University of Virginia Library

AN EPISODE.

Commend me to travel as the occasion of love.
The crowded assembly and the fashionable promenade
are alike inimical to that free expression of
thought and natural flow of feeling, through which
alone the points of sympathy are discoverable. It is
true that in these scenes the first impression is often
made which eventuates in attachment; but amid
them the best gifts of intellect, and the finest traints of
sentiment are too frequently veiled by an artificial
manner, or concealed beneath the many external
graces which it is the office of Fashion to call forth.
When, however, we feel ourselves separated for
awhile from the restraints of general society, and
exposed to the free influence of nature and the incitement

of variety, we resume our original, native spirit,
and think, act, and feel with renewed energy
and truth. Few situations, therefore, are more conducive
to the mutual development of character than
that of two companions travelling together through
scenes of interest and beauty. Mingling their admiration
in view of each novel object, suffering the
same inconveniences, exposed to the same dangers
and, for days, dependant upon each other's society
for solace and amusement,—if even a spark of congeniality
exist, such auspicious circumstances will
fan it to a flame. The recorded conversations of
Isabel and the Count have been of a general character.
Yet in the course of these interviews, glances
and tones had been exchanged, which a more imaginative
observer than Frazier could not have failed
to interpret into indications of a regard, somewhat
deeper and more permanent than mere intellectual
sympathy. Still, no direct or positive expression
had been given to the sentiment which had insensibly
usurped the place of friendship. Happy in the daily
interchange of mind which her present circumstances
permitted, Isabel thought of the future only with
reference to her father, while she was unconsciously
cherishing, or rather allowing to flourish in her breast,
another affection calculated to ennoble or embitter
her whole future life. But the Count, whose consciousness
was not dazzled by an anticipation such
as filled the mental vision of his fair companion, had
long since confessed to himself that she had inspired
an interest too earnest to be easily overcome, and too
delightful not to be indulged; and, although he had
determined to postpone until the conclusion of their
pilgrimage, any declaration of his feelings, they were
ere long incidentally elicited. On a warm but delightful
evening, the little party were present at a
conversazioné, at one of the most beautiful villas in
the vicinity of Palermo. Its somewhat elevated
position rendered the view from the balconies extensive
and various, while the neighborhood of the
mountains and sea exposed it to every breeze which
might stir the quiet atmosphere of summer. The
house was situated at some distance from the road,
and behind it a spacious garden was tastefully laid
out. After passing several hours in the crowded
rooms, Isabel gladly accepted the Count's invitation
to repair to the garden, where many of the guests
were promenading. They followed a path shaded
by the embowering branches of the orange trees;
through which the moonlight fell in chequered lines
upon the walk. At its extremity, near a small fountain,
were several marble benches. As they approached,
Isabel ardently expressed her delight at
the picturesque charms of the retreat, and when they
were seated, the Count related the following anecdote.

THE SECOND COURTSHIP.

“The former proprietor of this villa was a most
elegant and interesting man. In his youth he had

