Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (195 page)

As they descended the mountain, Ellena, silent and dejected, abandoned herself to reflection. She was too sensible of the difficulties of her present situation, and too apprehensive of the influence, which her determination must have on all her future life, to be happy, though escaped from the prison of San Stefano, and in the presence of Vivaldi, her beloved deliverer and protector. He observed her dejection with grief, and, not understanding all the finer scruples that distressed her, interpreted her reserve into indifference towards himself. But he forbore to disturb her again with a mention of his doubts, or fears; and he determined not to urge the subject of his late entreaties, till he should have placed her in some secure asylum, where she might feel herself at perfect liberty to accept or to reject his proposal. By acting with an honour so delicate, he unconsciously adopted a certain means of increasing her esteem and gratitude, and deserved them the more, since he had to endure the apprehension of losing her by the delay thus occasioned to their nuptials.

They reached the town of Celano before the evening closed; when Vivaldi was requested by Ellena to enquire for a convent, where she might be lodged for the night. He left her at the inn, with Paulo for her guard, and proceeded on his search. The first gate he knocked upon belonged to a convent of Carmelites. It appeared probable, that the pilgrims of that order, who had occasioned him so much disquietude, were honest brothers of this house; but as it was probable also, that if they were emissaries of the Abbess of San Stefano, and came to Celano, they would take up their lodging with a society of their own class, in preference to that of any other, Vivaldi thought it prudent to retire from their gates without making himself known. He passed on, therefore, and soon after arrived at a convent of Dominicans, where he learned, that there were only two houses of nuns in Celano, and that these admitted no other boarders than permanent ones.

Vivaldi returned with this intelligence to Ellena, who endeavoured to reconcile herself to the necessity of remaining where she was; but Paulo, ever active and zealous, brought intelligence, that at a little fishing town, at some distance, on the bank of the lake, was a convent of Ursalines, remarkable for their hospitality to strangers. The obscurity of so remote a place, was another reason for preferring it to Celano, and Vivaldi proposing to remove thither, if Ellena was not too weary to proceed, she readily assented and they immediately set off.

“It happens to be a fine night,” said Paulo, as they left Celano, “and so, Signor, we cannot well lose our way; besides, they say, there is but one. The town we are going to lies yonder on the edge of the lake, about a mile and a half off. I think I can see a gray steeple or two, a little to the right of that wood where the water gleams so.”

“No, Paulo,” replied Vivaldi, after looking attentively. “I perceive what you mean; but those are not the points of steeples, they are only the tops of some tall cypresses.”

“Pardon me, Signor, they are too tapering for trees; that must surely be the town. This road, however, will lead us right, for there is no other to puzzle us, as they say,”

“This cool and balmy air revives me,” said Ellena; “and what a soothing shade prevails over the scene! How softened, yet how distinct, is every near object; how sweetly dubious the more removed ones; while the mountains beyond character themselves sublimely upon the still glowing horizon.”

“Observe, too,” said Vivaldi, “how their broken summits, tipt with the beams that have set to our lower region, exhibit the portraiture of towers and castles, and embattled ramparts, which seemed designed to guard them against the enemies, that may come by the clouds.”

“Yes,” replied Ellena, “the mountains themselves display a sublimity, that seems to belong to a higher world; their besiegers ought not to be of this earth; they can be only spirits of the air.”

“They can be nothing else, Signora,” said Paulo, “for nothing of this earth can reach them. See! lady, they have some of the qualities of your spirits, too; see! how they change their shapes and colours, as the sunbeams sink. And now, how gray and dim they grow! See but how fast they vanish!”

“Every thing reposes,” said Vivaldi. “who would willingly travel in the day, when Italy has such nights as this!”

“Signor, that is the town before us,” said Paulo, “for now I can discern, plain enough, the spires of convents; and there goes a light! Hah, hah! and there is a bell, too, chiming from one of the spires! The monks are going to mass; would we were going to supper, Signor!”

“That chime is nearer than the place you point to, Paulo, and I doubt whether it comes from the same quarter.”

“Hark! Signor, the air wafts the sound! and now it is gone again.”

“Yes, I believe you are right, Paulo, and that we have not far to go.”

The travellers descended the gradual slopes, towards the shore; and Paulo, some time after, exclaimed, “See, Signor, where another light glides along! See! it is reflected on the lake.”

