Kitabı oku: «The Prime Minister», sayfa 21
“Oh yes, senhor, I can feel for you, I assure you,” whispered the old Nurse. “You forget I too was once young and pretty, and had my admirers also, particularly one who was handsome, and constant, and loving; so I married him at last, and some happy years I spent, till he went to sea, and I never heard of him more; but I have ever since felt a kindred feeling for young lovers, and doubly so when my sweet mistress is one of the parties.”
Luis felt his heart much relieved by her promises, and just then bethought him of a present he had prepared for her, so requesting her again to drop her handkerchief, he begged her to accept what he offered her, which, considering it was a pair of handsome filigree gold earrings, he had not much hesitation in doing, and seemed mightily pleased at the attention.
While the greater part of the above conversation was going forward, they had risen from their knees, and were standing hid from general view behind one of the pillars of the church, the loud chanting of the service preventing the tones of their voices being heard by any but themselves. The same scene we have described is constantly practised for far more doubtful purposes.
Senhora Gertrudes promising to bring Luis either a verbal or written answer to his letter within a few days, they separated, little dreaming of the accumulated horrors those days were to bring forth. Though his conversation with the old nurse had somewhat restored peace to his mind, by affording him yet a gleam of hope, Luis felt his spirits, like the air, heavy and gloomy. As he walked slowly homeward, the unaccountable and unusual gloom, which, like a funereal pall, had for many preceding days hung over the city, seemed increased in density.
Volume Two – Chapter Nine
On the morning of the 1st of November, 1755, the murky gloom, which had for so long hung over the city, appeared to have settled down in a dense fog, a phenomenon so unusual, that many turned to their neighbours, and asked if something dreadful was not about to occur, until the sun broke forth, bright and beautiful, dispelling the darkness, and banishing their fears: not a breath of wind disturbed the soft atmosphere, which had more the genial warmth of summer than that late period of the year usually afforded; not a cloud dimmed the pure serenity of the sky; and everybody rejoiced that, at length, the ill-omened clouds had vanished. It was the day of a festival, dedicated in the Romish Calendar to all the Saints; and numerous parties of citizens and mechanics, released from their usual occupations, might be seen hastening through all parts of the city, dressed in their holiday suits, twanging their light guitars, to enjoy themselves in the free air of the country. Happy were they who thus early quitted that doomed city.
It was the day Donna Theresa d’Alorna had fixed on for her marriage, why, none could tell; but so she willed it; and the ceremony was to take place at an unusually early hour, in the chapel belonging to her father’s palace, the high dignitary of the Church who officiated on the important occasion being required to perform some other indispensable duty at a later hour. Captain Pinto had been spending some days with Luis, and, early in the morning, parted from him to visit Senhor Mendez, whom, on the previous evening, he had left with an increase in his indisposition. Soon afterwards, Luis, ordering Pedro to attend him, rode forward to the palace of the Count d’Alorna, to be in readiness to attend the ceremony about to be performed. It was one he would willingly have avoided; for, though he retained no love for his beautiful cousin, he could not help feeling many regrets that one on whom he had once set his affections, should be given away to a person for whom he knew she could feel scarce the slightest regard. The count received him with cordiality, introducing him to the numerous members of the Tavora family, who were there assembled to do honour to the marriage of the heir to the rank and dignities of the head of their haughty house.
The marchioness, Donna Leonora, we have already mentioned, a lady yet retaining many marks of her past beauty. She was of a proud and imperious temper, dividing her thoughts between aims for the yet further aggrandisement of her family, and what she considered her religious duties; indeed, by her active and intriguing disposition, she was calculated to succeed in undertakings which others of her sex would have considered impracticable; obstacles only serving with her to increase the ardour of her pursuit.
The marquis, her husband, was a man of dignified and noble carriage, but very different from her in disposition, being of an amiable and gentle temper, yielding his opinion, alas! too much to her guidance. Their second son, Don Jozé, a youth yet scarcely nineteen, was celebrated as much for the beauty of his person, as for the elegance of his manner, and for his honourable and noble disposition; and he at once gained the good opinion of Luis, which afterwards ripened into sincere friendship.
