Donna Theodora carried off by the masked men
"The shrieks of the Donna Theodora, and a girl who accompanied her, were loud enough however to attract the attention of some servants without the house; and these giving the alarm to those within, the whole establishment, to a man, turned out armed with clubs and pitchforks. But in the meantime, two of the most robust among the masqueraders had taken the lady and her damsel in their arms, and bore them towards the boat, while the remainder remained to give battle to the domestics, who, albeit not paid for fighting, did their utmost. The combat was long, but swords carried the day against pitchforks, and the gentlemen in dominoes were fast regaining the vessel to join their prize. It was time indeed they did so; for ere their embarkation was completed, four or five cavaliers were to be distinguished on the road from Valencia, riding at their topmost speed, and apparently anxious to be in time for the rescue of the Donna Theodora. The ravishers saw them; and made such good haste to get out to sea, that the cavaliers arrived too late to attain the accomplishment of their object.
The masked men rowing away
"These cavaliers were Don Fabricio and Don Juan. Mendoza had received a letter, only a few hours before, informing him, on good authority, that Don Alvaro was in the island of Majorca; that he had equipped a sort of sloop, and that with some twenty scoundrels who had nothing to lose, he intended to carry off the widow of Cifuentes on the first occasion of her visiting her seat at Villareal. On this, the Toledan and himself, with their personal attendants, had set out immediately from Valencia, in order to inform Donna Theodora of the projected attempt. They had, unfortunately, arrived just in time to discern on the sea-shore a number of persons who appeared to be engaged in mortal strife; and, suspecting that it might be as they feared, had hastened with all expedition to oppose the infamous design of Don Alvaro. But, with all their haste, they arrived but to witness the abduction they had especially come to prevent.
"In the meanwhile, Alvaro Ponza, joyful at his success, was hurrying from the coast with his prey, and was observed to join a small armed vessel which was awaiting him in the distance. Words cannot convey an idea of the grief of the two friends; the air rang with imprecations against Don Alvaro: their grief and rage, however, were alike unavailing. The domestics of the Donna Theodora, excited by so laudable an example, were not sparing of their lamentations; the shore resounded with cries: fury, desolation, and despair reigned where all before had been tranquil joy, or the sweet grief of love. The rape of the beauteous Helen herself did not excite at the court of Sparta an equal consternation."
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Leandro Perez, at this point of the narrative, could not help again interrupting the Devil: "Signor Asmodeus," said he, "I really cannot control my curiosity to know the meaning of something which attracts my attention, in spite of the pleasure I receive in listening to you. I see, in a room near us, two men fighting in their shirts, and several others in their dressing-gowns who are hastening to part them: tell me, I pray you, what it is all about." The Demon, ever ready to please the Student, without further pressing replied as follows:
"The persons whom you behold in their shirts, or so much of them as is left in the struggle, are two French authors; and the mediators in the strife are two Germans, a Fleming, and an Italian. They all lodge in that same house, which is a sort of lodging-house devoted exclusively to foreigners. One of these authors writes tragedies, and the other comedies. The former, disgusted for some reason or other with his own country, has come to Spain; and the latter also, discontented with his prospects in Paris, has performed the same journey, in the hope of finding in Madrid a better fortune.
"The tragic poet is vain and presumptuous, having obtained, despite the opinions of those whose breath should be fame, a tolerable reputation in his own country. To keep his Pegasus in wind, he rides it daily; and not being able to sleep this night, he commenced a piece, the subject of which is taken from the Iliad. He has finished one scene; and as his smallest fault is that, so common to his brethren, of cramming into other people's throats the trash which he has ejected, he rose from his table, where he was writing in his shirt, took a candle, and, as he was, went to rouse the comic author, who, making a better use of his time, was sleeping profoundly.
"The latter, awakened by the noise made at his door, went to open it to the other, who, with the air of one possessed, entered the room exclaiming: 'Down on your knees, my friend; down, and worship a genius whom Melpomene inspires. I have given birth to poetry—: but, what do I say?—I have done it! Apollo himself dictated the verses to me. Were I at Paris, I should go from house to house to read the precious lines; I only wait for day that I may charm with them our talented ambassador, and every other Frenchman who has the luck to be within Madrid; but, before I shew them to a soul, I come to recite them to you.'
