I would try not to blame you. I blame only myself. Like all men, you are strong in protestations, and feeble, timid, and vacillating in action. You are thinking now of the world, which only last night you so courageously despised. A few hours ago, you believed yourself so superior to the common weaknesses of your sex, that you were ready to make the most heroic sacrifices. What has become of that vehement resolution, that brave self-reliance? Vanished on the instant you are put to the proof. Believe me, you have miscalculated your own nature—all men do in such cases. A woman whose heart is her life, and who shrinks in terror from all other conflicts, is alone equal to such a struggle as this. The world is your proper sphere; do not deceive yourself. You could not sustain isolation; you would be forever looking back, as you are at this moment, for the consolations and support you had abandoned."
"No, Astræa!" I exclaimed; "you wrong me. My resolution is unchanged; but you must allow something for the suddenness—the shock—"
"I give you credit," she resumed, "for the best intentions. It is not your fault that habit and a constitutional acquiescence in it have left you no power over your will in great emergencies. You are what the world has made you; and you should be thankful that you have found it out in time. For me, what does it matter? By coming here, I have violated obligations for which society will hold me accountable, though they pressed like prison-bars upon me, lacerating and corroding my soul. It will admit no excuse for their abandonment in the unutterable misery they entailed. I am as guilty by this one step as if I had plunged into the depths of crime. The world does not recognize the doctrine that the real crime is in the admission of the first disloyal thought; it only looks to appearances which I have outraged. I have compromised myself beyond redemption. I can not retrieve my disgrace, though I am as pure in act as if we had never met. But I have done it upon my own responsibility, and upon me alone let the penalty fall. From this hour I release you."
Her language, and the dignity of her manner, stung me. She seemed to tower above me in the strength of her will, and the firmness with which she went through a scene that shattered my nerves fearfully, and made me equally irresolute of speech and purpose. While I was harrowed by an agony that fluttered in every pulse, she was perfectly calm and collected, and, rising quietly from her seat, turned away to leave me.
This action roused me from the stupor of indecision. The situation in which she was placed—making so new a demand upon my feelings—gave me a sort of advantage which I thought might enable me to recover the ground I had lost. By the exercise of magnanimity in such circumstances, I should vindicate myself in her estimation, and prove myself once more worthy of the opinion she had originally formed of me. It was something nobler, I thought, to embrace ruin at this moment for her sake, than if I had known it all along, and had come to that conclusion by a deliberate process of reasoning. This train of subtle sophistry, which has taken up some space to detail, struck me like a flash of light on the instant I thought I was about to lose her. I could bear all things but that, and could suffer all things to avert it. And so again I became her suitor, in a kind of proud generosity, that flattered itself by stooping to gain its own ends. How mean and selfish the human heart is when our desires are set in opposition to our duties!
I sprang forward, and clasped her eagerly by the hands. I flung myself on my knees before her. Tears leaped into my eyes. I told her that I had wronged her—that we had wronged each other—that I had never wavered in my faith—that we were bound to each other—and that we could commit no crime now except that of doubting, at either side, the truth of the love which had brought us there, and for which I, like her, had relinquished the world forever.
She had a woman's heart, full of tenderness and pity; and it is the tendency of woman's nature to forgive and believe where the affections are interested, without exacting much proof or penalty. She bent over me, and raised me in her arms. The storm had passed away, and she trusted in me implicitly again.
Her history? What was it? We shall come to it presently.
X.
The storm had passed away; but it left traces of disorder behind, such as a tempest leaves in a garden over which it has recently swept. The collision had set us both thinking. We felt as if a mist had suddenly melted down, and enabled us, for the first time, to see clearly before us. We felt this differently, but we were equally conscious of the change.
"I am the wife of another!"
The words still throbbed in my brain. I could not escape from the images they conjured up. I could not rid myself of the doubts and distrusts, shapeless, but oppressive, thus forced upon me. I could not recall a single incident out of which, until these words were uttered, I could have extracted the remotest suspicion of her situation. To me, and to every person around her, Astræa had always appeared a free agent. She bore no man's name. She acted with perfect independence, so far as outward action was concerned; and the only restraint that ever seemed to hang upon her was some dark memory, or heavy sorrow, that clouded her spirit. Here was the mystery solved. She was a bond-woman, and had hidden her fetters from the world. In our English society, where usages are strict, and shadows upon a woman's reputation, even where there is not a solitary stain, blot it out forever, this was strange and painful. It looked like a deception, and, in the estimate of all others, it was a deception. This was the way in which it first presented itself to me. I had not emancipated myself from the influence of opinion, or habit, or prejudice, or whatever that feeling may be called which instinctively refers such questions to the social standard. The recoil was sudden and violent. Yet, nevertheless, I felt rebuked by the superiority of Astræa in the strength of purpose and moral courage she displayed under circumstances which would have overwhelmed most other women. Her steadfastness had a kind of grandeur in it, that seemed to look down upon my misgivings as failings or weaknesses of character. And she sat silently in this pomp of a clear and unfaltering resolution, while I, fretted and chafed, exhibited too plainly my double sense alike of the injury she had inflicted on me, and of the ascendency which, even in the hour of injury, she exercised over me. It was the stronger mind, made stronger by the force of love, overawing the weaker, made weaker by the prostration of the affections.
And she, too, had something to reflect upon in this moment of mutual revolt.
