Kitabı oku: «The Prime Minister», sayfa 26

Poor Clara scarce heard the concluding sentence; the bright hopes which were budding forth with the first gleam of sunshine were suddenly blighted by this confirmation of the masked stranger’s report of her brother’s death; and instead of feeling joy at her return home, naught but clouds and gloom threatened her future days. She had no arguments to advance against her father’s decree; for she felt that what he said was just. Placing her head on his pillow, she burst into an agony of tears.

The fidalgo in vain endeavoured to comfort her; for he had no consolation that could avail to offer her. He assured her that her return had restored him to health and strength, and that he would not willingly contradict her wishes in anything; but that his confessor, Father Alfonzo, had told him that he must determine, if he recovered her, to keep to his original intention of dedicating her to the Church, as the most acceptable way of proving his gratitude to Heaven for the favour vouchsafed to him, – the Father promising not to cease his prayers to the saints to intercede for him, but more especially to the Holy Virgin.

To this the unhappy girl had not a word to answer: it was but, alas! too much in accordance with the creed she had been taught, and she had never even heard that a doubt had been started against its infallibility. Yet her heart rebelled against the decree; but she shuddered at her own feelings, and endeavoured to stifle them; for the lessons inculcated on her mind told her they were sinful.

After some time, in a voice trembling with grief and agitation, she inquired the manner of her brother’s death. Her father then told her, that on the morning after the sad occurrence, the one preceding the earthquake, he had become alarmed at Gonçalo’s not returning; when the Conde San Vincente called to say, with much friendly concern, that he had been with him on the previous evening, when suddenly they were set upon by several persons, among the foremost of whom he recognised Don Luis d’Almeida, who seemed bent upon engaging with Gonçalo, and that, after exchanging several passes, he saw his friend fall severely wounded; but from having great difficulty in defending his own life, he could not go to his assistance. While thus engaged, several persons who had taken no part in the fray had rushed up, and lifting Gonçalo from the ground, had borne him off he could not tell where, and that, as soon as this was done, Don Luis and his party had drawn off. The Count then said, that he had made every exertion to discover whither Gonçalo had been conveyed; and that he had at length learned from a man who had been engaged in the affair, and whom he could produce, that he had been carried off by order of Don Luis, and that he hoped, in a few days, to discover where.

The fidalgo then said, that the Count had called that very morning on him, having only just learnt where he was to be found; and that his worst fears had been realised. He said that Gonçalo had been conveyed to a house near where the fray took place, and had died of his wound the very morning that the awful catastrophe had occurred; that the house falling, had involved all its inmates in destruction, so that it was utterly impossible to discover any further particulars of the case. The fidalgo finished by lamenting that his own prostration of strength had prevented him from making inquiries, and searching for his children as he earnestly had sought to do.

Clara listened to the account the Conde had given with incredulous ears, and then, in return, narrated the adventures which had befallen herself, and her suspicions that it was from his power Luis had rescued her; but to this her father would not for a moment listen, affirming that he was the soul of honour, and incapable of such an act; nor could anything advanced by Clara convince him to the contrary. We have before remarked, that when once an impression had been made on his mental faculties, it was difficult to remove it. No longer able to bear the conversation, even of his daughter, he sank back exhausted on his couch.

Luis had long been anxiously waiting at the entrance of the garden for the return of Clara, when he saw her approaching with slow and timid steps. He hastened to meet her.

“Oh, Luis, I am very wretched,” she said; and she detailed the history she had heard from her father, as the Count had given it, at which the indignation of Luis was excessive; though, as may be supposed, he had no great difficulty in persuading her of its falsehood. Yet her tears flowed fast; for he acknowledged what she hoped to hear him deny, that, though he had striven to avoid it, her brother had been wounded by his hand. “Yet far rather would I myself have been the victim, than have spilt a drop of the blood of one dear to you,” he continued. “And believe me, did I deem myself your brother’s murderer, I would not have dared to touch you with my polluted hands.”