“I hear the faint dashing of waves, now,” said Ellena, “and the sound of oars, too. But observe, Paulo, the light is not in the town, it is in the boat that moves yonder.”

“Now it retreats, and trembles in a lengthening line upon the waters,” said Vivaldi. “We have been too ready to believe what we wish and have yet far to go.”

The shore they were approaching formed a spacious bay for the lake, immediately below. Dark woods seemed to spread along the banks, and ascend among the cultivated slopes towards the mountains; except where, here and there, cliffs, bending over the water, were distinguished through the twilight by the whiteness of their limestone precipices. Within the bay, the town became gradually visible; lights twinkled between the trees, appearing and vanishing; like the stars of a cloudy night; and, at length was heard the melancholy song of boatmen, who were fishing near the shore.

Other sounds soon after struck the ear. “O, what merry notes!” exclaimed Paulo, “they make my heart dance. See! Signora, there is a group, footing it away so gaily on the bank of the lake, yonder, by those trees. O, what a merry set! Would I were among them! that is, I mean, if you, Maestro, and the Signora were not here.”

“Well corrected, Paulo.”

“It is a festival, I fancy,” observed Vivaldi. “These peasants of the lake can make the moments sly as gaily as the voluptuaries of the city, it seems.”

“O! what merry music!” repeated Paulo. “Ah! how often I have footed it as joyously on the beach at Naples, after sun-set, of a fine night, like this; with such a pleasant fresh breeze to cool one! Ah! there are none like the fishermen of Naples for a dance by moonlight; how lightly they do trip it! O! if I was but there now! That is, I mean, if you, Maestro, and the Signora were there too. O! what merry notes!”

“We thank you, good Signor Paulo,” said Vivaldi, “and I trust we shall all be there soon; when you shall trip it away, with as joyous an heart as the best of them.”

The travellers now entered the town, which consisted of one street, straggling along the margin of the lake; and having enquired for the Ursaline convent, were directed to its gates! The portress appeared immediately upon the ringing of the bell, and carried a message to the Abbess, who as quickly returned an invitation to Ellena. She alighted, and followed the portress to the parlour, while Vivaldi remained at the gate, till he should know whether she approved of her new lodging. A second invitation induced him, also, to alight; he was admitted to the grate, and offered refreshment, which, however, he declined staying to accept, as he had yet a lodging to seek for the night. The Abbess, on learning this circumstance, courteously recommended him to a neighbouring society of Benedictines, and desired him to mention her name to the Abbot.

Vivaldi then took leave of Ellena, and, though it was only for a few hours, he left her with dejection, and with some degree of apprehension for her safety, which, though circumstances could not justify him in admitting, he could not entirely subdue. She shared his dejection, but not his fears, when the door closed after him, and she found herself once more among strangers. The forlornness of her feelings could not be entirely overcome by the attentions of the Abbess; and there was a degree of curiosity, and even of scrutiny, expressed in the looks of some of the sisters, which seemed more than was due to a stranger. From such examination she eagerly escaped to the apartment allotted for her, and to the repose from which she had so long been withheld.

Vivaldi, meanwhile, had found an hospitable reception with the Benedictines, whose sequestered situation made the visit of a stranger a pleasurable novelty to them. In the eagerness of conversation, and, yielding to the satisfaction which the mind receives from exercising ideas that have long slept in dusky indolence, and to the pleasure of admitting new ones, the Abbot and a few of the brothers sat with Vivaldi to a late hour. When, at length, the traveller was suffered to retire, other subjects than those, which had interested his host, engaged his thoughts; and he revolved the means of preventing the misery that threatened him, in a serious separation from Ellena. Now, that she was received into a respectable asylum, every motive for silence upon this topic was done away. He determined, therefore, that on the following morning, he would urge all his reasons and entreaties for an immediate marriage; and among the brothers of the Benedictine, he had little doubt of prevailing with one to solemnize the nuptials, which he believed would place his happiness and Ellena’s peace, beyond the influence of malignant possibilities.

Chapter 1
3

“I under fair pretence of friendly ends,
And well-placed words of glozing courtesy,
Baited with reasons not unplausible,
Wind me into the easy-hearted man,
And hug him into snares.”
Milton.

