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Narrative And Miscellaneous Papers, Vol. I.

T >> Thomas De Quincey >> Narrative And Miscellaneous Papers, Vol. I.




Catalina, as usual, had read everything. Not a wrinkle or a rustle was
lost upon _her_. And, therefore, when she reached the
_locanda_, knowing to an iota all that was coming, she did not
retire to bed, but paced before the house. She had not long to wait: in
fifteen minutes the door opened softly, and out stepped Calderon. Kate
walked forward, and faced him immediately; telling him laughingly that
it was not good for his health to go abroad on this night. The young
man showed some impatience; upon which, very seriously, Kate acquainted
him with her suspicions, and with the certainty that the Alcalde was
not so blind as he had seemed. Calderon thanked her for the
information; would be upon his guard; but, to prevent further
expostulation, he wheeled round instantly into the darkness. Catalina
was too well convinced, however, of the mischief on foot, to leave him
thus. She followed rapidly, and passed silently into the garden, almost
at the same time with Calderon. Both took their stations behind trees;
Calderon watching nothing but the burning candles, Catalina watching
circumstances to direct her movements. The candles burned brightly in
the little pavilion. Presently one was extinguished. Upon this,
Calderon pressed forward to the steps, hastily ascended them, and
passed into the vestibule. Catalina followed on his traces. What
succeeded was all one scene of continued, dreadful dumb show; different
passions of panic, or deadly struggle, or hellish malice absolutely
suffocated all articulate words.

In a moment a gurgling sound was heard, as of a wild beast attempting
vainly to yell over some creature that it was strangling. Next came a
tumbling out at the door of one black mass, which heaved and parted at
intervals into two figures, which closed, which parted again, which at
last fell down the steps together. Then appeared a figure in white. It
was the unhappy Andalusian; and she seeing the outline of Catalina's
person, ran up to her, unable to utter one syllable. Pitying the agony
of her horror, Catalina took her within her own cloak, and carried her
out at the garden gate. Calderon had by this time died; and the
maniacal Alcalde had risen up to pursue his wife. But Kate, foreseeing
what he would do, had stepped silently within the shadow of the garden
wall. Looking down the road to the town, and seeing nobody moving, the
maniac, for some purpose, went back to the house. This moment Kate used
to recover the _locanda_ with the lady still panting in horror.
What was to be done? To think of concealment in this little place was
out of the question. The Alcalde was a man of local power, and it was
certain that he would kill his wife on the spot. Kate's generosity
would not allow her to have any collusion with this murderous purpose.
At Cuzco, the principal convent was ruled by a near relative of the
Andalusian; and there she would find shelter. Kate, therefore, saddled
her horse rapidly, placed the lady behind, and rode off in the
darkness. About five miles out of the town their road was crossed by a
torrent, over which they could not hit the bridge. 'Forward!' cried the
lady; and Kate repeating the word to the horse, the docile creature
leaped down into the water. They were all sinking at first; but having
its head free, the horse swam clear of all obstacles through the
midnight darkness, and scrambled out on the opposite bank. The two
riders were dripping from the shoulders downward. But, seeing a light
twinkling from a cottage window, Kate rode up; obtained a little
refreshment, and the benefit of a fire, from a poor laboring man. From
this man she also bought a warm mantle for the lady, who, besides her
torrent bath, was dressed in a light evening robe, so that but for the
horseman's cloak of Kate she would have perished. But there was no time
to lose. They had already lost two hours from the consequences of their
cold bath. Cuzco was still eighteen miles distant; and the Alcalde's
shrewdness would at once divine this to be his wife's mark. They
remounted: very soon the silent night echoed the hoofs of a pursuing
rider; and now commenced the most frantic race, in which each party
rode as if the whole game of life were staked upon the issue. The pace
was killing: and Kate has delivered it as her opinion, in the memoirs
which she wrote, that the Alcalde was the better mounted. This may be
doubted. And certainly Kate had ridden too many years in the Spanish
cavalry to have any fear of his worship's horsemanship; but it was a
prodigious disadvantage that _her_ horse had to carry double;
while the horse ridden by her opponent was one of those belonging to
the murdered Don Antonio, and known to Kate as a powerful animal. At
length they had come within three miles at Cuzco. The road after this
descended the whole way to the city, and in some places rapidly, so as
to require a cool rider. Suddenly a deep trench appeared traversing the
whole extent of a broad heath. It was useless to evade it. To have
hesitated was to be lost. Kate saw the necessity of clearing it, but
doubted much whether her poor exhausted horse, after twenty-one miles
of work so severe, had strength for the effort. Kate's maxim, however,
which never yet had failed, both figuratively for life, and literally
for the saddle, was--to ride at everything that showed a front of
resistance. She did so now. Having come upon the trench rather too
suddenly, she wheeled round for the advantage of coming down upon it
more determinately, rode resolutely at it, and gained the opposite
bank. The hind feet of her horse were sinking back from the rottenness
of the ground; but the strong supporting bridle-hand of Kate carried
him forward; and in ten minutes more they would be in Cuzco. This being
seen by the vicious Alcalde, who had built great hopes on the trench,
he unslung his carbine, pulled up, and fired after the bonny black
horse and its bonny fair riders. But this manoeuvre would have lost his
worship any bet that he might have had depending on this admirable
steeple-chase. Had I been stakeholder, what a pleasure it would have
been, in fifteen minutes from this very vicious shot, to pay into
Kate's hands every shilling of the deposits. I would have listened to
no nonsense about referees or protests. The bullets, says Kate,
whistled round the poor clinging lady _en croupe_--luckily none
struck her; but one wounded the horse. And that settled the odds. Kate
now planted herself well in her stirrups to enter Cuzco, almost
dangerously a winner; for the horse was so maddened by the wound, and
the road so steep, that he went like blazes; and it really became
difficult for Kate to guide him with any precision through narrow
episcopal paths. Henceforwards the wounded horse required Kate's
continued attention; and yet, in the mere luxury of strife, it was
impossible for Kate to avoid turning a little in her saddle to see the
Alcalde's performance on this tight rope of the trench. His worship's
horsemanship being perhaps rather rusty, and he not perfectly
acquainted with his horse, it would have been agreeable to compromise
the case by riding round, or dismounting. But all _that_ was
impossible. The job must be done. And I am happy to report, for the
reader's satisfaction, the sequel--so far as Kate could attend the
performance. Gathering himself up for mischief, the Alcalde took a
sweep, as if ploughing out the line of some vast encampment, or tracing
the _pomærium_ for some future Rome; then, like thunder and
lightning, with arms flying aloft in the air, down he came upon the
trembling trench.

