Montalbert/Chapter 21
IN Sicily there is no winter such as is felt in more northern countries, and now, in the month of February, spring every where appeared in the rich vales that stretch toward the sea from the base of Etna. His towering and majestic summit alone presented the image of eternal frost, and formed a singular but magnificent contrast to the vivid and luxuriant vegetation of the lower world.
Having only Italian or Sicilian servants about her, her former knowledge of the language was so much improved, that Rosalie now spoke Italian with ease, and read it with as much pleasure as English; but, since Montalbert had been gone this time, she felt the want of new English books; she read over the few she had with her, repeated frequently some pieces of poetry she was fond of, and sometimes longing to hear the sound of an English voice, and fancying, that if Montalbert's absence was lengthened, she should forget her native tongue, or pronounce it like a foreigner. From this train of thought her mind was naturally carried to England, and when she reflected how entirely she was secluded from all knowledge of what passed there, she felt her tenderness and solicitude return for Mrs. Vyvian, and would have given half a world, had she possessed it, to have known how that beloved parent bore her absence, and what was the state of her health. Even the passionate fondness she felt for her child most forcibly recalled that affection which she owed her mother....."Just so, (said she, as she studied with delight, in the features of her little boy, the resemblance of Montalbert), just so, perhaps, my poor mother, as soon as she dared indulge herself with a sight of me, endeavoured to make out, in my unfortunate lineaments, the likeness of my unhappy father—that unfortunate Ormsby, whose uncertain fate has thrown over her days the heavey gloom of anxious despondence, more difficult, perhaps, to bear than despair itself....Dear, unhappy parents!—never shall your daughter see either of you perhaps again—never shall she know the blessing of being acknowledged by a father; of being pressed to the conscious heart of a mother proud to own her!"
A flood of tears followed this soliloquy; but she remembered for how many misfortunes such a husband as Montalbert ought to console her, and tried, though in vain, to call a train of more cheerful ideas. The gloom, however, which hung over her mind, and for which she could not herself account, was neither to be reasoned with, nor dissipated entirely; and having neither books nor conversation to beguile the time, her spirits became more and more depressed. A thousand vague apprehensions beset her for the health of her child; she now never quitted him a moment, and watched him incessantly with a vigilance which fed itself with imaginary terrors.
This state of mind had continued some time, with no other relief than what the hope of Montalbert's speedy return afforded, when, sitting in a lower apartment with her infant in her arms, Rosalie was surprised by a singular motion in the floor, which seemed to rise under her feet; she started up, and saw, with horror and amazement, the walls of the room breaking in several directions, while the dust and lime threatened to choke her, and so obscured the air, that she could hardly distinguish Zulietta, who ran from another room, and seizing her by the hand, drew her with all the strength she could exert through a door which opened under an arch into the garden. Zulietta spoke not; she was, indeed, unable to speak.
Rosalie, to whom the tremendous idea of an earthquake now occurred, followed as quickly as she was able, clasping her boy to her breast[1]. They were soon about fifty yards from the house, the ground heaving and rolling beneath them like the waves of the sea, and beyond them breaking into yawning gulfs, which threatened to prevent their flight; Rosalie then looked round, and saw, instead of the house she had just left, a cloud of impenetrable smoke, which prevented her knowing whether any of it remained about the convulsed earth that had entirely swallowed part of the shattered walls. No language could describe the terror and confusion that overwhelmed this little group of fugitives; for no other fearful spectacle can impress on the human mind ideas of such complicated horrors as now surrounded them. They heard the crash of the building they had just left, as it half sunk into a deep chasm; before them, and even under their feet, the ground continued to break; the trees were torn from their roots, and falling in every direction around them; and vapours of sulphur and burning bitumen seemed to rise in pestilential clouds, which impeded the sight and the respiration.
Rosalie called faintly, and with a sickening heart, as conscious of its inutility, on the name of Montalbert. Alas! Montalbert was far off, and could not succour her. To the mercy of Heaven, who seemed thus to summon her and her infant away, she committed him and herself; and laying herself on the ground, with her child in her arms, and Zulietta kneeling by her, she resigned herself to that fate which appeared to be inevitable.
