Delphi Complete Works of William Godwin 1st ed. (2022), page 228
part #1 of Delphi Classics Series
Colocotroni came forth from this undescribable trial and anguish. He was in urgent need of tranquillity and repose, to soothe his soul to peace. Instead of this, he was called upon to sell his lands, to collect the wreck of his property, to pack up and drive away all that could be removed, to take leave for ever of his pleasant and long-endeared abode, and to set out on a weary pilgrimage through the deserts and wilderness of an unknown world. And for all this he had the allowance of one little month. A thousand times he sunk under his task, and threw up his labour in despair. How much better, he thought, it was, to deposit his aged bones at once under the turf of his beloved Laconia! But then the recollection of his Irene and her mother flashed upon his mind; and he felt that he had more than mortal strength, and could undergo unheard-of labours, that so he might place these beloved pledges in a land possessed by Christians, and where, with all his prejudices, he could not but acknowledge they would be protected by the laws of a civilised community. At length, with the assistance of Adrasti and a few other attached friends, every thing was prepared, and they set out.
Their journey was by land. They passed by Salona and Yanina and Elbasson and Scutari; they traversed the Arnauts and Monte Negro. Every where their way lay through savage tribes, and a people that lived by pillage. But proper precautions had been taken; and they were protected by the rescript of the Turkish governor of the Morea. Again and again their quarters had been approached; and the alarm had been given by the wild and almost lawless Albanians. At length however, wearied and almost destroyed by the anxieties and inconveniences of their march, they reached the banks of the Unna. They could no more; and Colocotroni gladly took up his rest in the first Christian district, protected by the banner of the emperor king of Hungary, on which he had placed the sole of his foot.
War had by this time been declared by the Austrians against the Turks; and the subsequent successes of prince Eugene at Peterwaradin and Belgrade seemed to render the north-western bank of the Unna as safe from the inroads of the Turks, as Paris or London would have been. It proved otherwise. Colocotroni had just fixed himself in a quiet and simple abode not far from this beautiful stream, and had begun to reconcile himself to his exile, when Hassan, the bashaw of Bosnia, and the fifteen thousand horse which had escaped from the battle of Belgrade, suddenly burst forth upon the defenceless and unapprehensive inhabitants of Croatia. They desolated every field, and set fire to every village.
To render the mischief more terrible, as far as related to our unhappy exiles, Bozzari was among them. He was an officer in one of the brigades of Turkish cavalry, which had broken away from the battle of Belgrade to fall upon the Hungarian Croats. Soon after his arrival, he accidently met with the intelligence, that Colocotroni, the man against whom he entertained so many feelings of alienation and rage, was in his immediate vicinity. He remembered that Colocotroni had refused him the hand of his daughter; he remembered that he had himself sought the life of Colocotroni; and he remembered that the vigorous defence made by the man he accused, had caused him to be driven with scorn from the presence of the Turkish governor of the Morea. He knew that the lawless condition of all that now surrounded him, afforded himself every facility for perpetrating whatever revenge and lust might prompt him to execute.
He had hastened on the wings of all the baser passions to the dwelling of Colocotroni. He had found it deserted and tenantless. He eagerly seized the gratification of setting it on fire; and, as he saw the flames ascend, he thought he felt his heart lightened of his part of its burthen. Stimulated by the savage feelings that fermented in his bosom, he obtained a clue that led him to the hiding-place of the virtuous and unhappy Greek. He thrust his spear into his heart. Irene happened at that moment to be absent. He turned his head, and saw the beautiful Greek, who had withdrawn herself for a short time to see whether by any means relief might be obtained for her parents, and was now returning from her brief excursion.
What an instant was this for the wretched Irene! She saw her father in the agonies of death. She saw Bozzari, the man on earth she had most cause to fear and to abhor, standing over him armed, his spear yet dripping with blood. There was nothing doubtful in the scene and the attitude. She would have given worlds to have been able to succour her father, to try if it were yet possible to save his life. But, the moment the figure of Bozzari presented itself to her sight, nature itself wrought within her; she felt an instinctive horror; and, though he was within the cave, and she only approaching, her imagination represented to her herself within his hold, and his hand, smeared and red with the blood of her father, already grasping her arm. She fled with the rapidity of lightning. Bozzari at the same moment caught a glimpse of her person, dropped his weapon, and pursued. He had not proceeded far, when he saw our party, twenty or thirty imperialists, advancing directly in his path; and, turning his horse, he was out of sight in an instant.
