Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
“Thanks, charming Flora, for that
explanation!” cried the young count. “Let us now hasten to thine aunt; and in
her
presence will I renew
to thee all the vows of unalterable and honorable affection which my heart
suggests, as a means of proving that I am worthy of thy love.”
And, hand-in-hand, that fine
young noble and that beauteous, blushing maiden proceeded to the cottage.
Two persons, concealed in an
adjacent grove, had overheard every syllable of the above conversation. These
were the valet Antonio, and his mother, Dame Margaretha, at whose dwelling, it
will be recollected, the unfortunate Agnes had so long resided, under the
protection of the late Count of Riverola.
“This is fortunate, mother!” said
Antonio, when Francisco and Flora had retired from the vicinity of the grove.
“You are spared the trouble of a visit to the old Signora Francatelli; and I
have learned sufficient to enable me to work out all my plans alike of
aggrandizement and revenge. Let us retrace our way into the city; thou wilt
return to thy home—and I shall hence straight to the Lord Count of Arestino.”
THE GREEK PAGE—SONG OF THE GREEK
PAGE—A REVELATION
Three
months had now elapsed since
Ibrahim-Pasha had risen to the exalted rank of grand vizier, and had married
the sister of Solyman the Magnificent. The sultan daily became more attached to
him; and he, on his part, acquired influence over his imperial master. Vested
with a power so nearly absolute that Solyman signed without ever perusing the
hatti-sheriffs, or decrees, drawn up by Ibrahim,—and enjoying the confidence of
the divan, all the members of which were devoted to his interests,—the renegade
administered according to his own discretion, the affairs of that mighty
empire. Avaricious, and ever intent upon the aggrandizement of his own
fortunes, he accumulated vast treasures; but he also maintained a household and
lived in a style unequaled by any of his predecessors in office. Having married
a sister of the sultan, he was not permitted a plurality of wives;—but he
purchased the most beauteous slaves for his harem, and plunged headlong into a
vortex of dissipation and pleasure.
For some weeks he had manifested
the most ardent and impassioned attachment toward Aischa, who, during that
period, was happy in the belief that she alone possessed his heart. But the
customs of the East, as well as the duties of his office, kept them so much
apart, that he had no leisure to discover the graces of her mind, nor to appreciate
all the powers of her naturally fine, and indeed well-cultivated intellect; so
that the beauty of her person constituted the only basis on which his affection
was maintained. The fervor of such a love soon cooled with satiety: and those
female slaves whom he had at first procured as indispensable appendages to his
rank and station, were not long in becoming the sources of new pleasure and
voluptuous enjoyment. Aischa beheld his increasing indifference, and strove to
bind him to her by representing all she had done
for him. He listened coldly at
first; but when, on several occasions, the same remonstrances were repeated, he
answered angrily.
“Had it not been for my
influence,” she said to him one day, when the dispute had become more serious
than preceding quarrels of the kind, “you might still have been an humble
secretary to a Christian noble.”
“Not so,” replied the grand
vizier; “for at the very time when I first beheld thee in the Bezestein,
certain offers had been secretly conveyed to me from the reis-effendi.”
“In whose service you would have
lingered as a mere subordinate for long, long years,” returned Aischa. “It was
I who urged you on. Have I not often assured you that your image dwelt in my
memory after the accident which first led to our meeting—that one of my
faithful women noticed my thoughtful mood—and that when I confessed to her the
truth, she stated to me that, by a singular coincidence, her own brother was
employed by the reis-effendi as an agent to tempt you with the offers to which
you have alluded? Then, inquiries which my slave instituted, brought to my ears
the flattering tidings that you also thought of me, and I resolved to grant you
an interview. From that moment my influence hurried you on to power—and when
you became the favorite of the mighty Solyman, I confessed to him that I had
seen and that I loved you. His fraternal attachment to me is great—greater than
to any other of his sisters, seeing that himself and I were born of the same
mother, though at a long interval. Thus was it that my persuasion made him
think higher and oftener of you than he would else have done—and now that you
have attained the summit of glory and power, she who has helped to raise you is
neglected and loved no longer.”
