by Robert Snow, Esq.
Originally published in Ainsworth's Magazine: A Miscellany of Romance (Chapman and Hall) vol.11 #4 (1847).
'Twas then when Manfred ruled in Sicily,
A gentle lady lived, Beritola
Of Naples; and she loved, and wedded with
Lord Arighetto, who, in wealth and power,
Dwelt in Palermo. But it so fell out,
When the French Charles slew Manfred in the field
Of Benevento, that the popular tide
Of fierce Sicilian blood rose at the news,
Desperate for change, to rule their wonted rulers;
And Arighetto, under cloud of night,
Fled for his life from an ungrateful country.
Beritola, no longer among friends,
But pining most for Arighetto's loss,
Went after, from Palermo, o'er the sea;
Sorrowing, poor Lady, much! and quick with child,
And unattended; yet with her she took
One jewel left her in this trying hour,
Her son Guisfredi, about eight years old:
Then disembark'd at Lipari; and there
She brought into a world of woe a boy,
Whom, in the anguish of her soul, she named
Lo Scacciato, or the Wanderer.
Soon as with strength of limit she went forth,
With her young son, and with her infant boy,
And one Attendant—one that undertook
A foster-mother's office, she set sail
For Naples, as if there to find a home.
But no: rude baffling winds and storms arose,
Storms such as most infest the Midland-sea,
That drove their vessel northwards, to the Isle
Of Ponza. There in a small natural haven
Of cliffs once fiery, and standing lava streams,
They waited for a wind, and favouring skies.
It chanced one morn, Beritola on shore
Estray'd apart, mongst those fantastic rocks,
Bent not on present objects, for her thoughts
With Arighetto were, in life or death,
When, like a whirlwind, fell upon the Isle
A pirate galley! and the bark that lay
Peacefully anchor'd, after a brief show
Made of resistance, crew and passengers,
Was by the corsairs made an easy prize,
Who, with the bark in tow, resought the main.
Meanwhile, her tribute of lamenting paid,
Beritola bethought her of her children,
And turn'd her footsteps towards the anchorage,
Where lay her home, the vessel. Who but she
Thought 'twas some dreadful juggle of the brain
When she found not the bark there where it lay
But two short hours before? A moment more
The thing flash'd on her mind; and looking on
The sea for resolution of her doubts,
The two linked vessels, scarce a league from shore,
Reveal'd the whole! she saw; and swooning fell,
There, where she stood, upon the cold sea-sand.
Wretched Beritola! Thou hadst no friend,
Thou who wast weather-fended once, and watch'd
Like hot-house strawberries in early spring;
None hadst thou to drop waters on thy brow,
Or comfort thee with words, or warm caresses:
And well-nigh had thy wandering sense and spirits
Abandon'd thee for ever, only not
A corse, upon that black and rugged shore!
But rallying Nature from her citadel,
To wit, the heart of poor Beritola,
Now sallied forth, with cataracts of tears,
And piercing shrieks, and lamentable groans;
So Nature taught Beritola to grieve,
Her Children doom'd to slavery, herself
To lingering famine; and the caves that rang
With the monotony of that tideless sea,
And lava neighbour-rocks, took up her moan,
As 'twere with oral repetition, rocks
Rent in the Isle in Nature's sharpest throes.
Then set the sun, and twilight soon was o'er,
And all was dark; and like some savage Thing
The gentle Lady to a shelter crept:
And the next day, by hunger sorely press'd,
Was fain to eat shell-fish, and bitter herbs
She gather'd up and down; no better faring,
For many, many days.
One morn she spied a she-goat on the rocks,
That went and came, and so the livelong day,
As to some hiding-place. Beritola
Drew nigh the spot, as for society,
And found two new-dropp'd kidlings hidden away
In a dry shelter'd hollow. Dear that sight
To her, and full of comfort: beautiful
As day those hairy nurslings: and she raised
Them in her arms, and kiss'd them; and a thought
In tenderness conceived, grew into act
O' the instant: so she held them to her breast,
Nature's sweet fountain not yet dried away,
And gave them suck: the noble food they took
Bleating, as from the udder of their dam.