While Vivaldi and Ellena were on the way from San Stefano, the Marchese Vivaldi was suffering the utmost vexation, respecting his son; and the Marchesa felt not less apprehension, that the abode of Ellena might be discovered; yet this fear did not withhold her from mingling in all the gaieties of Naples. Her assemblies were, as usual, among the most brilliant of that voluptuous city, and she patronized, as zealously as before, the strains of her favourite composer. But, notwithstanding this perpetual dissipation, her thoughts frequently withdrew themselves from the scene, and dwelt on gloomy forebodings of disappointed pride.

A circumstance, which rendered her particularly susceptible to such disappointment at this time, was, that overtures of alliance had been lately made to the Marchese, by the father of a lady, who was held suitable, in every consideration, to become his daughter; and whose wealth rendered the union particularly desirable at a time, when the expences of such an establishment as was necessary to the vanity of the Marchesa, considerably exceeded his income, large as it was.

The Marchesa’s temper had been thus irritated by the contemplation of her son’s conduct in an affair, which so materially affected the fortune, and, as she believed, the honour of his family; when a courier from the Abbess of San Stefano brought intelligence of the flight of Ellena with Vivaldi. She was in a disposition, which heightened disappointment into fury; and she forfeited, by the transports to which she yielded, the degree of pity that otherwise was due to a mother, who believed her only son to have sacrificed his family and himself to an unworthy passion. She believed, that he was now married, and irrecoverably lost. Scarcely able to endure the agony of this conviction, she sent for her ancient adviser Schedoni, that she might, at least, have the relief of expressing her emotions; and of examining whether there remained a possibility of dissolving these long-dreaded nuptials. The phrenzy of passion, however, did not so far overcome her circumspection as to compel her to acquaint the Marchese with the contents of the Abbess’s letter, before she had consulted with her Confessor. She knew that the principles of her husband were too just, upon the grand points of morality, to suffer him to adopt the measures she might judge necessary; and she avoided informing him of the marriage of his son, until the means of counteracting it should have been suggested and accomplished, however desperate such means might be.

Schedoni was not to be found. Trifling circumstances encrease the irritation of a mind in such a state as was her’s. The delay of an opportunity for unburthening her heart to Schedoni, was hardly to be endured; another and another messenger were dispatched to her Confessor.

“My mistress has committed some great sin, truely!” said the servant, who had been twice to the convent within the last half hour. “It must lie heavy on her conscience, in good truth, since she cannot support it for one half hour. Well! the rich have this comfort, however, that, let them be ever so guilty, they can buy themselves innocent again, in the twinkling of a ducat. Now a poor man might be a month before he recovered his innocence, and that, too, not till after many about of hard flogging.”

In the evening Schedoni came, but it was only to confirm her worst fear. He, too, had heard of the escape of Ellena, as well as that she was on the lake of Celano, and was married to Vivaldi. How he had obtained this information he did not chuse to disclose, but he mentioned so many minute circumstances in confirmation of it’s truth, and appeared to be so perfectly convinced of the facts he related, that the Marchesa believed them, as implicitly as himself; and her passion and despair transgressed all bounds of decorum.

Schedoni observed, with dark and silent pleasure, the turbulent excess of her feelings; and perceived that the moment was now arrived, when he might command them to his purpose, so as to render his assistance indispensable to her repose; and probably so as to accomplish the revenge he had long meditated against Vivaldi, without hazarding the favour of the Marchesa. So far was he from attempting to sooth her sufferings, that he continued to irritate her resentment, and exasperate her pride; effecting this, at the same time, with such imperceptible art, that he appeared only to be palliating the conduct of Vivaldi, and endeavouring to console his distracted mother.

“This is a rash step, certainly,” said the Confessor; but he is young, very young, and, therefore, does not foresee the consequence to which it leads. He does not perceive how seriously it will affect the dignity of his house; — how much it will depreciate his consequence with the court, with the nobles of his own rank, and even with the plebeians, with whom he has condescended to connect himself. Intoxicated with the passions of youth, he does not weigh the value of those blessings, which wisdom and the experience of maturer age know how to estimate. He neglects them only because he does not perceive their influence in society, and that lightly to resign them, is to degrade himself in the view of almost every mind. Unhappy young man! he is to be pitied fully as much as blamed.”

