The Pacha of Many Tales. Фредерик Марриет
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Название: The Pacha of Many Tales
Автор: Фредерик Марриет
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Языкознание
isbn: 4064066162535
isbn:
I then took my leave, requesting Donna Celia to inform her niece of the circumstances, as I presumed there would now be no obstacle to the mutual attachment of the young people.
My reason for an early departure was that I might arrange the story I should tell, when, as Don Pedro, my new mother would demand from me the events of my life. I had also to request leave of absence, which I obtained in expectation of some property being left to the convent by an elderly gentleman residing at Alicant, who was expected to die, and from whom I produced a letter, requesting my presence. As I was on the best terms with the superior, and there was a prospect of obtaining money, his consent was given. That I should be there in time, I was permitted to depart that evening. I took my leave of the superior, and the rest of the monks, intending never to return, and hastened to my lodgings, where I threw off my monastic habit, which from that hour has never been resumed. I repaired to Donna Celia’s house, was admitted and ushered into a room, to await her arrival. My person had been set off to the best advantage. I had put on a new wig, a splendid velvet cloak, silk doublet and hose; and as I surveyed myself for a second or two in the mirror, I felt the impossibility of recognition, mingled with pride at my handsome contour. The door opened, and Donna Celia came in, trembling with anxiety. I threw myself on my knees, and in a voice apparently choked with emotion, demanded her blessing. She tottered to the sofa overpowered by her feelings; and still remaining on my knees, I seized her hand, which I covered with kisses.
“It is—it is my child,” cried she at last; “all powerful nature would have told me so, if it had not been proved,” and she threw her arms round my neck, as she bent over me and shed tears of gratitude and delight. I do assure your highness that I caught the infection, and mingled my tears with hers; for I felt then, and I even now firmly believe, that I was her son. Although my conscience for a moment upbraided me, during a scene which brought back virtuous feelings to my breast, I could not but consider, that a deception which could produce so much delight and joy, was almost pardonable. I took my seat beside her, and she kissed me again and again, as one minute she would hold me off to look at me, and the next strain me in her embraces.
“You are the image of your father, Pedro,” observed she, mournfully, “but God’s will be done. If he has taken away, he also hath given, and truly grateful am I for his bounty.” When we had in some degree recovered our agitation, I intreated her to narrate to me the history of my father, of whom I had heard but little from the good brother Anselmo, and she repeated to me those events of her youthful days which she had communicated before.
“But you have not been introduced to Clara: the naughty girl little thought that she was carrying on an amour with her own cousin.”
When Donna Celia called her down, I made no scruple of pressing the dear girl to my heart, and implanting a kiss upon her lips: with our eyes beaming with love and joy, we sat down upon the sofa, I in the centre, with a hand locked in the hand of each. “And now, my dear Pedro, I am anxious to hear the narrative of your life,” said Donna Celia: “that it has been honourable to yourself, I feel convinced.” Thanking her for her good opinion, which I hoped neither what had passed, or might in future occur, would be the means of removing, I commenced the history of my life in the following words …
“Commenced the history of your life?” interrupted the pacha. “Does the slave laugh at our beards? What then is all this you have been telling us?”
“The truth, your highness,” replied the Spaniard.
“What I am about to tell, is the history of my life, which I invented to deceive the old lady Donna Celia, and which is all false.”
“I understand, Mustapha, this kafir is a regular kessehgou (Eastern story-teller), he makes one story breed another; but it is late; see that he attends to-morrow afternoon, Bero! Go, infidel, the muezzin calls to prayers.”
The Spaniard quitted the sublime presence, and in obedience to the call of the muezzin, the pacha and Mustapha paid their customary evening devotions—to the bottle.
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