But the horse refused the leap; and, as the only compromise that
_his_ unlearned brain could suggest, he threw his worship right
over his ears, lodging him safely in a sand-heap that rose with clouds
of dust and screams of birds into the morning air. Kate had now no time
to send back her compliments in a musical halloo. The Alcalde missed
breaking his neck on this occasion very narrowly; but his neck was of
no use to him in twenty minutes more, as the reader will soon find.
Kate rode right onwards; and, coming in with a lady behind her, horse
bloody, and pace such as no hounds could have lived with, she ought to
have made a great sensation in Cuzco. But, unhappily, the people were
all in bed.

The steeple-chase into Cuzco had been a fine headlong thing,
considering the torrent, the trench, the wounded horse, the lovely
lady, with her agonizing fears, mounted behind Kate, together with the
meek dove-like dawn: but the finale crowded together the quickest
succession of changes that out of a melodrama can ever have been
witnessed. Kate reached the convent in safety; carried into the
cloisters, and delivered like a parcel the fair Andalusian. But to
rouse the servants caused delay; and on returning to the street through
the broad gateway of the convent, whom should she face but the Alcalde!
How he escaped the trench, who can tell? He had no time to write
memoirs; his horse was too illiterate. But he _had_ escaped;
temper not at all improved by that adventure, and now raised to a hell
of malignity by seeing that he had lost his prey. In the morning light
he now saw how to use his sword. He attacked Kate with fury. Both were
exhausted; and Kate, besides that she had no personal quarrel with the
Alcalde, having now accomplished her sole object in saving the lady,
would have been glad of a truce. She could with difficulty wield her
sword: and the Alcalde had so far the advantage, that he wounded Kate
severely. That roused her ancient blood. She turned on him now with
determination. At that moment in rode two servants of the Alcalde, who
took part with their master. These odds strengthened Kate's resolution,
but weakened her chances. Just then, however, rode in, and ranged
himself on Kate's side, the servant of the murdered Don Calderon. In an
instant, Kate had pushed her sword through the Alcalde, who died upon
the spot. In an instant the servant of Calderon had fled. In an instant
the Alguazils had come up. They and the servants of the Alcalde pressed
furiously on Kate, who now again was fighting for life. Against such
odds, she was rapidly losing ground; when, in an instant, on the
opposite side of the street, the great gates of the Episcopal palace
rolled open. Thither it was that Calderon's servant had fled. The
bishop and his attendants hurried across. 'Senor Caballador,' said the
bishop, 'in the name of the Virgin, I enjoin you to surrender your
sword.' 'My lord,' said Kate, 'I dare not do it with so many enemies
about me.' 'But I,' replied the bishop, 'become answerable to the law
for your safe keeping.' Upon which, with filial reverence, all parties
dropped their swords. Kate being severely wounded, the bishop led her
into his palace. In an instant came the catastrophe; Kate's discovery
could no longer be delayed; the blood flowed too rapidly; the wound was
in her bosom. She requested a private interview with the bishop; all
was known in a moment; for surgeons and attendants were summoned
hastily, and Kate had fainted. The good bishop pitied her, and had her
attended in his palace; then removed to a convent; then to a second at
Lima; and, after many months had passed, his report to the Spanish
Government at home of all the particulars, drew from the King of Spain
and from the Pope an order that the Nun should be transferred to Spain.