The tragic poet at the comic author's door
"'I am much obliged by the preference,' replied the comic author, yawning with all his might; 'it is rather unlucky though, that you did not choose a better time. I went to bed extremely late,—can hardly keep my eyes unclosed,—and I will not answer for hearing all the verses you have to read to me, without tumbling to sleep again.' 'Oh! I will answer for that myself,' interrupted the tragic poet. 'Were you dead, the scene that I have just composed would recall you to life again. In my writings, there are none of your namby-pamby sentiments,—none of your common-place expressions, sustained alone by rhyme: masculine thoughts, and easy versification,move the heart and strike upon the mind. I am none of those wretched poetasters, whose pitiable creations glide upon the stage like shadows, and like them depart;—which go to Utica to amuse the Africans. My compositions, worthy to be consecrated with my statue in the library of Apollo Palatinus, draw crowds after thirty representations. But come,' added this modest poet, 'you shall hear the verses of which I wish to offer you the first incense.
Phoenix assists Achilles's captives
"'This is my tragedy,The Death of Patroclus. Scene the first, Brisëis and the other captives of Achilles appear. They tear their hair and beat their breasts, to express the grief with which they are filled by the death of Patroclus. Unable even to support themselves, utterly prostrated by despair, they fall upon the stage. This, you will say, is a little daring; but that is exactly what I aim at. Let the small fry who swim in the waters of Helicon keep within the narrow bounds of imitation, without daring to o'erleap them; it is well, there is prudence in their timidity: but for me, I love invention; andI hold that, to move and overcome your spectators, you must present to their minds images which they could never have expected.
"'The captives, then, are lying on the earth. Phoenix, governor of Achilles, is with them. He assists them to rise, one after another; and, having placed them on their feet, he commences the argument of the drama in these lines:—
Hector shall fall; and Troy itself be spreadIn ruins, to avenge Patroclus dead.Proud Agamemnon, Camelus the grave,Nestor the wise, and Eumelus the brave,Leontes, skilled to hurl the spear along,Smooth-tongued Ulysses, Diomed the strong,Arm with Achilles. Lo! that hero drivesTow'rds Ilium's gates—appalling Ilium's wives—His steeds immortal, urged across the plainSo swift, the eye toils after them with pain.But still he cries: Dear Xanthus, Balius, fly!And when around ten thousand corses lie,When pallid Trojans scamper off like fillies,Regain your camp, but not without Achilles.Xanthus replies, bowing his head: You mayBe sure, Achilles, we'll your will obey;But, while our pace with your impatience strives,Know that to you the fatal hour arrives—The ox-eyed Juno thus the steed enlightening,—And now the car moves with a speed quite frightening.The Greeks, beholding, utter cries of joy,So loud, they shake the very walls of Troy.Achilles, armed by Vulcan for the war,Appears more brilliant than the morning star;Or like the sun, when, in its bright career,It bursts on earth, dispelling night and fear;Or brilliant as the fires on mountains lighted,To guide poor swains, bewilder'd or benighted.[8]
[8]Priam va perdre Hector et sa superbe ville;Les Grecs veulent venger le compagnon d'Achille,Le fier Agamemnon, le divin Camélus,Nestor, pareil aux dieux, le vaillant Eumélus,Léonte, de la pique adroit à l'exercice,Le nerveux Diomède, et l'éloquent Ulysse.Achille s'y prépare, et déjà ce hérosPousse vers Ilium ses immortels chevaux;Pour arriver plus tôt où sa fureur l'entraîne,Quoique l'oeil qui les voit ne les suive qu'à peine,Il leur dit: Chers Xanthus, Balius, avancez;Et lorsque vous serez du carnage lassés,Quand les Troyens fuyant rentreront dans leur ville,Regagnez notre camp, mais non pas sans Achille.Xanthus baisse la tête, et répond par ces mots:Achille, vous serez content de vos chevaux,Ils vont aller au gré de votre impatience;Mais de votre trépas l'instant fatal s'avance.Junon aux yeux de boeuf ainsi le fait parler,Et d'Achille aussitôt le char semble voler.Les Grecs, en le voynt, de mille cris de joieSoudain font retentir le rivage de Troie.Ce prince, revêtu des armes de Vulcain,Paraît plus éclatant que l'astre du matin,Ou tel que le soleil, commençant sa carrière,S'élève pour donner au monde la lumière;Ou brillant comme un feu que les villageois fontPendant l'obscure nuit sur le sommet du mont.
