Italian Letters, Vols. I and II by William Godwin

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There is no situation in which we stand in greater need of sympathy and
consolation, than in those moments of forlornness and desertion to which
the poor Matilda imagines herself reduced. At these times my friendship
has been most unwearied in its exertions. I have answered sigh with
sigh, and mingled my tears with those of the lovely mourner. Believe me,
Ferdinand, this has not been entirely affectation and hypocrisy. There
is a vein of sensibility in the human heart, that will not permit us to
behold an artless and an innocent distress, at least when surrounded
with all the charms of beauty, without feeling our souls involuntarily
dilated, and our eyes unexpectedly swimming in tears.

But I have another source of disquietude which is unaccompanied with any
alleviating circumstances. A letter from the count de St. Julian to his
Matilda has just been conveyed to my hands. It is filled with the most
affecting and tender complaints of her silence that can possibly be
imagined. He has too exalted a notion of the fair charmer to attribute
this to lightness and inconstancy. His inventive fancy conjures up a
thousand horrid phantoms, and surrounds the mistress of his soul with
I know not what imaginary calamities. But that passage of the whole
epistle that overwhelms me most, is one, in which, in spite of all the
anguish of his mind, in spite of appearances, he expresses the most
unsuspecting confidence in his false and treacherous friend. He still
recommends me to his Matilda as her best protector and surest guardian.
Ah, my St. Julian, how didst thou deserve to be cursed with an
associate, hollow and deceitful as Rinaldo?

Yes, marquis, in spite of all the arguments you have alledged to me upon
the subject, I still regard my first and youthful friend, as the most
exalted and the foremost of human beings. You may talk of pride, vanity,
and stoicism, the heart that listens to the imputation feels its
sophistry. It is not vanity, for his virtuous actions are rather
studiously hid from observation, than ostentatiously displayed. Is it
pride? It is a pride that constitutes the truest dignity. It is a pride
worthy of heroes and of gods. What analogy does it bear with the pride
of avarice, and the pride of rank; how is it similar to the haughty
meanness of patronage, and the insatiable cravings of ambition?

But I must not indulge to reflexions like these. It is to no purpose for
the disinterested tenderness, the unstoical affection of my St. Julian
to start up in array before me. Hence remorse, and all her kindred
passions! I am cruel, obdurate, and unrelenting. Yes, most amiable of
men, you might as well address your cries to the senseless rocks. You
might as well hope with your eloquent and soft complainings to persuade
the crocodile that was ready to devour you. I have passed the Rubicon.
I have taken the irrevocable step. It is too late, ah, much too late to
retreat!

Letter XIV

_The Marquis of San Severino to the Marquis of Pescara_

_Naples_

Joy, uninterrupted, immortal joy to my dear Rinaldo. May all your days
be winged with triumph, and all your nights be rapture. Believe me, I
feel the sincerest congratulation upon the desired event of your long
expected marriage. My lord, you have completed an action that deserves
to be recorded in eternal brass. Why should politics be confined to the
negotiations of ambassadors, and the cabinets of princes? I have often
revolved the question, and by all that is sacred I can see no reason for
it. Is it natural that the unanimating and phlegmatic transactions of
a court should engage a more unwearied attention, awaken a brighter
invention, or incite a more arduous pursuit than those of love? When
beauty solicits the appetite, when the most ravishing tenderness and
susceptibility attract the affections, it is then that the heart is most
distracted and regardless, and the head least fertile in artifice and
stratagem.

My joy is the more sincere, as I was compelled repeatedly to doubt of
your perseverance. What sense was there in that boyish remorse, and
those idle self-reproaches, in which you frequently employed yourself?
No, Rinaldo, a man ought never to enter upon an heroical and arduous
undertaking without being perfectly composed, and absolutely sure of
himself. What a pitiful figure would my friend have made, had he stopped
in the midway, and let go the angelic prize when it was already within
his grasp? If it had not been for my repeated exhortations, if I had
not watched over you like your guardian genius, would you have been now
flushed with success, and crowned with unfading laurel?

