Melmoth the Wanderer

by Charles Maturin

  ‘The family that night went to bed with spirits exalted by hope, and slept in peace. One circumstance alone marked a change in their feelings and habits. As they were retiring, the old man laid his tremulous hand on the shoulder of Walberg, and said mildly, ‘My son, shall we pray before we retire?’ – ‘Not to-night, father,’ said Walberg, who perhaps feared the mention of their heretical worship might alienate the friendly priest, or who felt the agitation of his heart too great for the solemn exercise; ‘Not to-night, I am – too happy!’

  ‘The priest was as good as his word, – the ablest advocates in Seville undertook the cause of Walberg. Proofs of undue influence, of imposition, and of terror being exercised on the mind of the testator, were ingeniously made out by the diligence and spiritual authority of the priest, and skilfully arranged and ably pleaded by the advocates. Walberg’s spirits rose with every hour. The family, at the time of Guzman’s death, were in possession of a considerable sum of money, but this was soon expended, together with another sum which the frugality of Ines had enabled her to save, and which she now cheerfully produced in aid of her husband’s exigencies, and in confidence of eventual success. When all was gone, other resources still remained, – the spacious house was disposed of, the servants dismissed, the furniture sold (as usual) for about a fourth of its value, and, in their new and humble abode in the suburbs of Seville, Ines and her daughters contentedly resumed those domestic duties which they had been in the habit of performing in their quiet home in Germany. Amid these changes, the grandfather and grandmother experienced none but mere change of place, of which they hardly appeared conscious. The assiduous attention of Ines to their comforts was increased, not diminished, by the necessity of being herself the sole ministrant to them; and smiling she pleaded want of appetite, or trifling indisposition, as an excuse for her own and her children’s meal, while theirs was composed of every thing that could tempt the tasteless palate of age, or that she remembered was acceptable to theirs.

  ‘The cause had now come to a hearing, and for the two first days the advocates of Walberg carried all before them. On the third the ecclesiastical advocates made a firm and vigorous stand. Walberg returned much dispirited; – his wife saw it, and therefore assumed no airs of cheerfulness, which only increase the irritation of misfortune, but she was equable, and steadily and tranquilly occupied in domestic business the whole evening in his sight. As they were separating for the night, by a singular contingency, the old man again reminded his son of the forgotten hour of family prayer. ‘Not to-night, father,’ said Walberg impatiently; ‘not to-night; I am – too unhappy!’ – ‘Thus,’ said the old man, lifting up his withered hands, and speaking with an energy he had not showed for years, – ‘thus, O my God! Prosperity and adversity alike furnish us with excuses for neglecting thee!’ As he tottered from the room, Walberg declined his head on the bosom of his wife, who sat beside him, and shed a few bitter tears. And Ines whispered to herself, ‘The sacrifice of God is a troubled spirit, – a broken heart he will not despise.’4

  *

  ‘The cause had been carried on with a spirit and expedition that had no precedent in the courts of Spain, and the fourth day was fixed on for a final hearing and termination of the cause. The day dawned, and at the dawn of day Walberg arose, and walked for some hours before the gates of the hall of justice; and when they were opened, he entered, and sat down mechanically on a seat in the vacant hall, with the same look of profound attention, and anxious interest, that he would have assumed had the court been seated, and the cause about to be decided. After a few moments’ pause, he sighed, started and appearing to awake from a dream, quitted his seat, and walked up and down the empty passages till the court was prepared to sit.

  ‘The court met early that day, and the cause was powerfully advocated. Walberg sat on one seat, without ever changing his place, till all was over; and it was then late in the evening, and he had taken no refreshment the entire day, and he had never changed his place, and he had never changed the close and corrupted atmosphere of the crowded court for a moment. Quid multis morer?5 The chance of a heretic stranger, against the interests of churchmen in Spain, may be calculated by the most shallow capacity.

