The Pacha of Many Tales. Фредерик Марриет
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that I was acquainted with the family. Donna Celia then appeared to be more pacified, and asked many questions: all that she seemed to object to, was the mystery about his family, which at her request I promised to clear up before any other steps should be taken. Cautioning her against any violence of language to her niece, I took my leave. As I went out I spoke a few words to Clara, informing her of the dénouement which had taken place, and recommending her by no means to irritate her aunt, but to be very penitent when she was reproved. Clara obeyed my injunctions, and the next day, when I called, I found her sitting by the side of Donna Celia, who was apparently reconciled. I motioned Clara out of the room, when Donna Celia informed me that she had acknowledged her error; and as she had promised for the future to be regulated by her advice, she had overlooked her indiscretion. When she had finished: “Prepare yourself, madam,” said I, “for strange tidings—the ways of Heaven are wonderful. Last evening I had an explanation with the young cavalier, Don Pedro, and he proves to be—that son whose loss you have so much lamented.”
“Merciful Heaven!” cried the old lady, and she fainted away. As soon as she recovered, she cried out, “Oh where is he! bring him to me—let a mother’s eyes be blessed with his sight—let the yearnings of a mother’s heart be recompensed in his embraces—let the tears of affection be wept upon his bosom.”
“Calm yourself, my dear madam,” replied I: “the proofs you have not yet seen. First be satisfied, and then indulge in your delightful anticipation. When I pressed Don Pedro upon the subject of his family, I told him candidly that his only chance of success was unlimited confidence: he acknowledged that he had been sent to the Asylum when an infant, and that he did not know his parents; that the mystery and consequent stigma on his birth had been a source of mortification to him through life. I asked him if he knew his age, or had a copy of the register of his reception. He took it out of a small cabinet; it was on the 18th of February, in the same year that your child was sent there. Still as I was not sure, I stated that I would call upon him this morning, and see what could be done; assuring him that his candid avowal had created strong interest in his favour. This morning I repaired to the Asylum, when I examined the register. Two children were brought in on that night: here is the extract, and I feel much mortified, as you will observe, that no marks are mentioned. If, therefore, the wart you spoke of was not still remaining, the uncertainty would have been as great as ever. When I returned to him about an hour since, I renewed the subject, and stated that I thought it was the custom to make a note of any particular marks upon the children, by which they might be eventually reclaimed. He replied that it was customary when they were indelible, but not otherwise: that he had no indelible mark, although a large wart had been on the back of his neck as long as he could remember; ‘but,’ added he, ‘it is of no use,—all hopes of finding my parents have long since been abandoned, and I must submit to my unfortunate destiny. I have thought upon what has passed, and I feel that I have acted wrong. Without family and without name, what right have I to aspire to the hand of any young lady of good parentage? I have made the resolution to conquer my feelings; and before the intimacy has been carried on to an extent that a rupture would occasion any pangs to her that I adore, I will retire from Seville, and lament in solitude my unfortunate condition.’
“‘Are you capable of making such a sacrifice, Don Pedro?’ said I. ‘I am, Father Anselmo,’ replied he: ‘I will always act as a man of honour and of family, although I cannot prove my descent.’
“‘Then,’ said I, ‘Don Pedro, do me the favour to call upon me this evening at my convent, and I hope to have some pleasing intelligence to impart.’ I then left him, to come here and acquaint you with the joyful discovery.”
“But why did you not bring him here immediately?” cried Donna Celia.
“Madam, I have important duties at my convent which will occupy me with the superior till late at night. These must be attended to; and it is not impossible that the affairs of our convent may require my absence for some time, as there are new leases of our lands to be granted, and I have reason to expect that the superior may despatch me on that business. I will acquaint the young man with what has been discovered, and will then send him to your arms; but it were advisable that you allow a few hours to repose after the agitation which you have undergone, and previous to the affecting scene that will naturally take place. I wish I could be present; for it is not often, in this world, that we can witness the best affections of the heart in their virtuous action.”
I then took my leave, requesting Donna Celia to inform her niece of the circumstances, as I presumed there would now be no obstacle to the mutual attachment of the young people.
My reason for an early departure was that I might arrange the story I should tell, when, as Don Pedro, my new mother would demand from me the events of my life. I had also to request leave of absence, which I obtained in expectation of some property being left to the convent by an elderly gentleman residing at Alicant, who was expected to die, and from whom I produced a letter, requesting my presence. As I was on the best terms with the superior, and there was a prospect of obtaining money, his consent was given. That I should be there in time, I was permitted to depart that evening. I took my leave of the superior, and the rest of the monks, intending never to return, and hastened to my lodgings, where I threw off my monastic habit, which from that hour has never been resumed. I repaired to Donna Celia’s house, was admitted and ushered into a room, to await her arrival. My person had been set off to the best advantage. I had put on a new wig, a splendid velvet cloak, silk doublet and hose; and as I surveyed myself for a second or two in the mirror, I felt the impossibility of recognition, mingled with pride at my handsome contour. The door opened, and Donna Celia came in, trembling with anxiety. I threw myself on my knees, and in a voice apparently choked with emotion, demanded her blessing. She tottered to the sofa overpowered by her feelings; and still remaining on my knees, I seized her hand, which I covered with kisses.
“It is—it is my child,” cried she at last; “all powerful nature would have told me so, if it had not been proved,” and she threw her arms round my neck, as she bent over me and shed tears of gratitude and delight. I do assure your highness that I caught the infection, and mingled my tears with hers; for I felt then, and I even now firmly believe, that I was her son. Although my conscience for a moment upbraided me, during a scene which brought back virtuous feelings to my breast, I could not but consider, that a deception which could produce so much delight and joy, was almost pardonable. I took my seat beside her, and she kissed me again and again, as one minute she would hold me off to look at me, and the next strain me in her embraces.
“You are the image of your father, Pedro,” observed she, mournfully, “but God’s will be done. If he has taken away, he also hath given, and truly grateful am I for his bounty.” When we had in some degree recovered our agitation, I intreated her to narrate to me the history of my father, of whom I had heard but little from the good brother Anselmo, and she repeated to me those events of her youthful days which she had communicated before.
“But you have not been introduced to Clara: the naughty girl little thought that she was carrying on an amour with her own cousin.”
When Donna Celia called her down, I made no scruple of pressing the dear girl to my heart, and implanting a kiss upon her lips: with our eyes beaming with love and joy, we sat down upon the sofa, I in the centre, with a hand locked in the hand of each. “And now, my dear Pedro, I am anxious to hear the narrative of your life,” said Donna Celia: “that it has been honourable to yourself, I feel convinced.” Thanking her for her good opinion, which I hoped neither what had passed, or might in future occur, would be the means of removing, I commenced the history of my life in the following words…
“Commenced the history of your life?” interrupted the pacha. “Does the slave laugh at our beards? What then is all this you have been telling us?”
“The truth, your highness,” replied the Spaniard.
“What I am about to tell, is the history of my life, which I invented to deceive the old lady Donna Celia, and which is all false.”
“I understand, Mustapha, this kafir is a regular kessehgou (Eastern story-teller), he makes one story breed another; but it is late; see that he attends to-morrow afternoon, Bero! Go, infidel, the muezzin calls to prayers.”
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