We do not intend to describe the ceremony, which, in the Romish Church, is of short duration. Not a tear was shed by the bride as her father gave her away, but there was a tremulous motion on her lips, and her eye bore a distracted and pained impression, which it wrung Luis’s heart to see; and no sooner had he performed the duties required of him, than, without waiting for the feast prepared for the guests, he hastened from the palace, and mounting his horse, desired Pedro to return home, while he endeavoured to dissipate his melancholy feelings by exercise.
He was, at first, doubtful which way to turn his horse’s head; but there was an attraction he could not resist, to wander beneath the walls which confined her on whom all his affections had centred; though she might be concealed from his view, yet he remembered a long line of grated windows, through which he had, at times, seen many a young and lovely face gazing on the bright world without, like a bird from its cage, as if longing for liberty; and some latent hope there was in his breast that Clara, too, might be tempted by the beauty of the morning to endeavour to inhale the free air of heaven from her prison windows, the nearest approach to liberty she was doomed to enjoy.
The moment this idea occurred to him, he urged on his steed as fast as he could venture to proceed over the ill-paved and rugged streets, till he arrived near the Convent of Santa Clara; he then, slackening his pace, rode under its lofty walls, gazing up anxiously at each window as he passed, but she whom he sought appeared not. Twice had he passed, and he began to despair of seeing her, fearful also that his remaining there might attract observation and suspicion on himself, when, like a bright light in the black obscurity of the midnight sky, at one of the hitherto dark windows, towards which his eyes were turned, appeared a female form.
A lover’s sight was not to be deceived: his heart beat with rapture, as he beheld his beloved Clara; nor was she slow, as her glance fell on the street beneath, in recognising him who had not been absent from her thoughts since they parted. She dared not speak, even could her voice have been heard; but her gaze convinced him that his presence caused her no displeasure. Neither could tear themselves away from the spot they occupied; yet, alas! it was the nearest interview they could hope to enjoy. For some minutes they remained regarding each other with looks of fond affection, when, on a sudden, the docile animal Luis rode snorted and neighed loudly, and then trembled violently. A deep low noise was heard, like carriage wheels passing at a distance; it increased, as if a thousand chariots were rushing by, shaking the earth by their impetuous course. Clara uttered a shriek of terror; for she beheld her lover’s steed dash furiously onward, to escape from the dreaded approach of impending ruin. The ill-omened sounds increased. His rider in vain checked him with the rein – the animal uttered a cry of agony, and rearing high in the air, as if struck by a shot in the chest, fell backward with him to the ground. Luis, now in front of the principal entrance to the convent, was uninjured; and, disengaging himself, from his fallen steed, which, rising, galloped madly away, he turned towards the gateway of the building. Again that dread-inspiring convulsion wrenched the solid ground. Shrieks and cries of terror rose on every side. The great gates were thrown open, and crowds of nuns were seen issuing forth, in the wildest confusion and despair, flying they knew not whither, the hopes of self-preservation urging them onward, thoughtless of all they left behind; and from the door of the adjacent church, a like panic-struck mass were rushing forward – men, women, and children – the wealthy and the poor – the noble and the beggar – ladies in their silken robes, and priests in their sacerdotal vestments, in one confused concourse, all trying to pass each other; the aged and the feeble overthrown and trampled on by the young and vigorous. But the implacable spirit of destruction made no distinction between age or sex, strength or weakness; none could withstand the vast masses of masonry which came hurtling on their heads; some few escaped unscathed amid the tremendous shower, but every moment fresh hundreds lay crushed beneath the superincumbent ruins. But Luis, where was he amid the wild uproar and confusion? One only object, one thought filled his imagination. Clara, his own beloved, was within those tottering walls! Could he save her? Not an instant’s idea of self-preservation crossed his mind. He flew, as he rose from the ground, towards the gate. His eye ranged over the affrighted countenances of the recluses, but she was not among them. It was impossible she could have reached the entrance in time. He endeavoured to urge his way among them, to enter the house of destruction, but none stayed him to ask whither he went. He cried forth Clara’s name, but no one could understand or answer