She loved me passionately. She loved me with a devotion capable of confronting all risks and perils. The profound unselfishness and truthfulness of her love made her serene at heart, and inspired her with a calmness which enabled her to endure the worst without flinching. There was not a single doubt of herself in her own mind. Her faith gave her the fortitude needful for the martyr. When a woman trusts every thing to this faith, and feels her reliance on it sufficient for the last sacrifice, she is prepared for an issue which no man contemplates, and which no man is able to encounter with an equal degree of courage or confidence in his own constancy. With her it is otherwise. By one step, the ground is closed up behind her forever; no remorse can help her, no suffering can make atonement, or propitiate reconciliation; she can not retract, she can not retreat, she can not return! No man is ever placed in this extremity, though his sin be of a ten-fold deeper dye. Such is the moral justice of society. He has always a space to fall back upon—he has always room to retrieve, to recover, to reinstate himself. But she is lost! The foreknowledge of her doom, which shuts out hope, makes her strong in endurance; the magnitude of her sacrifice enhances and deepens the idolatry from which it proceeded; she clings to it, and lives in it evermore, as the air which she must breathe, or die. But he? He has ever the backward hope, the consciousness of the power of retracing his steps. The world is there behind him, as he left it, its eager tumult still floating into his ears from afar off, its reckless gayeties, its panting ambition, its occupations, and its pleasures; and he knows he can re-enter it when he lists. He, then, if he consent to commit the great treason against a confiding devotion, can afford to be bold; that boldness which has always an escape and safeguard in reserve! But it is this consideration which makes him irresolute and infirm—it is this which dashes his resolves with hesitation, and makes him temporize and play fast and loose in his thoughts, while his lips overflow with the fervid declamation of passion. He may believe himself to be sincere; but no man understands himself who believes that he has renounced the world. The world has arranged it otherwise for him.
The whole conditions of her position were clear to Astræa. She had not now considered them for the first time; but the mistrust, not of my love for her, but of my character, was now first awakened; and if she trembled for the consequences, it was not for her own sake, but for mine. Men can not comprehend this abnegation of self in women, and, not being able to comprehend it, they do not believe in it. It requires an elevation and generosity rare in the crisis of temptation, and, perhaps, also, an entire change of surrounding circumstances and responsibilities, to enable them to estimate it justly; the power of bestowing happiness through a life-long sacrifice, instead of the privilege of receiving it at a trifling risk.
When we had become a little more at our ease, and I had endeavored by a variety of commonplaces to revive her faith in me, Astræa, with the most perfect frankness, entered upon her history. I will not break up the narrative by the occasional interruptions to which it was subjected by my curiosity and impatience, but preserve it as nearly entire as I can.
"There is a period," said Astræa, "in all our lives when we pass through delusions which an enlarged experience dispels. We too often begin by making deities, and end by total skepticism. I suppose, like every body else, I had my season of self-deception, although it has not made me an absolute infidel."
And as she said this, she looked at me with a smile so full of sweetness, that I yielded myself up implicitly to the enchantment.
"I was devotedly attached to my father," she continued; "he educated me, and was so proud of the faculties which his own careful tending drew into activity, that it was the greatest happiness of my life to deserve the kindness which anticipated their development. There was no task my father set to me I did not feel myself able to conquer by the mere energy of the love I bore him. The education he bestowed upon me was not the cultivation of the intellect alone—I owe him a deeper debt, fatally as I have discharged it—for it was his higher aim to educate my affections. He succeeded so well, that I would at any moment have cheerfully surrendered my own fondest desires, or have sacrificed life itself, to comply with any wish of his. You shall judge whether I have a right to say that I loved him better than I loved myself.
"My mother was a beauty. A woman of whom one can say nothing more than that she was a beauty, is misplaced in the home of a man of intellect. One can never cease wondering how it is that such men marry such women; but I believe there are no men so easily ensnared by their own imaginations, or who trouble themselves so little about calculating consequences. They make an ideal, and worship it; and, as your true believers contrive to refresh their motionless saints by new draperies and tinsel, so they go on perpetually investing their idols with fictitious attributes, to encourage and sustain their devotions. But that sort of self-imposition can not last very long; and the best possible recipe for stripping the idol of its false glitter is to marry it! My father made this discovery in due time. He found that beauty without enthusiasm or intellect is even less satisfying than a picture, which is, at least, suggestive, and leaves something to the imagination. There was no sympathy between them. She existed only in company, which, from the languor of her nature, she hardly seemed to enjoy. Change, and variety, and the flutter of new faces were as necessary to her as they were wearisome to him; and so gradually and imperceptibly the distance widened between them, and his whole affections were concentrated on me. This may in some measure account for the formation of my character. I was neither weakened nor benefited by maternal tenderness; and my studies and habits, shaped and regulated by my father, imparted to me a strength and earnestness which—now that they avail me nothing—may speak of as existing in the past.
"It is nearly ten years since my mother died; she went out as a flower dies, drooping slowly, and retaining something of its sweetness to the end. My father outlived her several years. That was the happiest period of my life. There was not a break in the love that bound us together. But there came a struggle at last between us—a struggle in which that love was bitterly tried and tested on both sides.
"I made a deity to myself, as most young people do, especially when they are flattered into the belief that they are more spirituelle and capable of judging for themselves, than the rest of the world. It was a girlish fancy; all girls have such fancies, and look back upon them afterward as they look back upon their dreams, trying to collect and put together forms and colors that fade rapidly in the daylight of experience.
"One of our visitors made an impression upon me; perhaps that is the best way to describe it. He had a sombre and poetical air—that was the first thing that touched me—an oval face, very pale and thoughtful, and chiseled to an excess of refinement; a sensitive mouth; dark, melancholy eyes; and black, lustrous hair. I remember he had quite a Spanish or Italian cast of features; and that was dangerous to a young girl steeped in the lore of history and chivalry. You think it strange, perhaps, I should make this sort of confession to you; you expect that I should rather suffer you to believe that, until we met, I had never been disturbed by the sentiment of love; yet you may entirely believe it. This was a mere phantasy—the prescience of what was to come—the awakening of the consciousness of a capacity of loving which, until now, was never stirred in its depths. It merely showed me what was in my nature, but did not draw it out.
"The fascination was on the surface; but, while it lasted, I thought it intense; and such is the contradiction in the constitution of youth, that a little opposition from my father only helped to strengthen it. In the presence of that sad face, into which was condensed an irresistible influence, I was silent and timid, frightened at the touch of his white hands, and so confused that I could neither speak to him, nor look at him: but in my father's presence, when we talked of him, and my father hinted distrusts and antipathies, I was bold in his defense, and soared into an enthusiasm that often surprised us both. It was evident that I was in love—to speak by the card—and that the admonitions of experience were thrown away upon me.