Yes, at length the warrior lady, the blooming cornet, this nun that is
so martial, this dragoon that is so lovely, must visit again the home
of her childhood, which now for seventeen years she has not seen. All
Spain, Portugal, Italy, rang with her adventures. Spain, from north to
south, was frantic with desire to behold her fiery child, whose girlish
romance, whose patriotic heroism electrified the national imagination.
The King of Spain must kiss his _faithful_ daughter, that would
not suffer his banner to see dishonor. The Pope must kiss his
_wandering_ daughter, that henceforwards will be a lamb travelling
back into the Christian fold. Potentates so great as these, when
_they_ speak words of love, do not speak in vain. All was
forgiven; the sacrilege, the bloodshed, the flight and the scorn of St.
Peter's keys; the pardons were made out, were signed, were sealed, and
the chanceries of earth were satisfied.

Ah! what a day of sorrow and of joy was _that_ one day, in the
first week of November, 1624, when the returning Kate drew near to the
shore of Andalusia--when, descending into the ship's barge, she was
rowed to the piers of Cadiz by bargemen in the royal liveries--when she
saw every ship, street, house, convent, church, crowded, like a day of
judgment, with human faces, with men, with women, with children, all
bending the lights of their flashing and their loving eyes upon
herself. Forty myriads of people had gathered in Cadiz alone. All
Andalusia had turned out to receive her. Ah! what joy, if she had not
looked back to the Andes, to their dreadful summits, and their more
dreadful feet. Ah! what sorrow, if she had not been forced by music,
and endless banners, and triumphant clamors, to turn away from the
Andes to the joyous shore which she approached!

Upon this shore stood, ready to receive her, in front of all this
mighty crowd, the Prime Minister of Spain, the same Conde Olivarez, who
but one year before had been so haughty and so defying to our haughty
and defying Duke of Buckingham. But a year ago the Prince of Wales was
in Spain, and he also was welcomed with triumph and great joy, but not
with the hundredth part of that enthusiasm which now met the returning
nun. And Olivarez, that had spoken so roughly to the English Duke, to
_her_ 'was sweet as summer.' [Footnote: Griffith in Shakspeare,
when vindicating, in that immortal scene with Queen Catherine, Cardinal
Wolsey.] Through endless crowds of festive compatriots he conducted her
to the King. The King folded her in his arms, and could never be
satisfied with listening to her. He sent for her continually to his
presence--he delighted in her conversation, so new, so natural, so
spirited--he settled a pension upon her at that time, of unprecedented
amount, in the case of a subaltern officer; and by _his_ desire,
because the year 1625 was a year of jubilee, she departed in a few
months from Madrid to Rome. She went through Barcelona; there and
everywhere welcomed as the lady whom the King delighted to honor. She
travelled to Rome, and all doors flew open to receive her. She was
presented to his Holiness, with letters from his most Catholic majesty.
But letters there needed none. The Pope admired her as much as all
before had done. He caused her to recite all her adventures; and what
he loved most in her account, was the sincere and sorrowing spirit in
which she described herself as neither better nor worse than she had
been. Neither proud was Kate, nor sycophantishly and falsely humble.
Urban VIII. it was that then filled the chair of St. Peter. He did not
neglect to raise his daughter's thoughts from earthly things--he
pointed her eyes to the clouds that were above the dome of St. Peter's
cathedral--he told her what the cathedral had told her in the gorgeous
clouds of the Andes and the vesper lights, how sweet a thing, how
divine a thing it was for Christ's sake to forgive all injuries, and
how he trusted that no more she would think of bloodshed. He also said
two words to her in Latin, which, if I had time to repeat a Spanish
bishop's remark to Kate some time afterwards upon those two mysterious
words, with Kate's most natural and ingenuous answer to the Bishop upon
what she supposed to be their meaning, would make the reader smile not
less than they made myself. You know that Kate _did_ understand a
little Latin, which, probably, had not been much improved by riding in
the Light Dragoons. I must find time, however, whether the press and
the compositors are in a fury or not, to mention that the Pope, in his
farewell audience to his dear daughter, whom he was to see no more,
gave her a general license to wear henceforth in all countries--even
_in partibus Infidelium_--a cavalry officer's dress--boots, spurs,
sabre, and sabretache; in fact, anything that she and the Horse Guards
might agree upon. Consequently, reader, remember for your life never to
say one word, nor suffer any tailor to say one word, against those
Wellington trousers made in the chestnut forest; for, understand that
the Papal indulgence, as to this point, runs backwards as well as
forwards; it is equally shocking and heretical to murmur against
trousers in the forgotten rear or against trousers yet to come.