And thus, what with her care for food, what with
Her care to spread her couch of grass and leaves,
What with her tears for those that she had lost,
What with her strange maternal offices
Shared with a creature of the Wild, she made
A shift to live: she thought, moreover, so
To live and die: for she became subdued
To what she suffer'd; and she partly sank
Down to the level of the objects lent
By Providence to keep alive her lamp
Of natural affection.
It chanced to Ponza came a gentleman,
By name Currado, and with him his wife,
A Lady clothed in sanctity and honour;
Returning o'er the sea in pilgrim-guise,
From visiting renown'd Apulian shrines.
And to amuse the sea's monotony
They touch'd at Ponza; gladly setting foot
Even on that rugged shore; and so they went
The Isle exploring; when two favourite hounds
That ever on Currado's steps attended,
Scented the kidlings, grazing now at will,
And gave them chase. But they were fairly grown,
And swift of foot, and made escape untorn
Within the cavern of Beritola,
And nestled in her lap. How stood they then,
Currado and his Lady, wonder-wounded!
Soon as Beritola came forth her cave,
With her two Charges folded in her arms,
Whose bleat seem'd fashion'd to a human cry,
Sunburnt, and lean, and ragged; all her hair
Knotted about her face; a woful shape;
O, how unlike trim pastoral shepherdess!
With a disastrous and half-vacant stare,
Most eloquent of sufferings long drawn out.
But they to act of charity were prone;
And with kind words and gestures they bespake
The suffering Lady: patiently awaiting,
With looks intelligent and pitiful,
The rallying of her spirits, till she might
Unfold her strange eventful history.
And then they brought her food, and needful clothes,
And urged her with entreaties, and with prayers,
To sail with them from that dark wilderness;
But it was long or ever they prevail'd
On her whose mind was winter'd, over-wrought
By terrors of necessity, and woe,
To a blank frenzy; for she had resolved,
If stupefaction can resolve, no more
To seek the haunts of man. But at their sun,
Their charitable sun, she melted. By-and-by
Was the whole woman in fresh looks apparell'd;
And joyfully they went aboard, and sail'd,
The three together. Nay, I had forgot
Two more: for when Beritola embark'd,
She made her kids companions of her voyage.
So with good winds they landed in the Gulf
Of Spezia, hard by Magra's savage flood:
There, in a territory rich in vines,
Whose labouring vassals called Currado lord,
They lived secure, beneath Currado's roof
Domesticated: one in widow's weeds.
But whither sail'd the corsairs with their prize?
To Genoa: and there cast lots, that gave
Guisfredi, with the nurse and foster-child,
To Gasparino Doria; in whose house
They dwelt as bond-slaves. Though their tender years
Rescued awhile the children from abuse,
Yet she, the Nurse, who loved them as her own,
To meanest household drudgery was condemn'd;
Ill-fed, worse clothed, and worst, in ceaseless dread
Of harm, or separation from her Charge.
Yet had she woman's wit; was strong in soul
To keep the future steadfastly in view;
And pass'd the children for her own, with all
That question'd her; and to Giannotto changed
Guisfredi's name. He now, so flew the time,
Drew nigh his sixteenth summer, graceful, tall,
And with a mind maturer than his years.
To whom his foster-mother, point by point,
Reveal'd the story of his rank and birth;
Unravell'd all their flight from Sicily;
And thence a sorrowful conclusion drew,
How that his Mother he might see no more,
Because she must have perish'd on the Isle:
Yet bade him keep her counsel, and his own,
For even in that obscurity, he stood
Within the danger of a ruling power.
But young Guisfredi loathed his way of life:
And (still Giannotto call'd) escaped on board
A galley bound for Alexandria;
And four more years spent in a wandering life;
When tidings reach'd him, Arighetto lived—
His father—but in hopeless chains confined,
State-prisoner to King Charles. Despair beat down
The spirits of Giannotto. Hulling here
And there, as wheeling fortune did her kind,
He came to Spezia; and, O wondrous chance!
Within Currado's house he hired himself,
A menial servant: yea within the house
Where dwelt his Mother, his own long-lost Mother,
Who knew not him, nor knew he her, for they
Were from each other's knowledge time-removed.
So month by month Giannotto lived, unknown,
In good repute and favour with his lord.
Meanwhile, it chanced Currado's Daughter came
To sojourn with her Father in the house:
His only daughter; young and widow'd; for
Her lord had died in youth before his time,
And must the truth be told, that day by day
Soft captivating eyes the Lady threw
On young Giannotto? O, be not severe!