Flight was vain—all human help was vain, but nature still resisted dissolution, and she could not help thinking with agony of the state of Montalbert's mind, when the loss of his wife and child should be known to him. Another thought darted into her mind, and brought with it a more severe pang than any she had yet felt: Montalbert proposed about this time to return; within a few days she had begun to expect him, in consequence of his last letters. It was possible—alas! it was even probable, that he was already at Messina, and he too might have perished: he might at this moment expire amid the suffocating ruins—crushed by their weight, or stifled by subterraneous fires. The image was too horrible; she started up, as if it were possible for her feeble arms to save him; she looked wildly round her—all was ruin and desolation, but the earth no longer trembled as it had done, and a faint hope of safety arose almost insensibly in her heart. She spoke to Zulietta, who seemed petrified and motionless; she counjured her to rise and assist her—yet whither to go she knew not, nor what were her intentions, or her prospects of safety.
While Rosalie yet spoke incoherently, almost unconscious that she spoke at all, a second shock, though less violent than the first, again deprived her of the little presence of mind she had collected—and, again prostrate on the ground, she commended her soul to Heaven!
In a few moments, however, this new convulsion ceased, and the possibility that Montalbert might be returning, might be seeking her in distracted apprehension, restored to her the power of exertion. The hope that she might once see her husbad, served as a persuasion that she should see, and she advanced heedless of any danger she might incure by it towards the ruins of the house, where it was probable he would seek for her; but between her and those ruins was a deep and impassable chasm, which had been formed during the last shock.
Zulietta, from her abrupt and wild manner, had conceived an idea that her mistress meant, in the despair occasioned by terror and grief to throw herself into this gulf. Impressed with this fear, she seized her by the arm, and making use of such arguments as the moment allowed, she drew her away, and they walked together, as hastily as they had strength, through the garden and up a rising ground beyond it, which was terminated by a deep wood, which had been less affected than the lower ground, though one or two of the trees were fallen and some half uprooted. Unable to go father, Rosalie sat down on one of their trunks, and Zulietta placed herself near her.
Evening was coming on, but the deep gloom that hung over every object made the time of day imperceptible. Almost doubting of her existence, Rosalie seemed insensible to ever thing till the feeble cry of her infant boy, missing its accustomed nourishment at her breast, awakened the terrible apprehension of seeing him perish before her eyes for want of that nourishment.
"Zulietta, (said she, in a mournful and broken voice)—Zulietta! what will become of my child?"—"Ah! what will become of us all?—(answered the half-senseless girl).—O Dio! we shall die here, or we shall be murdered by the men who frequent these woods."
"Could I but save my child! (exclaimed, Rosalie, little encouraged by her companion).——Could I but know whether Montalbert lives!—O Montalbert! where are you—if you exist?"——-
A shriek from Zulietta interrupted this soliloquy. She started from the tree where they sat, and fled to some distance; Rosalie involutarily followed her, looking back toward the dark woods. "I saw some person move among the trees, (cried Zulietta, in answer to her lady's eager inquiries), I am sure I did—banditti are coming to murder us."
"And were that all I had to dread, (said Rosalie, collecting some portion of resolution)—were that all I had to dread, how gladly would I give up my life and that of this infant. But recollect yourself, Zulietta; who should at this time pursue us?—I have heard———————-(she paused, for her memory was confused and distracted)—I have heard, that it is among the ruins of houses that, at such times as this, the robber and the assassin throw themselves.....Oh! would we could find any nourishment; but where to look for it—I cannot see my baby die, Zulietta—ah! what are any fears I may have for myself, compared to those I feel for him!—In the woods, perhaps, we might find some fallen fruits."—Zulietta was not a mother, and the apprehensions of these banditti had taken such strong possession of her startled and dissipated senses, that every noise she either heard or fancied, she imagined to be their steps among the woods; and the reddening light of the declining day, as it faintly glimmered among the trees, was supposed to be their fires at a distance in the forest.
Had Rosalie, however, been accompanied by a person who had more fortitude, there would have been less occasion for her to exert that resolution which her superior good sense gave her, and which was now absolutely necessary for the preservation of them all. A moment's steady reflection lent her courage to attempt at least appeasing the groundless fears of Zulietta—enough of real apprehension, alas! remained.