“Oh no, no, I feel that you are not,” she answered. “But, Luis, there is a sad foreboding at my heart, which tells me that we must part, and for ever. My father did not forbid me to see you to-day; though, alas! I know full well he will do so to-morrow, and then I dare not disobey his commands. Yet think not, Luis, that I shall forget you; that no power can compel me to do; and the remembrance that I was loved by you, will be a soothing balm to my heart for the few remaining years I have to endure my cruel lot. But you must learn to forget me, or to think of me as one already in her grave. You will enter the world, where there is much to drown your thoughts of the past, and where you will meet with one in whose love you may be happy.” As she came to the last sentence her voice trembled, and her tears flowed fast.

Luis clasped her in his arms, and she did not attempt to resist. He swore that he could never forget her; and that he could never love or wed another. He entreated her not to despair, or consent to return to a convent, and he promised that he would compel the Count to contradict the vile accusation he had brought against him; and that perhaps then her father might relent. That he could at once prove part of the Count’s story false, through his friend, Captain Pinto, who was with him at the time, and engaged in the rencontre. He said, indeed, everything that could possibly be said on the occasion, though he failed of imparting any of his own sanguine hopes to Clara; yet at times she gazed up into his face and smiled, but it was a smile more of sadness than of joy, and her tears again flowed unrestrained. How long the interview would have lasted it is impossible to say, had not Senhora Gertrudes, who had been in attendance at a respectful distance, hastened up to warn her that they must part; and at length Luis, imprinting another kiss on her brow, yielded her half fainting to her nurse’s arms, and hurried from the palace.

At the gate he found Captain Pinto waiting for him, who insisted on his accompanying him to his lodgings, and on the following day returned with him to the palace, where he went with the hopes of seeing Clara, or, at all events, having an interview with her father. He had been again unsuccessful in his search for the packet he had received in the hermit’s cave, and now all hopes of ever discovering it had vanished with the destruction of his father’s house; so he tried to console himself with the hope that it was unimportant; though the contrary would again and again recur to him. As he appeared, a servant handed him a letter, requesting him to read it at once. It was from the fidalgo, expressing his deep obligation to him for rescuing his daughter from destruction, and for having afterwards recovered her from the ruffian who had carried her off; but that these acts could not cancel the feelings he entertained towards the destroyer of his son, even convinced, as he now was, from what his daughter had told him, that he was innocent of any intention to commit the deed. He finished by requesting Captain Pinto would do him the favour of calling, adding, in a postscript, that he had desired his daughter not to see him again, and begging him not to attempt to seek her.

The Captain having but little time to spare, immediately requested to be conducted to the fidalgo, while Luis waited outside. He soon returned, shaking his head.

“The fidalgo is inexorable,” he said. “I have convinced him that you neither intended to kill his son, nor had anything to do with concealing him; hinting, that it was our suspicion the Count had done so himself. He seemed struck by the observation; and will make all possible inquiries on the subject; but he insists on your not again seeing his daughter, and he says that when he is perfectly convinced of his son’s death he shall return to Oporto, where she is again to enter a convent. It is extraordinary how slow some men are in forming an opinion, and how difficult it is to knock it out of their heads, when once there: now he has taken it into his that the Count is an honourable man, and has much at heart the interests of his family; nor can all Donna Clara and I have said to him persuade him that it was probably he who caused Gonçalo to be concealed after he was wounded, for the sake of making her hate you; and that also it was on his account she was carried away after you had saved her from the ruins. I trust, however, that I have made some impression, though he does not acknowledge it. But come, it is useless remaining here, and I must attend to these disagreeable duties imposed on me.”

Luis accompanied his friend, in a state of sad despondency; his hopes again blasted, even on the very threshold, as he had fancied, of happiness.

“Come, rouse thee, my friend,” said the Captain. “This is but one of the many trials you must yet undergo in your course through life, to perfect your character as a man; and fortunate are those who are so tried, that when the still greater struggles of life approach, they may not be found wanting. See, it is now my turn to raise, rather than depress your hopes. Look on what has occurred, with the calm eye of philosophy, and you will see that you are not only not in a worse state than you were before the earthquake, but have the additional consolation of feeling that you have saved the life of a very charming lady, I allow. Her father may relent; her brother may not have died from his wound, as we have only the Count’s word for it, and he may be proved to be a villain. Here is food enough to supply a lover’s hopes for a year at least. However, I not being a lover, must hurry on to take my dinner, so come in, and share it with me.”

