CHAP. VIII.
Reading edition
Time trod on down, for his step was unheard, and the months as they stole by, glided away like so many hours: a new source of happiness was given to Kara Aziek and to Sebastian; they became parents.
To those who know not the sacredness of such tender connexions, or who feel not the delightful endearingness of children, the birth of an infant seems an event of little interest; but O! who that loves to contemplate the purest innocence under the purest and loveliest form, the unconscious trust and dependance of infancy, the charm of its smiles, its caresses and its slumbers, who that loves or possesses a child can deem the mother’s and the father’s joy a trifling emotion?
As Kara Aziek wrapt her arms around her babe, she seemed to enfold it with her whole heart; she felt as if she now possessed her Sebastian more perfectly than before: she loved him still in his offspring, and the idea of her own being never once mingled with this fond sentiment.
His emotion was as heart-penetrating: in one moment every regret, every anxiety, every other thought fled from his mind; with his infant in his arms, and his eyes alternately resting upon it and Aziek, he wanted nothing more, here seemed the boundary of his views, here seemed the completion of all his wishes!
When Gaspar first embraced the little Blanche, his heart overflowed at his eyes: forgetting the prudential caution which his royal master had long demanded of him, that of waving even in private, all forms of peculiar respect, he dropt on his knees, and holding up the child, exclaimed vehemently,
“Is this noble babe to grow up in obscurity?—O Sire, are we ever to live thus, banished from our country?”
Sebastian understood the appeal which Gaspar’s agitation would not permit him to finish; a sudden flush crimsoned his cheek, some of its former fire kindled in his eye—he took Blanche from his friend, and looking at her fixedly, remained for awhile in thought, then restoring her to her mother, turned towards him:
“No Gaspar!” he said, “we shall not live ever thus; I hope to draw my last breath in our native land, and leave there on its throne, and in the hearts of its people, this smiling girl:—but once undone by rashness, I will not a second time be the cause of my own ruin. The favourable hour is not yet come; let us await it with confidence, let us sow the seed that is to reward us in the time of harvest: my child’s first years should pass in tranquillity and instruction.”
Gaspar grew pale; “Years!” he repeated, “What Sire, are years to pass?”
The King interrupted him: “I speak of what may, not absolutely what will be; Providence perhaps destines otherwise, and by some fortunate change in the politics of Europe, may open for me a path to Portugal. But through blood, through horror, and desolation, over the breaking hearts of thousands, never will I trample to my throne.—O Gaspar! there is a wound in this heart of mine, not to be healed; a wound which makes me a coward at encountering others!
“The memory of what I have brought on wretched Portugal, palsies my arm, even as it rises to strike her oppressor; what a struggle! what proscription! what misery would follow if prompted by impatience,——no—speak of it no more; rely on my inextinguishable love for the people I once protected; and be assured that I feel the rights of my child.”
Gaspar recognised in the tone of Sebastian, his master and his King; he bowed respectfully and stood silent.
Kara Aziek divining his fear of having offended, turned on him a look of healing softness, and said kindly, “It is honourable for you both to feel thus differently on the same subject: my Sebastian would have spoken like Gaspar had he not been Sebastian.”
Gaspar’s crimsoned face was immediately bathed in tears, he rushed forward, and joining the extended hands of Aziek and her lord within his own, he kissed them vehemently and repeatedly.
From that moment the little Blanche became the object of universal interest: De Castro contemplated her as the future sovereign of Portugal, and every time his eye fell on her, he mused over times to come, and lost himself in a labyrinth of anticipation and conjecture.
Gaspar spoke no more of her royal birth, but he nourished expectations to which reason gave no sanction: his ardent fancy appointed certain periods for the completion of certain events, and still as those periods passed by without altering the destiny of his King, he only removed his hopes a little further, and beguiled himself with a new delusion.
Sebastian alternately delivered up his soul to the full enjoyment of wedded and parental love, (forgetting the world in their Elysium) or pondered with deep solicitude on the future destiny of his child.
An adherence to our rights, is next to self-preservation the strongest principle of our nature: this principle yet survived in the breast of Sebastian, struggling against that excess of remorse for a past error, which led him to acquiesce in his obscurity: to this was added the notion of owing to his daughter the inheritance he had received from his ancestors.