Letter XV

_The Count de St. Julian to the Marquis of Pescara_

_Livorno_

My lord,

I hoped before this time to have presented before you the form of
that injured friend, which, if your heart is not yet callous to every
impression, must be more blasting to your sight, than all the chimeras
that can be conjured up by a terrified imagination, or a guilty
conscience. I no sooner received the accursed intelligence at Zamora,
than I flew with the speed of lightning. I permitted no consideration
upon earth to delay me till I arrived at Alicant. But the sea was less
favourable to the impatience of my spirit. I set sail in a boisterous
and unpromising season. I have been long tossed about at the mercy of
the ocean. I thank God, after having a thousand times despaired of it,
that I have at length set foot in a port of Italy. It is distant
indeed, but the ardour of my purpose were sufficient to cut short all
intermission.

My lord, I trusted you as my own soul. No consideration could have moved
me to entertain a moment's suspicion of your fidelity. I placed in your
hand the most important pledge it ever was my fortune to possess. I
employed no guard. I opened to you an unsuspecting bosom, and you have
stung me to the heart. I gave you the widest opportunity, and it is
through my weak and groundless confidence that you have reached me. You
have employed without scruple all those advantages it put into your
hands. You have undermined me at your ease. I left you to protect my
life's blood, my heart of heart, from every attack, to preserve the
singleness of her affections, and the constancy of her attachment. It
was yours to have breathed into her ear the sighs of St. Julian. It was
yours ambitiously to expatiate upon his amiable qualities. You were
every day to have added fuel to the flame. You were to have presented
Matilda to my arms, more beautiful, more tender, more kind, than she had
ever appeared. From this moment then, let the name of trust be a by-word
for the profligate to scoff at! Let the epithet of friend be a mildew to
the chaste and uncorrupted ear! Let mutual confidence be banished from
the earth, and men, more savage than the brute, devour each other!

Was it possible, my lord, that you should dream, that the benefits you
had formerly conferred upon me, could deprive my resentment of all its
sting under the present provocation! If you did, believe me, you were
most egregiously mistaken. It is true I owed you much, and heaven
has not cursed me with a heart of steel. What bounds did I set to my
gratitude? I left my natal shore, I braved all the dangers of the ocean,
I fought in foreign climes the power of requital. I fondly imagined that
I could never discharge so vast obligations. But the invention of your
lordship is more fertile than mine. You have found the means to blot
them in a moment. Yes, my lord, from henceforth all contract between
us is canceled. You have set us right upon our first foundations.
Friendship, affection, pity, I give you to the winds! Come to my bosom,
unmixed malignity, black-boiling revenge! You are now the only inmates
welcome to my heart.

Oh, Rinaldo, that character once so dear to me, that youth over whose
opening inclinations I watched with so unremitting care, is it you that
are the author of so severe a misfortune? I held you to my breast. I
poured upon your head all that magazine of affection and tenderness,
with which heaven had dowered me. Never did one man so ardently love
another. Never did one man interest himself so much in another's truth
and virtue, in another's peace and happiness. I formed you for heroism.
I cultivated those features in your character which might have made
you an ornament to your country and mankind. I strewed your path with
flowers, I made the couch beneath you violets and roses. Hear me, yet
hear me! Learn to perceive all the magnitude of your crime. You have
murdered your friend. You have wounded him in the tenderest part. You
have seduced the purest innocence and the most unexampled truth. For
is it possible that Matilda, erewhile the pattern of every spotless
excellence, could have been a party in the black design?

But it is no longer time for the mildness of censure and the sobriety of
reproach. I would utter myself in the fierce and unqualified language of
invective. You have sinned beyond redemption. I would speak daggers.
I would wring blood from your heart at every word. But no; I will not
waste myself in angry words. I will not indulge to the bitterness of
opprobrium. Nothing but the anguish of my soul should have wrung from
me these solitary lines. Nothing but the fear of not surviving to my
revenge, should have prevented me from forestalling them in person.--I
will meet thee at Cerenzo.

Letter XVI

_The Marquis of San Severino to the Marchioness of Pescara_

_Cerenzo_

Madam,

I am truly sorry that it falls to my lot to communicate to you the
distressing tidings with which it is perfectly necessary you should be
acquainted. The marquis, your husband, and my most dear friend, has
this morning fallen in a duel at this place. I am afraid it will be no
alleviation of the unfortunate intelligence, if I add, that the hand by
which he fell, was that of the count de St. Julian.

