Authors: Mary Shelley
Castruccio listened impatiently, and cried:--"Yet who would
not rather be a knight, than one of those peasants, whose minds are
as grovelling as their occupations?"
"That would not I," replied Guinigi fervently;
"how must the human mind be distorted, which can delight in
that which is ill, in preference to the cultivation of the earth,
and the contemplation of its loveliness! What a strange mistake is
it, that a peasant's life is incompatible with intellectual
improvement! Alas! poor wretches; they are too hard-worked now to
learn much, and their toil, uncheered by the applause of their
fellow-creatures, appears a degradation; yet, when I would picture
happiness upon earth, my imagination conjures up the family of a
dweller among the fields, whose property is secure, and whose time
is passed between labour and intellectual pleasures. Such now is my
fate. The evening of my life steals gently on; and I have no
regrets for the past, no wish for the future, but to continue as I
am."
"Yes," cried Castruccio, "You have passed through
life, and know what it is; but I would rather, while alive, enter
my tomb, than live unknown and unheard of. Is it not fame that
makes men gods? Do not urge me to pass my days in indolence; I must
act, to be happy,--to be any thing. My father did not wish me to
become a farmer and a vinedresser; but to tread in his steps, and
go beyond them, and that is my purpose, which I would die to
attain."
A year passed while Castruccio still lived under the low roof of
Guinigi. He found that it was no vain boast, that this noble ate
the bread that he had sown: for he saw him hold the plough, trim
his vines, and enter into all the labours of the husbandman. There
is something picturesque in the toil of an Italian peasant. It is
not, as in more northern climates, where cold, and wet, and care
are endured, to be scantily repaid; and their unceasing anxiety is
often terminated by the destruction of their crops through the
severity of their climate. Guinigi and his fellow-labourers rose
with the sun, which, ascending from the ocean, illumined the wide
plain with its slant beams. The most beautiful vegetation
luxuriated around them: the strips of land were planted with Indian
corn, wheat and beans; they were divided, in some places by rows of
olives, in others by elms or Lombardy poplars, to which the vines
clung. The hedges were of myrtle, whose aromatic perfume weighed
upon the sluggish air of noon, as the labourers reposed, sleeping
under the trees, lulled by the rippling of the brooks that watered
their grounds. In the evening they ate their meal under the open
sky; the birds were asleep, but the ground was alive with
innumerable glow-worms, and the air with the lightning-like
fire-flies, small, humming crickets, and heavy beetles: the west
had quickly lost its splendour, but in the fading beams of sunset
sailed the boat-like moon, while Venus, as another satellite to
earth, beamed just above the crescent hardly brighter than itself,
and the outline of the rugged Apennines was marked darkly
below.
Their harvests were plenteous and frequent. The moving of the
grass was quickly followed in June by the reaping, and the
well-trodden threshing floor, such as Virgil describes it, received
the grain; then came the harvest of the Indian corn; and last the
glorious vintage, when the beautiful dove-coloured oxen of Lombardy
could hardly drag the creaking wains laden with the fruit.
Castruccio attended Guinigi in his labours; and Guinigi, resting
on his spade, would moralize on all around him, and win the ardent
imagination of the youth to follow his flights. All in the country
bore for him the immediate stamp of divine and eternal beauty; he
knew every flower of the field, and could describe their various
habits, and what insects best loved to suck their nectar. He knew
the form and the life of every little being of that peopled region,
where the sun seems to quicken every atom into life; and that which
was insignificant to common eyes, appeared to him to be invested
with strange attributes and uncommon loveliness.
Again Guinigi sat, Castruccio beside him, at the door of his
cot, watching the evening work of the labourers, as the wine was
drawn off from the last vat. Arrigo, now a year older, was helping
them: Castruccio said--"Instead of six months I have given you
twelve, and I have not mentioned my future destiny; indeed we have
been employed so pleasantly during the summer, that I almost forgot
it. But I cannot live another year among these hills; you know not
what bitterness I feel at heart, when I hear the clash of arms from
the castle, I, who am wearing away an ignoble youth."