Volume Two – Chapter Eighteen

Several days had passed by since the dreadful morning of terror and destruction; and, though slight shocks were occasionally still felt, people had become accustomed to them, and were beginning to arouse themselves from the state of apathy into which fear had thrown them. It was a sad spectacle, to see the forlorn citizens wandering over the yet smoking ruins of their former habitations, seeking, in vain, to find the spots where they had dwelt in peace and happiness; but wheresoever they turned, naught but scenes of destruction and confusion met their view. In vain they endeavoured to recover their property; what the earthquake had spared the devouring flames had consumed. Precious jewels, and rich stores of gold and silver, had been reclaimed by the earth, from whence they were dug; and immense quantities of valuable merchandise had been destroyed; so that the before flourishing merchant or tradesman found himself reduced to bankruptcy and starvation. The historian of the time winds up his description with these words: – “The whole of the centre of Lisbon was reduced to one horrid desert, in which naught was beheld but mountains of stone and ashes; some ruined walls, blackened by the fire, alone rising amid this sea of confusion, sad monuments of those fine streets and spacious squares which, but a few days before, were full of wealth, and crowded with people.”

Now was the time that the sagacity, energy, courage, and perseverance, of the Minister were most conspicuous in restoring order, and preventing the site of the city from being deserted altogether. No sooner had the ashes cooled, than, assembling workmen, he caused roads to be cut through the ruins, and immediately commenced rebuilding the city, he himself planning those streets which now form by far the handsomest part of Lisbon.

Since Luis had restored Clara to her father, he had devoted all his thoughts and energies to the task of endeavouring to discover some traces of her brother; but he had as yet been completely unsuccessful. He had applied to Antonio, but he could not, or would not, afford him any assistance; and of the companions of the youth, some had been killed, many had fled, and the rest would not trouble themselves about his fate. Captain Pinto had not even been acquainted with him by sight; and his unhappy father was still too weak to leave his couch, to go in search of him, so that Luis began to fear that he should be for ever unable to prove his own innocence. The Count San Vincente, in the mean time, paid daily visits to the fidalgo, professing to be using his utmost exertions to discover his son, though Clara perseveringly refused to see him nor did he, indeed, appear anxious for an interview.

Luis had one morning wandered, accompanied by Pedro, nearly into the centre of the ruins; for there was something consonant with his own feelings in their desolate aspect, and he loved to be among them; perhaps, that the contemplation of the misery he beheld afforded, in the comparison, some alleviation to his own. The immediate scene we have already described; – beyond, on the hills above, were scattered the tents and huts of the inhabitants; while on every side, in the distance, arose the lofty gibbets, loaded with ghastly corpses, – a warning to the daring banditti who even yet prowled about, thirsting for booty, though their numbers and depredations had greatly been diminished by the summary proceedings against them. As he was returning homeward, he overtook a party of the new guards, dragging a man on among them towards the nearest hall of justice. He was about to pass them, when his steps were arrested by a voice calling to him from the crowd, in accents of entreaty, “Oh, Senhor Don Luis! save me, save me! – You know that I am an honest man and a friar, which I cannot make these gentlemen believe, and I shall be hung, to a certainty, before I can prove my innocence.”

On hearing himself addressed, Luis turned round, and beheld his quondam acquaintance, Frè Diogo Lopez, in the hands of the officials of the law.

“Speak a word for me, senhor,” he continued. “You know that I saved your life the other day; so, if you have a spark of the noble sentiment of gratitude, you will return me the favour on this occasion, or you will never enjoy another.”

“He speaks true,” said Luis to the guards; “and if you have no specific charge against him, I will be answerable if you will release him.”

“That is utterly impossible, senhor,” said the chief of the party. “I have no doubt but that you are a gentleman; but I know that this is a vagabond and a rogue. He is a friar, he says; and see, he is dressed in the gay suit of a dandy; besides, he can give no account of himself.”