At each arrival of ships from Europe, the news they brought would render him thoughtful and joyless, for no ray of light broke through the gloom that enveloped Portugal. He heard fresh details of her suffering and her abasement; he heard livelier descriptions of her tyrant’s giant power: he learnt that France was consuming with intestine divisions in her church and state, England waging a perpetual though vigorous contest with jealousy abroad and malecontents at home, and Rome espousing the cause of Philip in his war with the low countries, where the assassination of the brave Prince of Orange, (a deed to which Philip’s gold had bribed the murderer) left the states under the guardianship of a youth, from whose tender years it was folly to expect wisdom.
Where then was the country that would receive, where was the potentate that could succour a fugitive King?
These considerations frequently discussed with Don Emanuel, and discoursed on in sweet confidence with Gaspar; were sufficient to reconcile Sebastian to the privation of that rank and power which now he coveted solely for his child: nay, sometimes he almost congratulated himself on the leisure his retirement afforded for the culture of her beautiful little body, and her inquiring mind.
With the sweetness and loveliness of her mother, Blanche inherited the fine constitution of her father; and taught to share the sports of the Indian children, became like them, light, agile, and healthful.
Crowned with the clustered roses of the Vruca, as she led the fairy train of her companions, in self-invented dances under the shade of cedars and ibiripitangas, or as sportively dragging the docile and loving Barémel in flowery chains, she flew like a breeze over the meadows, Sebastian joyed to trace the resemblance of his best beloved, in that silken hair and those large dark eyes, which as yet knew but two expressions, delight and compassion.
Kara Aziek would stand leaning on the shoulder of her husband, tenderly noting the graceful varieties of Blanche’s infant figure, the glowing transparency of her skin, (set off by contrast with her dusky associates) the symmetry of her features, and those evanescent dimples which now appeared, now vanished, about her smiling mouth. All these were the characteristics of Sebastian; and a virtuous love was still the first sentiment in the constant heart of Kara Aziek, her child became dearer for resembling her husband.
It was her delight to observe in her childish mind and heart, the same resemblance in properties and qualities: it was her aim to nourish, to increase, to fix them.
Blanche was accustomed to hear from her infancy the eulogium of virtue, she was accustomed to see the effects produced by goodness and kindness, and she grew up therefore in such habits of active benevolence, that to have seen any one live wholly for themselves, however innocently, would have been in her eyes a sort of moral phenomenon.
The tenderness of her mother and the ardour of her father, were blended in her character; but if either quality predominated, it was the feminine one of tenderness.
Gaspar and Barémel were her dearest companions; at the voice of the first she would at any time fly from her gayest pastime, to go with him over the plantations he superintended, or to steal into some mountain cleft, where he discoursed to her of the old world and its inhabitants.
Gaspar thought only of preparing her mind for the august station he believed her born to occupy, and he became therefore a student for her sake.
The history of his own country, and of all the other European kingdoms, was now familiar to him; he collected the books which treated of their political events, their laws and customs; he tasked his memory to recollect whatever his grandfather and uncles had told him of the days of Charles V. those days in which Europe was a scene of splendid but fearful rivalry between two powerful Princes.
In the misfortunes of Francis I. he found a parallel with those of his own sovereign, and cheering himself by hoping that like Francis, Sebastian would one day return to his dominions, he detailed the sufferings and the triumph of that monarch with peculiar enthusiasm.
Blanche listened, wondered, and remembered, but the more she heard, the less she envied the lot of Gaspar’s heroes; her soul alive to pleasure rather than to ambition, loved to diffuse itself over the beauties of creation: she frequently forgot her lecturer in the sternest part of his histories, while she watched the majestic motion of some tall magnolia as the land-breeze slowly lifted its far-spreading branches, and showered its white blossoms on every side like vegetable snows.
Her ear was entranced with music, her eye with colours; the song of birds, and the varieties of verdure, were at all times more magical to her than barren descriptions of gaudy courts, or frightful portraits of warring armies. She loved Gaspar, but it was rather for the manner in which he told his narratives, than for the narratives themselves: affection beaming in all his looks, went at once to her infant heart, and often did she break upon his details and banish from his mind everything but herself, by suddenly clasping him round the neck, uttering some endearing epithet, and printing on his cheek the pure, the angel kiss of childish love.