His lordship left Cosenza, I understand, with the declared intention of
honouring me with a visit at Naples. He accordingly arrived at my palace
in the evening of the second day after he left you. He there laid before
me a letter he had received from the count, from which it appeared that
the misunderstanding was owing to a rivalship of no recent date in the
affections of your ladyship. It is not my business to enter into the
merits of the dispute. You, madam, are doubtless too well acquainted
with the laws of modern honour, pernicious in many instances, and which
have proved so fatal to the valuable life of the marquis, not to know
that the intended rencounter, circumstanced as it was, could not
possibly have been prevented.

As we were informed that the count de St. Julian was detained by
sickness at Livorno, we continued two days longer at Naples before we
set out for our place of destination at Cerenzo. We arrived there on the
evening of the twenty-third, and the count de St. Julian the next day
at noon. We were soon after waited upon in form by signor Hippolito
Borelli, who had been a fellow student with each of these young noblemen
at the university of Palermo. He requested an interview with me, and
informing me that he attended the count in quality of second, we began
to adjust those minutiae, which are usually referred to the decision of
those who exercise that character.

The count and the marquis had fixed their quarters at the two principal
hotels of this place. Of consequence there was no sort of intercourse
between them during the remainder of the day. In the evening we were
attended by the baron of St. Angelo, who had heard by chance of our
arrival. We spent the remainder of the day in much gaiety, and I
never saw the marquis of Pescara exert himself more, or display more
collectedness and humour, than upon this occasion. After we separated,
however, he appeared melancholy and exhausted. He was fatigued with the
repeated journies he had performed, and after having walked up and down
the room, for some time, in profound thought, he retired pretty early to
his chamber.

The next day at six in the morning we repaired according to appointment
to the ramparts. We found the count de St. Julian and his friend arrived
before us. As we approached, the marquis made a slight congee to the
count, which was not returned by the other. "My lord," cried the
marquis,--"Stop," replied his antagonist, in a severe and impatient
tone. "This is no time for discussions. It was not that purpose that
brought me hither." My lord of Pescara appeared somewhat hurt at so
peremptory and unceremonious a rejoinder, but presently recovered
himself. Each party then took his ground, and they fired their pistols
without any other effect, than the shoulder of the count being somewhat
grazed by one of the balls.

Signor Borelli and myself now interposed, and endeavoured to compromise
the affair. Our attempt however presently appeared perfectly fruitless.
Both parties were determined to proceed to further action. The marquis,
who at first had been perfectly calm, was now too impatient and eager to
admit of a moment's delay. The count, who had then appeared agitated and
disturbed, now assumed a collected air, a ferociousness and intrepidity,
which, though it seemed to wait an opportunity of displaying itself, was
deaf as the winds, and immoveable as the roots of Vesuvius.

They now drew their swords. The passes of both were for some time
rendered ineffectual. But at length the marquis, from the ardour of his
temper seemed to lay aside his guard, and the count de St. Julian, by
a sudden thrust, run his antagonist through the body. The marquis
immediately fell, and having uttered one groan, he expired. The sword
entered at the left breast, and proceeded immediately to the heart.

The count, instead of appearing at all disturbed at this event, or
attempting to embrace the opportunity of flight, advanced immediately
towards the body, and bending over it, seemed to survey its traits with
the profoundest attention. The surgeon who had attended, came up at
this instant, but presently perceived that his art was become totally
useless. During however this short examination, the count de St. Julian
recovered from his reverie, and addressing himself to me, "My lord,"
said he, "I shall not attempt to fly from the laws of my country. I am
indeed the challenger, but I have done nothing, but upon the matures!
deliberation, and I shall at all times be ready to answer my conduct."
Though I considered this mode of proceeding as extremely singular I did
not however think it became me, as the friend of the marquis of Pescara,
to oppose his resolution. He has accordingly entered into a recognizance
before the gonfaloniere, to appear at a proper time to take his trial at
the city of Naples.

Madam, I thought it my duty to be thus minute in relating the
particulars of this unfortunate affair. I shall not descend to any
animadversions upon the conduct and language of the count de St. Julian.
They will come to be examined and decided upon in a proper place. In the
mean time permit me to offer my sincerest condolences upon the loss you
have sustained in the death of my amiable friend. If it be in my power
to be of service to your ladyship, with respect to the funeral, or any
other incidental affairs, you may believe that I shall account it my
greatest honour to alleviate in any degree the misfortune you have
suffered. With the sincerest wishes for the welfare of yourself and your
amiable son, I have the honour to be,

Madam,

Your most obedient and very faithful servant,

The marquis of San Severino.

