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ART. XI. Vancenza; or, The Dangers of Credulity. By Mrs M. Robinson, Authoress of the Poems of Laura Maria, Ainsi va le Monde, &c. &c. 12mo. 2 Vols. 5s. sewed. Bell. 1792.
Style, like dress, admits of various degrees of ornament, between the limits of perfect plainness and finished elegance, each of which has its proper use and peculiar excellence; and it would be as absurd to expect all writers to express themselves in the same style, as to require all men to appear in an uniform habit. Simplicity and ease in language are characters, which, [299] when they do not degenerate into insipidity and negligence, will be always pleasing: but it would be carrying the matter too far, to measure the merit of all writers by this standard. Rich birth-day suits are not thrown aside, because the poet has said of beauty, that it is, 'when unadorned, adorned the most;' nor will true criticism, because it is pleased with the modest simplicity of a Gay or a Parnel, refuse its tribute of admiration to the studied graces of a Pope or a Thomson.
We have said thus much to prevent the unfavourable impression which the language of this novel may possibly, on the first perusal, make on the minds of some readers. Vancenza, it is true, is not written in the simple style: but it is written, and in our opinion well-written, in the style of elegance peculiar to Mrs. R. The richness of fancy and of language, which the fair author had so successfully displayed in her poetical productions, (see our review of her poems, vol. vi. New Series, p. 448,) she has transferred to prose narration; and has produced a tale, which, we venture to predict, will be much read and admired.
The outline of the story is as follows: scene SPAIN.
In the fifteenth century, at a castle from which the family took its name, lived the Count Vancenza. His family consisted of the Marchioness de Vallorie, his sister; her daughter, the Countess Carline; and Elvira, a beautiful orphan, the object of universal admiration in the castle and neighbourhood, where she was called the Rose of Vancenza:
When Elvira had attained her fifteenth year, she was one morning awakened by the sound of the horn; and calling her friend, they ascended one of the turrets of the castle, where they observed a numerous train of horsemen engaged in the pursuit of a wild boar; and their appearance denoted them to be persons of the higher order. One of the party, the Prince Almanza, was dangerously wounded, and brought to the castle. The family hastened to relieve him; and, among the rest, Elvira. From the impulse of sympathy, she tore her veil; and with it bound up the stranger's wound, while he remained insensible to every attention. At length, returning to life, his opening eyes beheld his lovely benefactress; he was charmed with her beauty and tenderness; and, after three days, he left the castle impressed with an indelible passion for Elvira.
On the other side, Almanza's figure and manner had made an equal impression on the heart of the fair orphan. Among Almanza's companions, was the Duke del Vero; who, while at the castle of Vancenza, had become deeply enamoured of Elvira, but was too proud to think of allying himself to a maid whose parents were unknown. He however concealed himself [300] near the castle, and appeared under Elvira's window in the assumed character of Almanza, whom his jealous eye perceived to be the object of her love. After repeated importunities, he prevailed on her to consent to an interview at the cottage of Ursuline, an old pensionary of the family: - but when she discovered the imposition, her confusion and indignation were extreme, and she returned precipitately to the castle. Self-reproach for her indiscretion, and apprehension lest Del Vero, from what had passed, should frame a tale that might injure her in the opinion of Almanza, overpowered her sensible mind, and a dangerous illness was the consequence. On her recovery, in hopes of restoring her spirits, the Count Vancenza proposed an excursion to Madrid, to which she consented. On the day before she left the castle, her melancholy was increased by reading the following plaintive verses, written on a window by a lady, who (as the Count informed her,) had met with great trials, and was now dead:
The chilling gale that nip'd the rose,
now murmuring sinks to soft repose;
The shad'wy vapours sail away,
Upon the silv'ry floods of day;
Health breathes on every face I see,
But, ah! she breathes no more on ME!
The woodbine wafts its odours meek
To kiss the rose's glowing cheek;
Pale twilight sheds her vagrant show'rs
To wake Aurora's infant flow'rs:
May smiles on every face I see,
But ah! she smiles no more on ME!
Perchance, when youth's delicious bloom
Shall fade unheeded in the tomb,
Fate may direct a daughter's eye
To where my moul'dring reliques lie;
And, touch'd by sacred sympathy,
That eye may drop a tear for ME!
Betray'd by love; of hope bereft;
No gentle gleam of comfort left;
Bow'd by the hand of sorrow low;
No pitying friend to weep my woe;
Save her, who, spar'd by Heav'n's decree,
Shall live to sigh, and think on ME!
Oh! I would wander where no ray
Breaks through the gloom of doubtful day,
There would I court the wintry hour,
The ling'ring dawn, the midnight show'r;
For cold and comfortless shall be
Each future scene - ordain'd for ME!'