"My father was grieved at this discovery, when it really came to take a serious shape of resistance to his advice. As yet, we had only flirted round the confines of the subject, and neither of us had openly recognized it as a reality. The action of the drama was in my own brain. The hero of my fantastic reveries regarded me only as a precocious child: was amused, or, at the utmost, interested by my admiration of him, which he could not fail to detect; and it was not until he imagined he had traced a deeper sentiment in my shy and embarrassed looks, that he began to feel any emotion himself. But the emotions which spring out of vanity or compassion, which come only as a sort of generous or pitying acknowledgment of an unsought devotion, have no stability in them. It is more natural, and more likely to insure duration of love that they should originate at the other side. Woman was formed to be sued and won; it is the law of our organization. Men value our affection in proportion to the efforts it has cost to gain them. The rights of a difficult conquest are worn with pride and exultation, while the fruits of an easy victory are held in indifference. These things, however, were mysteries to me then.
"There was a kind of love-scene between us. I can hardly recall any thing of it, except that I thought him more grand and noble than ever, and full of a magnificent patronage of my nerves and my ignorance. He was several years older than I was, which made a great distance between us, and made me look up to him with a superstitious homage. I remember nothing more about it, only that when I left him, I felt as if I had suddenly grown up into a woman.
"And now came the beginning of the struggle.
"We had other visitors who were better liked by my father. I could not then understand his objections to my Orlando. I have understood them since, and know that he was right in that, if he erred in the rest.
"Among our visitors was one whom I can not speak of without a shudder. There was in him a combination of qualities calculated to inspire me with aversion, which grew from day to day into loathing. I do not believe my father really liked that man. Circumstances, however, had given him an influence in our house, against which it was vain for me to contend. His family was closely connected with my mother; and my father had acquired an estate through his marriage, with which these people were mixed up as trustees; they had, in fact, a lien upon us, which it was impossible to shake off; and by this means maintained a position with us which was at once so familiar and harassing to me, that nothing but my devotion to my father restrained me from an open mutiny against them.
"This man, who was not much my senior in years, but who seemed to have been born old, and to have lived centuries for every year of my life, entertained the most violent passion for me. I had no suspicion of it at first; and as the closeness of our relations threw us constantly together, I was feeding it unknowingly for a long time before I discovered it. I will spare you what I felt when I made that discovery—the horror! the despair!
"When I compared this man, loathsome and hideous to me, with him who was the Orlando, the Bayard, the Crichton of my foolish dreams, it made me sick at heart. So deep was the detestation he inspired, that, young as I was, I would have gladly renounced my own choice to have escaped from him. But there was one consideration paramount even to that; it was my father's desire that I should marry him.
"By some such sorcery as wicked demons in the wise allegories of fable obtain a control over good spirits, the demon who had thus risen up in my path obtained an ascendency over my father. It was impossible that he could have persuaded my father, who was clear-sighted and sagacious, into the belief that he possessed a single attribute of goodness; it must have been by the force of a fascination, such as serpents are said to exercise over children, that he wrought his ends. And the comparison was never applied with greater justice, for my father was as guileless as a child in mere worldly affairs, while the other was a subtle compound of cunning and venom, glazed over with a most hypocritical exterior.
"He worked at his purpose for months and months in the dark, by artifices which assisted his progress without betraying his aim. He adroitly avoided an abrupt disclosure of his design, for he knew, or feared, that if it came too suddenly, it would have shocked even my father. He saw that my fancy was taken up elsewhere, and the first part of his plot was, to prejudice and poison my father's mind against his rival. In this he effectually succeeded. But it was a more difficult matter to bring round his own object, and he never could have achieved it, with all his skill, had he not been so mixed up with our affairs as to have it in his power to involve my father in a net-work of embarrassments. The meshes were woven round him with consummate ingenuity, and every effort at extrication only drew them tighter and tighter.
"Had I known as much of the world then as I do now I might have acted differently. But I was a girl; my sensibility was easily moved; my terrors were easily alarmed; and I loved my father too passionately to be able to exercise a calm judgment where his safety was concerned. It was this devotion—impetuous and unreflecting—that gave an advantage to the fiend, of which he availed himself unrelentingly, and which threw me, bound and fettered, at his feet.
"I will not dwell on these memories. My heart was harrowed by a terrible conflict. I know not how it might have been, had I not gathered a little strength from wounded pride. A circumstance came to my relief which crushed my enthusiasm, and from that instant determined my fate.
"My father had often thrown out doubts of the sincerity of him to whom I looked up with so much admiration; and at last he spoke more explicitly and urgently. He told me that the hero of my dreams was merely trifling with my feelings, and amusing himself at the expense of my credulity—in short, that he was no better than a libertine. I revolted against these cruel accusations, and repelled them by asserting that he was the noblest and truest of human beings. But my father knew more of him than I did. Even while these painful discussions were going on between us, news arrived that he had been detected in a heartless conspiracy to entrap and carry off a ward in chancery—a discovery which compelled him to fly the country.
"I was stunned and humiliated. The dream was over. The idol was broken, and the shrine degraded forever. What resource should women have in such cases if pride did not come to their help—that pride which smiles while the heart is bleeding, and makes the world think that we do not suffer! They know not what we suffer—what we hide! Our education trains us up in a mask, which is often worn to the end, when the secret that has fed upon our hearts, and consumed our lives, day by day, descends into the dark grave with us! My sufferings at the time were very great—I thought they would kill me. What mattered it to me then how they disposed of me. Poor fool! I looked in on my desolated fancy, and gave myself up for lost.
"It was in this mood the machinations of that man whom I abhorred triumphed over me. My father's affairs had become hopelessly entangled in his, and a proposal to avert chancery suits and settle disputed titles by a union between the families of the litigants presented the only means of adjustment. My father listened to this insidious proposal at first reluctantly; then, day by day, as difficulties thickened, he became more reconciled to it; and, at length, he broke it to me, with a deprecating gentleness that never sued in vain to the heart that idolized him. I had nothing left in the world but my father to love. Under any circumstances my love for him would have made me waver. As it was, wounded and hopeless, galled, deceived, and cast off—for I felt as all girls do, and was thoroughly in earnest in my sentimental misery—my love for him lightened the sacrifice he prayed, rather than demanded at my hands.