“Cease these reproaches, Aischa,”
exclaimed Ibrahim, who had listened impatiently to her long address, “or I will
give thee less of my company than heretofore. See that the next time I visit
thee my reception may be with smiles instead of tears—with sweet words instead
of reproaches.” And in this cruel manner the heartless renegade quitted his
beauteous wife, leaving her plunged in the most profound affliction.
But as Ibrahim traversed the
corridors leading to his own apartments, his heart smote him for the harshness
and unfeeling nature of his conduct; and as one disagreeable idea, by disposing
the spirits to melancholy, usually arouses others that were previously
slumbering in the cells of the brain, all the turpitude of his apostasy was
recalled with new force to his mind.
Repairing to a small but
magnificently furnished saloon in a retired part of the palace, he dismissed
the slaves who were waiting at the door, ordering them, however, to send into
his presence a young Greek page who had recently entered his service. In a few
minutes the youth made his appearance, and stood in a respectful attitude near
the door.
“Come and sit at my feet,
Constantine,” said the grand vizier, “and thou shalt sing to me one of those
airs of thy
native Greece
with which thou hast occasionally delighted mine ears. I know not how it is,
boy—but thy presence pleases me, and thy voice soothes my soul, when oppressed
with the cares of my high office.”
Joy flashed from the bright black
eyes of the young Greek page as he glided noiselessly over the thick carpet,
but that emotion of pleasure was instantly changed to one of deep deference.
“Proceed,” said his master, “and
sing me that plaintive song which is supposed to depict the woes of one of the
unhappy sons of Greece.”
“But may not its sentiments
offend your highness?” asked the page.
“It is but a song,” responded
Ibrahim. “I give thee full permission to sing those verses, and I should be
sorry were you to subdue aught of the impassioned feelings which they are well
calculated to excite within thee.”
The page turned his handsome
countenance up toward the grand vizier, and commenced in melodious, liquid
tones, the following song—
“Oh, are there not beings
condemned from their birth,
To drag, without solace or hope
o’er the earth,
The burden of grief and of
sorrow?
Doomed wretches who know, while
they tremblingly say,
‘The star of my fate appears
brighter to-day,’
That it is but a brief and a
mocking ray,
To make darkness darker
to-morrow.
“And ’tis not to the vile and
base alone
That unchanging grief and sorrow
are known,
But as oft to the pure and
guileless;
And he, from whose fervid and
generous lip,
Gush words of the kindest
fellowship,
Of the same pure fountain may not
sip
In return, but it is sad and
smileless!
“Yes; such doomed mortals, alas!
there be
And mine is that self-same
destiny;
The fate of the lorn and lonely;
For e’en in my childhood’s early
day,
The comrades I sought would turn
away;
And of all the band, from the
sportive play
Was I thrust and excluded only.
“When fifteen summers had passed
o’er my head,
I stood on the battle-field
strewn with the dead.
For the day of the Moslem’s glory
Had made me an orphan child, and
there
My sire was stretched; and his
bosom bare
Showed a gaping wound; and the
flowing hair
Of his head was damp and gory.
“My sire was the chief of the
patriot band,
That had fought and died for
their native land,
When her rightful prince betrayed
her;
On his kith and kin did the
vengeance fall
Of the Mussulman foes—and each
and all
Were swept from the old ancestral
hall,
Save myself, by the fierce
invader!
“And I was spared from that
blood-stained grave
To be dragged away as the
Moslem’s slave,
And bend to the foe victorious,—
But, O Greece! to thee does my
memory turn
Its longing eyes—and my
heart-strings yearn
To behold thee rise in thy might
and spurn,
As of yore, thy yoke inglorious!
“But oh! whither has Spartan
courage fled?
And why, proud Athens! above
thine head
Is the Mussulman crescent
gleaming?
Have thine ancient memories no
avail?
And art thou not fired at the
legend tale
Which reminds thee how the whole
world grew pale,
And recoiled from thy banners
streaming?”