him. A fair girl came flying past him, shrieking with fear: a vast stone fell from the gateway, and, in an instant, that lovely form lay, crushed beneath it, a shapeless mass. He stayed not in his course; but, as he rushed on, “Oh God!” he cried, “such might be Clara’s fate!” His bosom seemed bursting with his dreadful feelings: he shrieked, but his voice appeared choked, and without strength. The Father Confessor passed, followed by the Lady Abbess, for whom he stayed not, though, with cries, she implored him to aid her; yet both escaped, and thanked Heaven their righteousness had saved them, while two innocent girls shared the destiny of the former. Luis looked not behind him at their fate; far more terrible dangers were before him, and she whom he sought was in the midst of them! Words cannot paint the horrors which surrounded him; and with far greater rapidity did he rush onward than the time we must take to describe his progress. He, at length, broke his way past the affrighted females, and terror-stricken monks, who impeded his course; but the strength with which his eagerness to proceed inspired him, was even greater than that which their fear gave to the latter; and, triumphing over all obstacles, he reached a large quadrangle, on the right of which appeared a broad staircase, which he knew must lead in the direction where Clara had been. Was she there now? He stayed not to reckon chances. Love gave him the instinct of the Indian to traverse the trackless desert: he hesitated not a moment to consider the path he was to take; for all his thoughts and energies were concentrated on one point, to discover the spot where Clara was to be found. He flew up the stone steps, which yet stood firm, though broad fissures appeared in the walls on each side; he traversed, with the speed of the frighted deer, a long corridor, leaping over many a chasm already formed in the floor, the ceiling, at every step, falling in on him from above; the ends of the stout beams bending down, threatening instant destruction, as their supports, giving way, were leaning towards the street. His breathing was nearly stopped by the exertion, and by the clouds of dust which surrounded him, and which also obscured his sight; yet on he rushed, when, in an instant, his energies were paralysed; the blood forsook his heart; a female form lay before him – oh, Heavens! was it Clara? He stooped down. No, no, that mangled shape could not be hers. A deep wound was in the temple, the fair hair was clotted with blood – he dared not give another glance. No, no, it could not have been her – those, surely, were the robes of a nun. He fled onward; he felt confident that he must have reached the neighbourhood of the window beneath which he had remained gazing at her. Another corridor led him to the right; a door stood open – he rushed in – the roof had given way, but he leaped over the intervening rubbish. Within a deep recess of solid masonry was a window, but he saw no one there. It could not be his judgment which guided him; for, at that awful time, ’twere vain to suppose human judgment could be exercised, or could avail aught. Yet some power drew him on – that inscrutable, that magnetic influence which attracts two souls together – that all-pervading instinct of love!
He paused not till he reached the window. His hopes had not deceived him. Sunk on the ground, her fair head resting against the stone window-seat, he beheld the beloved object of his search. He raised her up – he clasped her in his arms. “Oh, Luis! is he safe?” she whispered, as her head sunk on his shoulder, unconscious of all that had occurred – of the fearful destruction which was going forward. Her last thought had been of him, as she saw him borne away by his maddened steed; – she heard not the wild cries which rose from below, or the shrieks which echoed through the building, or the voice of a friend, calling on her to fly. Her love had preserved her; and they were together, as yet unharmed; and Luis felt (if thought or feeling could be possible at such a moment) that no power could divide them. The same fate awaited them both, but instant destruction seemed to threaten them. If the walls stood, within the recess they might be safe; but already were those shaken to their foundations – another shock, and they must inevitably fall. Such was his rapid idea, as he was raising Clara. Again he turned to fly with her to seek for safety; but where was safety to be found, when the earth itself was lifted, like the ocean’s billows, from its level? Still there was happiness and confidence at his heart. Though so many examples were before his eyes, he imagined not the fate which might be theirs. Onward he bore her, by the way he had come, along the broad corridor. For some time his course was unimpeded, till, at length, a vast chasm yawned before him: the whole wall had fallen down, crushing all beneath it. Once more he turned, with his precious burden, still unconscious, in his arms: more than human strength and energy