by Mary Shelley
“Treachery,” said Ladislas, unable to control his feelings. The Princess became ashy-pale; all her self-possession fled, and she turned from the searching glance of the Pole with a sickness of heart which almost punished her for her crimes.
They were now drawing near their destination. Idalie, grasping the paper, longed to read it before they should reach the shore. She tried to recede from the party, and Ladislas, watching her movements, in order to facilitate her designs entered into conversation with the Princess. He had effectually roused her fears and her curiosity, and she eagerly seized the opportunity which he offered her of conversing with him, endeavouring to find out whether he indeed suspected any thing, or whether her own guilty conscience suggested the alarm with which his strange expression had filled her. Ladislas thus contrived to engross her entire attention, and led her insensibly towards the stern of the vessel; and as they leant over its side, and gazed on the waters beneath, Idalie was effectually relieved from all observation. She now disengaged herself from the rest of the party, and walking forward, read the lines pencilled by Ladislas. Then terrified by the secret they contained, and unaccustomed to bear the weight of concealment — she tore the paper, as if fearful that its contents might be guessed, and was about to throw the fragments into the sea, when gazing cautiously round, she perceived the position of the Princess and Ladislas, and was aware that the lady’s quick eye would soon discern the floating scraps, as the boat passed on. Idalie feared the least shadow of danger, so she retreated from the vessel’s side, but still anxious to get rid of the perilous papers, she determined to throw them into the hold. She approached it, and looked down. Had the form of a serpent met her eye, she had not been more horror-struck; a shriek hovered on her lips, but with a strong effort she repressed it, and, staggering on, leant against the mast, trembling and aghast. She could not be deceived; it was Giorgio’s dark and scowling eye that she had encountered; his sinister countenance, upturned, could not be mistaken. Was danger, then, so near, so pressing, or so inevitable? How could she convey the fatal intelligence to her husband, and put him on his guard? She remembered his written request, with which she had previously determined in prudence not to comply. But it would now afford her an opportunity, should no other offer, of informing him of the unexpected messmate which the crew had on board.
Thus perfidy, dark hate, and trembling fear, possessed the hearts of these human beings, who, had a cursory observer seen them as they glided over that sea of beauty, beneath the azure heaven, along that enchanted shore, attended by every luxury, waited on by every obvious blessing of life — he would have imagined that they had been selected from the world for the enjoyment of perfect happiness. But sunny sky and laughing ocean appeared to Idalie only as the haunt and resort of tigers and serpents; a dark mist seemed to blot the splendour of the sky, as the guilty souls of her fellow-creatures cast their deforming shadows over its brightness.
They had now arrived close on the low shore, and horses and two or three light open carriages were at the water’s edge to convey them to the temples. They landed. Ladislas presented himself to hand Idalie across the plank from the vessel to the beach. “Yes?” — he asked her, in a voice of entreaty, as he pressed her hand. She softly returned the pressure, and the word “Beware,” trembled on her lips, when the young Englishman who had before admired her, and had endeavoured to engross her attention the whole day, was again at her side, to tell her that the Princess was waiting for her in her carriage, and entreated her not to delay.
The party proceeded to where those glorious relics stand, between the mountains and the sea, rising like exhalations from the waste and barren soil, alone on the wide and dusky shore. A few sheep grazed at the base of the columns, and two or three wild-eyed men, clothed in garments of undressed sheep-skin, loitered about. Exclamations of wonder and delight burst from all, while Ladislas, stealing away to the more distant one, gladly escaped from the impertinent intrusion of the crowd, to indulge in lonely reverie among these ruins. “What is man in his highest glory?” he thought. “Had we burst the bonds of Poland; and had she, in her freedom, emulated the magical achievements of Greece; nevertheless, when time, with insidious serpent windings, had dragged its length through a few more centuries, the monuments we had erected would have fallen like these, and our monuments, a new Pæstum, have existed merely to excite the idiot wonder and frivolous curiosity of fools!”
Ladislas was certainly in no good humour while he thus vented his spleen; but was annoyed by two circumstances, sufficient to irritate a young philosopher: he beheld a scene, whose majestic beauty filled his soul with sensibility and awe, in the midst of a crowd of pretenders, more intent on the prospect of their pic-nic dinner, than on regarding the glories of art; and he saw his bride, surrounded by strangers, engrossed by their conversation and flattery, and unable to interchange one word or look of confidence with him. He sighed for the hours passed under the portico of Idalie’s solitary pavilion, and the near prospect of their voyage did not reconcile him to the present; for his soul was disturbed by the necessity of interchanging courtesies with his enemy, and haunted by images of treacherous attempts, from which his valour could not protect him.