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Priam va perdre Hector et sa superbe ville;Les Grecs veulent venger le compagnon d'Achille,Le fier Agamemnon, le divin Camélus,Nestor, pareil aux dieux, le vaillant Eumélus,Léonte, de la pique adroit à l'exercice,Le nerveux Diomède, et l'éloquent Ulysse.Achille s'y prépare, et déjà ce hérosPousse vers Ilium ses immortels chevaux;Pour arriver plus tôt où sa fureur l'entraîne,Quoique l'oeil qui les voit ne les suive qu'à peine,Il leur dit: Chers Xanthus, Balius, avancez;Et lorsque vous serez du carnage lassés,Quand les Troyens fuyant rentreront dans leur ville,Regagnez notre camp, mais non pas sans Achille.Xanthus baisse la tête, et répond par ces mots:Achille, vous serez content de vos chevaux,Ils vont aller au gré de votre impatience;Mais de votre trépas l'instant fatal s'avance.Junon aux yeux de boeuf ainsi le fait parler,Et d'Achille aussitôt le char semble voler.Les Grecs, en le voynt, de mille cris de joieSoudain font retentir le rivage de Troie.Ce prince, revêtu des armes de Vulcain,Paraît plus éclatant que l'astre du matin,Ou tel que le soleil, commençant sa carrière,S'élève pour donner au monde la lumière;Ou brillant comme un feu que les villageois fontPendant l'obscure nuit sur le sommet du mont.
"'I stop,' continued the tragic poet, 'to let you breathe a moment; for if I were to recite to you the whole of my scene at once, the beauty of my versification, and the great number of brilliant passages and sublime ideas that it contains, would smother you to a certainty. But remark the aptness of this comparison,—
Or brilliant as the fires on mountains lighted,To guide poor swains bewilder'd or benighted.
"'It is not all the world who could appreciate that; but you, who have mind, and a clearness of perception,—you must be enchanted with it.' 'I am so, doubtless,' replied the comic author, smiling contemptuously; 'nothing can be more beautiful; and I am persuaded you will not fail to describe, in your tragedy, the care taken by Thetis to drive away the Trojan flies which approach the body of Patroclus.' 'You may spare your jests as to that,' replied the tragic poet;—'an author who has talent may venture everything. The very incident you mention is perhaps the one most capable of being rendered into heroic verse; and I shall not lose the opportunity, you may depend upon it.
"'All my works,' he continued complacently, 'bear the impress of genius; so that when I read them it would delight you to witness the applause they elicit: I am compelled to stop after every verse, to receive its laudatory tribute. I remember that one day, at Paris, I was reading a tragedy in the house of a wealthy patron of literature, in which all the wits of the capital generally assemble about dinner-time, and in which I may say, without vanity, that I do not pass for a Pradon. The dowager countess of Vieille-Brune was there, a lady of exquisite taste—I am her favourite poet. Well, at the first scene, the hot tears ran down her cheeks; during the reading of my second act, she was obliged to change her handkerchief; her sobs were beyond her control in the third; at the end of the fourth she was nearly in hysterics; and I expected, at the catastrophe, that she would have absolutely died with the hero of my piece.'
"At these words, although the comic author endeavoured strenuously to preserve his gravity, a burst of laughter escaped him. 'Ah!' he exclaimed, 'how well do I recognize her ladyship by your description! The good countess is one who cannot endure comedy: so strong is her aversion for the merry muse, that she hurries from her box after the dagger or the bowl has done its work, that she may not lose an atom of her mimic grief. Tragedy is her pet passion; and be it good or bad, so long as it presents unhappy love, so surely may you bid her tears to flow. Honestly, did I pretend to the heroics, I should wish for other admirers than the countess.'
"'Oh! as to that, I have others too,' replied the tragic poet. 'I am the approved of thousands, male and female, of the highest rank——' 'I should also mistrust the suffrages of the quality,' interrupted the comic author; 'I should have no great confidence in their judgment: I will tell you why. Auditors of this description are, for the most part, too much occupied with themselves to pay great attention to the reading of a poem; or are caught for the moment by high-sounding verse, or the feeble delicacy of some sickly sentiment. Either is sufficient to induce their praise of an author's labours, whatever else of better they may lack. On the contrary, let but a line rustle their gentle ears too harshly, and it is enough that they exclaim against the piece, however good.'
"'Well!' resumed the lachrymose inditer, 'since you would have me suspicious of this tribunal, I rely on the applauses of the pit.' 'Bah! talk not to me of your pit,' replied the other; 'its judgment is guided by caprice. Stupidly won by the novelty of a first representation, it will be for months enraptured by a wretched piece. It is true that in the end it discovers its folly; and, then, it never forgives an author for having received from it an undeserved renown, or cheated it into mercy.'
"'That is a misfortune for which I have nothing to fear,' said the tragic poet; 'my pieces are reprinted as often as they are played. This, now, never occurs with comedies; printing exhibits their feebleness. Comedies being but trifles,—the lighter productions of mind....' 'Softly! my tragic friend; softly!' interrupted the other: 'you are getting somewhat warm. Speak, I beg of you, of comedy with less irreverence to me. Do you think, now, a comic piece less difficult to write than tragedy? Undeceive yourself! It is far less easy to make good men laugh, than it is to make them weep. Learn that a subject drawn from ordinary life requires talent of as high an order as do the stilted heroes of antiquity.'