“Few innocent people can answer, when first accused of some dreadful crime at which their soul revolts,” interrupted the Friar; “and then, as in my case, their hesitation is taken as a sign of their guilt. I can clearly account for wearing these clothes; for I had arrived in Lisbon late on the night preceding the earthquake, to be present at the festival of All the Saints; when, weary from my long journey on foot, I overslept myself; so that, when the dreadful event took place, I was fast asleep; and, hastily rising, I rushed out into the street, in a state more easily imagined than described. Now, being a modest man, I was anxious to take the earliest opportunity of supplying myself with garments, and, finding an unfortunate youth, who had been killed by the falling of a beam, with a decent suit on, uninjured, and seeing it could be of no further use to him, I took the liberty of appropriating it.”

“That is very likely,” said the officer. “But how came you to wear a wig, being a friar, senhor?”

“You would not wish me to wear such clothes as these without a wig, surely?” exclaimed the Friar. “That would have made me look ridiculous, indeed. No, senhores, I knew what was due to my character, and acted accordingly. However, I will not keep you waiting here, away from your duty, and would make you a present for the trouble you have been at to drag me along so far, had you not already eased me of all my spare cash; but I feel confident my friend, Don Luis d’Almeida, who has a sincere regard for me, will be happy, on my account, to make you a present, when you release me; and I shall certainly express to the proper authorities my high opinion of the way you perform your duty, on the very first occasion; whereas, if you blindly persist in your mistake, the Church will pronounce her anathemas on your heads, for having sacrilegiously destroyed one of her servants.”

It is difficult to say whether these arguments, which he poured out with a voluble tongue, would have had any effect, had not Luis, anxious to save the man, who, though a most impudent rogue, had preserved his life, pulled out a purse, distributing its contents among the guards. At sight of the money, they immediately began to consider that the Friar had been ill-used and unjustly suspected, though the circumstances under which he was taken warranted what they had done, which, perhaps, accounted for his not threatening them with punishment; and no sooner did they feel the crowns in their hands, than they set him forthwith at liberty. When he found himself free, he rushed up to Don Luis, embracing him cordially, and then made his captors a profound bow, as they moved away.

“Pardon me, senhor, for the liberty I have taken,” he said, “in pretending to be your friend; but I had no other chance. You have saved my life, and I shall ever be grateful. Perhaps some day I may have the means of proving it.”

“You may, perhaps, at once,” said Luis, eagerly. “You aided Antonio, the other day, in discovering where Donna Clara was concealed, and now, perhaps, you may be able to trace where her brother is to be found.” And Luis gave him an account of the case.

“I will do my best, senhor,” answered the Friar; “but at present I know nothing about the circumstance, though I have no doubt that villain Rodrigo, who was hung the other day, had a hand in it. I wish that I had never known that man: ‘evil communication corrupts good manners;’ and I confess that I have done some things I had better have left undone; but I made a vow just now, when I was in the power of those myrmidons of the law, that, if I escaped hanging, I would reform; and I intend to keep to my resolution. I will first endeavour to perform the service you require; and, to my shame I confess it, I know most of the rogues and vagabonds yet unhung in and about Lisbon, who are likely to give me information on the subject; and I then purpose to quit this city of sin and temptation, and return to my convent, and lead a pious life.”

“I applaud your resolution, my friend,” answered Luis; “and I shall, indeed, be grateful if you can afford the assistance I ask; though beware that you are not again captured by the officers of justice: you may not escape so easily.”

“Trust to my caution,” said the Friar. “A rat once escaped from a trap does not put its head in a second time. Now, adeos, senhor! – By the way, if you could lend me a few crowns, I should find them useful, and shall then be able to purchase another friar’s gown, under which I shall be safer than in these gay habiliments. There is nothing like the outward garment of sanctity, when a man’s character has been slightly blown upon.”

Luis gave him a few crowns, which he could, however, but ill spare, for which the ci-devant Friar expressed himself very grateful, and then hurried away as fast as he could.

In the course of his walk, Luis reached a hill, on which had stood the church of Santa Catarina, now a heap of ruins. A crowd of persons, of all ranks and ages, and of each sex, were assembled there, collected round a tall figure, who had mounted to the summit of a heap of stones, and was haranguing them in a stentorian voice, throwing his arms aloft with the wildest gestures, and rolling his eyes around in a delirium of enthusiasm.