Letter XVII

_The Answer_

_Cosenza_

My lord,

You were not mistaken when you supposed that the subject of your
letter would both afflict and surprize me in the extremest degree. The
unfortunate event to which it principally relates, is such as cannot but
affect me nearly. And separate from this, there is a veil of mystery
that hangs over the horrid tale, behind which I dare not pry, but with
the most trembling anxiety, but which will probably in a very short time
be totally removed.

Your lordship, I am afraid, is but too well acquainted with the history
of the correspondence between myself and my deceased lord. I was given
to understand that the count de St. Julian was married to the daughter
of the duke of Aranda. I thought I had but too decisive evidence of the
veracity of the story. And you, my lord, I remember, were one of the
witnesses by which it was confirmed. Yet how is this to be reconciled
with the present catastrophe? Can I suppose that the count, after being
settled in Spain, should have deserted these connexions, in order
to come over again to that country in which he had forfeited all
pretensions to character and reputation, and to commence a quarrel so
unjust and absurd, with the man to whom he was bound by so numerous
obligations?

My lord, I have revolved all the circumstances that are communicated
to me in your alarming letter. The oftener I peruse it, and the more
maturely I consider them, the more does it appear that the count de St.
Julian has all the manners of conscious innocence and injured truth. It
is impossible for an impostor to have acted throughout with an air so
intrepid and superior. Your lordship's account, so far as it relates to
the marquis, is probably the account of a friend, but it is impossible
not to perceive, that his behaviour derives no advantage from being
contrasted with that of his antagonist.

You will readily believe, that it has cost me many efforts to assemble
all these thoughts, and to deliver these reasonings in so connected a
manner. At first my prejudices against the poor and unprotected stranger
were so deeply rooted, that I had no suspicion of their injustice. I
regarded the whole as a dream; I considered every circumstance as beyond
the cognizance of reason, and founded entirely in madness and frenzy.
I painted to myself the count de St. Julian, whom I had known for a
character so tender and sincere, as urged along with all the stings of
guilt, and agitated with all the furies of remorse. I at once pitied his
sufferings, and lamented their mortal and destructive consequences. I
regarded yourself and every person concerned in the melancholy affair,
as actuated by the same irrational spirit, and united to overwhelm one
poor, trembling, and defenceless woman.

But the delusion was of no long continuance. I soon perceived that it
was impossible for a maniac to be suffered to proceed to so horrid
extremities. I perceived in every thing that related to the count,
a spirit very different from that of frenzy. It is thus that I have
plunged from uncertainty to uncertainty. From adopting a solution wild
and absurd, I am thrown back upon a darkness still more fearful, and am
lost in conjectures of the most tremendous nature.

And where is it that I am obliged to refer my timid enquiries? Alas, I
have no friend upon whose bosom to support myself, I have no relation to
interest in my cause. I am forlorn, forsaken and desolate. By nature
not formed for defence, not braced to encounter the storms of calamity,
where shall I hide my unprotected head? Forgive me, my lord, if I am
mistaken; pardon the ravings of a distracted mind. It is possible I am
obliged to recur to him from whom all my misfortunes took their source,
who has guided unseen all those movements to which this poor and broken
heart is the sacrifice. Perhaps the words that now flow from my pen,
are directed to the disturber of my peace, the interceptor of all that
happiness most congenial to my heart, the murderer of my husband!

Where, in the mean time, where is this countess, this dreaded rival?
You, my lord, have perhaps ere this time seen her. Tell me, what are
those ineffable charms that seduced a heart which was once so constant?
St. Julian was never mercenary, and I have a fortune that might have
filled out his most unbounded wishes. What is that strange fascination,
what that indescribable enchantment, that sunk a character so glorious,
that libertines venerated, and the friends of virtue adored, to a depth
so low and irretrievable? I have thought much of it, I have turned it
every way in my mind, but I can never understand it. The more I reflect
the further I am bewildered.