"'I'faith,' cried the tragic poet with an air of raillery, 'I am delighted to hear you so express yourself.' 'Well! monsieur Calidas, to avoid disputation, I agree henceforth to as greatly admire your productions as I have heretofore despised them.' 'I care little for your contempt, monsieur Giblet,' hastily replied the comic author; 'and in return for your insolence, I will plainly tell you my opinion of the rubbish you have just been inflicting on me: your verse is a mixture of bombast and absurdity, and the ideas, although borrowed from Homer, have, in passing through your brain, become tinctured with its vulgarity. Achilles talks to his horses, and his horses reply to him; what nonsense! It is a pity they were not asses, for then you could have put into their mouths with propriety your splendid comparison of the village bonfire on the top of a mountain. It is doing no honour to the ancients to pillage them after this fashion: their works are undoubtedly filled with beauties; but it requires greater taste than you possess to make of them a fitting use, or to enable you to borrow from them to advantage.'
"'Since you have not sufficient elevation of soul,' retorted Giblet, 'to appreciate the merits of my poetry, and to punish you for having dared to criticise my scene, I will not read to you the remainder.' 'What, I wonder, have I done, that I should have been punished by being compelled to listen to the beginning?' replied Calidas. 'It well becomes you indeed to despise my comedies! Learn that the very worst that I could write will be clever compared with anything that you can compose, and that it is much easier to inflate the cheeks with hollow sentiments and sounding words, than it is to enlighten the mind by pointed wit or a delicate irony.'
"'Thank Heaven!' exclaimed the tragic poet, with an awful expression of disdain, 'if in its rigour it denies me your esteem, I may easily console myself for my misfortune. The court, however, thinks more favourably of my tragedies; and the pension with which in its grace it has been pleased——' 'Pshaw! think not to dazzle me with your pensions,' interrupted Calidas; 'I know too well how they may be obtained to esteem your works the more for that. And to prove to you your folly, in thinking more highly of yourself than of comic authors, and that it is easier to compose serious dramas than comic pieces, I am resolved if I return to France, and do not succeed in my own line, that I will descend to making tragedies.'
"'For a scribbler of farces,' said the tragic poet, 'you are not over modest.' 'For a versifier who only owes his reputation to borrowed plumes,' replied the comic author, 'you would fain have one think rather too highly of you.' 'You are an insolent scoundrel,' exclaimed the sombre genius. 'If I were not in your room, little monsieur Calidas, the catastrophe of this adventure should teach you to respect the buskin.' 'Let not that consideration restrain you, I entreat, lanky monsieur Giblet,' replied Calidas; 'if you wish toreceive a thrashing, I would as soon give it you in my own room as elsewhere.'
Calidas and Giblet come to blows
"Immediately, they seized each other by the throat and hair; and kicks and cuffs were exchanged with generous ardour. An Italian, who lay in a neighbouring chamber, having listened to the overture of this drama, and hearing the noise of the incidental combat, judged that it was quite time for the spectators to assemble when the play had begun. He rose, therefore, and out of compassion for the French authors, although Italian, he filled the house with his cries. On this the Fleming and the two Germans hastened with himself in their dressing-gowns to the theatre of strife, and the piece is, as you see, just terminating by the separation of the combatants."
"This squabble is amusing enough," said Don Cleophas. "But, it would appear from what you tell me that tragic writers in France imagine themselves to be much more important personages than those who devote themselves to comedy." "Certainly!" replied Asmodeus. "The former think themselves as much exalted over the latter, as are the stately heroes of tragedies above the intriguing servants of comic pieces." "Indeed! and on what do they found this opinion of themselves?" inquired the Student. "Is it then really so much more difficult to write the one than the other?" "The question you put to me," replied the Devil, "is one which has been a hundred times debated, and is so to this day. For myself, this is my decision, with all deference to those who differ from me in opinion. I say that it is not more easy to compose a comic than a tragic piece; for if it were so, we must conclude that a tragic poet would be more capable of writing a comedy, than the best comic author; the which is not borne out by experience. According to me, then, each of these two descriptions of poem requires a genius of a different character, but of an equal capability.
"It is time, however, to end this digression. I will therefore resume the thread of the history, which you so unceremoniously interrupted."