seemed afforded him. Another corridor presented itself, the floor yet affording a passage, though crowded with fragments of the roof. As he flew along it, he observed a stair on one side: that might lead to some egress. He descended rapidly, though scarce a gleam of light was there to guide his steps. When he reached the bottom, he found a passage, narrow and vaulted, leading off on each side. He took that to the left, where the light appeared; but, as he approached it, a strongly-barred window was seen. Near him, a door was left open, at the top of a second narrow and winding stair. Whither that would lead there was no time to consider; but retreat was hopeless by the way he had come, and his only hope of saving the life of the dear being he bore was in onward progress. He descended the steps: to what secret chambers had they conducted him? Another door was before him – it gave way to his touch, and he found that they had reached a low, narrow, and vaulted passage. That it led to the open air he felt assured, from the greater degree of light before him; but the dust prevented his seeing many feet beyond where they were. He hastened on, when again a terrific sound was heard, like the loud echoes of cannon in a mountain gorge – the earth shook beneath his feet – a stunning crash was more felt than heard, as if the globe had been hurled in contact with another body – the strong walls on each side seemed giving way – huge masses of the building, falling on all sides, blocked up all egress in front, – behind, all was darkness! Nature could endure no more: his legs refused to support him, and he sank with his precious burden to the ground; yet consciousness did not forsake him, and he preserved her from injury, bending over her yet inanimate form, that he might shield her to the last, and that his head should be the first to receive the blow which he felt assured must fall. The second violent shock was over, yet crash after crash continued to be heard, as each massive wall and lofty tower, which man in his pride had fancied would last for ever, were overturned like pasteboard fabrics raised by childhood’s hands. A third time was the loud thunder beneath the earth heard – the ground shook, and the few remaining walls of the convent were cast down, and that vast fabric, which, a few minutes before, had stood firm and entire, was now one shapeless mass of ruins, with hundreds of human beings buried beneath it. The anguish of death came over Luis: Clara – his own Clara, lay, without breathing, in his arms. Her pulse had ceased to beat, animation had fled, and he welcomed destruction as a boon from Heaven. Each instant the end of all things seemed about to arrive; the shrieks of despair, which had before wrung on his ears, were hushed; the thundering crashes of the falling buildings were no longer heard; and the more terror-inspiring muttered roar beneath the earth had ceased; but foul exhalations arose, and poisoned the air, already filled with suffocating dust; and darkness, impenetrable and oppressive, surrounded the lovers.
Volume Two – Chapter Ten
Were we to indulge, while describing scenes like the present, in the light jest, or stroke of satire, we should deem ourselves equally capable of laughing at the anguish and wretchedness to which, in our course through life, we have too frequently been witness; our readers must, therefore, pardon us, if, on this occasion, contrary to their wish, we lay aside that inclination we have hitherto experienced, to satirise the follies and wickedness of our fellow-men. It will be our duty to revert to the events which occurred to the principal personages mentioned in this history.
We left the bridal party at the palace of the Marquis d’Alorna. They were assembled in a handsome saloon, which looked towards the street, while all were paying their compliments to the lovely Donna Theresa, and their congratulations to the young marquis, on his happiness at possessing so fair a bride, when a train of carriages was heard passing.
“It is the King and the royal family, on their road to Belem,” said the Conde d’Atouquia. “They were to go there this morning.”
“I would they were never to return!” muttered the Duke of Aveiro. “It would be no great loss to us.”
“Hush! duke,” said the Count, who had just sufficient sense to know that silence will often stand in the place of wisdom. “All here know not their own interests. ’Twill be better not to speak on that subject awhile.”
When the lovely bride heard the King mentioned, a pallor overspread her countenance.
“Are you ill, my Theresa,” inquired her young husband, affectionately.
“Oh no, ’twas a sudden pain, but I am well again,” she answered, recovering, and endeavouring to smile. She could not say it was the dreadful struggle between conscience and inclination which agitated her.
The guests had just taken their seats at a sumptuous breakfast, prepared for the occasion, the bridegroom being placed at the head of the table, when that strange sound of chariot-wheels was heard.