"Girl as I was. I could see the change that had passed over my father. The strong man was subdued and broken down. His clear understanding had given way; even his heart was no longer as generous and impulsive as it used to be. I could not bear to witness these alterations; and when I was told that it was in my power to relieve him from the weight that pressed upon him, what could I do?
"There were many violent struggles—many fits of tears and solitary remorse; but they all yielded to that imperative necessity, to that claim upon my feelings, which was paramount to every thing else. The first step was a contract of marriage, which I was simply required to sign. I was too young then to marry! This consideration was thrown in as a sort of tender forbearance to me, which, it was hoped, would propitiate my reluctant spirit. And from that hour, the demon, claiming me for his own, was incessant in his attendance upon me. I had hoped by that act to shake him off my father; but he was the Old Man of the Waters to his drowning victim, and at every moment only clutched and clung to him more closely.
"At last my father fell ill. First, he moped about the house, with a low, wearing cough. None of his old resources availed him. He couldn't read; the pleasant things he used to talk of—books, character, philosophy—no longer interested him. The placid mind was growing carped and restless. He was absorbed in his ailments. Trifles vexed him, and instead of the large and genial subjects which formerly engrossed him, he was taken up with petty annoyances. Oh, with what agony I watched that change from day to day! Then from the drawing-room to the bed, from whence he never rose again.
"It was in his last sickness—toward the close—when the wings of the Angel of Death were darkening his lids, and his utterance was thickening, and his vision becoming dimmer and dimmer, that he called me to his side. He knew the horror that was in my thoughts; but I was already pledged, and it was not a time for me to shrink, when he, in whom my affections were garnered up, besought me to make his death-bed happy by completing the sacrifice. There were those around us who said that it was merely to ease his mind, that he might feel he did not leave me behind him alone and without a protector; that the marriage would be performed in his presence; that we should then separate, and that my husband—oh, how I have hated that word! what images of wrong and cruelty are condensed into it!—would regard that ghastly ceremony only as a guarantee that when my grief had abated, and the signs of mourning were put off, I should consent to become his wife before the world. I believed in that and trusted to it. It was all written down and witnessed, that he would not enforce this marriage till time had soothed and reconciled me to it; and as the realization of it was to depend upon myself, I thought I was secure against the worst. Upon these conditions I was married beside the death-bed of my father.
"The plot was deeply laid. The snare was covered with flowers. I was nominally free. I was the wife, and not the wife, of him who, when a little time had passed away, and my father was in the grave, and I was at his mercy, assumed the right of asserting over me the authority of a husband. I did not then know the full extent of my dependence. Upon the failure of my consent, the whole property was to devolve upon him. Of that I thought little; it was a cheap escape from a bondage I abhorred, if, by surrendering all I possessed, I could escape. There was nothing left in my own hands, but the power of withholding my consent, and I did withhold it; and my aversion increased with the base, unmanly, and vindictive means he used to wring it from me.
"Years passed away; he was ever in my path, blighting me with threats and scoffs. My life was one continued mental slavery. He had the right, or he usurped it, of holding me in perpetual bondage—hovering about me, watching my actions, and subjecting me to a persecution which, invisible to every body else, was felt by me in the minutest trifles. And all this time my heart, shut up and stifled, felt a longing, such as prisoners feel, to breathe the free air, to find its wings and escape. I was conscious of a capacity for happiness; I felt that my existence was wasting under a hideous influence—that my situation was cruel and anomalous—that it was equally guilty to stay and feed the rebellion of my blood, that might at last drive me mad, or to fly from the evil thoughts that fascinated and beset me;—and long contemplation of this corroding misery convinced me that the greater guilt was the hourly falsehood—the constant mutiny of my soul—the sin I was committing against nature by continuing to tolerate the semblance of an obligation that made me almost doubt the justice of heaven!
"Again and again he renewed the subject, only to be again and again repulsed with increased bitterness and scorn. The sternness of my resolution gradually obtained a victory over his perseverance. No man, be his devotion as intense as it may, can persist in this way, when he is thoroughly assured that a woman hates or despises him; and he had ample reason to know that I did both. Threats failed—hints of scandal and defamation failed—prayers and entreaties failed—he tried them all; and he saw at last that my determination was irrevocable. I would not redeem my pledge. I took all the consequence of the perfidy. I submitted to the ignominy of his taunts and reproaches, and even admitted their justice, rather than stain my soul with a blacker crime. What was left to him? His arts were baffled—his pride turned to dust—his love rejected? What was left to him out of this ruin of his long cherished scheme? Revenge!
"Although he could not force me to fulfill the contract, he could blast my life in its bloom—wither the tree to the core—make a desert round it—poison the very atmosphere that gave it nourishment and strength—and wait patient—to see it die, leaf by leaf, and branch by branch, This was his devilish project. Love—if ever so sacred a passion had found its way into his soul—was transformed into hate, deadly and unrelenting; the red current had become gall; and the same slow, insatiable energy, with which he had before urged and forced his suit, was now applied to torture and distract me. I wonder it did not drive me to some act of desperation!
"And all this time I moved through society like others. Nobody suspected the vulture that was at my heart; and I had to endure the wretched necessity of acting a daily lie to the world. It gave a false severity to my manner—it made me seem austere and lofty, where I only meant to avert approaches which it would have been criminal to have admitted and deceived. And I had need of all that repellant armor; and it served me, and saved me—till I met you!
"Shall I proceed any farther? Shall I tell you how a new state of existence seemed insensibly opening before me?—how the want in my heart became unconsciously filled?—and that which had been a dream to me all my life long, vague, flitting, and undefined, was now a reality, clear, fixed, and distinct? What that sympathy was it is needless to ask, which made me feel that your history was something like my own—that you, too, had some discontent with the world, that made you yearn for peace and solitude, and the refuge of love, like me. I fought bravely at first. You know not how earnestly I questioned myself—how I probed my wounded spirit, and battled with the temptation. All that was hidden from you; but it was not the less fierce and agonizing. The blessed thought and hope of freedom, of a happiness which I had never trusted myself to contemplate, was a strong and blinding fascination. I saw my wretchedness, and close at hand its perilous remedy. Doomed either way, which was I to choose? The world?—my soul? All was darkness and terror to me. Calamity had made me desperate; yet I was outwardly calm and self-sustained. But I was goaded too far at last; he goaded me; and my resolution was taken; it was one plunge—and all was over. I fled from the misery I could no longer endure, and live; and I know the cost—I know the penalty—I see before me the retribution. Let it come—my fate is sealed!"
