Italian Letters Part 6

Letter IV

_Matilda della Colonna to the Count de St. Julian_

_Cosenza_

Why is it, my friend, that you are determined to fly to so immense a distance? You call me cruel, you charge me with unfeelingness and inflexibility, and yet to my prayers you are deaf, to my intreaties you are inexorable.

I have satisfied all the claims of decorum. I have fulfilled with rigid exactness the laws of decency. One advantage you at least gain by the distance you are so desirous to place between us. My sentiments are less guarded. Reputation and modesty have fewer claims upon a woman, who can have no intercourse with her lover but by letter. My feelings are less restrained. For the anxiety, which distance inspires, awakens all the tenderness of my nature, and raises a tempest in my soul that will not be controled.

Oh, my St. Julian, till this late and lasting separation, I did not know all the affection I bore you. Ever since you were parted from my aching eyes, I have not known the serenity of a moment. The image of my friend has been the constant companion of my waking hours, and has visited me again in my dreams. The unknown dangers of the ocean swell in my eyes to ten times their natural magnitude. Fickle and inconstant enemy, how much I dread thee! Oh wast the lord of all my wishes in safety to the destined harbour! May all the winds be still! May the tempests forget their wonted rage! May every guardian power protect his voyage! Open not, oh ocean, thy relentless bosom to yield him a watery grave! For once be gentle and auspicious! Listen and grant a lover's prayer!

Restore him to my presence! May the dear sight of him once more refresh these longing eyes! You will find this letter accompanied with a small parcel, in which I have inclosed the miniature of myself, which I have often heard you praise as a much better likeness than the larger pictures. It will probably afford you some gratification during that absence of which you so feelingly complain. It will suggest to you those thoughts upon the subject of our love that have most in them of the calm and soothing. It will be no unpleasant companion of your reveries, and may sometimes amuse and cheat your deluded fancy.

Letter V

_The Answer_

_Alicant_

I am just arrived at this place, after a tedious and disagreeable voyage. As we pa.s.sed along the coast of Barbary we came in sight of many of the corsairs with which that part of the world is infested. One of them in particular, of larger burden than the rest, gave us chace, and for some time we thought ourselves in considerable danger. Our ship however proved the faster sailer, and quickly carried us out of sight.

Having escaped this danger, and nearly reached the Baleares, we were overtaken by a tremendous storm. For some days the ship was driven at the mercy of the winds; and, as the coast of those islands is surrounded with invisible rocks, our peril was considerable.

In the midst of danger however my thoughts were full of Matilda. Had the ocean buried me in its capacious bosom, my last words would have been of you, my last vows would have been made for your happiness. Had we been taken by the enemy and carried into slavery, slavery would have had no terrors, but those which consisted in the additional bars it would have created between me and the mistress of my heart. It would have been of little importance whether I had fallen to the lot of a despot, gentle or severe. It would have separated us for years, perhaps for ever. Could I, who have been so much afflicted by the separation of a few months, have endured a punishment like this? That soft intercourse, that wafts the thoughts of lovers to so vast a distance, that mimics so well an actual converse, that cheats the weary heart of all its cares, would have been dissolved for ever. Little then would have been the moment of a few petty personal considerations; I should not long have survived.

I only wait at this place to refresh myself for a few days, from a fatigue so perfectly new to me, and then shall set out with all speed for Madrid. My Matilda will readily believe that that business which detains me at so vast a distance from my happiness, will be dispatched with as much expedition as its nature will admit. I will not sacrifice to any selfish considerations the interest of my friend, I will not neglect the minutest exertion by which it may be in my power to serve his cause. But the moment I have discharged what I owe to him, no power upon earth shall delay my return, no not for an hour.

I have seen little as yet of that people of whom I have entertained so favourable ideas. But what I have seen has perfectly equalled my expectation. Their carriage indeed is cold and formal, beyond what it is possible for any man to have a conception of, who has not witnessed it.