“’Tis the King, for some cause, returning home again,” exclaimed one. (“’Tis the King of Terrors, riding on the whirlwind of destruction,” he might, more properly, have said.)
“No, ’tis a sudden blast, or the roaring of the breakers against the rocks of St. Julian,” answered another.
“Mother of Heaven! see, the glasses tremble!” cried several.
At that moment the noise increased. “An earthquake! an earthquake!” shrieked the guests, rushing from their seats towards the window.
The building shook, but scarce a stone fell. “’Twill be over soon,” exclaimed the Marquis of Tavora, preserving his presence of mind. “There is more danger in the street than here.”
The wildest dismay was visible in the countenances of all, yet none sought to fly, but rushed together towards the recesses of the windows, fancying that numbers might cause security.
“Fear not, my friends,” said the Marquis d’Alorna, “this palace is strong, and has resisted many an earthquake. It will alone affect the fragile houses of the plebeians. See! numbers are already in ruins; what clouds of dust rise from them! The shock has passed, and we are safe!”
Scarcely had he uttered the words, when again that sullen roaring beneath the earth was heard. There was no time for flight, they stood paralysed with horror. Donna Theresa showed the fewest signs of fear, as she gazed forth on the city, great part of which lay spread at their feet: she sought not for support, while the other ladies present clung to the arms of those nearest them, except the elder Marchioness of Tavora, who, drawing forth a crucifix from her bosom, called on all around her to pray to the holy Virgin for safety; but, during those moments, the only words any could utter were, “Misericordia! misericordia!”
The wildest cries of agony and fear arose from below, where row beyond row of the thickly crowded streets swayed backwards and forwards, like the agitated waves of the ocean, when the first blast of the hurricane is felt; while the thick clouds of dust which ascended from the falling masses seemed like the foam flying before the tempest.
A strong wind now blew with terrific violence, and, as here and there a view could be obtained of the city, one scene of havoc and destruction presented itself: not a church, or convent, scarce a house, was standing below them, except in the immediate neighbourhood, on the side of the hill; and many of the houses even there were tottering to their base, the people hurrying through the streets, they knew not whither, seeking for safety, and often hurrying to destruction. Numbers had fled to a broad quay, newly built of solid marble, where they deemed themselves in perfect safety; when, as if by magic, it suddenly sank, the water rushing into the vast chasm it had formed, drawing within its vortex, like a whirlpool, numbers of boats and small vessels, crowded with unfortunate wretches, who fancied that it was from the earth alone they had cause to fear. Directly after this dreadful catastrophe had occurred, a vast wave was seen rising on the river, hitherto so calm and shining, and rushing with impetuous force towards the devoted city. The vessels were torn from their moorings, and hurled one against the other. On came the mountain-billow, breaking over the lower part of the city, and sweeping off thousands who had fled to the remaining quays for safety, returning once more to throw back its prey of mangled corpses, amid broken planks and rafters of the ruined houses.
In silent dismay, the festal party stood yet free themselves from harm, though they beheld some of the domestics, who, being on the ground-floor, had rushed from the palace down the street in front, crushed beneath the houses, which fell as they attempted to proceed. The Marquis d’Alorna urged his friends to remain, for several had determined to attempt to escape from the city, the whole of which they expected every instant to behold overwhelmed, when, seeing the fate of their servants, they yielded to his persuasions. Scarcely had they returned to the window, when, with the same dreadful omens, a third shock was felt, though by them but slightly; and, as if struck by a magician’s wand, every remaining wall and tower in the vast arena below, which had before escaped, was thrown prostrate, the waves again returning, and rushing high over the ruins, quickly flowing back to their proper boundaries; but not a minute intervened before another mighty billow followed, and another, and another, until every one felt persuaded the city must be submerged.
The mighty throes of nature appeared at length calmed – the roaring noise had ceased; but the wailing of the bereaved inhabitants, and the shrieks and groans of the dying, filled the air. Two elements had already conspired to the destruction of that once opulent and crowded city; but even yet the spirit of destruction was not satisfied, and scarcely had the survivors begun to recover from their first unnerving panic, when a new foe appeared, and flames rose from every fallen shrine and monastery, and from many of the houses yet standing. So paralysed had become the energies of all, that no one attempted to stop the rapid progress of the devouring element. It at first commenced in different spots, like so many watch-fires lighted by an army encamped on the plain, but, by degrees, it extended on every side, till the greater part of the city was enveloped in one vast conflagration.
