Delphi Complete Works of William Godwin 1st ed. (2022), page 236
part #1 of Delphi Classics Series
A circumstance which contributed to Cloudesley’s choice of Verona as his place of residence was the accident of his and Eudocia’s engaging a girl, a native of that place, as a nurse for the child. She was brought from Italy by a Venetian nobleman, who had been appointed resident from his native republic to the court of Vienna. The countess Morelli, his lady, had a child of two years, a boy, to whom Camilla, the Veronese girl, had officiated as nurse from the hour of his birth. The child had sickened on the route; the parents had felt impelled to suspend their journey on that account at Neustadt; and, after two days’ illness, the child died. Camilla had been deeply attached to the infant: but, that tie being removed, she requested her master and mistress to excuse her from proceeding further. She was accordingly left behind. She found an aunt of hers married and settled at Neustadt; and it was agreed that she should remain with her aunt, till she was otherwise disposed of.
Julian was a few months older than the child who had died. He was of singular beauty. Joyous, well-tempered, and unsuspicious of harm, he rarely failed to meet the caresses of those who noticed and courted him, with the caresses of confidence and innocence in return. One fine summer’s day, when Eudocia was walking in the fields near Neustadt, with the child holding by her hand, they fell in with Camilla. The girl, who had just lost her little darling, a beauty of the first water in her apprehension, was struck by the living beauty of Julian. The Grecian wife and the Italian maid resembled each other in the frankness of their manner. The Italian attempted to tell the little story of her woes; and, though Eudocia understood her very imperfectly, she felt much interest in a tale by which the relater was deeply affected. The Italians tell much of their story in dumb show; Julian listened very attentively, even when the two females scarcely thought of him. He attempted to bid Camilla not to cry and distress herself; the artless sympathy of a child can hardly fail to make his prayer successful. She hastily dried up her sorrow, smiled on him through her tears, and almost devoured him with kisses. When they were to part, Julian refused to let her go. They proceeded together towards his home. The bargain was soon made. Cloudesley and Eudocia were both of them delighted with the girl; and from this time she became Julian’s nurse. Camilla had a decided partially to the young and helpless beings, who for so long a time need the most watchful care of the adult; and thus the fortunate Julian added a third friend to the two exemplary protectors, whose good will he had enjoyed from the hour in which he could first distinguish a friend from a foe.
The child had therefore been singularly circumstanced at the period when his organs were first formed to the imitation of articulate sounds. Cloudesley spoke to him in English; Eudocia, with the pliability so characteristic of female love, learned a good deal of English from her husband; but she could not refrain, especially in moments when the heart most pours itself out without constraint, from mingling words of endearment borrowed from her native tongue; the German servants, and particularly the girl whom Camilla had succeeded in the care of the child, addressed him in German. Cloudesley was desirous of putting an end to this eternal jargon, and resolved, that, as soon as possible, the language of his ward should be Italian only.
When Cloudesley arrived at Verona, he soon fixed his residence in a podere, or little farm just without the walls of the city, and surrounded himself with Italian servants, as at Neustadt he had been surrounded with Germans. He further entered into an engagement with a student of the university, to reside in his house, for the purpose of instructing Eudocia and himself in the Italian language. He had it also in contemplation, that, as time rolled on, this young man might be rendered additionally useful as an instructor to his ward. The university of Verona consists merely of a suite of apartments under a single roof, destined to the purpose of lectures, a library, a museum, and the different halls for experiments and operations, while the students and even the professors provide themselves with lodgings as they can, within the city and suburbs. The young man therefore, with whom Cloudesley entered into this engagement, and who was destined to the profession of the church, but whose parents were in narrow circumstances, deemed himself happy in the opportunity of exchanging his instructions, and such other service as he could afford consistently with his attendance on the university, for a residence and diet under the roof of the English yeoman. Possessed of these advantages, Cloudesley made a rapid improvement in his acquisition of the Italian language. He read with his youthful instructor the writings of Bandello, Boccalini, and Boccaccio’s Genealogy of the Heathen Gods, and advanced himself in the business of conversing and expressing his ideas in Italian, by his colloquies, not only with the young student, his inmate, but also with the servants and labourers that were employed by him in the affairs of his establishment. His progress was the greater, on account of the express object that had brought him into Italy, the advantage of the concealed son of his late master. This gave him an impulse, and accelerated the career in which he had resolutely engaged.
