Italian Letters, Vols. I and II

I had now proceeded somewhat more than two leagues upon my journey, and had gained the centre of that vast and intricate forest which you remember to be situated at no great distance from Leontini. In this place there advanced upon me in a moment four of those bravoes, for which this place is particularly infamous, and who are noted for their daring and hazardous atchievements. Myself and my servant defended ourselves against them for some time. One of them was wounded in the beginning of the encounter. But it was impossible that we could have resisted long. My servant was hurt in several places, and I had received a wound in my arm. In this critical moment a cavalier, accompanied by several attendants, and who appeared to be armed, advanced at no great distance. The villains immediately took up their disabled companion, and retired with precipitation into the thickest part of the wood. My deliverer now ordered some of his attendants to pursue them, while himself with one servant remained to assist us.

Imagine, my dear friend, what were my emotions, when I discovered in my preserver, the marquis of Pescara! I recollected in a moment all our former intimacy, and in what manner it had so lately been broken off. Little did I think that I should almost ever have seen him again. Much less did I think that I should ever have owed him the most important obligations.

The expression of the countenance of both of us upon this sudden recognition was complicated. Amidst all the surprize and gratitude, that it was impossible not to testify, my eyes I am convinced had something in them of the reproach of violated friendship. I thought I could trace, and by what followed I could not be mistaken, in the air of my Rinaldo, a confession of wrong, united with a kind of triumph, that he had been enabled so unexpectedly and completely to regain that moral equilibrium which he had before lost.

It was not long before his servants returned from an unsuccessful pursuit, and we set forward for a village about a quarter of a league further upon the road from Leontini. It was there that I learned from my friend the occasion and subject of his journey. He had heard at Naples a confused report of the death of my father, and the unexpected succession of my brother. The idea of this misfortune involuntarily afflicted him. At the thought of my distress all his tenderness revived. "And was it," it was thus that he described the progress of his reflections, "in the moment of so unexpected a blow, that my St. Julian neglected the circumstances of his own situation, to write to me that letter, the freedom of whose remonstrances, and the earnestness of whose exhortations so greatly offended me? How much does this consideration enhance the purity and disinterestedness of his friendship? And is it possible that I should have taken umbrage at that which was prompted only by tenderness and attachment? And did I ever speak of his interference in those harsh and reproachful terms which I so well knew would be conveyed to him again? Could I have been so blinded by groundless resentment, as to have painted him in all the colours of an inflexible dictator, and a presumptuous censor? Could I have imputed his conduct to motives of pride, affectation, and arrogance? How happy had I been, had his advice arrived sooner, and been more regarded?"

But it was not with self-blame and reproach only, that the recovery of my Rinaldo was contented. The idea of the situation of his friend incessantly haunted him. No pursuit, no avocation, could withdraw his attention, or banish the recollection from his mind. He determined to quit Naples in search of me. He left all those engagements, and all those pleasures of which he had of late been so much enamoured, and crossing the sea he came into Sicily. Learning that I had quitted Palermo, he resolved to pursue his search of me to Leontini. He had fixed his determination not to quit the generous business upon which he had entered, without discovering me in my remotest retreat, atoning for the groundless resentment he had harboured, and contributing every thing in his power to repair the injustice I had suffered from those of my own family. And in pursuance of these ideas he has made me the most disinterested and liberal proposals of friendship and assistance.

How is it, my Hippolito, that the same man shall be alternately governed by the meanest and most exalted motives: that he shall now appear an essence celestial and divine, and now debase himself by a conduct the most indefensible and unworthy? But such I am afraid is man. Mixed in all his qualities, and inconsistent in all his purposes. The most virtuous and most venerable of us all are too often guilty of things weak, sordid, and disgraceful. And it is to be hoped on the other hand, that there are few so base and degenerate, as not sometimes to perform actions of the most undoubted utility, and to feel sentiments dignified and benevolent. It is in vain that the philosopher fits in his airy eminence, and seeks to reduce the shapeless mass into form, and endeavours to lay down rules for so variable and inconstant a system. Nature mocks his efforts, and the pertinacity of events belies his imaginary hypotheses.