“Whither can we fly for safety?” cried several of the party, gazing at each other with horror on their countenances. “At all events, let us quit this devoted city,” all exclaimed. “But is there a road yet left free?” asked some.
“We must not remain here to be burned alive, having escaped the other dangers,” said the young Marquis of Tavora. “My Theresa, I swear to bear you safe, or die with you.” The bride hesitated, but her husband insisted on supporting her. “Now, senhores, I will set the example, if you will follow; and we may find some of our country-houses uninjured.” His opinion was considered the best to follow by the majority.
“I will order my horses and carriage from my palace,” said the Duke of Aveiro; but, when he looked towards his palace, he beheld it one heap of ruins: the proud residence of the Tavoras had shared the same fate, as had those of many other persons present.
The palace of the King, which he and all the royal family had, a few minutes before, so providentially quitted, was overwhelmed in the common destruction; and the Opera-house, a solid and magnificent building, a short time before only finished, had shared the same fate, the side walls remaining alone standing. But this was no time for vain regrets: self-preservation was the first thought of all. The advice of the young marquis was followed, and each of the gentlemen aiding in supporting the ladies, they issued forth from the palace, already deserted by the greater number of the servants, the remainder following them, without leaving one to protect the rich and costly furniture, or even thinking of closing the doors behind them.
The party proceeded onward, keeping as much as possible the higher ground, which had escaped the convulsions which shook the valleys, expecting every moment some fresh outbreak. They had not gone far, when they encountered a fierce-looking band of the vilest rabble of the city, who eyed the rich dresses and the glittering jewels of the ladies, as if longing to possess themselves of them, and stopping, attempted to surround the party, with threatening gestures; but the fidalgos, drawing their swords, cleared a passage through them, receiving only loud jeers and curses as they passed onward. In one place they were obliged to descend the hill for some short distance, where the road was blocked up by the fallen houses, which, as the only course left to them, they must surmount. The scenes which met the eye, it were scarcely possible for ordinary language to describe; men, women, and children, lay, dead or dying, crushed and mangled in every way it were possible to conceive; some of the latter yet crying out, but in vain, for assistance: – their lot might be that of all the party, if they stayed. The only one of the proud fidalgos who really felt for their sufferings, was the young Jozé da Tavora, and he vowed to return and aid them, if possible, when he had conducted his sisters and the rest of his family to a place of safety.
After great labour, they escaped clear of the ruins, and reached some of the highest ground, from whence they could look back on the hapless city. Far as the eye could reach on each side, extending along the banks of the river, was one universal scene of destruction. The greater number of the superb and beautiful churches, the richly endowed monasteries, the public buildings, the palaces, and the dwelling-houses, had, in the course of a few minutes, been either levelled with the ground, or their skeleton walls alone left standing, burying beneath their ruins, as was afterwards ascertained, twenty thousand of the inhabitants. In every direction, also, bright flames arose, wreathing themselves round many buildings which had withstood the shocks; thick clouds of smoke, like twisting pillars, ascending to support the dark canopy which overhung the fatal spot. The river itself presented an almost equally forlorn spectacle; ships were driven wildly in all directions, some dashing against each other, and their crews unable to separate them; others had been dashed to pieces on the opposite shore; some had sunk, some had been carried far up the banks, and were now left dry among the ruined buildings, while the water was covered with wrecks of vessels, beams of timber, and floating bodies. Boats, too, of all shapes and sizes, were floating about, many having been turned keel uppermost by the vast waves. A large concourse of the houseless wretches, whom the catastrophe had driven forth, were now collected on the brow of the hill, bewailing, with groans and tears, their wretched fate: their whole property destroyed, many half clothed, and without a farthing left to purchase the necessaries of life, even if they were to be found; but where was food to be procured for that multitude? Thousands must perish of starvation before it could be distributed.