It was not, however, without great difficulty, that she could prevail on her servant to follow her, not into the wood, for that she peremptorily refused, but round one of its extremities to a small eminence which Rosalie thought must command a view of Messina; at least it was not far from this spot, as she now remembered, that she had once been shown a prospect of the town by Montalbert. They exerted all their strength, and slowly gained a still higher ground, which commanded an extensive view of the city, the surrounding country, and the sea. The country remained, but not at all resembling what it had been only a few hours before; the sea too was visible, though heavy and dark clouds hung over it, and it seemed mingled with the threatening atmosphere above it; but Messina was distinguished only by more dismal vapours, and by the red gleam of fires that were consuming the fallen buildings.—Rosalie listened if, from among the desolate ruins, she could hear the wailings of the ruined!—but silence and death seemed to have enwrapt this miserable scene in their blackest veil, and such an image of horror presented itself to her mind, as that which since inspired the sublime and fearful description of the destruction of the army of Cambyses in the desert, ending thus——
"Then ceas'd the storm.—Night bow'd his Ethiop brow
"To the earth, and listen'd to the groans below
"Grim horror shook:—a while the living hill
"Heav'd with convulsive throws—and all was still."
DR. DARWIN'S ECONOMY OF VEGETATION.
Maternal love, the strongest passion that the female heart can feel, still sustained the timid and delicate Rosalie amidst the real miseries of which she was herself conscious, and those which the disturbed and agitated spirits of Zulietta represented.—She must struggle to sustain herself, or what would become of her child? Could she not bear any immediate evils better than the dreadful idea of leaving this lovely, helpless creature to the mercy of the elements?—Tears, hitherto denied to her, filled her eyes as she carried her mind forward to all the possibilities to which this fearful image led her; she found relief in weeping, and once more acquired voice and courage to ask Zulietta what it would be best for them to do?—Some time passed before Zulietta was capable of giving a rational answer; at length, however, they agreed, that it would be better, before it became entirely dark, to endeavour to find some house where they might be received for the night—"for surely (said Rosalie) some must remain, wide as the desolation has been."
In this hope, Rosalie and her attendant moved on as well as their strength permitted them; but it was by this time nearly dark, and round the skirts of the wood it became very difficult for them to discern their way.
Languid and desponding, Zulietta some times declared she could go no farther, and the spirits of her unhappy mistress were exhausted in vain to reanimate her courage.
A path, which they thought might lead to some habitation, had insensibly bewildered them among the trees, and the darkness, which now totally surrounded them, again raised new terrors in the mind of Zulietta, who, clinging to Rosalie, insisted upon it that she heard the footsteps of persons following them: they listened—a dreary silence ensued; but presently Rosalie was convinced that at least this time the fears of her woman were but too well grounded; the voices of two men talking together were distinctly heard, and, on turning round, they saw a light glimmer among the trees. As these persons, whoever they were, followed the path they had taken, and were advancing quickly towards them, escape or concealment became impossible; half dead with fear, and almost unconscious of what she did, Rosalie now stopped, determined to await the event.
The men approached, and, as soon as the light they held made the figures before them visible, one of them uttered an exclamation of surprise, and eagerly advanced towards Rosalie—it was Count Alozzi, who, with one of his servants, had come in search of her. Without, however, staying to tell her what circumstances had brought him thus from Agrigentum, or how he knew that she had escaped with her child from the destruction that had overwhelmed the house, he entreated her to suffer him to conduct her to place of security, which he hoped, he said, to find not far off.
The dread of perishing with her child in the woods being thus suddenly removed from her mind, hope and gratitude as rapidly succeeded.—Ah! what so comfortable to the weary wanderer, even in the common paths of life, as the soothing voice of a friend!—and such Alozzi now appeared to Rosalie. As she suffered him to lead her on, his servant preceding them with the light, she eagerly questioned him, if he knew any thing of Montalbert?—Whether it was possible that he might be arrived at Messina?—and then, trying to persuade herself he was safe, she went on to compare the probabilities there were that he had not suffered, but was either at Naples, or at sea on his passage. These inquiries Alozzi answered with great coldness: he told her, (which was true), that he had not been at Messina; that of Montalbert it was impossible any thing could yet be known, and that all they could do was to wait with patience for the next day, when, if they were not visited by a new shock, the survivors might be able to know the extent of their loss.