XI.
This narrative occupied a longer time in the relation than in the shape to which I have reduced it, for it was frequently interrupted by questions and exclamations, which I have not thought it necessary to insert here. When she concluded, the day was already waning, and the long shadows from the woods were stretching down the stream, and the setting sun was, here and there, blazing through the trees, like focal rays caught on the surface of a burning-glass. The haze of evening was gathering round us, and settling over the little bridge which was now slowly fading into the distance.
Astræa had confided her whole life to me with the utmost candor. The strong emotions she exhibited throughout afforded the best proof, if any were wanted, of her perfect sincerity. There was nothing kept back—no arrière-pensée—no false coloring; her real character came out forcibly in this painful confession. Few women would have had the requisite fortitude to submit to such an ordeal, and take their final stand upon a position which marked them out as Pariahs in the eyes of the world. I felt how great the misery must have been from which she sought this terrible escape; and how much greater was the strength of will that sustained her in the resolution to embrace it. Her wild sense of natural justice had risen in resistance against laws which it appeared to her more criminal to obey than to violate. It was not a paroxysm of the passions—it was not the sophistry that seeks for its own convenience to arraign the dispensations of society; it was a strong mind, contending in its own right against obligations founded on force, and violence, and wrong—asserting its claim to liberate itself from trammels to which it had never given a voluntary assent—recoiling from a life of skepticism and hypocrisy, and the frightful conflicts it entails between duty and the instincts of reason and the heart—and prepared, since no other alternative was left, to suffer in itself alone, and in the consequences of its own act, all obloquy, all vengeance the world could inflict. That there lay beneath this a grave error, undermining the foundations upon which the whole social superstructure rested, was, in a certain large and general sense, sufficiently obvious to me. But who could argue such questions against convictions based upon individual and exceptional injuries? Who could require, in the very moment and agony of sacrifice, that she who had been thus wronged and tortured, and who had never, of her own free action, incurred the responsibility from which she revolted, should offer herself up a victim to laws that afforded her no protection, and condemned her to eternal strife, and the sins of a rebellious conscience? I would have saved her if I could. It was my first impulse—my most earnest desire. But of what avail was the attempt? Where was she to find refuge? Only one of two courses lay before her—to return and fulfil her contract, or to renounce the world: the first was doubtful, perhaps impossible; the second, she had resolved upon. Even if I were to hold back on the brink of the precipice, it would not shake her determination.
In this extremity and in the last resort, I felt myself bound to her by every consideration of love and honor. Honor! When that element enters into our casuistry, the peril is at its height!
"Have you never endeavored to release yourself from this contract?" I inquired.
"He would not release me."
"Have you explicitly demanded it of him, so that you should have the satisfaction of feeling that you had tried all other means before you broke the bond yourself?"
"I have demanded and besought it of him—prayed to him—appealed to him, by his soul's hopes here and hereafter, to release me. I have laid my own perdition on his refusal—and he still refused. I gave up all; offered to leave England forever; to give him security that, be my fate what it might, neither he nor his should be troubled with me. To no purpose—he was iron. He could have procured a separation, which I could not. I gave him the means, and would have borne any humiliation to obtain my freedom. He would not release me; he held me bound, that he might gloat his vengeance upon my sufferings."
"And this man—this fiend—you have not told me, Astræa, who he is."
While I was speaking, I observed her looking keenly through the mist that was collecting about us. Some object had attracted her attention. My eyes followed the direction hers had taken, and I discerned a figure, apparently wrapped up in a cloak, about the centre of the bridge, on the near side. We watched it in silence for a space of two or three minutes, when it moved slowly from its position, and winding down among the trees, took the path that led directly to the spot where we were seated. She grasped my arm, and cried in a whisper—
"Stand firm. Speak not. It is my deed, not yours. The hour I have looked for through long years of anguish is come at last. Fear nothing for me!"
The figure approached, still enveloped in a cloak, and stood exactly opposite to us. For a moment—the most intense I ever remember—not a word was uttered. At last, the stranger spoke.
"It is, then, as I expected. I have tracked you to your hiding-place, and I find you with your paramour."
It was the voice of the dwarf! The blood leaped in my veins, and, hardly conscious of what I was doing, or meant to do, I sprang from my seat. Astræa rose at the same moment, and interposed.
"If you have the least regard or respect for me," she said, "do not interfere. For my sake, control yourself."
"For your sake!" echoed the dwarf. "Do you glory in his shame, as well as your own?"
"Shame!" cried Astræa. "Take back the foul word, and begone. You have no authority, no rights here. The shame is yours, not mine—yours, unmanly, pitiful, and mean, who have taken advantage of a contract wrung from a girl to doom the life of a woman to misery."
"Have I no authority?" quoth the dwarf. "Listen to me—you must—you shall—if it kill you in your heroics. I am your husband—my authority is law. I can command you to my foot, and you must obey me. You think you are secure; but I will show you that you have committed an egregious mistake. Believe me," he added, in a tone of supercilious mockery, for which I could have inflicted summary chastisement—"believe me, you only deceive yourself, as you have tried to deceive me."
"In what have I tried to deceive you?" she demanded. "I have been so explicit with you, that none but the most contemptible of your sex would have persisted at such a sacrifice of pride and feeling. Pride? You have none. Where you proffered love—oh! such love!—you found aversion;—where you sought, sued, and threatened, you received nothing in return but loathing and scorn. And now, henceforth and forever, I break all bonds between us. Since you will not do it, I will—I have done it! Obey you? I owe you no obedience. Be wise; take my answer, and leave me."
"Not at your bidding, madam. I did not come here to visit you in your retirement, and be turned away so unceremoniously. It is not my intention to leave you. Where you are, there must I be too."