From Rome, Kate returned to Spain. She even went to St. Sebastian's--to
the city, but--whether it was that her heart failed her or not--never
to the convent. She roamed up and down; everywhere she was welcome--
everywhere an honored guest; but everywhere restless. The poor and
humble never ceased from their admiration of her; and amongst the rich
and aristocratic of Spain, with the King at their head, Kate found
especial love from two classes of men. The Cardinals and Bishops all
doated upon her--as their daughter that was returning. The military men
all doated upon her--as their sister that was retiring.

Some time or other, when I am allowed more elbow-room, I will tell you
why it is that I myself love this Kate. Now, at this moment, when it is
necessary for me to close, if I allow you one question before laying
down my pen--if I say, 'Come now, be quick, ask anything you _have_ to
ask, for, in one minute, I am going to write _Finis_, after which
(unless the Queen wished it) I could not add a syllable'--twenty to
one, I guess what your question will be. You will ask me, What became
of Kate? What was her end?

Ah, reader! but, if I answer that question, you will say I have
_not_ answered it. If I tell you that secret, you will say that
the secret is still hidden. Yet, because I have promised, and because
you will be angry if I do not, let me do my best; and bad is the best.
After ten years of restlessness in Spain, with thoughts always turning
back to the Andes, Kate heard of an expedition on the point of sailing
to Spanish America. All soldiers knew _her_, so that she had
information of everything that stirred in camps. Men of the highest
military rank were going out with the expedition; but they all loved
Kate as a sister, and were delighted to hear that she would join their
mess on board ship. This ship, with others, sailed, whither finally
bound, I really forget. But, on reaching America, all the expedition
touched at _Vera Cruz_. Thither a great crowd of the military went
on shore. The leading officers made a separate party for the same
purpose. Their intention was, to have a gay happy dinner, after their
long confinement to a ship, at the chief hotel; and happy in perfection
it could not be, unless Kate would consent to join it. She, that was
ever kind to brother soldiers, agreed to do so. She descended into the
boat along with them, and in twenty minutes the boat touched the shore.
All the bevy of gay laughing officers, junior and senior, like
schoolboys escaping from school, jumped on shore, and walked hastily,
as their time was limited, up to the hotel. Arriving there, all turned
round in eagerness, saying, 'Where is our dear Kate?' Ah, yes, my dear
Kate, at that solemn moment, where, indeed, were _you_? She had
_certainly_ taken her seat in the boat: that was sure. Nobody, in
the general confusion, was certain of having seen her on coming ashore.
The sea was searched for her--the forests were ransacked. The sea made
no answer--the forests gave up no sign. I have a conjecture of my own;
but her brother soldiers were lost in sorrow and confusion, and could
never arrive even at a conjecture.

That happened two hundred and fourteen years ago! Here is the brief sum
of all:--This nun sailed from Spain to Peru, and she found no rest for
the sole of her foot. This nun sailed back from Peru to Spain, and she
found no rest for the agitations of her heart. This nun sailed again
from Spain to America, and she found--the rest which all of us find.
But where it was, could never be made known to the father of Spanish
camps, that sat in Madrid; nor to Kate's spiritual father, that sat in
Rome. Known it is to the great Father that once whispered to Kate on
the Andes; but else it has been a secret for two centuries; and to man
it remains a secret for ever and ever!