Carried in his arms to the summit of such mountains as human industry had succeeded in making accessible to human feet, she would gaze with him on the distant sea, and hear with delight that she was one day to cross it and to behold the happy country he described: then she would eagerly draw a plan of their removal from Cachoeira, in which every inhabitant was included.
The children must go because they were her playfellows, their parents could not be left behind, else her young associates would be sad, and the very aged people ought to accompany them also, since otherwise they must perish for want of care and food: Barémel, dear Barémel, taught her to feel that every other young heart would have some dumb favorite to carry away, till at last she would multiply her companions in this removal, so that Gaspar was obliged to confess she must have an ark larger than Noah’s to transport the whole colony.
Blanche would then abandon the idea totally, (for curiosity was a feeble sentiment in her breast when compared with tenderness) she loved the good Indians, and no novelty in Europe compensated to her for the pain of quitting them for ever.
Content with her situation, occupied and amused by turns, passionately fond of her parents, she found no blank in the days that flowed on at Cachoeira: innocence, gaiety, and affection, made them all charming.
Blanche had attained her seventh year, when some change was produced in the prospects of her family.
An autumnal evening had closed a day of pastoral pleasure: it was the birthday of Blanche, and it had been celebrated by her young playmates, with such honors as their limited means would allow. The flowers and the fruits which grew in their own gardens were all the offerings or ornaments they had to spread before the child of their benefactor; but with these they formed new bowers, and loaded mossy tables; with these they decorated themselves, and beneath the glorious vault of Heaven presented a scene more picturesquely beautiful than any which could be found under the domes of man.
Tired with so many hours festivity, Kara Aziek threw herself on a couch to enjoy the fresh air, which blowing through pendent branches of passion-flower and clematis, that curtained an open porch, came sweet as cooling: the risen moon shone full upon her lovely figure, illuminating those eloquent eyes which were fixed on their dearest object. Blanche had fallen asleep: her delicate little form partly rested on the ground, partly leaned on the body of Barémel, who having made no inconsiderable appearance in the fairy revels, was like his mistress profusely adorned with flowers, and full as weary.
Everything within, was still; everything without, was tranquil. Nothing was heard, save the monotonous and plaintive hum of swarms of Brazilian bats, which instead of disturbing, induced repose.
Sebastian sat by the couch of Kara Aziek, wrapt in a tender trance of fond contemplation; his child and his wife were equally the objects of that sweet delight which gently warmed his heart; and the faithful Barémel shared the admiration.—A book was in his hand; he had taken it up to read to Kara Aziek: she reminded him of it, and opening the volume, he read with a low, gentle voice, the following poem.
THE INDIAN ISLAND.
The sunbeams gild the waters green That float round Borneo’s palmy shore, And angel-forms are dimly seen Gliding the glassy ocean o’er. Moveless one little bark remains, That lately skimm’d the liquid way; Silence thro’ all her chambers reigns, And no one chides her short delay: Above, below, entrancing sounds Now breathe, now ring, now sudden cease; Then balmy mist the ship surrounds, While all is stillness, sweetness, peace! Again the airy voices swell! Again the light blast sweeps the sea! Again the balmy vapours dwell On every wave, and every tree! Swift shoots the bark, (unfetter’d now,) Tho’ smooth the tide and calm the air; Its purple sail and gilded prow, Some power unseen, must onward bear. Ah who is she, that lonely lies Beneath the broad o’er-arching sail, With panting breast and closing eyes, With with’ring wreath, and floating veil? Loose o’er her neck the golden hair Like lucid moonshine softly streams; Her glowing cheek, (etherial fair!) Thro’ tears of tender transport beams: For joy’s excess, o’er all her face Hath cast a clouded sweetness dim; Smiling she leans with languid grace, While round her dreams ecstatic, swim: Fixed in a trance of twilight sleep, She hears at times the magic choir, And scents the mists that o’er the deep Now forward flow, and now retire. Onward the