It had been arranged that the party should dine at the archbishop’s palace, and not embark again until ten o’clock, when the moon would rise. After a couple of hours spent among the ruins, the servants informed them that their repast was ready; it was now nearly six o’clock, and after they had dined, more than two hours must elapse before they could depart. Night had gathered round the landscape, and its darkness did not invite even the most romantic to wander again among the ruins: the Princess, eager to provide for the amusement of her guests, contrived to discover a violin, a flute, and a pipe, and with the assistance of this music, which in the hands of Italian rustics was as true to time and expression as if Wieprecht himself had presided, they commenced dancing. Idalie’s hand was sought by the Englishman; she looked round the room, Ladislas was not there; he had doubtless repaired to the temples to wait for her, and ignorant of the presence of Giorgio, wholly unsuspicious, and off his guard, to what dangers might he not be exposed? Her blood ran cold at the thought; she decidedly refused to dance, and perceiving the Princess whirling round in a waltz at a distant part of the room, she dispatched her officious admirer on some feigned errand for refreshment, and hastily quitting the house, hurried along over the grass towards the temples. When she had first emerged into the night, the scene seemed wrapped in impenetrable darkness, but the stars shed their faint rays, and in a few moments she began to distinguish objects, and as she drew near the temple, she saw a man’s form moving slowly among the columns: she did not doubt that it was her husband, wrapped in his cloak, awaiting her. She was hurrying towards him, when, leaning against one of the pillars, she saw Ladislas himself, and the other, at the same moment, exchanging his stealthy pace for a tiger-like spring. She saw a dagger flashing in his hand; she darted forward to arrest his arm, and the blow descended on her; with a faint shriek, she fell on the earth, when Ladislas turned and closed with the assassin; a mortal struggle ensued; already had Ladislas wrested the poignard from his grasp, when the villain drew another knife. Ladislas warded off the unexpected blow aimed at him with this, and plunged his own stiletto in the bravo’s breast; he fell to earth with a heavy groan, and then the silence of the tomb rested on the scene; the white robe of Idalie, who lay fainting on the ground, directed Ladislas to her side. He raised her up in speechless agony — as he beheld the blood which stained her dress; but by this time she had recovered from her swoon; she assured him her wound was slight, that it was nothing; but again sank into his arms insensible. In a moment his plan was formed; ever eager and impetuous, he executed it ere any second thought could change it. He had before resolved not to rejoin the party in the archbishop’s palace, but after his interview with Idalie, to hasten on board the steam-boat; he had therefore ordered his horse to be saddled, had led it to the temple, and fastened it to on
e of the columns. He lifted the senseless Idalie carefully in his arms, mounted his horse, and turning his steps from the lighted and noisy palace, wound his way to the lonely shore, where he found the captain and his crew already preparing for their homeward voyage. With their help Idalie was taken on board, and Ladislas gave orders for the instant heaving of the anchor, and their immediate departure. The captain asked for the rest of the company. “They return by land,” said Ladislas. As he spoke the words he felt a slight sensation of remorse, remembering the difficulty they would have to get there; and how, during the darkness of night, they might fear to proceed on their journey on a tract of country haunted by banditti; but the senseless and pale form of Idalie dissipated these thoughts: to arrive at Naples, to procure assistance for her, and then if, as he hoped, her wound was slight, to continue their voyage before the Princess Dashkhoff’s return, were motives too paramount to allow him to hesitate. The captain of the Sully asked no more questions; the anchor was weighed, the wheels set in motion, and a silver light in the east announced the rising of the moon, as they stood off from the shore, and made their swift way back to Naples. They had not gone far, before the care of Ladislas revived his fair bride. Her wound was in her arm, and had merely grazed the skin. Terror for her husband, horror for the mortal strife which had endangered his life, had caused her to faint, more than pain or loss of blood. She bound up her own arm; and then, as there appeared no necessity for medical aid, Ladislas revoked his orders for returning to Naples, but stretching out at once to sea, they began their voyage to Marseilles.
Meanwhile, during a pause in the dance, the absence of Ladislas and Idalie was observed by the feasters in the archbishop’s palace. It excited some few sarcasms, which as it continued, grew more bitter. The Princess Dashkhoff joined in these, and yet she could not repress the disquietude of her heart. Had Ladislas alone been absent, her knowledge of the presence of Giorgio, and his designs, had sufficiently explained its cause and its duration, to her; but that Idalie also should not be found might bring a witness to the crime committed, and discover her own guilty share in the deed of blood perpetrated at her instigation. At length the rising of the moon announced the hour when they were to repair to the shore. The horses and carriages were brought to the door, and then it was found that the steed of Ladislas was missing. “But the Signora Idalie, has she not provided herself with a palfry?” asked the Englishman, sneering. They were now about to mount, when it was proposed to take a last look of the temples by moonlight. The Princess opposed this, but vainly; her conscience made her voice faint, and took from her the usual decision of her manner; so she walked on silently, half fearful that her foot might strike against some object of terror, and at every word spoken by the party, anticipating an exclamation of horror; the fitful moonbeams seemed to disclose here and there ghastly countenances and mangled limbs, and the dew of night appeared to her excited imagination as the slippery moisture of the life-blood of her victim.