[301] During their stay at Madrid, Elvira was frequently seen by Almanza, who retained his love for her. It happened that the good Count Vancenza was mortally wounded in rescuing his niece from the assault of a villain. Just before he expired, he took an affectionate leave of Elvira, and presented to her a key of curious workmanship, telling her it was the last solemn gift of - here death stopped his voice, and it was left to time to explain this mystery. After the Count's death, the Marchioness, with Carline and Elvira, returned to the castle; which, after the interval of a year, was to pass over to another family. During this interval, while Elvira was lamenting her loss, deploring her dependant state, and fostering her passion for Almanza, the Prince, finding his attachment to Elvira invincible, determined that false pride should not prevent him from offering her his hand. He accordingly visited the castle of Vancenza; and after some embarrassment, arising from a misapprehension entertained by the Marchioness concerning the object of Elvira's passion, he obtained from Elvira an acknowledgement of her regard, and the promise of her hand. While the Prince returned to Madrid to prepare the palace for her reception, the family at Vancenza was busy in providing for the nuptials. The picture gallery, which was to be one principal scene of the approaching festival, was cleared of the old pictures, to be splendidly ornamented for the occasion. On removing one of the family portraits, Elvira observed a pannel, in which was a curious lock; and presenting the mysterious key, she unlocked the door, and found within the recess a casket, containing a manuscript, from which she learned, that she was the daughter of Madeline Vancenza, sister of the Count, who had been basely seduced and betrayed by the father of Almanza: thus finding, that the man, whom she had so long loved, was her brother, she was unable to support the shock of this discovery, and, after a few days, expired.
A beautiful episode is introduced, entitled, The Pilgrim's Story.
As a specimen of the poetic style of the work, we extract the following relation of what passed when Almanza first left the castle:
Elvira, whose gentle bosom, for the first time felt the pang of separation, from a beloved object, unobserved by the rest of the family retired to her chamber, and opening the lattice, with tearful eyes and a palpitating heart, followed the cavalcade, until the objects lessening to the view, at length diminished to a mass of moving atoms, scarcely perceptible; except when the setting sun caught the polish of their shining accoutrements, and reflected a [302] dazzling glance of transitory lustre. Elvira remained at the window till the shades of night hung over the outstretched landscape: the last sound of Almanza's voice was still vibrating upon her brain, when the evening bell summoned her to supper.
Carline, whose vivacity was proof against every attack upon the heart, rallied her friend upon the solemnity of her manner: the Count, who knew the human mind, and had traced the passions through all its intricate mazes, observed with silent concern the pearly drop of sorrow that hung upon the down-cast eye, spangling its fringed lid with the gem of sensibility; he felt that the refined soul shrinks from the coarse gaze of prying curiosity: he trembled to offend, he dreaded to be convinced - he was silent.
Elvira rose from the table; she caught the eye of Carline, and smiled: it was the smile of self-reproach, rather than that of an unruffled mind. The Count, observing her embarrassment, retired to rest. Elvira, released from her perplexing situation, repaired to her chamber: an involuntary sensation led her to the lattice; she opened it, and, recollecting that it was no longer the sweet hour of placid twilight, blushed at her folly, and began to divest herself of her day apparel. She enveloped her fair form in a robe of muslin, and, binding an embroidered handkerchief about her head, took up her lute and began to sing a melancholy air adapted to the words of her favourite Metastasio.
She approached the window. The moon was just risen above the trees of the forest, tipping their waving heads with silvery lustre; the nightingale echoed harmonious warblings to the tones of her instrument. The casement opened to a long balcony, that overlooked the rampart facing the avenue. All was serene; the transparent clouds were born upon the wings of silent winds along the vast expanse. The quivering leaves, reflecting their shadows upon the openings between the trees, pictured to the pensive eye of the fair mourner a thousand fantastic forms and airy visions. Her fingers forgot their office, and her cold hand rested in languid inactivity upon the chords of her lute. The clock proclaimed the witching hour of midnight: the solemn sound awed her into profound attention, when, on a sudden, she distinctly heard a kind of rustling among the trees, and at the same moment she perceived the figure of a man, wrapped in a white cloak, the front of which was ornamented with shining clasps; his pace was quick, but at times hesitating. She was almost petrified with fear and astonishment, when the stranger, advancing as near as the situation permitted, in an empassioned tone thus addressed her:
'If thou art not a phantom, formed by the fond imagination of love to cheat my eyes with the semblance of Elvira, oh! strike again the strings of heavenly harmony, and, by their magic softness, sooth a mind distracted and despairing.'
Elvira, terrified by this extraordinary and unexpected salutation, hastened from the balcony, without making any answer. She passed the night in melancholy reflections; fancy gave to her view all the perfections of Almanza; she reproached herself for not having replied to his empassioned address, and frequently opened the [303] casement, in hopes that he still remained beneath the walls of the castle.
There is something playful in the conceit of the pearly drop of sorrow spangling the fringed lid with the gem of sensibility. The authoress is too fond of this sort of ornament, and often overcharges her language with luxuriant imagery: nevertheless, on the whole, it will not be immoderate panegyric, to say of this elegant little work, that it is the pleasing production of a fertile fancy, and a feeling heart.
* We have just seen a third edition of this work, 'corrected and enlarged.' [complete]
Provided by Julie A. Shaffer, September 1999.
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