  ‘The family had all that day sat in the innermost room of their humble dwelling. Everhard had wished to accompany his father to the court, – his mother witthiheld him. The sisters involuntarily dropt their work from time to time, and their mother gently reminded them of the necessity of renewing it. They did resume it, but their hands, at variance with their feelings, made such blunders, that their mother, δακρυοευ γελεασασα,6 removed their work, and suggested to them some active employment in household affairs. While they were thus engaged, evening came on, – the family from time to time suspended their ordinary occupations, and crowded to the window to watch the return of their father. Their mother no longer interfered, – she sat in silence, and this silence formed a strong contrast to the restless impatience of her children. ‘That is my father,’ exclaimed the voices of the four at once, as a figure crossed the street. ‘That is not my father,’ they repeated, as the figure slowly retired. A knock was heard at the door, – Ines herself rushed forward to open it. A figure retreated, advanced again, and again retreated. Then it seemed to rush past her, and enter the house like a shadow. In terror she followed it, and with terror unutterable saw her husband kneeling among his children, who in vain attempted to raise him, while he continued to repeat, ‘No, let me kneel, – let me kneel, I have undone you all! The cause is lost, and I have made beggars of you all!’ – ‘Rise, – rise, dearest father,’ cried the children, gathering round him, ‘nothing is lost, if you are saved!’ – ‘Rise, my love, from that horrible and unnatural humiliation,’ cried Ines, grasping the arms of her husband; ‘help me, my children, – father, –mother, will you not help me?’ – and as she spoke, the tottering, helpless and almost lifeless figures of the aged grandfather and grandmother arose from their chairs, and staggering forwards, added their feeble strength, – their vis impotentiæ,7 to sustain or succour the weight that dragged heavily on the arms of the children and their mother. By this sight, more than by any effort, Walberg was raised from the posture that agonized his family, and placed in a chair, around which hung the wife and children, while the aged father and mother, retreating torpidly to their seats, seemed to lose in a few moments the keen consciousness of evil that had inspired them for an instant with a force almost miraculous. Ines and her children hung round Walberg, and uttered all of consolation that helpless affection could suggest; but perhaps there is not a more barbed arrow can be sent through the heart, than by the thought that the hands that clasp ours so fondly cannot earn for us or themselves the means of another meal, – that the lips that are pressed to ours so warmly, may the next ask us for bread, and – ask in vain!

  ‘It was perhaps fortunate for this unhappy family, that the very extremity of their grief rendered its long indulgence impossible, – the voice of necessity made itself be heard distinctly and loudly amid all the cry and clamour of that hour of agony. Something must be done for the morrow, – and it was to be done immediately. ‘What money have you?’ was the first articulate sentence Walberg uttered to his wife; and when she whispered the small sum that the expences of their lost cause had left them, he shivered with a brief emphatic spasm of horror, – then bursting from their arms, and rising, he crossed the room, as if he wished to be alone for a moment. As he did so, he saw his youngest child playing with the long strings of his grandfather’s band, – a mode of sportive teazing in which the urchin delighted, and which was at once chid and smiled at. Walberg struck the poor child vehemently, and then catching him in his arms, bid him – ‘Smile as long as he could!’

  *

  ‘They had means of subsistence at least for the following week; and that was such a source of comfort to them, as it is to men who are quitting a wreck, and drifting on a bare raft with a slender provision towards some coast, which they hope to reach
before it is exhausted. They sat up all that night together in earnest counsel, after Ines had taken care to see the father and mother of her husband comfortably placed in their apartment. Amid their long and melancholy conference, hope sprung up insensibly in the hearts of the speakers, and a plan was gradually formed for obtaining the means of subsistence. Walberg was to offer his talents as a musical teacher, – Ines and her daughters were to undertake embroidery, – and Everhard, who possessed exquisite taste both in music and drawing, was to make an effort in both departments, and the friendly priest was to be applied to for his needful interest and recommendation for all. The morning broke on their long-protracted consultation, and found them unwearied in discussing its subject. ‘We shall not starve,’ said the children hopefully. – ‘I trust not,’ said Walberg sighingly. – His wife, who knew Spain, said not a word. –’

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  – This to me

  In dreadful secrecy they did impart,

  And I with them the third night kept the watch.