Luis inquired of one of the bystanders who the preacher was who was addressing them.

“Know you not,” exclaimed the man, with a look of disdain at his culpable ignorance, “that he is one of the greatest prophets that has ever lived, – one to whom the gift of tongues has been vouchsafed, as to the apostles of old, – one in whose presence the kingdom of Portugal has been peculiarly blessed, and who, in these times of horror, pours balm into our hearts from his copious fountain of eloquence? – he is the great and pious Father Malagrida.”

When Luis had asked the question, the preacher had just ceased speaking for a moment, coughing, and blowing his nose, in which the greater part of his congregation imitated him.

“Hark!” said the person to whom Luis had spoken; “he again commences.”

The congregation now fixed their eyes with an intent gaze on the preacher as he began; and we are fortunate in being able to give an exact translation of his discourse, it having been printed in January, 1756; and a copy having, by a fortunate chance, fallen into our possession; and it serves to prove that some congregations, a hundred years ago, were not much wiser than they are at the present day, and that some preachers were able to convert the Scriptures to their own purposes with equal facility and talent.

See Note.³

“Few are there among those who hear me, who do not wish to know the origin of these terrific convulsions of the earth; but this is not the first time that God has confided to the ignorant, and hidden from the wise, a knowledge of his profound secrets. ‘Abscondisti haec à sapientibus et prudentibus, et revelati ea parvulis.’ (Matt. xi. 25).

“Now, perhaps, some who deem themselves very clever, will endeavour to explain that they arise from natural causes; but yet a man may be very ignorant, and yet be able to convince them that such is not the case. God says it, (and it is enough that He should say it, to be infallible,) that there shall be a great change in our generation. ‘Generatio praeterit, et generatio advenit.’ (Eccles. i. 4.)

“Moreover, that the machine of the earth will always preserve a perpetual firmness. ‘Terra autem in aeternum stat.’ (Ibid.)

“Hence, it is not necessary to be a sage; it is sufficient to be Catholic, and to believe what God says, to know that the earth is immovable. Thus a believer will declare, although he be an ignorant man, notwithstanding that the Copernicanians say the contrary, who confide more on mathematics than on Christianity: it matters little that they affirm, with sacrilegious zeal against the sacred writings, that the earth moves, and that the sun is fixed; and it is in this way that wise men are deceived, and that the ignorant discover the truth. The earth, then, being immovable, for thus He says, who formed the centre of the world: ‘Firmavit orbem terrae, qui non commovebitur,’ (Psalm xciii. 2;) and its immovability being sustained by that omnipotent Idea with which the immense spaces of all infinity were built, what madness it is for those who call themselves sages to consider that the convulsions of the earth arise from natural causes. He only knows who made it with a nod, and can move it with a word. To such a height had this delirium, this inflation of science, as the Apostle calls it, arrived, that there was a sophist in the days of antiquity, who declared that, had he whereon to place his feet beyond the circumference of the globe, he could lift it with his shoulders; but this science is that folly of which Solomon speaks: ‘Stultitia hominis supplantat gressus ejus; et contra Deum servet animo suo.’ (Prov. xix. 3.)

“I know not whether this pride, this scientific impertinence to which philosophy always has recourse to banish the fear of strange events, is more presumption than as a punishment for our sins; and it appears fated that this should happen more in earthquakes than in other impulses of the Omnipotent hand.”

The preacher then proceeded to show by what sort of fire Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed, comparing their inhabitants to those of Lisbon, in no flattering terms.

“If you would know the cause of these calamities, listen not to what the mathematicians and philosophers say, but to what God says through the mouth of his prophet Isaias: ‘Movebitur terra de loco suo propter indignationem Domini exercituum et propter diem irae furoris ejus.’ (Isaiah xiii. 13.)

“Cease to persuade yourselves, then, that the earth is moved, not because the world is living, as some atheists say; – not because it swims on the sea, as Thales says; – not because the subterranean fires and waters meet, as Democrates says; – not because some of its enormous portions are hurled to the centre, as Anaximenes says; – not because the wind confined in the internal caverns of the globe bursts forth, as Aristotle says; – but because thus God shakes it, and because God drives it with an invisible force, proceeding from His sovereign indignation.