The mournful manner in which Alozzi uttered this, gave to Rosalie the most poignant alarm. Without reflecting how natural it was for him to speak thus, if only the general misfortune of the country was considered, of which he bore himself a share proportioned to his property, she immediately figured to herself that he knew something of Montalbert, and was willing by delay to prepare her for the intelligence he had to give her. She had not, however, power to repeat her questions; but a melancholy silence was observed on all sides till they reached a house, which, with two or three others, were situated among olive grounds, and which, Alozzi said, belonged to his estate. These buildings had received but little injury, yet the inhabitants of them, still doubting whether they might remain under the roofs, were so terrified and dejected by what had passed, and the dread of that which was to come, that the presence of Alozzi seemed to make no impression upon them. They coldy and silently acquiesced in affording the accomodation he asked, for the lady he brought with him, and set before the party such food as they happened to have. Zulietta, recovering some degree of courage, pressed Rosalie to eat, and Alozzi watched her with eager and anxious solicitude, which, when she observed, she imputed to his solicitude, or sorrow for the fate of his friend, which she still fancied he knew.
Fatigue, however, both of mind and body, and the care necessary to herself for the sake of her child, overcame for a while her excessive anxiety for Montalbert, of whom Alozzi again and again repeated he knew nothing; at length Rosalie consented to retire with Zulietta to a bed, or rather mattress, which the wife of one of the tenants of Alozzi prepared for her, where her child appearing to be in health and in present safety, sleep lent a while its friendly assistance to relieve her spirits, and recruit her strength, after such sufferings and such scenes as those of the preceding day.
Her repose was broken and disturbed, for she fancied she heard Montalbert call her, and that the buildings were about to crush her and her infant. In the morning, however, she was refreshed and relieved, even by this partial and interrupted forgetfulness, and able to receive the visit of the Count, who waited on her with inquiries after her health, and to consult with her what she should do. To this last question she was entirely ignorant what to answer, and could only, instead of a reply, put to him other questions; what he believed Montalbert would have directed, had he been present? and what he himself advised.—"It is impossible (said he gravely) to tell what Montalbert would have done, were he here; but, for myself, I own it appears to me that there is only one part to take. It is but too probable that another shock will be felt before many days are over. Here I have no longer a house to receive me, for that I inhabited at Messina is, I know, destroyed, though I was not near it yesterday when the earthquake happened, but about a mile from the town on my way home. The villa, which you did me the honour to inhabit, has shared the same fate. I approached it; I saw part of it buried in the earth, and the rest is by this time probably reduced to ashes. What then can I do but quit this devoted country, and return to Naples?—There I have a home, I have friends.—If you, Madam, will put yourself under my protection, I will defend you with my life, and consider myself highly honoured by so precious a charge."
"To go to Naples! (cried Rosalie, interrupting him);—Ah, Count! Do you recollect how many reasons I have for wishing to avoid Naples?—And is it thither, do you think, Montalbert would conduct me, were he now here?"
"Alas! (replied Alozzi), it is impossible to say whether those reasons exist which would formerly have influenced him. His mother may no longer be there, or, if she be, it is more than possible that pride and pique may be lost in general calamity, and that at such a time."
"You think then, (said Rosalie, eagerly interrupting him), I am sure you think that her son, that Montalbert, is lost—or what other calamity would reach her?"
"You exhaust your spirits in vain, my dear Madam, (replied Alozzi); to yield to vague fears can avail nothing. If any evil has befallen my friend, your destroying yourself cannot recall him—if he lives, as he probably does, you owe it to him to preserve yourself and his son."
"Oh! how coolly you talk! (exclaimed Rosalie, falling into an agony of grief). I see now that it is indeed easy to bear the misfortunes of others with calmness."
Alozzi, finding that argument only served to irritate her uneasiness, desisted, and took the wiser resolution of returning to his house, to see if any thing useful to his late guests could yet be saved; which, though improbable was not impossible. He communicated his intentions to Zulietta, who, with the true chambermaid's eagerness to find her few fineries, immediately asked leave to accompany him. Her terrors were now dissipated, or greatly weakened, for she was not of a disposition to be very solicitous about others, and thought herself not only in present security, but in the way of returning to Naples, which she had long been very desirous of doing. She tripped away, therefore, with the Count and his servant, leaving her mistress at the house where they had slept, and whither Alozzi proposed to return in a few hours.