  SHAKESPEARE1

  ‘As they spoke, a soft knock was heard, such as kindness gives at the door of misfortune, and Everhard started up to answer it. ‘Stay,’ said Walberg, absently, ‘Where are the servants?’ Then recollecting himself, he smiled agonizingly, and waved his hand to his son to go. It was the good priest. He entered, and sat down in silence, – no one spoke to him. It might be truly said, as it is sublimely said in the original, ‘There was neither speech nor language, but voices were heard among them – and felt too.’ The worthy priest piqued himself on his orthodoxy of all matters of belief and form enjoined by the Catholic church; and, moreover, had acquired a kind of monastic apathy, of sanctified stoicism, which priests sometimes imagine is the conquest of grace over the rebellion of nature, when it is merely the result of a profession that denies nature its objects and its ties. Yet so it was, that as he sat among this afflicted family, after complaining of the keenness of the morning air, and wiping away in vain the moisture, which he said it had brought into his eyes, he at last yielded to his feelings, and ‘lifted up his voice and wept.’2 But tears were not all he had to offer. On hearing the plans of Walberg and his family, he promised, with a faultering voice, his ready assistance in promoting them; and, as he rose to depart, observing that he had been entrusted by the faithful with a small sum for the relief of the unfortunate, and knew not where it could be better bestowed, he dropped from the sleeve of his habit a well filled purse on the floor, and hurried away.

  ‘The family retired to rest as the day approached, but rose in a few hours afterwards without having slept; and the remainder of that day, and the whole of the three following, were devoted to applications at every door where encouragement might be expected, or employment obtained, the priest in person aiding every application. But there were many circumstances unfavourable to the ill-starred family of Walberg. They were strangers, and, with the exception of their mother, who acted as interpreter, ignorant of the language of the country. This was ‘a sore evil,’3 extending almost to the total preclusion of their exertions as teachers. They were also heretics, – and this alone was a sufficient bar to their success in Seville. In some families the beauty of the daughters, in others that of the son, was gravely debated as an important objection. In others the recollection of their former splendour, suggested a mean and rancorous motive to jealous inferiority to insult them by a rejection, for which no other cause could be assigned. Unwearied and undismayed, they renewed their applications every day, at every house where admission could be obtained, and at many where it was denied; and each day they returned to examine the diminished stock, to divide the scantier meal, calculate how far it was possible to reduce the claims of nature to the level of their ebbing means, and smile when they talked of the morrow to each other, but weep when they thought of it alone. There is a withering monotony in the diary of misery, – ‘one day telleth another.’4 But there came at length a day, when the last coin was expended, the last meal devoured, the last resource exhausted, the last hope annihilated, and the friendly priest himself told them weeping, he had nothing to give them but his prayers.