passed several years in Great Britain, and returned
to his native city at the period when the English
had possession of the island. As he spoke their language
perfectly, and was an intelligent and agreeable
companion, there was no Sicilian more frequently to
be found in their circles, or one who was more deservedly
popular among them. At that time there
was residing in Palermo the ward of an English officer
committed to his care by her father, an old
friend who died many years previous in England.
Caroline Walter was not only beautiful, but so fascinating
in her manners, that she was the object of universal
admiration. To the extreme mortification of
many of her countrymen she received without displeasure
the marked attentions of Palma, the inheritor
of this beautiful domain. They were, in truth, admirably
fitted for each other. His chief fault was an impetuosity
of feeling, which sometimes urged him into
acts of foolish precipitancy; but in mind and principle
he was infinitely superior to the generality of his countrymen,
and it was the virtues of Caroline Walter
not less than her personal graces which had won his
heart. You are aware of the inveterate prejudice
which the English entertain towards foreigners; and
you must have perceived how strongly it is cherished
in the case of the Sicilians. There are, indeed, discrepancies
of temperament and character between
the two people to account for, if not to justify some
degree of such a feeling, and the want of education,
and moral degradation too prevalent among the
inhabitants of this island, is sufficient to explain the
little favor they find in the eyes of one of the most
enlightened nations of the earth. But this, like all
other prejudices, is too indiscriminate, and therefore
unworthy of being entertained by any liberal or philosophical
mind. The known virtues of Palma did
not weigh with the friends of Caroline Walter. She
was assailed on every side and in every manner to
induce her to renounce her lover, because he was a
Sicilian, but in vain. She could not appreciate the
argument; and having found him honorable, gifted,
and especially possessed of tastes and sentiments
accordant with her own, she hesitated not to reciprocate
his ardent and disinterested attachment. After
their marriage, they were for a short time absent
upon the continent, and then returned hither and
established themselves at this villa. The sight of
their domestic enjoyment re-awakened disappointment
in the breasts of some of the young English
officers, and there were two of them especially, who
resolved, if possible, to disturb the happiness which
they had not the magnanimity to rejoice in. How
to sow the seeds of discord where harmony was so
complete was a question they could not easily solve.
To attempt to impair the confidence of the wife they
knew would be vain, and, moreover, there was a
dignity and independent superiority in her character
which awed them into silent respect. Unfortunately,
they were aware of the weakness of Palma, and
upon this they determined to play. Industriously
circulating reports that his wife repented of her connexion,
they took measures that not a day should
pass but some insinuation reached his ears calculated
to excite that jealousy which belongs to the Sicilian
temperament. For a long time these rumors affected
him not. He knew the propensity of his countrymen
for scandal; and, if for a moment, a doubt had
darkened his mind, one glimpse at the ingenuous and
noble countenance of his lovely wife, or a single tone
of her sweet welcome, dispelled it in a moment. One
day, however, when several English officers, and
among them the two hypocrites were dining here, one
of them, after the repast, took Palma aside, and after
extorting many promises of secrecy, and making
innumerable professions of friendship, like a second
Iago, advised him to watch narrowly lest his domestic
peace was invaded. This ambiguous warning
conveyed thus sclemnly, alarmed Palma. He returned
thoughtfully towards the house. Caroline's
joyous laugh reached his ear. For the first time
there was something unmusical in it. He raised his
eyes to younder terrace, and saw her promenading,
and apparently in the pleasantest conversation with
the accomplice of him who had just poisoned his ear,
and who no sooner caught a glimpse of his host than
he threw into his manner as great an air of confidence
and familiarity as possible. This little incident,
though of no importance in itself, served to irritate
Palma into a fit of jealous musing. Surmises,
as baseless as air, were brooded over till they grew
into positive doubts beneath the fructifying influence
of a southern imagination. And when the visitors
had departed, in a moment of passion, he appeared
before his astonished wife, and charging her with
having deceived and lost all affection for him, if, indeed,
she ever had any, rushed from her presence,
drove rapidly to town, and embarked that very evening,
in a steam-packet for Malta. Mount Pelegrino
had not faded from his sight, before he regretted
the step he had taken. His self-reproaches were
increased to agony when an acquaintance, one of his
fellow-passengers, after warmly eulogizing his wife,
began to praise his forbearance towards those who
endeavoured to mar his happiness to gratify their
spleen. All at once he saw his error, and mourned
over his precipitancy. In three days he returned to
Palermo, and sought this retreat where his injured
wife was secluded. He longed to throw himself at
her feet and demand forgiveness, but so great was
his mortification, and so unpardonable in his own
eyes seemed his conduct, that he had not the courage
to approach her. He remembered the sad look of silent
yet eloquent reproach with which she had gazed upon
him as he left her presence. He recalled the pride
of her character and dreaded the effect of his weak
and violent behaviour. He knew not but her esteem
for him had gone forever. In this state of indecision
and perplexity he remained for several days in the
neighborhood. One afternoon, towards dusk, he
approached the house, and saw Caroline seated near
the window, but as he drew near she abruptly left
the spot. He believed she had recognised, and thus
purposely avoided him. The next evening he again
approached. She was in the same place, and half-rose
as he drew near, but perceiving him pass the
door, she remained and formally returned his proffered
recognition. His impression then was that she thought
him insane. In short, I cannot tell you by what
gradual steps he progressed towards a reconciliation.
No lover for the first time delicately shaping his way
to the heart of his mistress, could have acted more
timidly, or been more tremblingly alive to every faint
indication of success. It was, in truth, a second
courtship. At last, one lovely evening, such as this,
he threw off the cloak which had hitherto concealed
him from observation, and entering that grove just
opposite his wife's balcony, began to sing several of
her favorite airs in a feigned voice. There lived in
the neighborhood an old blind man who had frequently
amused them in this manner, and he knew she would
come to the terrace to throw him the customary
gratuity. After a short time he heard the window
open and saw her step forth into the moonlight. It
was the first time he had seen her distinctly since
their separation. She was paler than usual, and a
sad expression mellowed into pensive beauty the
spirited loveliness of her countenance. She leaned
over the rail, and seemed about to call the unseen
vocalist, when he, anticipating her purpose, slightly
softening his voice, commenced an Italian air which
they had often sang together. The half-uttered word
died on her lips, she stood still and listened and,
presently, as if overcome by the associations thus
awakened, the tears fell thick and fast from her eyes.
The repentant husband saw that the favorable moment
had arrived. He suddenly paused, and struck
at once, with his natural voice, into a little English
song of his own composition, with which he had
serenaded her on the night when they first exchanged
vows of eternal fidelity. At the first tone of that
well-known voice she started, and turned towards
the open window, but as the feeling notes rolled on,
she paused as if entranced, and as the last stanza was
concluded, he sprang from his concealment, and was
on the terrace and at her feet in a moment. He was
forgiven. And the stream of affection thus temporarily
divided, reunited with new force and a more
gladsome murmur, and flows on in rich and fertilizing
beauty to this hour.”

When the Count had related this story, Isabel
begged to hear the song which had been the occasion
of so happy a reunion. The scattered guests had
left the walks to attend a summons to the refreshment-room.
The music from the saloon stole with a
softened cadence through the trees; and occasionally
the laugh of some light-hearted being near one of the
windows, reached their ears; but otherwise the garden
was so quiet, that the silvery dripping of the
fountain sounded clearly in the pauses of their conversation.
Isabel in her white dress, and with her
luxuriant hair arranged with beautiful simplicity, and
her expressive features radiating the quiet happiness
which the scene inspired, had never appeared more
lovely in the eyes of Vittorio; and he threw into his
voice an expression of earnestness eloquently indicative
of the secret emotions he cherished.

Shelley has somewhere compared the effect of an
impassioned sentiment to “the voice of one beloved
singing to you alone.” He understood the poetry of

the heart. The scene and its associations entirely
overcame the previous resolutions of Vittorio, and
when Isabel quietly thanked him and rose to return
to the house, he gave earnest expression to his attachment.
That hour was like an age in the history
of her feelings. But she replied by calmly alluding
to the object of her pilgrimage, and declared that
until that was accomplished she could not listen to a
word on the subject. Yet her manner, her look, was
enough to satisfy Vittorio, and when he rejoined the
conversazione, it was with the delightful conviction of
possessing her affections.