But whither am I wandering? What strange passion is it, that I so
carefully suppressed, over which I so loudly triumphed, that now bursts
its limits? How fatal and deplorable is that train of circumstances,
that brings a name, that was once inscribed on my heart, to my
remembrance, accompanied with attendants, that awaken all my tenderness,
and breathe new life into each forgotten endearment! Is it for me, a
wife, a mother, to entertain these guilty thoughts? And can they respect
him by whose fatal hand my husband fell? How low is the once spotless
Matilda della Colonna sunk!

But I will not give way to this dereliction and despair. I think my
heart is not made of impenetrable stuff. I think I cannot long survive
afflictions thus complicated, and trials thus severe. But so long as I
remain in this world of calamity, I will endeavour to act in a manner
not unworthy of myself. I will not disgrace the race from which I
sprung. Whatever others may do, I will not dishonour the family to which
I am united. I may be miserable, but I will not be guilty. I may be a
monument of anguish, but I will not be an example of degeneracy.

Gracious heaven! if I have been deceived, what a train of artifice and
fraud rushes upon my terrified recollection? How carefully have all my
passions, in the unguarded hour of anguish and misery, been wrought and
played upon? All the feelings of a simple and undissembling mind have
been roused by turns, to excite me to a deed, from which rectitude
starts back with horror, which integrity blushes to look on! And have I
been this poor and abject tool in the hand of villains? And are there
hearts cool and obdurate enough, to watch all the trembling starts of
wretchedness, to seduce the heart that has given itself up to despair?
Can they look on with frigid insensibility, can they behold distress
with no other eye but that of interest, with no other watch but that
which discovers how it may be disgraced for ever? Oh, wretched Matilda!
whither, whither hast thou been plunged!

My memory is up in arms. I cannot now imagine how I was induced to
so decisive and adventurous a step. But I was full of the anguish of
disappointment, and the resentment of despair. How assiduously was I
comforted? What sympathy, what angelic tenderness seemed to flow from
the lips of him, in whose heart perhaps there dwelt every dishonourable
and unsated passion? It was all a chaos. My heart was tumultuous hurry,
without leisure for retrospect, without a moment for deliberation. And
do I dare to excuse myself? Was I not guilty, unpardonably guilty? Oh,
a mind that knew St. Julian should have waited for ages, should have
revolved every circumstance a thousand times, should have disbelieved
even the evidence of sense, and the demonstration of eternal truth!
Accursed precipitation! Most wicked speed! No, I have not suffered half
what I have deserved. Heap horrors on me, thou dreadful dispenser of
avenging providence! I will not complain. I will expire in the midst of
agonies without a groan!

But these thoughts must be banished from my heart for ever. Wretched as
I am, I am not permitted the consolation of penitence, I am not free to
accuse and torment myself. No, that step has been taken which can never
be repealed. The marquis of Pescara was my husband, and whatever were
his true character, I will not crush his memory and his fame. I have,
I fear, unadvisedly entered into connexions, and entailed upon myself
duties. But these connexions shall now be sacred; these duties shall be
discharged to the minutest tittle. Oh, poor and unprotected orphan, thou
art cast upon the world without a friend! But thou shalt never want the
assiduity of a mother. Thou, at least, are guileless and innocent.
Thou shalt be my only companion. To watch over thee shall be the sole
amusement that Matilda will henceforth indulge herself. That thou wilt
remind me of my errors, that I shall trace in thee gradually as thy
years advance, the features of him to whom my unfortunate life owed all
its colour, will but make thee a more proper companion, an object more
congenial to the sorrows of my soul.

Letter XVIII

_The Count de St. Julian to the Marchioness of Pescara

Cerenzo_

Madam,

You may possibly before this letter comes to your hands have learned an
event that very nearly interests both you and me. If you have not, it is
not in my power at this time to collect together the circumstances, and
reduce them to the form of a narration. The design of my present letter
is of a very different kind. Shall I call that a design, which is the
consequence of an impulse urging me forward, without the consent of my
will, and without time for deliberation?

I write this letter with a hand dyed with the blood of your husband. Let
not the idea startle you. Matilda is advanced too far to be frightened
with bugbears. What, shall a mind inured to fickleness and levity,
a mind that deserted, without reason and without remorse, the most
constant of lovers, and that recked not the consequences, shall such a
mind be terrified at the sight of the purple blood, or be moved from its
horrid tranquility by all the tragedies that an universe can furnish?

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