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Success had not attended the endeavours of the servants of Donna Theodora to prevent her being carried away; but they had at least opposed it with courage, and their resistance had been fatal to some of the companions of Alvaro Ponza. Among others, whose wounds had not permitted them to follow their comrades, there was a man, stretched almost lifeless on the sand, whom they recognized as one of Alvaro's own attendants. Perceiving that he still breathed, they carried him to the house, and spared no pains to restore him to his senses. In this they at last succeeded, although the quantity of blood which had escaped from his numerous wounds had reduced his stream of life to its lowest ebb, and left him extremely weak. To induce him to speak, they promised to take every care to prolong his days, and not to deliver him into the hands of justice, provided that he would inform them of the place to which his master had designed to take the Donna Theodora.
Gratified by these assurances, although the state to which he was reduced left him but small hope to profit by their realization, he rallied all his remaining strength, and, with a faltering voice, confirmed by his confession the information that Don Fabricio had received. He added, however, that Don Alvaro designed to conduct the widow of Cifuentes to Sassari, in the island of Sardinia, where he had a relation whose protection and power promised him a safe asylum.
Alvaro's attendant is carried away
The deposition of the dying man, for he expired a few hours afterwards, raised Mendoza and the Toledan from complete despair; and as their stay at Donna Theodora's seat was now useless, they at once returned to Valencia. After debating for some time on the steps most expedient to be taken, they resolved to seek their common enemy in his chosen retreat, and in a few days embarked, without attendants, at Denia, for Port Mahon, not doubting that they would there find some means of transport to the island of Sardinia. It so happened that scarcely had they reached their destined port, when they learned that a vessel freighted for Cagliari was about to sail, and in it they immediately secured a passage.
The vessel left the island of Minorca with breezes friendly to their hopes; but five or six hours after their departure there came on a calm, and night brought with it winds directly in their teeth; so that they were obliged to tack about and wait for a favourable change. Three days were thus passed in sailing without progress; when, on the fourth, about two hours after noon, they discovered a strange sail, all its canvas spread, and bearing down directly upon them. At first they took it for a merchantman, bound for the shores they steered from; but observing that it came within the range of cannon-shot without showing its colours, they began to fear it was a corsair.
They were not deceived: it was a Tunisian pirate, which approached them in full expectation that the Christians would yield without a blow. As it came near enough, however, for the corsairs to discern what was passing on board of their expected prey, and to observe that the sails were reefed and the guns run out, they guessed that the affair was likely to turn out more seriously than they had expected. They therefore shortened sail, wore round, hurriedly cleared the deck, and prepared for action.
A brisk exchange of shots soon commenced, and the Christians, taking advantage of the surprise which their unexpected resistance had occasioned, began to prevail over their opponent; but an Algerine pirate, larger and of heavier metal than either of the others, arriving in the middle of the action, took part with its brother of Tunis, and the Christians were thus placed between two fires.
The slave on the bow of the Algerine pirate ship
Discouraged by this unlooked-for circumstance, and feeling that it was useless to continue the unequal strife, they gradually slackened their fire, and at last it ceased altogether. On this a slave appeared on the bow of the Algerine vessel, who hailed them in their own language, bidding them, if they hoped for mercy, to strike to Algiers. A Turk then advanced, holding in his hand a green silk flag studded with silver crescents interlacing each other, which he waved in the air. The Christians, looking upon further resistance as hopeless, gave themselves up to all the grief that the idea of slavery inspires in the breasts of freemen, until the master of the vessel, fearing that a further delay of submission would only serve to irritate their barbarian conqueror, hauled down his colours, threw himself into a boat with some of his sailors, and went to surrender to the Algerine corsair.
Surrender
The latter immediately sent a portion of his crew on board the Spanish vessel to examine, or rather to pillage it of all that it contained. The Tunisian pirate gave similar orders to some of his men, so that all the passengers it contained were in an instant disarmed and plundered, and were shortly afterwards exchanged into the Algerine vessel, when the two pirates divided their prisoners by lot.
It would have been at least some consolation for Mendoza and his friend to have both fallen into the hands of the same corsair; they would have found their chains somewhat the less heavy to have borne them together; but Fortune, apparently disposed to make them feel the terrors of her caprice, allotted Don Fabricio to the pirate of Tunis, and Don Juan to his competitor of Algiers. Picture to yourself the grief of the two friends, when told that they must part. They threw themselves at the feet of the corsairs, and entreated them that they might not be separated. But their entreaties were vain; the barbarians before whom they knelt were too much accustomed to the sight of human misery not to be proof against the prayers of their present victims. On the contrary, judging by their demeanour that the two captives were men of wealth and station, and that they would consequently pay a weighty ransom, they were the more resolved to divide them.