But I am guilty of injustice to my friend. An action which he has so sincerely regretted, and so greatly atoned, ought not to be considered with so much severity. I trust I am not misled by the personal interest I may appear to have in his present conduct. I think I should contemplate it with the same admiration, and allow it the same weight, if its benevolence entirely regarded another. Indeed I am still in the greatest uncertainty how to determine. I am still inclined to prefer my former plan, of entering resolutely upon new scenes and new pursuits, to that of taking up any durable residence in the palace of my friend. There is something misbecoming a man in the bloom of youth, and labouring under no natural disadvantages and infirmities, in the subsisting in any manner upon the bounty of another. The pride of my heart, a pride that I do not seek to extinguish, leads me to prefer an honest independence, in however mean a station, to the most splendid, and the most silken bondage.

Why should not he that is born a nobleman be also born a man? A man is a character superior to all those that civilization has invented. To be a man is the profession of a citizen of the world. A man of rank is a poor shivering, exotic plant, that cannot subsist out of his native soil. If the imaginary barriers of society were thrown down, if we were reduced back again to a state of nature, the nobleman would appear a shiftless and a helpless being; he only who knew how to be a man would show like the creature of God, a being sent into the world with the capacities of subsistence and enjoyment. The nobleman, an artificial and fantastic creation, would then lose all that homage in which he plumed himself, he would be seen without disguise, and be despised by all.

Oh, my Hippolito, in spite of all this parade of firmness and resolution, I cannot quit my native country but with the sincerest regret. I had one tie, why do I mention it? Never did I commit this confidence to any mortal. It was the dream of a poetical imagination. It was a vision drawn in the fantastic and airy colours that flow from the pencil of youth. Fondly I once entertained a hope. I lived upon it. But it is vanished for ever.

I shall go from hence with the marquis of Pescara to Naples. I shall there probably make a residence of several weeks. In that time I shall have fixed my plans, and immediately after shall enter upon the execution of them.

Letter X

The Count de St. Julian to the Marquis of Pescara

Cosenza

My dear lord,

Every thing that has happened to me for some time past, appears so fortunate and extraordinary that I can scarcely persuade myself that it is not a dream. Is it possible that I should not have been born to uninterrupted misfortune? The outcast of my father almost as soon as I had a being, I was never sensible to the solace of paternal kindness, I could never open my heart, and pour forth all my thoughts into the bosom of him to whom I owed my existence. Why was I created with a mind so delicate as to be susceptible of a thousand feelings, and ruffled by a thousand crosses, that glide unheeded over the breasts of the majority of mankind? What filial duty did I neglect, what instance of obedience did I ever refuse, that should have made me be considered with a regard so rigorous and austere? And was it not punishment enough to be debarred of all the solace I might have hoped to derive from the cares of a guardian and a protector? How did I deserve to be deprived of that patrimony which was my natural claim, to be sent forth, after having formed so reasonable expectancies, after having received an education suitable to my rank, unassisted and unprovided, upon the theatre of the world?

I had pictured that world to myself as cold, selfish, and unfeeling. I expected to find the countenances of my fellow-creatures around me smiling and unconcerned, whatever were my struggles, and whatever were my disappointments. Philosophy had deprived me of those gay and romantic prospects, which often fill the bosom of youth. A temper too sensible and fastidious had taught me not to look for any great degree of sympathy and disinterested ardour among the bulk of my fellow-creatures.

I have now found that avoiding one extreme I encountered the other. As most men, induced by their self-importance, expect that their feelings should interest, and their situations arrest the attention of those that surround them; so I having detected their error counted upon less benevolence and looked for less friendship than I have found. My Rinaldo demanded to be pardoned for having neglected my advice, and misconstrued the motives of it. I had not less reason to intreat his forgiveness in my turn, for having weighed his character with so little detail, and so hastily decided to his disadvantage.