But those persons to whom I had letters have received me with the utmost attention and politeness. Sincerity is visible in all they do, and constancy in all their modes of thinking. There is not a man among them, who has once distinguished you, and whose favour it is possible for you to forfeit without having deserved it. Will not an upright and honest mind pardon many defects to a virtue like this?

Oh, my Matilda, shall I recommend to you to remember your St. Julian, to carry the thoughts of him every where about with you? Shall I make to you a thousand vows of unalterable attachment? No, best of women, I will not thus insult the integrity of your heart. I will not thus profane the purity of our loves. The world in all its treasure has not a second Matilda, and if it had, my heart is fixed, all the tender sensibilities of my soul are exhausted. Your St. Julian was not made to change with every wind.

Letter VI

_Matilda della Colonna to the Count de St. Julian_

_Cosenza_

I begin this letter without having yet received any news from you since you quitted the port of Naples. The time however that was requisite for that purpose is already more than expired. Oh, my friend, if before the commencement of this detested voyage, the dangers that attended it appeared to me in so horrid colours, how think you that I support them now? My imagination sickens, my poor heart is distracted at the recollection of them. Why would you encounter so many unnecessary perils? Why would you fly to so remote a climate? Many a friend could have promoted equally well the interests of the marquis of Pescara, but few lives are so valuable as thine. Many a friend could have solicited this business in the court of Madrid, but believe me, there are few that can boast that they possessed the heart of a Matilda. Simple and sincere, I do not give myself away by halves. With a heart full of tenderness and sensibility, I am affected more, much more than the generality of my s.e.x, with circ.u.mstances favourable or adverse. Ah cruel, cruel St. Julian, was it for a lover to turn a deaf ear to the intreaties of a mistress, that lived not but to honour his virtues, and to sympathize in his felicity? Did I not for you lay aside that triple delicacy and reserve, in which I prided myself? Were not my sighs and tears visible and undisguised? Did not my cries pierce the lofty dome of my paternal mansion, and move all hearts but yours?

They tell me, my St. Julian, that I am busy to torment myself, that I invent a thousand imaginary misfortunes. And is this to torment myself to address my friend in these poor lines? Is this to deceive myself with unreal evils? Even while Matilda cherishes the fond idea of pouring out her complaints before him, my St. Julian may be a lifeless corse.

Perhaps he now lies neglected and unburied in the beds of the ocean.

Perhaps he has fallen a prey to barbarous men, more deaf and merciless than the warring elements. Distracting ideas! And does this head live to conceive them? Is this hand dull and insensible enough to write them?

Believe me, my friend, my heart is tender and will easily break. It was not formed to sustain a series of trials. It was not formed to encounter a variety of distress. Oh, fly then, hasten to my arms. All those ideas of form and decency, all the artificial decorums of society that I once cherished, are dissolved before the darker reflections, the apprehensive anxieties that your present situation has awakened. Yes, my St. Julian, come to my arms. The moment you appear to claim me I am yours. Adieu to the management of my s.e.x. From this moment I commit all my concerns to your direction. From this moment, your word shall be to me an irrevocable law, which without reasoning, and without refinement, I will implicitly obey.

I have received your letter. The pleasure it affords me is exquisite in proportion to my preceding anguish. From the confession of the bravest of men it now appears that my apprehensions were not wholly unfounded.

And yet upon reviewing what I have written, I almost blush for my weakness. But it shall not be effaced. Disguise is little becoming between lovers at so immense a distance. No, my friend, you shall know all the interest you possess in my heart. I will at least afford you that consolation amidst the pangs of absence. May heaven be propitious in what yet remains before you! I will even weary it with my prayers.

May it return you to my arms safe and unhurt, and no other calamity shall wring from me a murmur, or a sigh!