The insolent coolness with which this was spoken, rendered it very difficult for me to submit to the injunction Astræa had imposed upon me. I began to feel that I, too, had rights, and that the course this husband-in-law was pursuing, was not the best calculated to induce me to surrender them.
"Where I am you shall never come again!" returned Astræa. "That is over. A gulf yawns between us. Do not tempt it any further."
"I will not be critical about words with you," said the dwarf. "If I am not to come where you are, you shall come to me. It is the same thing. You are only wasting your fine speeches. I have come here to take you back to London."
"To take me back?" she echoed. "Are you mad? Do you believe such a thing credible? I have chosen my own course; and no power, authority, or force can turn me from it. Take me back! Even were I willing to go—suppose I were weak enough to repent the step I have taken—can you not see—have you not eyes and understanding to see and comprehend, that it would be to your own eternal dishonor—that it would only bring upon you the contempt and derision of the world?"
"It is for me to judge of that. Come—we are losing time, and it is growing dark already."
"Then why do you stay? Why do you not go as you came. I have given you my answer; and if you were to stand here forever, you will get none other. Have you no particle of self-respect left?"
"Whatever self-respect or pride I had," returned the dwarf, in a low and bitter tone, "you have trampled upon, and raised up a demoniac spirit in this place. It might have been otherwise once. I loved you—ay! writhe under the word—I loved you; but I was ill-favored, misshapen, stunted, and loathsome to look upon. You thought that love and ambition and high thoughts could not take up with such a frame as this—that they all went with straight limbs and milky faces. Nature could not condescend to endow the dwarf with the attributes of humanity. But I was a man as well as they—had the passions and hopes of a man, the capabilities of good and evil. You never sought the good; you never felt it to be your duty to seek and cultivate the better qualities which my own consciousness of my outward defects made irresolute and wayward in development. You only looked upon the surface: and in the selfishness of your heart you spurned me from you. You never thought of asking yourself whether it was in your power to redeem and elevate, for noble ends, the human soul that was pent up in this weak and distorted body. You never stopped to reflect whether, by your contumely and pride of beauty, you were not destroying the germs of all self-respect, perverting the virtuous instincts into poisonous fangs, and shattering to the core the best resolves of a human being who might be better than yourself. A word of kindness in season—a generous construction of my character—an effort to call my moral strength into action, might have raised me to the dignity of the manhood it was your pleasure to disdain and degrade—might have given me the fortitude and the compensating motive to resign you—might have saved us both! But that word was never on your lips—that effort you were not generous enough to try. What I am, then, you have made me—bitter to the dregs, engrossed by one thought, living but for one object. Life is a curse to me. Every new day that rises upon me, humiliation and despair are before me. Do you believe I will suffer this tamely? What have I to lose? You hate me—I return you hate for hate, loaded with the recollections of years of scorn and defiance. Defiance? Ha! ha! It is my turn now, and no remorse shall step in between us to mitigate my vengeance!"
His voice rose almost into a shriek at the close, he had worked himself up to such a height of fanatic excitement; yet, notwithstanding the denunciation with which he ended, it was impossible not to be touched with pity for the real suffering that had reduced him to this condition. A great sorrow had converted this wretched man into a human fiend; and I never before believed that there were the elements of tenderness in him which these references to the past seemed dimly to light up. Astræa heard it all very calmly.
"We are not answerable for our likings or antipathies," she replied; "and I am no more accountable for my feeling than you are for your shape. Had you possessed the instincts you speak of—the manhood you claim for yourself, you might have long since secured, at least, my gratitude, and spared us both the ignominy of this night. But it is useless to look back. I have nothing more to say. Let us part—in hate, if you will. I am indifferent alike to your opinions and your vengeance. Avail yourself of whatever power the law gives you; but here we now part, never to meet again!"
As she said this, she moved away, and I still lingered behind to protect her retreat, if it should be necessary.
"No, madam; not so easily. We do not part. I command you to leave this place, and go with me. It is my pleasure. Do not compel me to enforce it."
Seeing him rush forward to follow her, I placed myself between them.
"I charge you," cried the dwarf, "to stand out of my path. It will be dangerous."
"You have threatened me before," I exclaimed; "and it is full time that you and I should understand each other. I have an advantage over you which I do not desire to use, except in extremity; be careful, therefore, how you provoke it. Advance no further, or I will not answer for the consequences!"
"So, then, you champion her in her guilt," he cried.
"I know of no guilt," I replied. "I have not interfered hitherto; I had no right to do so. But I will not suffer any violence to be committed toward her; she must be free to act as she pleases!"
"And what right have you to interfere now?"
"The right which every man has to protect a woman against outrage."
"I warn you for the last time!" exclaimed the dwarf, his eyeballs flashing fire. "It is you who have done this; you who have tempted and destroyed her—destroyed us both. Do not urge me to the retribution I thirst for. Put your hand upon me; there is my outstretched arm—only touch it with your fingers, and put me on my defense!"
Astræa was standing at my side.
"I charge you," she said, "to leave him, and go into the house. He will not dare to follow me!"
"I will dare the depths of perdition, and follow you wherever you go. See how he shrinks from me!—this champion and bully, for whom you stand condemned and branded before the world!"
"Bully!" I cried, "if you were not the feeble, wretched thing you are, I would strike you to the earth. It is you, not I, that have worked out this shame for your own fiendish ends. Did you not tell me that you helped and encouraged our intercourse—that you saw feelings growing up, and used all your arts to heighten them into an attachment which you knew would bring misery upon us all? For what purpose, devil as you are, did you do this?"
"To break her heart—for she had broken mine!"
"Be content, then, with what you have done, and leave us. You have placed me in a position which no fear of consequences can induce me to abandon. I will protect her to the last. Look upon us henceforth as inseparable, and rid us of your presence, lest I lose all self-command."
Grasping Astræa's hand, and controlling myself by a violent effort, I turned from him to lead her toward the house.