My friend will not suspect me of interested flattery, when I say, that I sincerely rejoice in a conduct so honourable to human nature as his has been respecting me. He had no motive of vanity, for who was there that interested himself in the fate of so obscure an individual; who in all the polite circles and conversazioni of Naples, would give him credit for his friendship, to a person so unlike themselves? He superseded all the feelings of resentment, he counted no distance, he passed over mountains and seas in pursuit of his exalted design.

But my Rinaldo, generous as he is, is not the only protector that fortune has raised to the forlorn and deserted St. Julian. You are acquainted with the liberal and friendly invitation I received from the duke of Benevento at Messina. His reception was still more cordial and soothing. He embraced me with warmth, and even wept over me. He could not refrain from imprecations upon the memory of my father, and he declared with energy, that the son of Leonora della Colonna should never suffer from the arbitrary and capricious tyranny of a Sicilian count. He assured me in the strongest terms that his whole fortune was at my disposal. Then telling me that his dear and only child had been impatient for my arrival, he took me by the hand, and led me to the amiable Matilda.

A change like this could not but be in the highest degree consolatory and grateful to my wounded heart. The balm of friendship and affection is at all times sweet and refreshing. To be freed at once from the prospect of banishment, and the dread of dependence, to be received with unbounded friendship and overflowing generosity by a relation of my mother, and one who places the pride of his family in supporting and distinguishing me, was an alteration in my circumstances which I could not have hoped. I am not insensible to kindness. My heart is not shut against sensations of pleasure. My spirits were exhilarated; my hours passed in those little gratifications and compliances, by which I might best manifest my attachment to my benefactor; and I had free recourse to the society of his lovely daughter, whose conversation animated with guileless sallies of wit, and graced with the most engaging modesty, afforded me an entertainment, sweet to my breast, and congenial to my temper.

But alas, my dear marquis, it is still true what I have often observed, that I was not born for happiness. In the midst of a scene from which it might best be suspected to spring, I am uneasy. My heart is corroded with anguish, and I have a secret grief, that palls and discolours every enjoyment, and that, by being carefully shut up in my own bosom, is so much the more afflicting and irksome. Yes, my Rinaldo, this it was that gave a sting to the thought of removing to a foreign country. This was that source of disquiet, which has constantly given me an air of pensiveness and melancholy. In no intercourse of familiarity, in no hour of unrestricted friendship, was it ever disclosed. It is not, my friend, the dream of speculative philosophy, it has been verified in innumerable facts, it is the subject of the sober experience of every man, that communication and confidence alleviate every uneasiness. But ah, if it were before disquiet and melancholy, now it burns, it rages, I am no longer master of myself.

You remember, my dear Rinaldo, that once in the course of my residence at the university, I paid a visit to the duke of Benevento at Cosenza. It was then that I first saw the amiable Matilda. She appeared to me the most charming of her sex. Her cheeks had the freshness of the peach, and her lips were roses. Her neck was alabaster, and her eyes sparkled with animation, chastened with the most unrivalled gentleness and delicacy. Her stature, her forehead, her mouth—but ah, impious wretch, how canst thou pretend to trace her from charm to charm! Who can dissect unbounded excellence? Who can coolly and deliberately gaze upon the brightness of the meridian sun? I will say in one word, that her whole figure was enchanting, that all her gestures were dignity, and every motion was grace.

Young and unexperienced I drank without suspicion of the poison of love. I gazed upon her with extacy. I hung upon every accent of her voice. In her society I appeared mute and absent. But it was not the silence of an uninterested person: it was not the distraction of philosophic thought. I was entirely engaged, my mind was full of the contemplations of her excellence even to bursting. I felt no vacancy, I was conscious to no want, I was full of contentment and happiness.

As soon however as she withdrew, I felt myself melancholy and dejected. I fled from company. I sought the most impervious solitude. I wasted the live-long morn in the depth of umbrageous woods, amidst hills and meads, where I could perceive no trace of a human footstep. I longed to be alone with the object of my admiration. I thought I had much to say to her, but I knew not what. I had no plan, my very wishes were not reduced into a system. It was only, that full of a new and unexperienced passion, it sought incessantly to break forth. It urged me to disburden my labouring heart.