Judge her not harshly! but believe, her eyes,
With charitably-piercing, precious powers,
Beheld Guisfredi through Giannotto's weeds;
His birth, his nobleness. For true it is,
To prophecy not seldom love attains,
And sees the good beyond obscurity.
And marvel not, that, as the story goes,
The youth his fortune was not slack to meet
More than half-way. Then grew the fond result
Of messages, and signs, and timorous joy
Of fluttering assignation. But a day
Ensued most sad to both; for they were grown
Heedless, and in the garden flush'd with toying,
Were by Currado and his lady taken:—
O day of malediction, wrath, and ire!
Who but Currado foam'd with menace wild
Of death and tortures? grieved to the soul, yet milder,
His Lady with meek supplication pray'd him
Not to press justice to extremity;
Obtain'd the Pair their lives; yet asked no more;
Opposing not they should atone their crime
By wasting penances in lonely cells.
With these dependencies, intelligence
Arrived of counterplots too long to tell,
Whose continent and summary proclaim'd
The Frenchman ruled no more in Sicily.
Whereat Currado testified such joy,
That its report reach'd poor Giannotto's cell,
Who in his gaoler's ear thus made his moan.
"Alas! alas! I who for fourteen years
Hearkening for these good news, have braved the world,
And the world's buffets, hear them now too late,
Weak, and in chains, and sepulchred alive:
News that have well nigh cleft my heart in twain,
With sorrowful remembrance of my father.
Who was my father? Arighetto was he—
Lord Arighetto, of King Manfred's court:
O, that he were alive and in Palermo!
Nor is my name Giannotto, but Guisfredi;
And had I but my freedom, I were now
A prince in Sicily." The gaoler heard,
Yet spoke not; and with something of a tear
In either eye, went forth, and faithfully
Reported to Currado all he heard;
Who of Beritola inquiry made
If she to Arighetto bare a son
By name Guisfredi? "Yes," replied the Lady,
"He was my eldest, and were he alive,
Would now have reach'd his twenty-second year."
Whereat Currado sent in dead of night,
To call Giannotto forth into his presence;
When after questions put, and answers made,
Touching the passages of his past life;
To manifest conclusions he was led,
And was resolved, and spoke. "Approach, Giannotto,
And look on me. How few for an offence
So heavy as the wound thou'st dealt mine honour,
Would have reprieved thee from a shameful death!
But what I have to say is briefly spoken.
If I compassionate reasons entertain,
With these thou'st nought to do. But it appears
Thou art of gentle blood. Mine is the power,
And will, to set thee free, and her, whom I
Have exiled from my heart. First take her thou
To wife; so shalt thou be to me a son;
And she, my sometime daughter be restored
To the inheritance of love she lost.
Would'st thou again be happy, this the way."
Pale was Giannotto's cheek, but suffering
Over his spirit had no power at all,
And thus he answered, but in hollow tone.
"Thou say'st I wronged thee, be it so, Currado,
Still that I did was not unworthy of me.
I loved thy Daughter: she was my ambition,
My health, my wealth, my all. We both were young,
And doubtless, sinn'd, in their opinion
Who entertain a narrowness of soul;
They who forsooth, rending away from youth
Its interwoven garlands of desire,
From life itself would rend youth quite away.
But let the old ponder their bygone days;
By dispensation of high-priestess Nature
I plead, my fault was proof how much I loved thee.
Long, long ago would I have sued for that
Thou'st offer'd; but this sudden dream of bliss
Is blissfuller a thousand fold, for hope
Was none in me. But my brain reels; mine eyes
Inured to darkness, nay, as hardly bear
This torchlight, as my soul this glimpse of joy.
Which if it be not true, as true it seems,
If there be mockery in these words of thine,
Down with me to my dungeon once again;
There let me waste in hunger, damp, and chains;
But for thy daughter, I must ever love her,
And love, for her sake, thee!" Currado heard,
And rose, and fell upon his neck and kissed him;
And sent again, and call'd his Daughter forth.
And she was brought to them all thin and pale
With misery and iron. So stood the Pair;
O, how unlike themselves in former days!
