"I told him: it woke no recollection.
"'Alexandre Dumas, Alexandre Dumas,' he repeated two or three times, 'I shall recollect that he who bears that name has given me good news of my son. Adieu! Alexandre Dumas—I shall recollect that name—Adieu!'
"Poor old man! I am sure he has not forgotten it; for the news I gave him of his son was the last he was ever to receive."—P. 226.
Sicily is one of those romantic countries, where you may still meet with adventures in your travels, where you may be shot at by banditti with pointed hats and long guns. M. Dumas passes not without his share of such adventures. Perhaps, as Sicily is less trodden ground than Italy, his "Souvenirs" will be found more interesting as he proceeds. We have naturally taken our quotations in the order in which they presented themselves, and we have not advanced further than the second of the five delectably small volumes in which these travels are printed. Would our space permit us to proceed, it is probable that our extracts would increase, instead of diminishing, in interest.
AMMALÁT BEK
A TRUE TALE OF THE CAUCASUS. FROM THE RUSSIAN OF MARLÍNSKI
CHAPTER VI
Fragments from the Diary of Ammalát Bek.—Translated from the Tartar.
... Have I been asleep till now, or am I now in a dream?... This, then, is the new world called thought!... O beautiful world! thou hast long been to me cloudy and confused, like the milky way, which, they say, consists of thousands of glittering stars! It seems to me that I am ascending the mountain of knowledge from the valley of darkness and ignorance; each step opens to me views further and more extensive.... My breast breathes freer, I gaze in the face of the sun.... I look below—the clouds murmur under my feet!... annoying clouds! You prevent me from seeing the heavens from the earth; from the heaven to look upon the earth!
I wonder how the commonest questions, whence and how, never before came into my head? All God's world, with every thing in it good or evil, was seen reflected in my soul as in the sea: I only knew as much of it as the sea does, or a mirror. In my memory, it is true, much was preserved: but to what end did this serve? Does the hawk understand why the hood is put on his head? Does the steed understand why they shoe him? Did I understand why in one place mountains are necessary, in another steppes, here eternal snows, there oceans of sand? Why storms and earthquakes were necessary? And thou, most wondrous being, Man! it never has entered my head to follow thee from thy cradle, suspended on a wandering mule, to that magnificent city which I have never seen, and which I am enchanted merely to have heard of!... I confess that I am already delighted with the mere outside of a book, without understanding the meaning of the mysterious letters ... but V. not only makes knowledge attractive, but gives me the means of acquiring it. With him, as a young swallow with its mother, I try my new wings.... The distance and the height still astonish, but no longer alarm me. The time will come when I shall mount upwards to the heavens!...
... But yet, am I happy because V. and his books teach me to think? The time was, when a spirited steed, a costly sabre, a good gun, delighted me like a child. Now, that I know the superiority of mind over body, my former pride in shooting or horsemanship appears to me ridiculous—nay, even contemptible. Is it worth while to devote oneself to a trade, in which the meanest broad-shouldered noúker can surpass me?... Is it worth while to seek honour and happiness, of which the first wound may deprive me—the first awkward leap? They have taken from me this plaything, but with what have they replaced it?... With new wants, with new wishes, which Allah himself can neither weary nor satisfy. I thought myself a man of consequence; but now I am convinced of my own nothingness. Formerly, to my memory, my grandfather and great-grandfather were at the beginning of the night of the past, with its stories and dreaming traditions.... The Caucasus contained my world, and I peacefully slept in that night. I thought to be famous in Daghestán—the height of glory. And what then? History has peopled my former desert with nations, shattering each other for glory; with heroes, terrifying the nations by valour to which we can never rise. And where are they? Half forgotten, they have vanished in the dust of ages. The description of the earth shows me that the Tartars occupy a little corner of the world; that they are miserable savages in comparison with the European nations; and that of the existence, not only of their brave warriors, but of the whole nation, nobody thinks, nobody knows, nobody wishes to know. It is worth while to be a glow-worm amongst insects. Was it worth while to expand my mind, in order to be convinced of such a bitter truth?
What is the use of a knowledge of the powers of nature to me, when I cannot change my soul, master my heart? The sea teaches me to build dykes—but I cannot restrain my tears!... I can conduct the lightning from the roof, but I cannot throw off my sorrows! Was I not unhappy enough from my feelings alone, without calling around me my thoughts, like greedy vultures? What does the sick man gain by knowing that his disease is incurable?... The tortures of my hopeless love have become sharper, more piercing, more various, since my intellect has been enlightened.
No! I am unjust. Reading shortens for me the long winter-like night—the hours of separation. In teaching me to fix on paper my flying thoughts, V. has given me a heartfelt enjoyment. Some day I shall meet Seltanetta, and I shall show her these pages; in which her name is written oftener than that of Allah in the Korán. "These are the annals of my heart," I shall say: "Look! on such a day thus thought about you—on such a night, I saw you thus in my dreams! By these little leaves, as by a string of diamond beads, you may count my sighs, my tears for you." O lovely, and beloved being! you will often smile at my strange phantasies—long will they supply matter for our conversations. But, by your side, enchantress, shall I be able to remember the past?... No, no!... Every thing before me, every thing around me, will then fade away, except the present bliss—to be with you! O, how burning, and how light will my soul be! Liquid sunshine will flow in my veins—I shall float in heaven, like the sun! To forget all by your side is a bliss prouder than the highest wisdom!
I have read stories of love, of the charms of woman—of the perfidy of man—but no heroine approaches my Seltanetta in loveliness of soul or body—not one of the heroes do I resemble—I envy them the fascination, I admire the wisdom of lovers in books—but then, how weak, how cold is their love! It is a moonbeam playing on ice! Whence come these European babblers of Tharsis—these nightingales of the market-place—these sugared confections of flowers? I cannot believe that people can love passionately, and prate of their love—even as a hired mourner laments over the dead. The spendthrift casts his treasure by handfuls to the wind; the lover hides it, nurses it, buries it in his heart like a hoard.
I am yet young, and I ask "what is friendship?" I have a friend in V.—a loving, real, thoughtful friend; yet I am not his friend. I feel it, I reproach myself that I do not reciprocate his regard as I ought, as he deserves—but is in my power? In my soul there is no room for any one but Seltanetta—in my heart there is no feeling but love.
No! I cannot read, I cannot understand what the Colonel explains to me. I cheated myself when I thought that the ladder of science could be climbed by me ... I am weary at the first steps, I lose my way on the first difficulty, I entangle the threads, instead of unravelling them—I pull and tear them—and I carry off nothing of the prey but a few fragments. The hope which the Colonel held out to me I mistook for my own progress. But who—what—impedes this progress? That which makes the happiness and misery of my life—love. In every place, in every thing, I hear and see Seltanetta—and often Seltanetta alone. To banish her from my thoughts I should consider sacrilege; and, even if I wished, I could not perform the resolution. Can I see without light? Can I breathe without air? Seltanetta is my light, my air, my life, my soul!
My hand trembles—my heart flutters in my bosom. If I wrote with my blood, 'twould scorch the paper. Seltanetta! your image pursues me dreaming or awake. The image of your charms is more dangerous than the reality. The thought that I may never possess them,