One thing however it is necessary I should correct. I do not mean to accuse you for the voyage you have undertaken, however it may distress me. In my calmer moments I feel for the motives of it the warmest approbation. It was the act of disinterested friendship. Every prejudice of the heart pleaded against it. Love, that pa.s.sion which reigns without a rival in your breast, forbad the compliance. It was a virtue worthy of you. There needed but this to convince me that you were infinitely superior to the whole race of your fellow mortals.

Letter VII

_The Answer_

_Buen Retiro_

Ten thousand thanks to the most amiable of women for the letter that has just fallen into my hands. Yes, Matilda, if my heart were pierced on every side with darts, and my life's blood seemed ready to follow every one of them, your enchanting epistle would be balm to all my wounds, would sooth all my cares. Tenderest, gentlest of dispositions, where ever burned a love whose flame was pure as thine? Where ever was truth that could vie with the truth of Matilda? Hereafter when the worthless and the profligate exclaim upon the artifices of thy s.e.x, when the lover disappointed, wrung with anguish, imprecates curses on the kind, name but Matilda, and every murmur shall be hushed; name but Matilda, and the universal voice of nature shall confess that the female form is the proper residence, the genuine temple of angelic goodness.

I had upon the whole a most agreeable journey from Alicant to Madrid. It would be superfluous to describe to a mind so well informed as yours, the state of the country. You know how thin is its population, and how indolent is the character of its inhabitants. Satisfied with possessing the inexhaustible mines of Mexico and Peru, they imagine that the world was made for them, that the rest of mankind were destined to labour that they might be maintained in supineness and idleness. The experience of more than two centuries has not been able to convince them of their error, and amidst all their poverty, they still retain as much pride as ever. The country however is naturally luxuriant and delicious; and there are a considerable number of prospects in the provinces through which I have pa.s.sed that will scarcely yield to any that Italy has to boast. As soon as I arrived at the metropolis I took up my residence at this place, which is inexpressibly crowded with the residences of the n.o.bility and grandees. It is indeed one of the most beautiful spots in nature, as it concentres at once the simplest rusticity with the utmost elegance of refinement and society. My reception has been in the highest degree flattering, and I please myself with the idea that I have already made some progress in the business of the marquis of Pescara.

You are not insensible that my character, at least in some of its traits, is not uncongenial to that of a Spaniard. Whether it be owing to this or any other cause I know not, but I believe never was any man, so obscure as myself, distinguished in so obliging a manner by the first personages in the kingdom. In return I derive from their society the utmost satisfaction. Their lofty notions of honour, their gravity, their politeness, and their sentimental way of thinking, have something in them that affords me infinite entertainment and pleasure. Oh, Matilda, how much more amiable is that character, that carries the principles of honour and magnanimity to a dangerous extreme, than that which endeavours to level all distinctions of mankind, and would remove and confound the eternal barriers of virtue and vice!

One of the most agreeable connexions I have made is with the duke of Aranda. The four persons of whom his family is composed, his grace, the d.u.c.h.ess, their son and daughter, are all of them characters extremely interesting and amiable. The lady Isabella is esteemed the first beauty of the court of Madrid. The young count is tall, graceful, and manly, with a fire and expression in his fine blue eyes beyond any thing I ever saw. He has all the vivacity and enterprize of youth, without the smallest tincture of libertinism and dissipation. I know not how it is, but I find myself perfectly unable to describe his character without running into paradox. He is at once serious and chearful. His seriousness is so full of enthusiasm and originality, that it is the most unlike in the world to the cold dogmatism of pedantry, or the turgid and monotonous stile of the churchman. His chearfulness is not the gaiety of humour, is not the brilliancy of wit, it is the result of inexhaustible fancy and invincible spirit. In a word, I never met with a character that interested me so much at first sight, and were it not that I am bound by insuperable ties to my native soil, it would be the first ambition of my heart to form with him the ties of an everlasting friendship.