winged vessel flies, Till sudden in a verdant bay It stops: while viewless being’s sighs Waft the meridian fires away. Umbrageous on the kissing hills Tam’rinds and cedars mix their boughs; And sounds are there of trickling rills, And smell of cassia, myrrh, and rose: Satiate with musky breath of flowers, With luscious clove, and sandal sweet, The hot air pants in leafy bowers Where birds and beasts for shade retreat. And now the virgin’s slumbers fade, As clashing cymbals shake the trees: Ah, ’tis not Delos, wretched maid, That rises mid these foreign seas! ’Tis not thy dear, thy native isle, Where green andrachnés shade the vales, Where almonds blush, and olives smile, And spring leads on the freshning gales! ’Tis not the distant coast of Greece That stretches there along the main: Lo! as the spicy heats increase, Thou seek’st thy natal airs in vain. Ah! never, (haply,) shall thou more Thy parents or thy love behold; Thou touchest now, wild Borneo’s shore; Thou see’st the land of crime and gold! A shadowy shape, (more heav’nly bright Than that which opes the gates of day,) Oft melting from her wondering sight, Now points the fearful stranger’s way. Thro’ citron woods, and palmy dells, (Thick set with flowers,) where every sweet, That scattered thro’ the wide world, dwells, Seems there in verdant home to meet; O’er heights with orange blossoms strewn, By springs that gild the dipping grass, By rocks of crystal yet unhewn, And mines of glitt’ring gems, they pass. High in the centre of the isle, Where broad bananas thickly grow, Ascends a fair, majestic pile, Whiter than Lapland’s drifted snow: Around its alabaster base, Unnumber’d flowers their garlands wreathe; There jasmine leads her fragrant race, Carnations bloom, and roses breathe; Above its proud, imperial crest, Like plumed helm of giant mold, The streaming clouds fantastic rest, And shade its battlements of gold. Now to the spot appointed, come, Here stays the lovely stranger’s guide; She flits before the stately dome, And lo! its portals open wide. With rainbow splendour, blinding bright, The di’mond hall at once appears, But sightless with that blaze of light, The thrilling Láis only hears. Echoes the vaulted roof above, With voices like the turning spheres; Such as in grotto, dell, or grove, Came never yet to mortal ears; While harps harmonious, ring around, One silver flute alternate sighs; And floating on a tide of sound, The soul in trance celestial lies. High piled with food ambrosial, towers A board, whose garniture of pride Displays each precious gem that pours Thro’ earth’s deep gloom a tinctured tide: There glows the sunny topaz, there The vernal em’rald freshly smiles, And ruby cups such nectars bear, As Bacchus brought from Indian isles. With flowers immortal, gaily crowned, (Unknown to man’s obscure abodes;) A dazzling band the feast surround; It seems a banquet of the Gods!— All, brighter than the starry host, Which Hesper (monarch of the train,) Leads o’er Siberia’s glittering coast, When night and frost together reign! All, fairer than a grove of palm, When now its spring-tide leaves are on; Or pillar’d dome in evening’s calm; Or ocean bright’ning in the sun! But rais’d supreme on sapphire throne, One glorious form, unequall’d, shines; The Genius of the burning zone, The God of India’s woods and mines. Dark as the olive’s deepening dye, Yet radiant are his faultless limbs: Effulgent, large, his lifted eye, The hall and host immortal, dims! It burns upon the Grecian maid, Who like a sun-struck lily bends; For to her startled gaze displayed The genius from his throne descends. Trembling she sinks, and deems that now Before her stands the Delian God; Such was his height and beamy brow, When first on Cynthus’ top he trod; Such was his voice, (inspiring sweet!) When green Inopus’ banks among, He first from out her deep retreat Called Echo, with the lyric song! Gazing, the youthful Genius hangs Enamoured, o’er the kneeling Greek; Then thrill’d by love’s delightful pangs, Thus gives his kindling heart to speak. “See here, the nymph by magic brought! “See here, the boast of human charms! “Can wildest wishes ask for aught “Of fairer mould to fill my arms? “No genii, no!—these deathless flowers “Of rosy light, embodied air, “That grew in Eden’s summer bowers, “Are not so sweet, or trancing fair: “The countless, sparkling forms that gleam, “Or shine, or fade, or vanish quite, “Sporting in sunny Fancy’s beam, “Are not so perfect, not so bright. “Then hail your Queen! for sure those eyes “Will glow with tender bliss for me; “Those lips repay my ardent sighs; “That heart, my heart’s dear treasure be!”