Having to a considerable degree effected this purpose, Cloudesley resolved in the next place to frequent the coffee-houses of Verona. He judged that it would be necessary for the benefit of his ward, that he should not be shut out from the usual intercourses of society, but that on the contrary he should be brought into contact with young persons of the best condition in Verona. Cloudesley, who had now an income amply sufficient for his purposes which was regularly remitted to him, in no long time acquired the confidence and demeanour which characterise an independent station. He forgot his inferior origin, his bankruptcy, his imprisonment in a jail, and that he had so lately been the servant of the father of Julian. He was a handsome man, with a form approaching to the athletic. His natural gifts were not contemptible, and he had seen somewhat of the varieties of human life. Add to this a well-stored wardrobe, and a carriage easy, well assured, and conscious of the new and more elevated sphere of life into which he had entered; and certain it is that the advances of the English yeoman were not slighted by the best heads of families in the city of Verona.
Among the many distinguished residents at this time at Verona, was count Orsini. He had been a traveller, and had visited England. He found in Cloudesley a sagacious observer of men and things; and there was a variety of topics upon which these two delighted to compare their remarks. Orsini studied agriculture as a science, and was desirous of reducing into practice such improvements as had suggested themselves to him in his travels. Cloudesley had yielded an enlightened attention to this subject in his youth; and now, having resolved to apply a portion of his leisure to the cultivation of the fruits of the earth, he also called to his recollection whatever he had seen at home, or observed in foreign countries, that he might use the land he had taken under his direction for the most advantageous purposes. Orsini, in addition to his palace, as it was termed, in the city of Verona, had a podere, or ferme ornée, at a very small distance from the residence of Cloudesley.
This circumstance gradually brought about an intercourse, not only between the Englishman and the Italian, but also between their respective families. The countess had a numerous offspring, male and female; and, unlike the generality of Italian mothers, she devoted a great deal of her attention to the improvement and education of her children. It had happened early, that, in the walks for health and recreation in which the countess accompanied them, she had encountered Camilla and the little Julian. She admired the English child, who was remarkable for symmetry and beauty, and had a fairness of complexion seldom seen on that side of the Alps, and entered into conversation with his attendant, as to what he was, and who he belonged to. The conversations occurred again and again. The countess addressed herself to Julian. He seemed delighted to be noticed by so fine a lady, smiled upon her with uncommon sweetness, and answered her, when he could, in his broken Italian. The countess called upon Eudocia. In the frequent meetings that took place, an intercourse also arose between the younger members of the party. There was something novel and alluring to Orsini’s children in the appearance and air of the little foreigner. Julian on his part was not backward to meet their advances; and his animation, his good temper and his frankness made his acquaintance an advantage not to be despised by his juvenile neighbours. He was inventive and frolicsome: his inventions amused his little companions; and his frolics were an inexhaustible source of hilarity and laughter.
CHAPTER VIII
CLOUDESLEY AND HIS family had lived nearly three years in Italy, when Julian was seized with the small-pox. For a day or two before the disease manifested itself, he appeared exceedingly indisposed, was in a high fever, and slept but little, and that uneasily, and with restless and convulsive startings. The little fellow laboured under great depression of spirits, and expressed a presentiment that he should die. Cloudesley and Eudocia were alarmed with his situation, and treated him with the utmost tenderness, overwhelmed as they were with the apprehension in what way the symptoms they observed would terminate. They had no children of their own; the behaviour of Julian had been at all times kind, affectionate and amiable; he had never, till now, given them a moment’s pain; and their lives seemed bound up in the life of the child.