“There is no doubt that the prophet foretold the fate of Lisbon under the name of Babylon, when he says: ‘Vidi Angelum descendentem de caelo, habentem potestatem magnam; et exclamavit in fortitudine, dicens: Cecidit, cecidit Babylon.’

“Yes, the crimes of the people will ascend to heaven, and remind God of their wickedness, and He will cause their city to become a heap of ruins and ashes, and there shall be death, and mourning, and hunger. Did not all this happen, and did not the King, when he beheld his palace and his city in flames, weep and mourn? ‘Et flebunt et plangent super illam Reges terrae cum viderint fumum incendii ejus.’”

He then mentioned the riches that were destroyed exactly as the prophet foretold.

“What further evidence to convince you of the truth would you have? Yet here are others. Did not the pilots and sailors remain at a distance, on the bosom of the Tagus, to behold the miserable destruction? ‘Et omnis gubernator, et omnis qui in lacum navigat et qui in mari operantur longe steterunt.’

“Did not also the singers and musicians, who had come from various countries to increase the amusements of the Court, fly away, so that the sounds of their instruments were no more heard? ‘Et vox citharaedorum et musicorum et tibia canentium et tuba, non audietur in te amplius.’

“Are not these great and striking evidences that the destruction of Lisbon was foretold? And also all the holy fathers of the Church agree, that when Babylon was spoken of, some other city was meant, supposing it to refer to the destruction and burning of Rome; but now it is confessed by all, that St. John spoke not of Rome, but of Lisbon. Does he not speak of a city built on seven hills, great, flourishing, and powerful, and does not Lisbon stand on seven hills? I ought rather to say, did stand; and was she not one of the first cities in the world? And can there yet be a soul so incredulous, that he should persevere in declaring that this horrible calamity was chance, and not design? – was an impulse of nature, and not a Divine sentence?

“Yes, alas! some are so hardened as still to doubt; for that was also foretold: ‘Ingravatum est cor Pharaonis: induratum est cor Pharaonis.’ (Exod. vii.)

“Many are the hearts like Pharaoh’s, and many are the warnings they have received like him. Say, when the earth shook some years ago, did you then repent? – No. When it shook a second time? – No. And a third time? – No. Will you repent this time? – No. ‘Induratum est cor Pharaonis;’ for ‘Dixit insipiens in corde suo: non est Deus.’”

He then clearly proved that “Mulierem sedentem super bestiam coccineam, habens poculum aureum in manu sua, plenum abominatione,” etc, was a description of Lisbon, filled with people of all nations, addicted to all manner of abominations, particularly with Jews and heretics of all sorts. (We have heard rather a different interpretation given elsewhere.)

“And yet some will not believe,” he continued. “Well may I say of you, with Jeremiah, ‘Ostulti et tarde corde ad credendum!’”

As he proceeded, a bright rainbow was seen hanging over the ruined city.

“See, see! a portend! a portend!” he cried. “If you will repent, if you will no longer live in sin, you will be forgiven. ‘Arcum meum ponam in nubibus, et erit signum faederis inter me, et inter terram.’

“The same sign that God gave to Noah has He now given to us, to assure us that the earthquake will cease. ‘Et Iris erat in circuitu sedis’ (Apocalypse, iv.) But Iris is, it can be clearly shown, as Saint Eupremio and Saint Antonio call her, the holy Mother of God, who has sent the glory which surrounds her head to show us that His anger has ceased; and, as Saint Bernardo says of her, ‘Sicut Iris, Virgo scilicet benedicta, in circuitu Ecclesiae constituitur.’

“Oh, pure Virgin! who standest ever before the throne of your Son, with hands uplifted, seeking mercy for our sins, hear our prayers, and speak these words in our favour which Moses spoke for the Israelites. ‘Quiescat ira tua, et esto placabilis super nequitia populi tui;’ for if the Lord listened to his words, how much more will he to those of the Mother of God! and then let us hear those joyful words; ‘Placatus est Dominus ne faceret malam quod locutus fuerat adversus populum suum.’”

As Luis was attentively listening to this discourse, so full of theological erudition and acute reasoning, he felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and turning round, he beheld the holy father, Jacinto da Costa.