Once I remember I obtained the opportunity I had so long wished. It came upon me unexpectedly, and I was overwhelmed by it. My limbs trembled, my eyes lost their wonted faculty. The objects before them swam along indistinctly. I essayed to speak, my very tongue refused its office. I felt that I perspired at every pore. I rose to retire, I sat down again irresolute and confounded.

Matilda perceived my disorder and coming towards me, enquired with a tender and anxious voice, whether I felt myself ill. The plaintive and interesting tone in which she delivered herself completed my confusion. She rang the bell for assistance, and the scene was concluded. When I returned to Palermo, I imagined that by being removed from the cause of my passion, I should insensibly lose the passion itself. Rinaldo, you know that I am not of that weak and effeminate temper to throw the reins upon the neck of desire, to permit her a clear and undisputed reign. I summoned all my reason and all my firmness to my aid. I considered the superiority of her to whom my affections were attached, in rank, in expectations, in fortune. I felt that my passion could not naturally be crowned with success. "And shall I be the poor and feeble slave of love? Animated as I am with ambition, aspiring to the greatest heights of knowledge and distinction, shall I degenerate into an amorous and languishing boy; shall I wilfully prepare for myself a long vista of disappointment? Shall I by one froward and unreasonable desire, stain all my future prospects, and discolour all those sources of enjoyment, that fate may have reserved for me?" Alas, little did I then apprehend that loss of fortune that was about to place me still more below the object of my wishes!

But my efforts were vain. I turned my attention indeed to a variety of pursuits. I imagined that the flame which had sprung up at Cosenza was entirely extinguished. I seemed to retain from it nothing but a kind of soft melancholy and a sober cast of thought, that made me neither less contented with myself, nor less agreeable to those whose partiality I was desirous to engage.

But I no sooner learned that reverse of fortune which disclosed itself upon the death of my father, than I felt how much I had been deceived. I had only drawn a slight cover over the embers of passion, and the fire now broke out with twice its former violence. I had nourished it unknown to myself with the distant ray of hope, I had still cheated my imagination with an uncertain prospect of success. When every prospect vanished, when all hopes were at an end, it burst every barrier, it would no longer be concealed. My temper was in the utmost degree unsuitable to a state of dependence, but it was this thought that made it additionally harsh and dreadful to my mind. I loved my country with the sincerest affection, but it was this that made banishment worse than ten thousand deaths. The world appeared to me a frightful solitude, with not one object that could interest all my attention, and fill up all the wishes of my heart.

From these apprehensions, and this dejection, I have been unexpectedly delivered. But, oh, my dear marquis, what is the exchange I have made? I reside under the same roof with the adorable Matilda. I see every day, I converse without restraint with her, whom I can never hope to call my own. Can I thus go on to cherish a passion, that can make me no promises, that can suggest to me no hopes? Can I expect always to conceal this passion from the most penetrating eyes? How do I know that I am not at this moment discovered, that the next will not lay my heart naked in the sight of the most amiable of women?

Cosenza! thou shalt not long be my abode. I will not live for ever in unavailing struggles. Concealment shall not always be the business of the simplest and most undisguised of all dispositions. I will not watch with momentary anxiety, I will not tremble with distracting apprehensions. Matilda, thy honest and unsuspecting heart by me shall never be led astray. If the fond wishes of a father are reserved for cruel disappointment, I will not be the instrument. My secret shall lie for ever buried in this faithful breast. It shall die with me. I will fly to some distant land. I will retire to some country desolated by ever burning suns, or buried beneath eternal snows. There I can love at liberty. There I can breathe my sighs without one tell-tale wind to carry them to the ears, with them to disturb the peace of those whom beyond all mankind I venerate and adore. I may be miserable, I may be given up to ever-during despair. But my patron and his spotless daughter shall be happy.