On the evening of the second day, about sun-set, he became more tranquil and serene. He felt exceedingly weak, but was able to collect his little thoughts. Eudocia was in tears; and Cloudesley had hold of the child’s hand, and gazed on his countenance with disturbed thoughts and anxious observation. Julian looked first at the one, and then at the other. ‘My dear mother!’ said he, ‘my dear father! do not afflict yourselves for me. I think I shall die; and I can bear that very well. If I die, I shall be happy. Our Saviour loved little children, and said, Of such is the kingdom of heaven. But I cannot bear to see you uneasy. Of what consequence am I? If I had lived, it should have been my study to recompense the great trouble you have taken about me. I have nothing to recollect in all my life, but your perpetual goodness and kindness to me. Cheer up, my dear parents! Do not make death bitter to me, by the sight of your sorrow! God will bless you, because you are good. Lay me in the cold ground; put the sod over me; and return, and be happy in each other! Oh, how you deserve to be happy!’
The words of the child were intended for comfort and consolation. But they were so affectionate and so resigned, that they produced something of a contrary effect. At intervals both Cloudesley and Eudocia betrayed their feelings in sobbing. But they endeavoured to restrain themselves. And, when he had ended his kind expostulations, they dried their eyes, kissed him, and smiled upon him as they smoothed his pillow. He had a sweet and composed sleep. Towards morning, the poison that lurked within him, broke out, and shewed itself upon his body, his limbs, and his face. From that hour he grew better. The distemper was of a favourable sort; every thing turned out well; and finally not one mark remained in his face, of this critical visitation.
When the child was lying, as they thought, in the most alarming situation, and which would probably terminate in death, the conscience of Cloudesley did not fail bitterly to accuse him of his misconduct towards the little victim. ‘Here he is,’ said he, ‘like a lamb brought out to the sacrifice. I am his murderer; and he thinks me his friend, and calls me his father. I ought to have stood by him, when every one deserted him. Was not my late lord my great benefactor, who took me from a jail among felons, and made me his companion and friend? He confided in me, and felt sure that I would suffer no harm to happen to him or his, which it might be in my power to prevent. I had a right, it may be, to think ill of the human species, and to regard war as declared between me and my kind. But this should only have bound me a thousand times the more to my generous master, who assuredly never did me any thing but good. And what have I done in return? Why, when this child was deprived of every friend, and lay at my mercy, while in his infant form was centred every claim to my humanity and my gratitude, I conspired with his enemies to destroy him. Who can doubt, that, if I had stood up in his favour with a firm and manly mind, the conspiracy would have been quashed, or rather would never have existed? He would have been acknowledged, as he was born, an Irish peer, and in near prospect to an English earldom. An ample provision would have been awarded him by the laws of his country, out of the estates to which he was born to succeed. But I have sold him, as Judas sold his Saviour, for a miserable pittance of dirty pelf. He would have had guardians appointed him, and have been taken care of as a British nobleman. All this was in my power; and what glory should I have acquired, by dissipating even in embryo, every plot that was hatching against him? I could have placed him under the protection of prince Eugene, and the English ambassador, and the imperial court of Vienna. He would then never have contracted this fatal disease, in a corner so remote from his true country, here to perish unacknowledged and unknown. He would have lived, and not thus have been cut off in the morning of his days. He would have entered in due time upon the career of honour; and his name would perhaps have been consecrated to the latest posterity in the page of history. Can I ever forgive myself? Am I not the most consummate of criminals, blasted with ingratitude towards the noblest of masters, and at the same time guilty of the murder of the sweetest and most promising child that was ever born to breathe the vital air?’