When they were gone Rosalie went out with her baby in her arms, and seated herself on an open piece of ground, about a hundred yards from the house, which commanded from between the stems of a few straggling olive trees an extensive view of the city of Messina and the country round it. It presented a strange contrast of beauty and destruction. Those parts of the country that had not been convulsed or inverted were adorned with the blossoms of the almond, waving over fields of various coloured lupines and lentiscus; hedges of myrtles divided the enclosures, and among them the pomegranate was coming into flower; the stock doves in innumerable flocks were returning to feed among them, or fluttering amist the purple and white blossoms of the caper trees: but within half a mile of this profusion of what is most soothing to the imagination, black and hideous gulfs, from whence pestilential vapours seemed to issue, defaced the lovely landscaped. The beautiful town of Messina seemed more than half destroyed, and now Rosalie saw not far from her many groups of sufferers, who, frantic from the loss of their friends, their children, or their substance, were wandering about the fields without any hope but of passing the next night as they had done part of the preceding one, under the canopy of Heaven, gazing with tearless eyes on the melancholy spot where all their hopes were buried. From the sight of misery, which she could not relieve, her sick heart recoiled; she walked slowly back to the house, and attempted but in vain to form some resolution as to her future plans; but such was her situation, and so entirely did she feel herself dependent on the Count, that this was hardly possible......Again, in a convulsive sigh, she repeated the name of Montalbert—again implored the mercy of Heaven for him and her child, on whose little face, as it was pressd to her bosom, her tears fell in showers!
She turned her fearful eyes on the people among whom she was left. Many were now in the house whom she had not seen before, and some among them gave her but too forcibly the idea of those banditti, of whom Zulietta had expressed so many fears the evening before as they passed through the woods. Some of them were men of large stature, in a kind of uniform, and she fancied that they passed through the room where she was on purpose to observe her. A new species of terror assailed her in consequence of this remark, yet she endeavoured to reason herself out of it, and to suppose that where Count Alozzi had left her she must be in security.
The people, who appeared to belong to the house, brought her some slender meal, which she eat mechanically, and would then have questioned them as to the probability of the Count's return and the distance of his late residence; but they appeared averse to any conversation, and she thought looked as if they wished her away, but of their real motives she had not the remotest idea.
Hours passed away, and neither Alozzi nor Zulietta appeared. Many new faces entered the house, and she understood, from such conversation as she heard and put together, that they were come to obtain an asylum for the night. One of them was a lovely Sicilian girl, of sixteen or seventeen, who wept grievously, as Rosalie comprehended, for the loss of her sister and her sister's children. The beauty of the little Montalbert, as he lay sleeping in his mother's arms, seemed to interest and affect this young person; she spoke to Rosalie, and was approaching to caress the child, when an old woman who was with her said something in a sharp and severe accent, and drew her hastily out of the room.
This circumstance, and indeed every remark she now made, increased the impatience and uneasiness with which she waited for the return of Alozzi. Night was at hand; the parties in the house were contriving how to pass it most at their ease, but nobody seemed to attend to her; on the contrary, she believed that a disposition to shun her was evident in the women, while the looks of the men gave her infinitely more alarm, and she sometimes resolved, rather than pass the night among them, to set out alone, and seek the protection of Alozzi.
On this then she had almost determined, and, trembling and faint, left the house with an intention of discovering how far such an attempt might be safer than to remain where she was. She had proceeded only about a hundred yards, when a new convulsion of the earth threw her down, and her senses entirely forsook her; nor did she recover her recollection till she found herself on board a small vessel at sea, her child laying by her, and a woman, whom she had never seen before, watching her. As soon as she appeared to be sensible Alozzi came to her, endeavouring to sooth and console her. He told her, that another shock of an earthquake had compelled all who could leave Sicily to depart; that he had before engaged a bark; that they were now far on their way to Naples with a fair wind, and that they should be there in a few hours.
The shock she had received, the terror and confusion with which she was yet impressed, were such as left Rosalie little sensation but that ever predominant one of love and anxiety for her infant boy, whom she clasped with more fondness than ever to her breast, and, amidst the terrors that on every side surrounded her, found in his preservation something for which to be grateful to Heaven.
Notes[edit]
- ↑ When ruins came to be cleared away, says Sir William Hamilton, the bodies of the men who had perished were universally found in the attitude of resistance; the women in that of prayer, unless it was those who had children with them, in which case they were observed to have taken such postures as were likely to shelter and protect them.