Mendoza and Zarata, perceiving that they were in the power of men with hearts insensible to all but gain, turned towards each other, their looks expressing the depth of their affliction. But when the booty had been shared, and the Tunisian pirate prepared to return to his own vessel with his proportion, and the slaves which it included, they seemed as though they would expire with despair. Mendoza rushed into the arms of the Toledan, and embracing him, exclaimed: "Must we then separate? Cruel necessity! Is it not enough that we should be borne to slavery, and unavenged? Must we even be denied to bear in union the sorrows to which we are destined? Ah! Don Juan, what have we done that Heaven should thus visit us with its terrible wrath?" "Seek not elsewhere the cause of our disgrace," replied Don Juan: "I only am to blame. The death of two unfortunates, immolated to my revenge, although excused to mortal eyes, is deep offence to Heaven; and you, my friend, are punished for the fault of loving one who took upon himself the vengeance that belongs to God alone."
Mendoza and Zarata are separated
While they spoke thus, tears, strangers to the eyes of men, streamed down their cheeks, and sighs but choked their utterance. So touching was their grief, that those who shared their fate were yet as much affected by the sight as with their own misfortune. Not so the wretches who formed the crew of the Tunisian corsair. Perceiving that Mendoza was the last to quit the Algerine vessel, they tore him without ceremony from the arms of the Toledan; and, as they dragged him away, added blows to insult. "Adieu, dear friend," he cried: "adieu for ever! Donna Theodora is yet unavenged! and, parted from you, the miseries that these wretches prepare will be the least that slavery can bring to me."
Don Juan was unable to reply to the exclamations of his friend; the treatment that he saw him endure filled his breast with a horror which deprived him of speech. And so, Signor Don Cleophas, as the course of my narrative requires that we should follow the Toledan, we will leave Don Fabricio, in solemn silence, to be conducted on board of the Tunisian pirate.
The Algerine returned toward his port, where, having arrived, he conducted his slaves to the house of the superintending basha, and thence to the public market. An officer of the Dey, Mezzomorto, purchased Don Juan for his master; and the new slave was at once employed as an assistant in the gardens of the harem. This occupation, although laborious for a gentleman, was however, the less disagreeable to Don Juan, on account of the solitude to which it left him; for, situated as he was, it was a pleasure to have at least the liberty of indulging his own melancholy thoughts. Incessantly occupied with his misfortunes, his mind, far from endeavouring to lighten them with hope, seemed to delight in dwelling on the past, and to inspire his bosom with gloomiest presages for the future.
Mezzomorto approaches Zarata in the garden
One day he was occupied with his work, murmuring the while one of his now usual songs of sorrow, when the Dey, who was walking in the garden, came upon him without being perceived, and stopped to listen. Pleased with his voice, and moved by curiosity, he approached the captive and asked his name. The Toledan replied, that he was called Alvaro; for, following the usual custom with slaves, of concealing their station, he thought fit to change his name, and, as the outrage upon Donna Theodora was ever uppermost in his thoughts, the name of the detested Alvaro had come soonest to his lips when suddenly asked his own. Mezzomorto, who spoke the Spanish language tolerably well, then questioned him as to the customs of Spain, and particularly as to the conduct observed by those of its cavaliers who would render themselves agreeable to their ladies;—to all of which Don Juan replied in such a manner as to greatly please the Dey.
"Alvaro," said he to him at last, "you appear to be intelligent; and I judge you to have been a man of rank in your own country: but, however that may be, you are fortunate enough to please me, and I will honour you with my confidence." At these words, Don Juan prostrated himself before the Dey, and with well-affected humility, kissed the hem of his master's robe, and after touching with it his eyes and forehead, arose, and stood before him in silence.
"To begin by giving you proof of my regard," resumed the Dey, "you know, that in my seraglio, I have some of the fairest women which Europe can offer for my pleasures. Among these, however, there is one whose beauty is beyond compare; nor do I believe that the Grand Signor himself possesses so exquisite a creature, although for him the winds of heaven daily waft ships with their lovely burden from all quarters of the globe. In her visage the dazzling sun seems reflected, and her form is graceful as the rose's stem which grows in the gardens of Eram. My soul is enchanted with her perfections.
The unhappy beauty of the seraglio
"Alas! this miracle of nature, all beauteous as she is, maintains and nourishes the deepest grief; which neither time nor all the efforts of my love can dissipate. Although fortune has yielded her to my will, I have ever respected her grief, and controlled my desires; and unlike those who, placed as I am, seek but the momentary gratifications of sense, I fain would win her heart, and have striven to gain it by respectful attentions, such as the vilest Mussulman that lives would feel degraded to offer to the fairest Christian slave.