It was about twelve months after this, that Cloudesley himself was taken ill. He had been engaged in a hunting party; the chace was long; and he had come home exceedingly heated, and quite worn out with fatigue. He had retired early to bed; but, before morning, all the symptoms of a virulent fever shewed themselves in him. He was delirious for several days; and it was only by the care of a very skilful physician that he was at length restored. Julian was, to the extent of his power, his indefatigable attendant. Not Eudocia herself was more careful; and the patient, when insensible to every thing else, always shewed tokens of being particularly soothed by the kindness of the boy. Julian watched all his symptoms with unwearied care; when they appeared most threatening, he would for a few moments leave the room, that he might indulge in a passion of tears; and, when they were favourable, his eye would glisten, his cheek was suffused with a glow of intense pleasure, and he would give vent to his feelings by running to embrace his pretended mother. When Cloudesley was recovering, the convalescent a thousand times called up to his recollection those beautiful verses of Shakespear,
He with his hand at midnight held my head;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheered up the heavy time,
Saying, What lack you? and, Where lies your grief?
Or what good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man’s son would have lain still,
And ne’er have spoke a loving word to him –
But I, at my sick service, had a prince.
‘I am in truth the serpent that stung him, the conspirator that stripped him of all his rights. And this innocent, unsuspicious, affectionate boy, in return for all this evil, watches over my infirmity, and is perhaps the saviour of my life. I, who, if I were known for what I am, and if I were innocent, am scarcely worthy to perform for him the most menial offices, have a young cherub, rich with noble blood and kingly virtues, to watch at my pillow. Had I been void of fraud and of crime, he perhaps, in the thoughtless pride of his lofty heart, would have disdained me: and now, because I am unworthy to live, and deserve to be held up a warning and an execration to mankind, he calls me father, and performs towards me more than the duties of a son.’
Soon after his recovery I received a letter from Cloudesley, which you shall read. (It was as follows.)
I write from the overflowings of a contrite heart. May what I have to say be read with feelings like mine, which it well deserves to excite in the bosom of him to whom it is addressed!
It would be in vain for me to attempt to describe to you the beauty and the admirable qualities of the child under my care. His rosy hue is like the first blush of a glorious morning in an Italian sky. The motion of his limbs is like that of the gazelle in the hills and the forests of Arabia. His eyes send out sparkles of fire, yet softened by the feelings of the tenderest heart that ever beat in a human bosom. His lips are red, pulpy, and varied with every expression that can charm and subdue the beholder. His voice is soft and clear, and has in it the model and extract of the divinest music. He is all affection and sweetness. To me and to his reputed mother he never gave a moment’s pain. He is all compliance, all love, and the very soul of sympathy.
His understanding is of a very extraordinary nature. He comprehends every thing, and retains every thing. What would be a severe trial and a task to others, is sport to him. He has an unquenchable desire to know, and whatever is presented to him that is new, instantly rouses all his faculties. He learns, because learning is a passion in him, and for the sake of giving pleasure to the gentleman who teaches him, and to those whom he believes to be his parents. He is delighted with tales of adventure; and it is not to be told, with what intenseness he listens to and anticipates the fortunes of the persons to whom the tale relates, and with what generous sentiment he enters into the heroism and the virtues which the relater undertakes to describe. He bursts into tears of uncontrolable sympathy with the feelings that occur, and can no longer retain his posture and his station, when the story approaches to a crisis. He threatens the evil-doer, and strains as it were to his heart the imaged figures of those who merit his regard. He clenches his fists with the earnestness of his emotions, while involuntary ejaculations ever and anon burst from his lips.
He is exceedingly ingenious. His soul is stirred up within him, when he contemplates the trumpet and clangour of war. The enterprises related in the poems of Ariosto and Bojardo rouse up his whole spirit. He amuses himself in the field adjoining to the house with cutting mimic trenches, and carrying on imaginary sieges. All that he hears of an exciting and glorious character he imitates. He shews in every motion, that he belongs to another sphere, and that the spring and soaring of his nature cannot be subdued. He is born for high things; and his soul claims the place to which the rights of his birth had destined him.