Perhaps it was this action which suddenly infuriated the demon, who now looked more horrible in the contortions of his unbridled rage than ever; and as I turned I felt, rather than saw, that he had coiled himself up to spring upon me. Relieving myself from her, I instantly faced him. His motions were as quick as light. One hand was upon my chest, and the other was fumbling under his cloak. Suspecting his intention, I seized his right arm and dragged it out. There was a pistol in his hand. It was not a time to exercise much forbearance in consideration of his physical inferiority, and by desperate force I wrenched the pistol from his grasp, and, tossing it over his head, flung it into the river. In the struggle, however, it had gone off, and, by the cry of pain he uttered, I concluded that he was wounded. But I was too much heated to think of that; and, in the fierceness of the conflict between us, I lifted him up by main strength, and flung him upon the ground.
Leaving him there, I hastened to Astræa, and we both went into the house, taking care to lock and bar the door, so that he could not follow us. The windows of the sitting-room went down close to the gravel-walk outside, upon which they opened. These were already secured, and we were safe.
As we sat there, half an hour afterward, a low, piteous voice came wailing through the shutters, uttering one word, which it repeated at intervals, in a tone that pierced me to the soul. "Astræa! Astræa! Astræa!" It was a voice so freighted with sorrow, that, had not evil passions intervened to shut our hearts to its petition, we must have relented and shown mercy to him out of whose despair it issued. But we held our breaths, hardly daring to look in each other's faces, and moved not!
God! all the long night that wailing voice seemed repeating, in fainter tones, "Astræa! Astræa! Astræa!" and she to whom it was addressed, and to whom it appealed in vain—let me not recall the memory! Many years have since trampled out other recollections, but that voice still seems to vibrate on my heart, and the name still surges up as I heard it then, sobbing through tears of mortal agony!
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
MADAME DE GENLIS AND MADAME DE STAËL.[7]
Before the Revolution, I was but very slightly acquainted with Madame de Genlis, her conduct during that disastrous period having not a little contributed to sink her in my estimation; and the publication of her novel, "The Knights of the Swan" (the first edition), completed my dislike to a person who had so cruelly aspersed the character of the queen, my sister in-law.
On my return to France, I received a letter full of the most passionate expressions of loyalty from beginning to end; the missive being signed Comtesse de Genlis: but imagining this could be but a plaisanterie of some intimate friend of my own, I paid no attention whatever to it. However, in two or three days it was followed by a second epistle, complaining of my silence, and appealing to the great sacrifices the writer had made in the interest of my cause, as giving her a right to my favorable attention. Talleyrand being present, I asked him if he could explain this enigma.
"Nothing is easier," replied he; "Madame de Genlis is unique. She has lost her own memory, and fancies others have experienced a similar bereavement."
"She speaks," pursued I, "of her virtues, her misfortunes, and Napoleon's persecutions."
"Hem! In 1789 her husband was quite ruined, so the events of that period took nothing from him; and as to the tyranny of Bonaparte, it consisted, in the first place, of giving her a magnificent suite of apartments in the Arsenal; and in the second place, granting her a pension of six thousand francs a year, upon the sole condition of her keeping him every month au courant of the literature of the day."
"What shocking ferocity!" replied I, laughing; "a case of infamous despotism indeed. And this martyr to our cause asks to see me!"
"Yes; and pray let your royal highness grant her an audience, were it only for once: I assure you she is most amusing."
I followed the advice of M. de Talleyrand, and accorded to the lady the permission she so pathetically demanded. The evening before she was to present herself, however, came a third missive, recommending a certain Casimir, the phénix of the époque, and several other persons besides; all, according to Madame de Genlis, particularly celebrated people; and the postscript to this effusion prepared me also beforehand for the request she intended to make, of being appointed governess to the children of my son the Duc de Berry, who was at that time not even married.
Just at this period it so happened that I was besieged by more than a dozen persons of every rank in regard to Madame de Staël, formerly exiled by Bonaparte, and who had rushed to Paris without taking breath, fully persuaded every one there, and throughout all France, was impatient to see her again. Madame de Staël had a double view in thus introducing herself to me; namely, to direct my proceedings entirely, and to obtain payment of the two million francs deposited in the treasury by her father during his ministry. I confess I was not prepossessed in favor of Madame de Staël, for she also, in 1789, had manifested so much hatred toward the Bourbons, that I thought all she could possibly look to from us, was the liberty of living in Paris unmolested: but I little knew her. She, on her side, imagined that we ought to be grateful to her for having quarreled with Bonaparte—her own pride being, in fact, the sole cause of the rupture.
M. de Fontanes and M. de Châteaubriand were the first who mentioned her to me; and to the importance with which they treated the matter, I answered, laughing, "So Madame la Baronne de Staël is then a supreme power?"
"Indeed she is, and it might have very unfavorable effects did your royal highness overlook her: for what she asserts, every one believes, and then—she has suffered so much!"
"Very likely; but what did she make my poor sister-in-law the queen suffer? Do you think I can forget the abominable things she said, the falsehoods she told? and was it not in consequence of them, and the public's belief of them, that she owed the possibility of the embassadress of Sweden's being able to dare insult that unfortunate princess in her very palace?"
Madame de Staël's envoys, who manifested some confusion at the fidelity of my memory, implored me to forget the past, think only of the future, and remember that the genius of Madame de Staël, whose reputation was European, might be of the utmost advantage, or the reverse. Tired of disputing I yielded; consented to receive this femme célèbre, as they all called her, and fixed for her reception the same day I had notified to Madame de Genlis.
My brother has said, "Punctuality is the politeness of kings"—words as true and just as they are happily expressed; and the princes of my family have never been found wanting in good manners; so I was in my study waiting when Madame de Genlis was announced. I was astonished at the sight of a long, dry woman, with a swarthy complexion, dressed in a printed cotton gown, any thing but clean, and a shawl covered with dust, her habit-shirt, her hair even, bearing marks of great negligence. I had read her works, and remembering all she said about neatness, and cleanliness, and proper attention to one's dress, I thought she added another to the many who fail to add example to their precepts. While making these reflections, Madame de Genlis was firing off a volley of courtesies; and upon finishing what she deemed the requisite number, she pulled out of a great huge bag four manuscripts of enormous dimensions.