"Still, all my cares seem but to add to her affliction; and I will not disguise that its obstinacy begins to weary me. The sense of slavery is not imprinted in the minds of others of my slaves in characters so deep, but that a look of favour from myself can soon efface or gild them; so that I may well tire of this incessant grief. Nevertheless, before I abandon myself to the passion which transports me, I would make one last endeavour to touch her insensible heart; and I will leave this task to you. As my fair slave is Christian, and even of your own country, she may confide in you, and you may persuade her to my wishes better than another. Go, then! tell her of my riches and my power; tell her that among my many slaves, I care for only her; and, if it must be so, bid her even hope that she may one day be the honoured wife of Mezzomorto. Tell her that I would rather win her love, than receive the hand of a Sultana from the grace of his Highness the Sultan himself."
Don Juan threw himself a second time before the Dey; and although not over-delighted with this commission, assured him that he would do his utmost to execute it to his satisfaction. "Enough!" replied Mezzomorto, "leave your work and follow me. I am about, contrary to our usages, to permit you privately to see this slave. But, tremble, if you dare abuse the confidence I place in you! Tortures, such as even were never yet inflicted by the Turks, shall punish your temerity. Strive to overcome your own sorrows, and dream of liberty as the reward of ending the sufferings that I endure." Don Juan threw down his hoe, and silently followed the Dey, who, when they entered the palace, left him, that he might prepare the afflicted captive to receive his messenger of love.
The unhappy beauty salutes Mezzomorto
She was with two aged slaves, who retired as soon as Mezzomorto appeared. The beauteous slave herself saluted the Dey with great respect, but she could not behold him without greater fear, as indeed had ever been the case when he presented himself before her. He perceived it, and to reassure her mind: "Amiable captive," he said, "I come but to inform you that among my slaves there is a Spaniard with whom you would perhaps be glad to converse. If you wish to see him, I will give him permission to speak with you, and even alone."
As the lovely slave expressed no objection to receive hercountryman: "I go," resumed the Dey, "to send him to you: may he, by the information he conveys, serve to relieve you of your troubles!" He left her as he spoke; and as he went out, meeting the Toledan, said to him in a low voice: "Enter! and when you have communicated what I desire, come to my cabinet and inform me of the result."
Zarata entered as he was directed, closed the door, and bowed before the favoured slave, who returned his salute, without either particularly observing the other. When, however, their eyes at last met, a cry of surprise and joy escaped them both: "Oh Heaven!" exclaimed the Toledan, approaching the captive, "is it not a vision that deceives mine eyes? Can it be the Donna Theodora whom I see?" "Ah! Don Juan," ere he had uttered these words, cried the lady he addressed, "is it indeed yourself who speaks to me?" "Yes, madam," replied the Toledan, while he fell upon his knee and tenderly kissed her hand, "it is Don Juan. Let these tears, that my eyes, rejoiced to behold you again, cannot restrain; let this transport, that you alone can excite in the heart of him who kneels before you, witness for my presence! I murmur no longer against my destiny, since it conducts me to you—Alas! what does my ecstacy inspire? I forget that you are in chains. By what unhappy chance do I find you here? How have you escaped from the frantic passion of Alvaro? Ah, what horror fills my soul to mention his very name! How do I tremble to learn the fate for which Heaven reserved you, when it abandoned you to his perfidy!"
Don Juan kisses Donna Theodora's hand
"Heaven," replied the Donna Theodora, "has avenged me on Alvaro Ponza. Had I but time to relate to you——" "Time!" interrupted Don Juan,—"you have plenty, and to spare. The Dey himself permitted me to see you, and, what may well surprise you, alone. Profit by the happy moments which his confidence affords, and inform me of all that has happened to you since you were carried off by Alvaro." "And who, then, told you that it was by him I was taken away?" inquired Donna Theodora. "Alas! madam, I know it but too well," replied the Toledan. He then shortly narrated the manner in which he had become acquainted with Alvaro's design, and had witnessed its execution; how Mendoza and himself had followed him in the hope of preserving her from his violence, or to revenge it; and of their unfortunate, but for this meeting, encounter with the pirates, and its consequence.
As soon as he had finished this recital, Donna Theodorabegan the story of heir own sufferings, as follows: "I need not dwell upon my astonishment at finding myself seized by a masked band of ruffians—indeed, I had hardly time to wonder at the outrage, for I swooned in the arms of the first who laid hold of me; and when I recovered my senses, which must have been after the lapse of some hours, I found myself alone with Agnes, one of my own attendants, in a cabin on the poop of a vessel, in the open sea, sailing with all its canvass spread before the wind.