  ‘That evening the family sat in profound and stupified silence together for some hours, till the aged mother of Walberg, who had not for some months uttered any thing but indistinct mono-syllables, or appeared conscious of any thing that was going on, suddenly, with that ominous energy that announces its effort to be the last, – that bright flash of parting life that precedes its total extinction, exclaimed aloud, apparently addressing her husband, ‘There is something wrong here, – why did they bring us from Germany? They might have suffered us to die there, – they have brought us here to mock us, I think. Yesterday, – (her memory evidently confounding the dates of her son’s prosperous and adverse fortune), yesterday they clothed me in silk, and I drank wine, and to-day they give me this sorry crust, – (flinging away the piece of bread which had been her share of the miserable meal), – there is something wrong here. I will go back to Germany, – I will!’ and she rose from her seat in the sight of the astonished family, who, horror-struck, as they would have been at the sudden resuscitation of a corse, ventured not to oppose her by word or movement. ‘I will go back to Germany,’ she repeated; and, rising, she actually took three or four firm and equal steps on the floor, while no one attempted to approach her. Then her force, both physical and mental, seemed to fail, – she tottered, – her voice sunk into hollow mutterings, as she repeated, ‘I know the way, – I know the way, – if it was not so dark. – I have not far to go, – I am very near – home!’ As she spoke, she fell across the feet of Walberg. The family collected round her, and raised – a corse. ‘Thank God!’ exclaimed her son, as he gazed on his mother’s corse. – And this reversion of the strongest feeling of nature, – this wish for the death of those for whom, in other circumstances, we could ourselves have died, makes those who have experienced it feel as if there was no evil in life but want, and no object of rational pursuit but the means of avoiding it. Alas! if it be so, for what purpose were hearts that beat, and minds that burn, bestowed on us? Is all the energy of intellect, and all the enthusiasm of feeling, to be expended in contrivances how to meet or shift off the petty but torturing pangs of hourly necessity? Is the fire caught from heaven to be employed in lighting a faggot to keep the cold from the numbed and wasted fingers of poverty. Pardon this digression, Senhor,’ said the stranger, ‘but I had a painful feeling, that forced me to make it.’ He then proceeded.

  ‘The family collected around the dead body, – and it might have been a subject worthy the pencil of the first of painters,5 to witness its interment, as it took place the following night. As the deceased was a heretic, the corse was not allowed to be laid in consecrated ground; and the family, solicitous to avoid giving offence, or attracting notice on the subject of their religion, were the only attendants on the funeral. In a small inclosure, at the rear of their wretched abode, her son dug his mother’s grave, and Ines and her daughters placed the body in it. Everhard was absent in search of employment, – as they hoped, – and a light was held by the youngest child, who smiled as he watched the scene, as if it had been a pageant got up for his amusement. That light, feeble as it was, showed the strong and varying expression of the countenances on which it fell; – in Walberg’s there was a stern and fearful joy, that she whom they were laying to rest had been ‘taken from the evil to come,’6 – in that of Ines there was grief, mingled with something of horror, at this mute and unhallowed ceremony. – Her daughters, pale with grief and fear, wept silently; but their tears were checked, and the whole course of their feelings changed, when the light fell on another figure who appeared suddenly standing among them on the edge of the grave, – it was that of Walberg’s father. Impatient of being left alone, and wholly unconscious of the cause, he had groped and tottered his way till he reached the spot; and now, as he saw his son heap up the earth over the grave, he exclaimed, with a brief and feeble effort of reminiscence, sinking
on the ground, ‘Me, too, – lay me there, the same spot will serve for both!’ His children raised and supported him into the house, where the sight of Everhard, with an unexpected supply of provisions, made them forget the horrors of the late scene, and postpone once more the fears of want till to-morrow. No inquiry how this supply was obtained, could extort more from Everhard than that it was the gift of charity. He looked exhausted and dreadfully pale, – and, forbearing to press him with further questions, they partook of this manna-meal, – this food that seemed to have dropped from heaven, and separated for the night.

  *

  ‘Ines had, during this period of calamity, unremittingly enforced the application of her daughters to those accomplishments from which she still derived the hopes of their subsistence. Whatever were the privations and disappointments of the day, their musical and other exercises were strictly attended to; and hands enfeebled by want and grief, plied their task with as much assiduity as when occupation was only a variation of luxury. This attention to the ornaments of life, when its actual necessaries are wanted, – this sound of music in a house where the murmurs of domestic anxiety are heard every moment, – this subservience of talent to necessity, all its generous enthusiasm lost, and only its possible utility remembered or valued, – is perhaps the bitterest strife that ever was fought between the opposing claims of our artificial and our natural existence. But things had now occurred that shook not only the resolution of Ines, but even affected her feelings beyond the power of repression. She had been accustomed to hear, with delight, the eager application of her daughters to their musical studies; – now – when she heard them, the morning after the interment of their grandmother, renewing that application – she felt as if the sounds struck through her heart. She entered the room where they were, and they turned towards her with their usual smiling demand for her approbation.