— Raised from his head, the circlet gay He places fondly on her brow; Her senses fade,—she swoons away, And fills his arms, a wreath of snow! When back returns her trembling sight, A soothing stillness round her spreads! The pearly walls reflect a light Like that which doubtful morning sheds: No sound is near, save rustlings soft Of myrtles waving to and fro, And nightingales, that warbling oft At distance, pour the plaint of woe: Thro’ violet beds whose sweets distil, A far-off, gliding fount she hears; And lo! the youthful genius still, (But prostrate at her feet) appears! Eclipsed by tears, no more his eyes Burn, or insufferably shine; Faultering with fear and broken sighs, His voice no longer rings divine. “And have I seen thee but to love! “And hast thou seen me but to hate!— “Ah, that with thee in Delian grove, “’Twere mine beloved to share thy fate! “Ah that with thee, ’twere mine to tend “A peaceful flock on Cynthus’ plain, “Or bless’d with thy rare smiles, to spend “A transient life of joy and pain! “For this, my days immortal, given, “My boundless power o’er Indies deep, “My throne on earth, my rank in heaven, “Were even then, a purchase cheap!”— “O cease thou unknown God! or say “By what strange magic am I here? “Why torn from all I love away, “And doom’d thy fruitless vows to hear? “Art thou a God, and dost not know “That I this withering garland wore, “To welcome from a vanquished foe, “The warlike youth whom I adore? “That as his conquering gallies rode “Majestic o’er the foamy sea, “I hasted from the shouting croud, “To shed the tears of ecstacy; “And while my raised, transported soul, “On joy’s tumultuous surge was tost, “Strange slumbers o’er my senses stole, “That fled but on thy fearful coast?— “What means that cry of wild despair? “That look of more than mortal pain? “Why dost thou rend thy radiant hair? “O, waft me to my home again!” “Cease then to talk of love, or be “Thy voice for me thus thrilling sweet; “Thy love-expressive eyes, from me “Thro’ softer mists, abashed retreat! “O let me, let me fondly press “These trembling, longing lips to thine, “And lost in rapture’s tranc’d excess, “Blend all thy lovely soul with mine! “Then shalt thou share my ample throne; “Then to my prayer incessant, given, “Thine shall it be, yes thine alone, “In mortal shape to range thro’ heaven!” “Forbear! forbear!” she breathless cries, (As now with wild, impassion’d start, With burning cheeks and burning eyes, The Genius strains her to his heart.) “O, by those precious tears, that late “Thy splendor quench’d, and seem’d to prove “A breast incapable of hate, “But warm with pity, as with love; “O, by those drops of sacred dew, “I charge thee now, this storm control! “Death could not thus affright my view, “Thy guilty transports stain my soul! “Wrapt in these arms, with chastest bliss “Oft has my blooming Phaon sighed; “This cheek hath blush’d beneath his kiss, “These eyes to his fond gaze replied; “Then by the Queen of Night I swear! “The spotless Goddess of the chase, “Never shall god or mortal, share “With him I love, my pure embrace! “Betrothed to his, my wedded heart “No time, no distance can divorce: “At first was shot thy deadliest dart; “Thou hast no more of equal force;” Like a clear cloud, in which appears The wat’ry moon or showery bow; Shining thro’ sad yet tender tears, She stands awhile in silent woe; In mem’ry’s glass she sees the grove, Where Phaon met her oft by night; She beauteous as the queen of love, He like the young Adonis bright, Prone at her feet, the Genius sinks With frantic looks of new desire; His eye her melting beauty drinks, His lips impassion’d sighs respire. “Vain are thy vows! for never more “Canst thou to Delos’ coast return: “Thee only would I thus implore; “For thee I languish, thee I burn! “Eternal fires my breast destroy, “My thoughts in strange deliriums float: “O never can that earthly boy “So wildly love, so madly dote!— “Abhorrent still then take thy fate! “Hence to a life of ceaseless fear! “Ne’er shall thy heart’s alarm abate, “Till that proud heart hath wished me near!” He speaks, and instant darkness falls Stilly and thick, o’er all things round; Silence that virtue’s self appalls, Succeeds to Love and Music’s sounds; Sudden loud thunders peal on high, Huge forests crash, and ocean raves; While beasts of prey tremendous cry, And Echo calls from all her caves;—
At this part of the ballad, the sudden entrance of Don Emanuel de Castro interrupted Sebastian, and throwing aside the book, he arose to welcome him.