"I bring," commenced the lady, "to your royal highness what will amply repay any kindness you may show to me—No. 1 is a plan of conduct, and the project of a constitution; No. 2 contains a collection of speeches in answer to those likely to be addressed to Monsieur; No. 3, addresses and letters proper to send to foreign powers, the provinces, &c.; and in No. 4 Monsieur will find a plan of education, the only one proper to be pursued by royalty, in reading which, your royal highness will feel as convinced of the extent of my acquirements as of the purity of my loyalty."
Many in my place might have been angry; but, on the contrary, I thanked her with an air of polite sincerity for the treasures she was so obliging as to confide to me, and then condoled with her upon the misfortunes she had endured under the tyranny of Bonaparte.
"Alas! Monsieur, this abominable despot dared to make a mere plaything of me! and yet I strove, by wise advice, to guide him right, and teach him to regulate his conduct properly: but he would not be led. I even offered to mediate between him and the Pope, but he did not so much as answer me upon this subject; although (being a most profound theologian) I could have smoothed almost all difficulties when the Concordat was in question."
This last piece of pretension was almost too much for my gravity. However, I applauded the zeal of this new mother of the church, and was going to put an end to the interview, when it came into my head to ask her if she was well acquainted with Madame de Staël.
"God forbid!" cried she, making a sign of the cross: "I have no acquaintance with such people; and I but do my duty in warning those who have not perused the works of that lady, to bear in mind that they are written in the worst possible taste, and are also extremely immoral. Let your royal highness turn your thoughts from such books; you will find in mine all that is necessary to know. I suppose monsieur has not yet seen Little Necker?"
"Madame la Baronne de Staël Holstein has asked for an audience, and I even suspect she may be already arrived at the Tuileries."
"Let your royal highness beware of this woman! See in her the implacable enemy of the Bourbons, and in me their most devoted slave!"
This new proof of the want of memory in Madame de Genlis amused me as much as the other absurdities she had favored me with; and I was in the act of making her the ordinary salutations of adieu, when I observed her blush purple, and her proud rival entered.
The two ladies exchanged a haughty bow, and the comedy, which had just finished with the departure of Madame de Genlis, recommenced under a different form when Madame de Staël appeared on the stage. The baroness was dressed, not certainly dirtily, like the countess, but quite as absurdly. She wore a red satin gown, embroidered with flowers of gold and silk; a profusion of diamonds; rings enough to stock a pawnbroker's shop; and, I must add, that I never before saw so low a cut corsage display less inviting charms. Upon her head was a huge turban, constructed on the pattern of that worn by the Cumean sibyl, which put a finishing stroke to a costume so little in harmony with her style of face. I scarcely understand how a woman of genius can have such a false, vulgar taste. Madame de Staël began by apologizing for occupying a few moments which she doubted not I should have preferred giving to Madame de Genlis. "She is one of the illustrations of the day," observed she with a sneering smile—"a colossus of religious faith, and represents in her person, she fancies, all the literature of the age. Ah, ah, monsieur, in the hands of such people the world would soon retrograde; while it should, on the contrary, be impelled forward, and your royal highness be the first to put yourself at the head of this great movement. To you should belong the glory of giving the impulse, guided by my experience."
"Come," thought I, "here is another going to plague me with plans of conduct, and constitutions, and reforms, which I am to persuade the king my brother to adopt. It seems to be an insanity in France this composing of new constitutions." While I was making these reflections, madame had time to give utterance to a thousand fine phrases, every one more sublime than the preceding. However, to put an end to them, I asked her if there was any thing she wished to demand.
"Ah, dear!—oh yes, prince!" replied the lady in an indifferent tone. "A mere trifle—less than nothing—two millions, without counting the interest at five per cent.; but these are matters I leave entirely to my men of business, being for my own part much more absorbed in politics and the science of government."
"Alas! madame, the king has arrived in France with his mind made up upon most subjects, the fruit of twenty-five years' meditation; and I fear he is not likely to profit by your good intentions!"
"Then so much the worse for him and for France! All the world knows what it cost Bonaparte his refusing to follow my advice, and pay me my two millions. I have studied the Revolution profoundly, followed it through all its phases, and I flatter myself I am the only pilot who can hold with one hand the rudder of the state, if at least I have Benjamin for steersman."
"Benjamin! Benjamin—who?" asked I, in surprise.
"It would give me the deepest distress," replied she, "to think that the name of M. le Baron de Rebecque Benjamin de Constant has never reached the ears of your royal highness. One of his ancestors saved the life of Henri Quatre. Devoted to the descendants of this good king, he is ready to serve them; and among several constitutions he has in his portfolio, you will probably find one with annotations and reflections by myself, which will suit you. Adopt it, and choose Benjamin Constant to carry out the idea."
It seemed like a thing resolved—an event decided upon—this proposal of inventing a constitution for us. I kept as long as I could upon the defensive; but Madame de Staël, carried away by her zeal and enthusiasm, instead of speaking of what personally concerned herself, knocked me about with arguments, and crushed me under threats and menaces; so, tired to death of entertaining, instead of a clever, humble woman, a roaring politician in petticoats, I finished the audience, leaving her as little satisfied as myself with the interview. Madame de Genlis was ten times less disagreeable, and twenty times more amusing.
That same evening I had M. le Prince de Talleyrand with me, and I was confounded by hearing him say, "So your royal highness has made Madame de Staël completely quarrel with me now?"
"Me! I never so much as pronounced your name."
"Notwithstanding that, she is convinced that I am the person who prevents your royal highness from employing her in your political relations, and that I am jealous of Benjamin Constant. She is resolved on revenge."
"Ha, ha—and what can she do?"
"A very great deal of mischief, monseigneur. She has numerous partisans; and if she declares herself Bonapartiste, we must look to ourselves."
"That would be curious."
"Oh, I shall take upon myself to prevent her going so far; but she will be Royalist no longer, and we shall suffer from that."
At this time I had not the remotest idea what a mere man, still less a mere woman, could do in France; but now I understand it perfectly, and if Madame de Staël was living—Heaven pardon me!—I would strike up a flirtation with her.