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Sybil and Barbara Lovel
George Cruikshank
1836
Etching on copper
10.5 x 7.5 cm vignetted
Fourth illustration for Rookwood: A Romance.
Fourth Edition, complete in one volume, with illustrations by George Cruikshank. London: William Macrone and Richard Bentley, New Burlington Street, 1836.
Scanned image and text by Philip V. Allingham.
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The room in which Sybil found herself was the only entire apartment now existing in the priory. It had survived the ravages of time; it had escaped the devastation of man, whose ravages outstrip those of time. Octagonal, lofty, yet narrow, you saw at once that it formed the interior of a turret. It was lighted by a small oriel window, commanding a lovely view of the scenery around, and paneled with oak, richly wrought in ribs and groins; and from overhead depended a moulded ceiling of honeycomb plaster-work. This room had something, even now, in the days of its desecration, of monastic beauty about it. Where the odour of sanctity had breathed forth, the fumes of idolatry prevailed; but imagination, ever on the wing, flew back to that period — and a tradition to that effect warranted the supposition — when, perchance, it had been the sanctuary and the privacy of the prior's self.
Wrapped in a cloak composed of the skins of various animals, upon a low pallet, covered with stained scarlet cloth, sat Barbara. Around her head was coiffed, in folds like those of an Asiatic turban, a rich, though faded shawl, and her waist was encircled with the magic zodiacal zone — proper to the sorceress — the Mago Cineo of the Cingara — whence the name Zingaro, according to Moncada — which Barbara had brought from Spain. From her ears depended long golden drops, of curious antique fashioning; and upon her withered fingers, which looked like a coil of lizards, were hooped a multitude of silver rings, of the purest and simplest manufacture. They seemed almost of massive unwrought metal. — Chapter 4, "Barbara Lovel," p. 155-156 [1878 edition].
"There is a cousin, Eleanor Mowbray."
"Ha! I see; a daughter of that Eleanor Rookwood who fled from her father's roof. Fool, fool. Am I caught in my own toils? Those words were words of truth and power, and compel the future and 'the will be' as with chains of brass. They must be fulfilled, yet not by Ranulph. He shall never wed Eleanor."
"Whom then shall she wed?"
"His elder brother."
"Mother!" shrieked Sybil. "Do you say so? Oh! recall your words."
"I may not; it is spoken. Luke shall wed her."
"Oh God, support me!" exclaimed Sybil.
"Silly wench, be firm. It must be as I say. He shall wed her — yet shall he wed her not. The nuptial torch shall be quenched as soon as lighted; the curse of the avenger shall fall — yet not on thee."
"Mother," said Sybil, "if sin must fall upon some innocent head, let it be on mine — not upon hers. I love him, I would gladly die for him. She is young — unoffending — perhaps happy. Oh! do not let her perish."
"Peace, I say!" cried Barbara, "and mark me. This is your birthday. Eighteen summers have flown over your young head — eighty winters have sown their snows on mine. You have yet to learn. Years have brought wrinkles — they have brought wisdom likewise. To struggle with Fate, I tell you, is to wrestle with Omnipotence. We may foresee, but not avert our destiny. What will be, shall be. This is your eighteenth birthday, Sybil: it is a day of fate to you; in it occurs your planetary hour — an hour of good or ill, according to your actions. I have cast your horoscope. I have watched your natal star; it is under the baleful influence of Scorpion, and fiery Saturn sheds his lurid glance upon it. Let me see your hand. The line of life is drawn out distinct and clear — it runs — ha! what means that intersection? Beware — beware, my Sybil. Act as I tell you, and you are safe. I will make another trial, by the crystal bowl. Attend."
Muttering some strange words, sounding like a spell, Barbara, with the bifurcate hazel staff which she used as a divining-rod, described a circle upon the floor. Within this circle she drew other lines, from angle to angle, forming seven triangles, the bases of which constituted the sides of a septilateral figure. This figure she studied intently for a few moments. She then raised her wand and touched the owl with it. The bird unfolded its wings, and arose in flight; then slowly circled round the pendulous globe. Each time it drew nearer, until at length it touched the glassy bowl with its flapping pinions.
"Enough!" ejaculated Barbara. And at another motion from her rod the bird stayed its flight and returned to its perch. Barbara arose. She struck the globe with her staff. The pure lymph became instantly tinged with crimson, as if blood had been commingled with it. The little serpent could be seen within, coiled up and knotted, as in the struggles of death.
"Again I say, beware!" ejaculated Barbara, solemnly. "This is ominous of ill." — Book III, "The Gypsy," Chapter 4, " p. 159-160.
Depicted on the page facing the text realised, the matriarch of the Gypsies, Barbara Lovel, is apparently as much a sorceress and apothecary and as ruler. Although she is going blind, Barbara is possessed of the gift of second sight, which here she deploys to read the fate of her granddaughter and Luke Bradley, who has fallen under the influence of his malevolent grandfather, the sexton Peter Bradley, who is in fact a Rookwood. In the Cruikshank illustration, the witch-like prophetess predominates:
Barbara's only living companion was a monstrous owl, which, perched over the old gipsy's head, hissed a token of recognition as Sybil advanced. From a hook, placed in the plaster roof, was suspended a globe of crystal glass, about the size and shape of a large gourd, filled with a pure pellucid liquid, in which a small snake, the Egyptian aspic, described perpetual gyrations. — Ch. 4, p. 156.
Barbara has just announced to her granddaughter that Sir Piers Rookwood has recently died, and that the legitimate heir is none other than Luke Bradley, her fiané, in fact a Rookwood and the first-born of savage, old Sir Piers, who strangled Luke's mother. Although Barbara would like to see Sybil ennobled by marriage, Sybil feels that, as a social inferior, her becoming Luke's wife would not be "fitting." Although she declares the curse on the house of Rookwood means that the local aristocrats are no better that gypsy royalty, Barbara concedes that in the future her clairvoyance has shown her Luke marries his cousin, Eleanor Mowbray, thereby cementing his claim to the Rookwood escape, and cheating his younger brother, Ranulph. Seeing some difficulty with her granddaughter's lifeline in her palm, Barbara conducts a divination:
Muttering some strange words, sounding like a spell, Barbara, with the bifurcate hazel staff which she used as a divining-rod, described a circle upon the floor. Within this circle she drew other lines, from angle to angle, forming seven triangles, the bases of which constituted the sides of a septilateral figure. This figure she studied intently for a few moments. She then raised her wand and touched the owl with it. The bird unfolded its wings, and arose in flight; then slowly circled round the pendulous globe. Each time it drew nearer, until at length it touched the glassy bowl with its flapping pinions. — Chapter 4, p. 160.
Barbara now plots to have been the fated and the desired future by marrying Luke to Eleanor Mowbray (who has just entered the precincts of the priory), and then, with the aid of a potion, to remove Sybil's rival so that Luke will become "her titled, landed husband" — a suggestion that Barbara's motivation is not merely a desire control the Rookwoods, but simple greed after all. There is no equivalent illustration in the sequence produced by Sir John Gilbert, perhaps because so fantastic a scene was ill-suited to his taste for realism.
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Last modified 19 February 2017