Their meeting I abridge, for more's to tell;
But then and there their marriage contract was
Completed before witnesses. Anon,
But not without due preparation, lest
Confusion might grow out of joy too sudden,
Their ceremonious tying done, the Pair
Were led before the presence of their Mothers.
O, with what lights and shades may we express
The four-fold fondness of that four-fold meeting!
How paint the complicated interchange
Of love and benediction each on each
Bestow'd, and each from each in turn received,
With mutual enrichment? Little said
The new-betrothed Pair; yet their eyes beam'd
With summer-lightning glances; little said,
Stately alike in sorrow and in joy,
Holy and still in conversation,
Currado's Lady: but Beritola,
Whose self-possession grief had undermined,
Now clapp'd, now wrung her hands, now laugh'd, now wept,
As though her intellect were toss'd between
The opposing shores of mirth and agony.
And when with long-divided mind she brought
Guisfredi's lineaments to tally with
Her fixed impressions of his childish days,
She in a death-like swoon fell in his arms,
Speechless! Then first Guisfredi was resolved
He had indeed a Mother. Low he knelt
In filial benediction. But she rose
Soon from her trance, and warmth return'd, and speech
Broken with kisses. "And do I behold
My eldest blessing—my Guisfredi? tell me,
Is this his wife? You say she is your daughter.
He had a brother too—O my poor brain!
He had a brother, yes—but where is he?
And art thou then Guisfredi, not Giannotto?
Forgive thy mother that she knew thee not
In those vile weeds; her eyes were blinded too
By tricking time;—O say, thou wilt forgive her!
Yet it is very strange I knew thee not;
For all these years I never once forgot thee!"
Then holding him at her arms' length, she said,
"But thou art thin and pale—so is thy wife—
Why, why is this? but I remember now:—
Bless thee, my son—bless thee also, my daughter?
Ah, well I wot when I was thin and pale,
Upon the desert island with my kids,
The twain I so long cherish'd in the place
Of the dear boys I lost; for they were twain;
But now my kids are dead; and o'er them with
These hands I raised a grassy tomb, and cut
Their epitaph myself; for they were types
Of my lost children! now one child is come—
Come back again; and with a beauteous flower
To grace his side; and something tells me now,
On this thy second birth-day, dear my child!
I shall see both my boys before I die!"
She ceased. But to the Actors in this scene
Of ours, afloat on the spring-tide of joy,
Strength, courage, renewed blood, and comeliness,
Came with their eyesight's healthful surfeiting.
But I transgress. I must precipitate
My Tale, ere ye who have endured thus far
Shall by anticipation have cut off
My thread of narrative. Without delay
Missives of trust and expedition sail'd
To Genoa and Palermo. Presently,
As on the pinions of despatchful gales,
From Genoa came the Wanderer and his Nurse;
He in the bloom of youth, she bent with age,
A faithful Watcher o'er him to the last;
And yet a third; for Guasparino Doria
Touch'd with the young man's story, and with shame
For that he made a slave of one so noble,
Gave him to wife his Daughter. From Palermo
Came a fleet post in Arighetto's hand,
That with the ecstacy of what he writ
Must have been trembling as he held the pen,
Half-legible with gratulation, joy,
And love, to testify he stood once more
On fortune's pinnacle. What then remained?
But for our Heroine, and her new-found Children,
To take a solemn leave of good Currado,
And of his saintly Lady, and to weigh
Direct for Sicily; with hearts so light
(So never rakish pirate swept the seas)
The very planks and cordage seem'd to spring
With instance of a happy waftage home,
Answering with life and will. Disastrous squalls
Fled their horizon; gambolling in sight
Dolphins were their sea-lacqueys; the elements
Made holiday to speed their flower-wreathed prow,
The prow by night distinct with luminous foam,
To their long-wish'd-for haven. Nor is there need
I should say more; save that, from day to day,
By every of this happy number, as
In dear communication of true souls,
In Arighetto's old ancestral Halls
They used to cluster in a happy round,
Were mutual interrogatories pass'd
From one to the other, listening in turns,
And speaking: every thread unravelling
Of past-away adventure; zealously
Each branching rivulet of circumstance
Tracking to its mainstream of history;
Yet every point, and every chance, but show'd
How mercifully Heaven had dealt with all.
Never did curtain fall, I trust you'll say,
On a more joyous fifth Act of a Play.