Guinigi smiled, and replied, "I have reflected for you, and
I have dived into your secret thoughts, although you have not
spoken. To- morrow we will make a journey; and you shall soon be
introduced to a man who will bring you into that life whose promise
of glory is so attractive to you. So bid farewell to these hills;
you will not see them again for many years."
This hope stole sleep from the eyes of Castruccio that night.
His imagination, which had lately rested on sickles, and wains, and
vines, and the simple philosophy of Guinigi, now again fled to its
wonted track, and entered upon what he conceived to be a more
glorious world. Fleecy clouds hid the full moon, and the world was
invested by a faint light that gradually opened into day.
Castruccio saw the horses led saddled to the door, and he hastened
to join Guinigi. Before he departed he kissed affectionately the
sleeping Arrigo, and said: "I fear those fair eyes will be
dimmed with tears, when he hears that I am not to return. Sweet
boy! I love you as a brother, and hope some future day to shew that
love in something more than words."
Guinigi smiled at the aspiring spirit of Castruccio; he smiled
to perceive that, still wanting protection, still a boy, his
thoughts always dwelt on the power which he would one day acquire,
and the protection he would then afford to others.
They rode silently along the well known road that led to Padua:
after resting their horses at this town, they continued their way
to Venice. Who knows not Venice? its streets paved with the eternal
ocean, its beautiful domes and majestic palaces? It is not now as
it was when Castruccio visited it; now the degenerate inhabitants
go "crouching and crab-like through their sapping
streets:" then they were at the height of their glory, just
before the aristocratical government was fixed, and the people were
struggling for what they lost--liberty.
Guinigi and his young companion were silent during their long
ride. Guinigi was on the eve of seeing the friends of his warlike
youth; and perhaps his memory recalled those scenes. Castruccio
dreamed of futurity; and the uncertainty of his destiny only gave
more scope to his imagination, as he figured the glorious part
which he flattered himself he was about to act on the great
theatre. At length they arrived on the shore of the Laguna, and
entered the gondola which was to convey them to the city. Guinigi
then addressed the youth:--"You trust your fate to me; and I
must explain to you the plan that I have formed concerning you,
that you may judge whether I merit the entire confidence you shew
yourself inclined to repose in me. You know, my dear Castruccio,
that poor Italy is distracted by civil brawls, and how little
honour one who is exiled as you are from his native town, can
acquire, to whatever party he may adhere. His most arduous
exertions may be sacrificed to political intrigue, and assuredly he
will be repaid with ingratitude alone, whatever power he serves. In
addition, a disgraceful political craft now reigns in the palaces
of the Italian princes, which renders them ill schools for a youth,
who, while he may, ought to preserve the innocence and sincerity of
which the world will but too quickly deprive him. You would
inevitably be disgusted by the narrow views, the treachery, and
beggarly fraud, that dwell in the hearts, and influence the actions
of our proudest nobles.
"You must therefore begin your knightly career out of
Italy. The honours that you will obtain from a foreign sovereign,
will ennoble you in the eyes of your countrymen, and will enable
you, when you return, to judge impartially of the state of your
country, and to choose, without being influenced by narrow
party-feeling, the course you will pursue. It is with this view
that I am going to introduce you to an old friend of mine, an
Englishman, who is about to return to his native soil. I knew him
many years ago, when he accompanied Charles of Anjou to Italy. A
long time has elapsed since Sir Ethelbert Atawel returned to
England; but, upon the event of a new king's succession to the
throne, he was chosen, as a person well acquainted with the customs
of the holy court, to be the chief of an embassy to the Pope.
Having discharged his mission, he has crossed the Alps to take a
last farewell of his Italian friends, before he proceeds to assume
a distinguished part in his own country. I shall consign you, my
young friend, to the guidance of this noble gentleman. We have now
been separated for nearly twenty years; but our attachment did not
arise from casual intercourse alone; we esteemed one another, we
bound ourselves one to the other by vows; and, although at this
distance of time, life has much changed its appearance to both of
us, yet I swear I would keep to the letter all that I vowed to him,
and I believe that he will do the same by me.