They had scarcely entered the temple, when a peasant rushed in with the news that the steam-boat was gone: — he brought back Ladislas’ horse, who had put the bridle into the man’s hands on embarking; and the fellow declared that the fainting Idalie was his companion. Terror at the prospect of their dark ride, indignation at the selfish proceeding of the lovers, raised every voice against them; and the Princess, whom conscience had before made the most silent, hearing that the Pole was alive and safe, was now loudest and most bitter in her remarks. As they were thus all gathered together in dismay, debating what was to be done, and the Princess Dashkhoff in no gentle terms railing at the impropriety and ingratitude of Idalie’s behaviour, and declaring that Poles alone could conduct themselves with such mingled deceit and baseness, a figure all bloody arose from the ground at her feet, and as the moon cast its pale rays on his yet paler countenance, she recognised Giorgio: the ladies shrieked, the men rushed towards him, while the Princess, desiring the earth to open and swallow her, stood transfixed as by a spell, gazing on the dying man in terror and despair. “He has escaped, Lady,” said Giorgio, “Ladislas has escaped your plots, and I am become their victim:” he fell as he spoke these words, and when the Englishman drew near to raise, and if possible assist him, he found that life had entirely flown.
Thus ended the adventures of the Pole at Naples. The Countess returned in her caleche alone, for none would bear her company; the next day she left Naples, and was on her way to Russia, where her crime was unknown, except to those who had been accomplices in it. Marietta spread the intelligence of her sister’s marriage, and thus entirely cleared Idalie’s fair fame; and quitting Italy soon after, joined the happy Ladislas and his bride at Paris.
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
ON GHOSTS
A TALE OF THE PASSIONS
RECOLLECTIONS OF ITALY
THE BRIDE OF MODERN ITALY
ROGER DODSWORTH
THE SISTERS OF ALBANO
FERNINANDO EBOLI
THE MOURNER
THE EVIL EYE
THE FALSE RHYME
TRANSFORMATION
THE DREAM
THE SWISS PEASANT
THE BROTHER AND SISTER
THE INVISIBLE GIRL
THE SMUGGLER AND HIS FAMILY
THE MORTAL IMMORTAL
THE TRIAL OF LOVE
THE ELDER SON
THE PARVENUE
THE PILGRIMS
EUPHRASIA
THE HEIR OF MONDOLFO
VALERIUS
AN EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY TALE
THE POLE
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
ON GHOSTS
A TALE OF THE PASSIONS
RECOLLECTIONS OF ITALY
THE BRIDE OF MODERN ITALY
ROGER DODSWORTH
THE SISTERS OF ALBANO
FERNINANDO EBOLI
THE MOURNER
THE EVIL EYE
THE FALSE RHYME
TRANSFORMATION
THE DREAM
THE SWISS PEASANT
THE BROTHER AND SISTER
THE INVISIBLE GIRL
THE SMUGGLER AND HIS FAMILY
THE MORTAL IMMORTAL
THE TRIAL OF LOVE
THE ELDER SON
THE PARVENUE
THE PILGRIMS
EUPHRASIA
THE HEIR OF MONDOLFO
VALERIUS
AN EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY TALE
THE POLE
The Children’s Fiction
On 26 June 1814, Mary Godwin declared her love for Percy Shelley at Mary Wollstonecraft’s graveside in the cemetery of St Pancras Old Church
PROSERPINE
Percy Shelley contributed two lyric poems, Arethusa and Song of Proserpine While Gathering Flowers on the Plain of Enna to Mary Shelley’s Proserpine; a verse drama for children. The text was published in the 1832 periodical The Winter’s Wreath although it had been composed twelve years earlier in 1820. Arethusa was removed by Mary Shelley in the 1832 version but it was restored in later editions. Proserpine is based on Ovid’s tale of Pluto’s abduction of Proserpine to the underworld. Ovid adapted the Greek myth of Persephone, Hades and Demeter; Ceres is the Roman counter-part to Demeter, who is Persephone’s mother and the goddess of agriculture. Shelley’s play is related from Ceres’ perspective and concentrates on the relationship between, and separation of, the mother and daughter.
Between 1818 and 1820 Shelley studied and read a wide array of dramas, philosophical texts, children’s books and works which focused on gender discourse, including her mother’s book Thoughts on the Education of Daughters (1787). According to her journal Shelley concluded Proserpine on April 3rd 1820 and in 1824 she submitted her work to The Browning Bear. However, the drama was rejected and Shelley had to wait another six years for her work to appear in a periodical. The plot centres on Ceres’ misery and her desperate search for her daughter alongside Proserpine’s unhappiness at her capture and her desire to escape becoming of the Quee
n of the Underworld. The drama rewrites Ovid’s tale from a feminist perspective with Shelley focusing almost exclusively on the female characters, revealing the importance of female solidarity in attempting to achieve desirable ends. Ovid’s story concentrates on Proserpine’s abduction and rape which highlights and even celebrates the victory of male violence. In contrast Shelley juxtaposes the fierce love and connection between mother and daughter who are ‘forever joined’ with the tyrannical, violent and brutality of Pluto’s domination of Proserpine.