Alas, this is but the paroxysm of a lover's rage. I have no resolution, I am lost in perplexity. I have essayed in vain, I cannot summon together my scattered thoughts. Oh, my friend, never did I stand so much in need of a friend as now. Advise me, instruct me. To the honesty of your advice, and the sincerity of your friendship I can confide. Tell me but what to do, and though you send me to the most distant parts of the globe, I will not hesitate.

Letter XI

The Same to the Same

Cosenza

My most dear lord,

Expect me in ten days from the date of this at your palace at Naples. My mind is now become more quiet and serene than when I last wrote to you. I have considered of the whole subject of that letter with perfect deliberation. And I have now come to an unchangeable resolution.

It is this which has restored a comparative tranquility to my thoughts. Yes, my friend, there is a triumph in fortitude, an exultation in heroical resolve, which for a moment at least, sets a man above the most abject and distressing circumstances. Since I have felt my own dignity and strength, the tumultuous hurry of my mind is stilled. I look upon the objects around me with a calm and manly despair. I have not yet disclosed my intentions to the duke, and I may perhaps find some difficulty in inducing him to acquiesce in them. But I will never change them.

You will perceive from what I have said, that my design in coming to Naples is to prepare for a voyage. I do not doubt of the friendship and generous assistance of the duke of Benevento. I shall therefore enter upon my new scheme of life with a more digested plan, and better prospects.—But why do I talk of prospects!

I have attempted, and with a degree of success, to dissipate my mind within a few days past, by superintending the alterations about which you spoke to me, in your gardens at this place. You will readily perceive how unavoidably I am called off from an employment, which derives a new pleasure from the sentiments of friendship it is calculated to awaken, by the perverse and unfortunate events of my life.

Letter XII

The Same to the Same

Cosenza

Why is it, my dear marquis, that the history of my life is so party-coloured and extraordinary, that I am unable to foresee at the smallest distance what is the destiny reserved for me? Happiness and misery, success and disappointment so take their turns, that in the one I have not time for despair, and in the other I dare not permit to my heart a sincere and unmingled joy.

The day after I dispatched my last letter the duke of Benevento, whose age is so much advanced, was seized with a slight paralytic stroke. He was for a short time deprived of all sensation. The trouble of his family, every individual of which regards him with the profoundest veneration, was inexpressible. Matilda, the virtuous Matilda, could not be separated from the couch of her father. She hung over him with the most anxious affection. She watched every symptom of his disorder, and every variation of his countenance.

I am convinced, my dear Rinaldo, that there is no object so beautiful and engaging as this. A woman in all the pride of grace, and fulness of her charms, tending with unwearied care a feeble and decrepid parent; all her features informed with melting anxiety and filial tenderness, yet suppressing the emotions of her heart and the wilder expressions of sorrow; subduing even the stronger sentiments of nature, that she may not by an useless and inconsiderate grief supersede the kind care, and watchful attention, that it is her first ambition to yield. It is a trite observation, that beauty never appears so attractive as when unconscious of itself; and I am sure, that no self-forgetfulness can be so amiable, as that which is founded in the emotions of a tender and gentle heart. The disorder of the duke however was neither violent nor lasting. In somewhat less than an hour, the favourable symptoms began to appear, and he gradually recovered. In the mean time a certain lassitude and feebleness remained from the shock he received, which has not yet subsided.

But what language shall I find to describe to my Rinaldo the scene to which this event furnished the occasion?

The next day the duke sent for his daughter and myself into his chamber. As soon as we were alone he began to describe, in terms that affected us both, the declining state of his health. "I feel," said he, "that this poor worn-out body totters to its fall. The grave awaits me. The summonses of death are such as cannot but be heard.

"Death however inspires me with no terror. I have lived long and happily. I have endeavoured so to discharge every duty in this world as not to be afraid to meet the supreme source of excellence in another. The greatness of him that made us is not calculated to inspire terror but to the guilty. Power and exalted station, though increased to an infinite degree, cannot make a just and virtuous being tremble.