FLIGHT OF A TARTAR TRIBE.


There is no great event in modern history, or perhaps it may be said
more broadly, none in all history, from its earliest records, less
generally known, or more striking to the imagination, than the flight
eastwards of a principal Tartar nation across the boundless
_steppes_ of Asia in the latter half of the last century. The
_terminus a quo_ of this flight, and the _terminus ad quem_,
are equally magnificent; the mightiest of Christian thrones being the
one, the mightiest of Pagan the other. And the grandeur of these two
terminal objects, is harmoniously supported by the romantic
circumstances of the flight. In the abruptness of its commencement, and
the fierce velocity of its execution, we read an expression of the wild
barbaric character of the agents. In the unity of purpose connecting
this myriad of wills, and in the blind but unerring aim at a mark so
remote, there is something which recalls to the mind those Almighty
instincts that propel the migrations of the swallow, or the life-
withering marches of the locust. Then again, in the gloomy vengeance of
Russia and her vast artillery, which hung upon the rear and the skirts
of the fugitive vassals, we are reminded of Miltonic images--such, for
instance, as that of the solitary hand pursuing through desert spaces
and through ancient chaos a rebellious host, and overtaking with
volleying thunders those who believed themselves already within the
security of darkness and of distance.

We shall have occasion farther on to compare this event with other
great national catastrophes as to the magnitude of the suffering. But
it may also challenge a comparison with similar events under another
relation, viz., as to its dramatic capabilities. Few cases, perhaps, in
romance or history, can sustain a close collation with this as to the
complexity of its separate interests. The great outline of the
enterprise, taken in connection with the operative motives, hidden or
avowed, and the religious sanctions under which it was pursued, give to
the case a triple character: 1st, That of a conspiracy, with as close a
unity in the incidents, and as much of a personal interest in the
moving characters, with fine dramatic contrasts, as belongs to Venice
Preserved, or to the Fiesco of Schiller. 2dly, That of a great military
expedition offering the same romantic features of vast distances to be
traversed, vast reverses to be sustained, untried routes, enemies
obscurely ascertained, and hardships too vaguely prefigured, which mark
the Egyptian expedition of Cambyses--the anabasis of the younger Cyrus,
and the subsequent retreat of the ten thousand to the Black Sea--the
Parthian expeditions of the Romans, especially those of Crassus and
Julian--or (as more disastrous than any of them, and in point of space
as well as in amount of forces, more extensive,) the Russian anabasis
and katabasis of Napoleon. 3dly, That of a religious Exodus, authorized
by an oracle venerated throughout many nations of Asia, an Exodus,
therefore, in so far resembling the great Scriptural Exodus of the
Israelites, under Moses and Joshua, as well as in the very peculiar
distinction of carrying along with them their entire families, women,
children, slaves, their herds of cattle and of sheep, their horses and
their camels.

This triple character of the enterprise naturally invests it with a
more comprehensive interest. But the dramatic interest, which we
ascribed to it, or its fitness for a stage representation, depends
partly upon the marked variety and the strength of the personal
agencies concerned, and partly upon the succession of scenical
situations. Even the _steppes_, the camels, the tents, the snowy
and the sandy deserts, are not beyond the scale of our modern
representative powers, as often called into action in the theatres both
of Paris and London; and the series of situations unfolded, beginning
with the general conflagration on the Wolga--passing thence to the
disastrous scenes of the flight (as it literally was in its
commencement)--to the Tartar siege of the Russian fortress Koulagina--
the bloody engagement with the Cossacks in the mountain passes at
Ouchim--the surprisal by the Bashkirs and the advanced posts of the
Russian army at Torgau--the private conspiracy at this point against
the Khan--the long succession of running fights--the parting massacres
at the lake of Tengis under the eyes of the Chinese--and finally, the
tragical retribution to Zebek-Dorchi at the hunting-lodge of the
Chinese emperor;--all these situations communicate a _scenical_
animation to the wild romance, if treated dramatically; whilst a higher
and a philosophic interest belongs to it as a case of authentic
history, commemorating a great revolution for good and for evil, in the
fortunes of a whole people--a people semi-barbarous, but simple-
hearted, and of ancient descent.

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