As long as the pursuit lasted, Irene was silent, concentrating all her powers in the rapidity of her flight. But she no sooner saw her deliverers advancing to her rescue, than she uttered a piercing shriek, and fell to the ground. Arthur, myself and another, alighted from our horses, and flew to her assistance. From the joint effect of the scene she had witnessed, the evil she feared, and the suddenness of her rescue, she fainted. Never had there existed a situation or more complicated horror. It was with much difficulty, and after many fruitless efforts, that we recovered her. At first she gazed wildly on one of us and another, bereft of recollection and judgment. Her complexion was white, like that of a corpse. Her features expressed no definite thought or conception. She knew not what, nor where she was. Presently her countenance became convulsed with more than mortal agony; she screamed out, My father! and fell again lifeless to the earth.
It was with more difficulty, that she recovered the second time, than the first. She started up, and endeavoured to move her feet, but was unable. Help me, she cried; for God’s sake, for pity’s sake, assist me!
Which way shall we lead you? said my brother.
It is not far. But to yonder point.
We obeyed, not knowing whither we went. We approached the fatal cave. We saw an old man with his face upward, and a middle-aged woman in a state of insensibility, who appeared to have thrown herself forward upon his corpse. The old man was evidently dead. We removed the woman, and caused some of our followers to lead her to the air. Irene gazed on the face of the dead man, next took hold of his hand, and then laid her own hand on his heart.
Is he dead? she cried impatiently. Are you sure of it?
We answered in the affirmative.
Exhausted, as she had already been with fatique and horror, and feeling that there was nothing to be done, she sunk insensible into our arms. We dragged her out of the cave. The garments of both the females were stained with the blood of the murdered. Arthur continued with them. I returned into the cave; and, my followers being inured to such offices, I caused them to compose the limbs and features of the deceased, foreseeing that the first impulse of the women, when they had recollected their senses, would be to require that they might see the body of their husband and father. It happened, as I expected. My brother detained them for a time; be besought them to have courage; he bade them fear nothing, and promised to do every thing for their safety and relief. They listened for a time in desperate grief. Sometimes they uttered the most mournful wailings, or pierced the air with their shrieks. At length I shewed myself, and gave Arthur to understand that we had, as well as we could, restored order to the cave. He yielded to their impatience. His followers, who had till then ranged themselves before the entrance, opened their ranks. Arthur led the way.
Irene, younger and more active than her mother, flew to the couch upon which the body was laid. She gazed for a time in agonised silence, and then exclaimed:
My father! my father! best of parents! most excellent of men! is it possible? shall I never see those eyes again? shall I never hear that voice? Oh, he was the first of created beings. All that was left of Greece, dwelt in that bosom. He lived but for others. In his youth he led the levies of his countrymen, and drove out the Turks. In his age he was the adviser of all, the friend of all. What treasures of wisdom and learning dwelt in that head; while all the virtues were congregated in that heart! His voice fell upon the ears of mankind, like the music of an angelic host. All that was kind and lovely, combined with the most penetrating sagacity, beamed in his eye. I have sat from morning to night under the instruction of his speech, and never was wearied. He never said to me an unkind word. I lived but in him, and was all his care. And now, oh God, I implore thee, let me die with him!
And can he be thus cut off? cut off by the hands of a villain, who sought to destroy him by false accusations, who drove him into exile, and whose malice was never satisfied till with his weapon he had pierced his heart. It is too much! Too much of sorrow was heaped on that aged head. But lately he was compelled to seek refuge in a strange land. Thither he was pursued by infuriated savages, his property laid waste, his house burned to the ground. And now, the most abandoned of men, the author of all his adversities, has found, and has murdered him. God of heaven, hast thou seen, and dost thou suffer all this?
CHAPTER XIII
MY BROTHER DEVOTED himself at once to the women, and begged me to supply his place with the troop. It is difficult to conceive a case more distressing, than that of this mother and daughter. They had had in Colocotroni a protector, in whom they confided for every thing. But a few days before that in which we found them thus desolate, they had had a convenient abode; they had had servants. All was now gone. Their dwelling was burned to the ground; their property consumed; their servants dispersed no one knew whither. They were alone, surrounded with military bands, not a face among them that they had ever seen before. Arthur supplied every thing to them. He led them to a neighbouring village, and provided them with a decent apartment. No enemy was now to be found in the Austrian province. By dint of enquiry my brother traced two of their servants, a male and a female, and thus gave them attendants to whose assistance they were accustomed. Their means were irretrievably dissipated; but Arthur took care that they should feel no want.
The campaign was now concluded. Eugene had dispersed his forces into winter-quarters: Hassan was satisfied with having raised the siege of Zvornich, and delivered his province of Bosnia from the annoyance of an enemy. Our troops were drawn off to their winter-quarters in Hungary. A carriage was provided for Irene and her mother; and they proceeded in the rear of the detachment.