Once more, my Matilda, adieu. You are under the protection of the most generous of men, and the best of friends. I owe to the marquis of Pescara, a thousand obligations that can never be compensated. Let it be thy care thou better half of myself to receive him with that attention and politeness, which is due to the worth of his character, and the immensity of his friendship. There is something too sweet and enchanting in the mild benevolence of Matilda, not to contribute largely to his happiness. It is in your power, best of women, by the slightest exertions, to pay him more than I could do by a life of labour.

Letter VIII

_The Same to the Same_

_Buen Retiro_

I little thought during so distressing a period of absence, to have written you a letter so gay and careless as my last. I confess indeed the societies of this place afforded me so much entertainment, that in the midst of generous friendship and unmerited kindness, I almost forgot the anguish of a lover, and the pains of banishment.

Alas, how dearly am I destined to pay for the most short-lived relaxation! Every pleasure is now vanished, and I can scarcely believe that it ever existed. I enter into the same societies, I frequent the same scenes, and I wonder what it was that once entertained me. Yes, Matilda, the enchantment is dissolved. All the gay colours that anon played upon the objects around me, are fled. Chaos is come again. The world is become all dreary solitude and impenetrable darkness. I am like the poor mariner, whose imagination was for a moment caught with the lofty sound of the thunder, round whom the sheeted lightning gilded the foaming waves, and who then sinks for ever in the abyss.

It is now four eternal months, and not one line from the hand of Matilda has blessed these longing eyes, or cooled my burning brain. Opportunity after opportunity has slipped away, one moment swelled with hope has succeeded another, but to no purpose. The mail has not been more constant to its place of destination than myself. But it was all disappointment. It was in vain that I raged with unmeaning fury, and demanded that with imprecation which was not to be found. Every calm was misery to me. Every tempest tore my tortured heart a thousand ways. For some time every favourable wind was balm to my soul, and nectar to my burning frame. But it is over now--. How, how is it that I am to account for this astonishing silence? Has nature changed her eternal laws, and is Matilda false? Has she forgotten the poor St. Julian, upon whom she once bestowed her tenderness with unstinted prodigality? Can that angel form hide the foulest thoughts? Have those untasted lips abjured their virgin vows? And has that hand been given to another? Hence green-eyed jealousy, accursed fiend, with all thy train of black suspicions! No, thou shall not find a moment's harbour in my breast. I will none of thee. It were treason to the chastest of hearts, it were sacrilege to the divinest form that ever visited this lower world, but to admit the possibility of Matilda's infidelity.

And where, ah where, shall I take refuge from these horrid thoughts? To entertain them were depravity were death. I fly from them, and where is it that I find myself? Surrounded by a thousand furies. Oh, gracious and immaculate providence, why hast thou opened so many doors to tremendous mischief? Innumerable accidents of nature may tear her from me for ever.

All the wanton brutalities that history records, and that the minds of unworthy men can harbour, start up in dreadful array before me.

Cruel and inflexible Matilda! thou once wert bounteous as the hand of heaven, wert tender as the new born babe. What is it that has changed thy disposition to the hard, the wanton, the obdurate? Behold a lover's tears! Behold how low thou hast sunk him, whom thou once didst dignify by the sweet and soothing name of _thy friend_! If ever the voice of anguish found a pa.s.sage to your heart, if those cheeks were ever moistened with the drops of sacred pity, oh, hear me now! But I will address myself to the rocks. I will invoke the knotted oaks and the savage wolves of the forest. They will not refuse my cry, but Matilda is deaf as the winds, inexorable as the gaping wave.

In the state of mind in which I am, you will naturally suppose that I am full of doubt and irresolution. Twice have I resolved to quit the kingdom of Spain without delay, and to leave the business of friendship unfinished. But I thank G.o.d these thoughts were of no long duration. No, Matilda, let me be set up as a mark for the finger of scorn, let me be appointed by heaven as a victim upon which to exhaust all its arrows.

Let me be miserable, but let me never, never deserve to be so.

Affliction, thou mayest beat upon my heart in one eternal storm!