"Another motive influences me in sending you to England.
You have a rich relation there named Alderigo, who requested Atawel
to enquire for the various branches of the exiled Antelminelli, and
in particular for your father. It may well appear from the
earnestness of his enquiries, that, if you go to England, you will
find yourself neither friendless nor poor. I am an exile like you,
and like you I am destitute of all resources, and am saved from
embarrassment only by those labours in which I fortunately take a
pride. I know that it would not be agreeable to you to be dependent
on the favour of Atawel; but you are differently circumstanced with
regard to your relation; and I believe him to have both the power
and the will to serve you."
The gondola entered Canale Grande, and rested at the steps of a
noble palace. Castruccio had no time to comment upon the relation
of Guinigi; but followed him silently through the stately
apartments, hung with silk and tapestry, and paved with marble,
into the banqueting hall, where the owner of the palace sat
surrounded by the aristocracy of Venice. The childish mind of
Castruccio shrunk into itself, when he saw the satined and
gold-laced state of these nobles, and then glanced his eye on the
dignified form of his companion clothed in the mean habiliments of
an Italian peasant: but his shame was turned to pride and
astonishment, when he found this homely- looking man received with
reverence, and embraced with affection, by this lordly assembly.
The most cordial salutes echoed from the ends of the hall, as they
all pressed round to welcome their old friend and counsellor, to
whose wisdom and calm courage many of them owed the most important
obligations. There was a sweetness in the smile of Guinigi, that
elevated him in appearance above other men, a sensibility beaming
in his eye which added grace to his quick and expressive motions,
and a gentleness that tempered the frankness of his manners. He
introduced Castruccio to the nobles. The youth was beautiful to a
wonder, and experienced a flattering reception from the friends of
his protector.
"I shall remain but a few days in Venice," said
Guinigi to his host; "but I will visit you again before I
retire to my farm; at present you must tell me where I can find
your English visitor, Sir Ethelbert Atawel, for my business is with
him."
A man now arose, and advanced from a retired part of the room;
his person formed a strange contrast to the sun-burnt faces and
black eyes of the Italians who were around him. He had the round
Saxon features, moulded with uncommon delicacy; his light hair
slightly shaded his fair temples, and his slender person denoted
elegance rather than power; his countenance bore the expression of
much thought, of thoughts moulded by an enquiring, yet a gentle
mind. He advanced towards Guinigi; his lips were almost convulsed;
a tear stole into his eye, as he grasped his hand, and said:
"You do not forget me?"
Guinigi replied with trembling emphasis, "Never!"--the
hearts of the friends were full, they took leave of the company,
and descended to the gondola, that without spectators they might
express their remembered affection.
CASTRUCCIO spent several days with his friend at Venice. Guinigi
and Atawel were constantly together, and Castruccio was thrown to a
great degree into the society of the Venetian nobles. Having been
for a year the constant companion of Guinigi, the contrast between
him and these men struck him forcibly. The mind of the
philosophical exile was fraught with a natural wisdom, a freedom
from prejudice, and a boldness of thought, that suited the
enthusiasm, while it corrected the narrow views of Castruccio. But
these nobles were full of party spirit, and a never resting desire,
to aggrandize first themselves, and secondly their native town, in
opposition to the rest of the world. They were to themselves the
centre of the universe, and men and nations rose and set only for
them. As Galileo was persecuted for saying that the earth moved
attendant on the sun, thus demonstrating the relative
insignificance of our globe; so they would have pursued with
excessive hatred any one who should have pointed out to them their
true station in relation to their fellow-creatures. They were in no
danger of hearing such disagreeable truths from Guinigi: he was
content not to be deceived himself by the false shadows thrown from
society; but with that amenity which was his characteristic, he
adapted his counsels to the ideas of others, and allowed those whom
he could not hope to new mould, to sleep in their pleasant
dreams.