My brother had a confidential servant, by name Cloudesley. The character of this man was sufficiently extraordinary, to make it proper for me to mention the history of his early years. Arthur had met with him in a visit he paid in England to the then earl Danvers, the head of the elder branch of our family. He had set up, when young, in a small way of trade at Hull in Yorkshire, being at no great distance from the seat of the Danverses. He was the son of one of lord Danvers’s tenants. At his outset he was distinguished for sobriety, integrity, and the most indefatigable attention to business. His character was unblemished. Her had great frankness of disposition, and was exceedingly remarked for his good-nature, and invariable kindness and tenderness of heart. In Hull, at his hours of relaxation in an evening, he got acquainted with a man somewhat older than himself, of great shrewdness of understanding, adventurous, bold, and intent upon making a fortune. He appeared to consider the acquaintance of young Cloudesley as of some importance to him. He had a sister, upon whom the beginning tradesman cast an eye of affection; and Norton, that was the name of the adventurer, encouraged the attachment. Norton was always engaged in speculations, which, if successful, promised to lead on to fortune, but which, not seldom, were attended with considerable risk. In one instance, he proposed to Cloudesley to become his security for a sum which to the sober tradesman was very considerable, two hundred pounds. The latter hesitated; but the specious representations of Norton, his own exceeding good-nature, and the affection he entertained for Norton’s sister, overcame his scruples. Norton’s speculations miscarried; and Cloudesley was ruined. Norton absconded; and the severe creditor to whom Cloudesley had given security, threw the young man into jail.
Arthur had known something of Cloudesley in his visits to England. Arthur was fond of rural sports; and Cloudesley, as the son of one of the nearest tenants, had frequently been of use to him in scenes of this nature. There was a propriety, a good sense, and a sagacity in the rustic, which had strongly prepossessed my brother in his favour. In a subsequent excursion he had missed his favourite ally, had enquired for him, and heard all his misfortunes. The intelligence had so strong an effect upon Arthur, that he could not rest; and he prevailed upon his cousin, the English earl, to concur with him in rescuing the young man from a state of unmerited calamity.
Cloudesley came out of prison a totally altered man. He had before been friendly and confiding. Conscious of no ill in his own bosom, he had suspected none in others. He was never asked for an act of charity, that he did not feel prompted to perform. He never saw a scene of distress, that he did not wish to relieve. He was a person of great sagacity: otherwise the goodness of his heart would have induced him to credit tales the most monstrous. And, as it was, he had often been deluded by figments, that even a child, with a spice of the devil in him, would have rejected.
But, in proportion to the original integrity of his nature, was the bitterness of his soul, when he became so flagrantly the victim of unmerited calamity. As, before, he had loved all men, so it seemed now that it was sufficient to present any thing in human shape, to excite his antipathy. Before, the whole world was illuminated to him with sunshine, and decorated with the most brilliant colours of the rainbow; now all was dinginess, darkness and eclipse. He saw on all sides a disposition to cheat, to overreach, and to oppress. He saw all men armed against all men, restrained by no principles of justice, or feelings of humanity, but merely by the law of the land, and a fear of the ill construction that might be put upon their actions. He that could sin in secret, and reap the advantage, would infallibly be guilty. He had lived for months in a jail; and here, as it appeared to him, he had first seen the true character of his species. He had studied it with the earnestness of the discoverer of an unknown country. He discarded all the antiquated prejudices of his youth, and formed to himself a new code, suitable to the sort of creatures with whom he was henceforth to associate.
The history of this man affords a striking example of the disadvantages arising from a defective and neglected education. Recollecting the excellent qualities with which he had been originally endowed, we may safely pronounce that, if his mind had been unfolded in the climate of even a slight degree of literature, the treachery of a friend, or even a six months’ initiation in the mysteries of a jail, could not in so great a degree have changed his principles, and made him consider the species whom he had hitherto regarded as his brothers, as worthy only of his hatred, and engaged in a general conspiracy against him. But, accurately speaking, he had never had principles: his good impulses were merely the creatures of feeling, and arose from his ascribing to others the uncorrupt sentiments he found in his own breast; and, when experience, as he construed it, had shewn him his mistake, he no longer found any thing within him to control his misanthropy. He and his fellow-creatures, as he judged, were in a state of war; and the laws of war, not the laws of peace and benevolence, were to be henceforth the regulators of his conduct.
When Arthur had taken him out of prison, and set him even with the world, it struck him that he had done little for Cloudesley, if he did not proceed to launch him in a different sphere, and enable him to engage in a course of life, which, if it were not his own fault, might be productive of tranquillity and content. Cloudesley, such as my brother had known him, was not placed above other men, except by the goodness of his heart, and the soundness of his judgment in the common affairs of life. The education that had been bestowed upon him, was ordinary and narrow. The slender capital with which he had set out in the world, was now gone. Arthur therefore thought he was doing him sufficient justice, in offering to take him for his personal and confidential servant. We had already formed the plan of embarking in the wars of Hungary. And Cloudesley, who had small reason to be pleased with his first voyage on the ocean of life, received with pleasure the suggestion of proceeding in his next, to untried scenes and ‘pastures new.’