"The perfidious Agnes, on perceiving my tears, exhorted me to bear my misfortune with patience; but from a few words which dropped from her as she spoke, I was not long in divining that she was in the confidence of Alvaro, who shortly afterwards appeared. Throwing himself at my feet: 'Madam,' he exclaimed, 'pardon to a too fond lover the means by which he has dared to possess himself of your person! You know how deeply I have loved you, and how ardently I disputed with Mendoza for your heart, up to the fatal day when you declared your preference for him. Had my passion been the cold and empty feeling that mortals dignify with the name of love, I might have vanquished it as easily as such a feeling is inspired; but my misfortune was beyond consolation. I live but to adore those charms; and, despised though I be, I cannot free myself from their spell. But, madam, let not the fury of my passion alarm you! I have not deprived you of liberty, that I may rob you of honour; I seek only that, in the retreat unto which we are hastening, a sacred tie may unite our hearts for ever.'
"He continued in this strain for some time, but in terms which I cannot remember. To hear him, it would have seemedthat, in forcing me to wed him, he did me no wrong; and that where I saw but an insolent ravisher, I should have beheld alone an impassioned lover. As, however, while he spoke thus, I answered him but with tears, and exhibited an evident despair, he left me; but not without making signs to Agnes, which I plainly understood as directions for her to second, as well as she was able, the splendid arguments by which he had sought to dazzle my weak understanding.
"She did her best; representing to me that, after the éclat of an abduction, I could not do otherwise than graciously accept the offered hand of Alvaro Ponza; that, whatever aversion I might feel for his excessive tenderness, my reputation demanded of my heart this sacrifice. As, however, the necessity which she painted, of a hated marriage, was not exactly the way to dry my tears, I still remained inconsolable; and Agnes had exhausted all her eloquence, when we suddenly heard upon the deck a noise which attracted the attention of us both.
"This noise, which proceeded from Alvaro's people, was caused by the apparition of a large ship, which was sweeping with its wings all spread upon us; and from which, as our vessel was by no means so good a sailer, there was no escaping. Down it came, and we soon heard cries of 'Lie to, and send a boat aboard!' But Alvaro Ponza and his men, who knew what they had to expect from yielding, chose rather to die, or at least to run the chance of a combat. The action was sharp, but of short duration: I cannot pretend to give you its details, and will therefore only say, that Alvaro and every one of his crew perished, after fighting like men who preferred death to slavery. For myself and Agnes, we were removed into the other vessel, which belonged to Mezzomorto, and was commanded by Aby Aly Osman, one of his officers.
Alvaro and his crew are killed
"Aby Aly looked at me for some time, with much surprise; and recognizing me, by my dress, for a Spaniard, he said to me in almost pure Castilian: 'Moderate your grief, lady, for having fallen into slavery: it is a consolation in our woes to know that they are inevitable. But what do I speak of?—Woe! Happiness alone awaits you. You are far too lovely for the homage of Christian dogs. Heaven never made you for the pleasure of the miserable wretches whom we trample under foot. You were formed to receive the admiration of the men of the world; a Mussulman alone is worthy to possess such beauty. I shall return at once,' he added, 'to Algiers. Albeit I have made no other prize, I know our Dey too well not to be persuaded that with you I shall not be all unwelcome. I have no great fear that he will condemn my impatience to place within his hands a beauty whom our Prophet must have sent on earth expressly for his enjoyment, and to be the light of his harem.'
"These compliments, Don Juan, told me too plainly all I had to fear, and my tears flowed the faster as he spoke. Aby Aly was pleased, however, to interpret my fears after his own fashion; and, laughing at my timidity, gave orders to sail towards Algiers. Never was port so dreaded by the ship-bound habitant of ocean! Sometimes I threw myself on my knees, and implored Heaven for its protection; at others, my doubting spirit wished for the assistance of man in Christian guise who might come to my rescue, or sink the pirate vessel, which contained me, in the waves,—or that these in their mercy would engulph us. Then, again, I hoped that my tears, and the sorrow which caused them, would render me so unsightly that the tyrant to whom they bore me might fly my sight with horror. Vain wishes, that my modesty had formed! We arrived at the dreaded port; they conducted me to the palace; I appeared before Mezzomorto.
"I know not what Aby Aly said on presenting me to his master, nor what the latter replied, for they spoke in their own tongue; but I thought I could perceive by the looks and gestures of the Dey that I had the misfortune to please him. But what, after they had conversed thus for some time, was addressed to me in my own language, completed my despair by confirming me in the opinion I had formed.