“Enough, boy,” exclaimed Ibrahim:
then in a low tone, he murmured to himself, “The Christians have indeed much
cause to anathematize the encroachments and tyranny of the Moslems.”
There was a short pause, during
which the grand vizier was absorbed in profound meditation, while the Greek
page never once withdrew his eyes from the countenance of that high
functionary.
“Boy,” at length said Ibrahim,
“you appear attached to me. I have observed many proofs of your devotion during
the few months that you have been in my service. Speak—is there aught that I
can do to make you happy? Have you relations or friends who need protection? If
they be poor, I will relieve their necessities.”
“My lips cannot express the
gratitude which my heart feels toward your highness,” returned the page, “but I
have no friends in behalf of whom I might supplicate the bounty of your
highness.”
“Are you yourself happy,
Constantine?” asked Ibrahim.
“Happy in being permitted to
attend upon your highness,” was the reply, delivered in a soft and tremulous
tone.
“But is it in my power to render
you happier?” demanded the grand vizier.
Constantine hung down his
head—reflected for a few moments, and then murmured “Yes.”
“Then, by Heaven!” exclaimed
Ibrahim Pasha, “thou hast only to name thy request, and it will be granted. I
know not wherefore, but I am attached to thee much. I feel interested in thy
welfare, and I would be rejoiced to minister to thy happiness.”
“I am already happier than I
was—happier, because my lips have drunk in such words flowing from the lips of
one who is exalted as highly as I am insignificant and humble.” said the page,
in a voice tremulous with emotion, but sweetly musical. “Yes, I am happier,” he
continued—“and yet my soul is filled
with
the image of a dear, a well-beloved sister, who pines in loneliness and
solitude, ever dwelling on a hapless love which she has formed for one who
knows not that he is so loved, and who perhaps may never—never know it.”
“Ah, thou hast a sister,
Constantine?” exclaimed the grand vizier. “And is she as lovely as a sister of
a youth so handsome as thou art ought to be?”
“She has been assured by those
who have sought her hand, that she is indeed beautiful,” answered Constantine.
“But of what avail are her charms, since he whom she loves may never whisper in
her ear the delicious words, ‘I love thee in return.’”
“Does the object of her
affections possess so obdurate a heart?” inquired the grand vizier, strangely
interested in the discourse of his youthful page.
“It is not that he scorns my
sister’s love,” replied Constantine; “but it is that he knows not of its
existence. It is true that he has seen her once—yet ’twere probable that he remembers
not there is such a being in the world. Thus came it to pass, my lord—an
officer, holding a high rank in the service of his imperial majesty, the great
Solyman, had occasion to visit a humble dwelling wherein my sister resided.
She—poor silly maiden! was so struck by his almost god-like beauty—so dazzled
by his fascinating address—so enchanted by the sound of his voice, that she
surrendered up her heart suddenly and secretly—surrendered it beyond all power
of reclamation. Since then she has never ceased to ponder upon this fatal
passion—this unhappy love; she has nursed his image in her mind, until her
reason has rocked with the wild thoughts, the ardent hopes, the emotions of
despair—all the conflicting sentiments of feeling, in a word, which so ardent
and so strange a love must naturally engender. Enthusiastic, yet tender;
fervent, yet melting in her soul; and while she does not attempt to close her
eyes to the conviction that she is cherishing a passion which is preying upon
her very vitals, she nevertheless clings to it as a martyr to the stake! Oh! my
lord, canst thou marvel if I feel deeply for my unhappy sister?”
“But wherefore doth she remain
thus unhappy?” demanded Ibrahim-Pasha. “Surely there are means of conveying to
the object of her attachment an intimation how deeply he is beloved? and he
must be something more than human,” he added, in an impassioned tone, “if he
can remain obdurate to the tears and sighs of a beauteous creature, such as thy
sister doubtless is.”
“And were he to spurn her from
him—oh! your highness, it would kill her!” said the page, fixing his large,
eloquent eyes upon the countenance of the grand vizier. “Consider his exalted
rank and her humble position——”