“Your excuses, reverend father,” said the tortured Marchesa, “prove the goodness of your heart; but they illustrate, also, the degeneracy of his mind, and detail the full extent of the effects which he has brought upon his family. It affords me no consolation to know, that this degradation proceeds from his head, rather than his heart; it is sufficient that he has incurred it, and that no possibility remains of throwing off the misfortune.”

“Perhaps that is affirming too much,” observed Schedoni.

“How, father!” said the Marchesa.

“Perhaps a possibility does remain,” said he.

“Point it out to me, good father! I do not perceive it.”

“Nay, my lady,” replied the subtle Schedoni, correcting himself, “I am by no means assured, that such possibility does exist. My solicitude for your tranquillity, and for the honour of your house, makes me so unwilling to relinquish hope, that, perhaps, I only imagine a possibility in your favour. Let me consider. — Alas! the misfortune, severe as it is, must be endured; — there remain no means of escaping from it.”

“It was cruel of you, father, to suggest a hope which you could not justify,” observed the Marchesa.

“You must excuse my extreme solicitude, then,” replied the Confessor. “But how is it possible for me to see a family of your ancient estimation brought into such circumstances; its honours blighted by the folly of a thoughtless boy, without feeling sorrow and indignation, and looking round for even some desperate means of delivering it from disgrace.” He paused.

“Disgrace!” exclaimed the Marchesa, “father, you — you — Disgrace! — The word is a strong one, but — it is, alas! just. And shall we submit to this? — Is it possible we can submit to it?”

“There is no remedy,” said Schedoni, coolly.

“Good God!” exclaimed the Marchesa, “that there should be no law to prevent, or, at least, to punish such criminal marriages!”

“It is much to be lamented,” replied Schedoni.

“The woman who obtrudes herself upon a family, to dishonour it,” continued the Marchesa, “deserves a punishment nearly equal to that of a state criminal, since she injures those who best support the state. She ought to suffer” — .

“Not nearly, but quite equal,” interrupted the Confessor, “she deserves — death!”

He paused, and there was a moment of profound silence, till he added— “for death only can obliviate the degradation she has occasioned; her death alone can restore the original splendor of the line she would have sullied.”

He paused again, but the Marchesa still remaining silent, he added, “I have often marvelled that our lawgivers should have failed to perceive the justness, nay the necessity, of such punishment!”

“It is astonishing,” said the Marchesa, thoughtfully, “that a regard for their own honour did not suggest it.”

“Justice does not the less exist, because her laws are neglected,” observed Schedoni. A sense of what she commands lives in our breasts; and when we fail to obey that sense, it is to weakness, not to virtue, that we yield.”

“Certainly,” replied the Marchesa, “that truth never yet was doubted.”

“Pardon me, I am not so certain as to that,” said the Confessor, “when justice happens to oppose prejudice, we are apt to believe it virtuous to disobey her. For instance, though the law of justice demands the death of this girl, yet because the law of the land forbears to enforce it, you, my daughter, even you! though possessed of a man’s spirit, and his clear perceptions, would think that virtue bade her live, when it was only fear!”

“Hah!” exclaimed the Marchesa, in a low voice, “What is that you mean? You shall find I have a man’s courage also.”

“I speak without disguise,” replied Schedoni, “my meaning requires none.”

The Marchesa mused, and remained silent.

“I have done my duty,” resumed Schedoni, at length. “I have pointed out the only way that remains for you to escape dishonour. If my zeal is displeasing — but I have done.”

“No, good father, no,” said the Marchesa; you mistake the cause of my emotion. New ideas, new prospects, open! — they confuse, they distract me! My mind has not yet attained sufficient strength to encounter them; some woman’s weakness still lingers at my heart.”

“Pardon my inconfiderate zeal,” said Schedoni, with affected humility, “I have been to blame. If your’s is a weakness, it is, at least, an amiable one, and, perhaps, deserves to be encouraged, rather than conquered.”

“How, father! If it deserves encouragement, it is not a weakness, but a virtue.”

“Be it so,” said Schedoni, coolly, “the interest I have felt on this subject, has, perhaps, misled my judgment, and has made me unjust. Think no more of it, or, if you do, let it be only to pardon the zeal I have testified.”

“It does not deserve pardon, but thanks,” replied the Marchesa, “not thanks only, but reward. Good father, I hope it will some time be in my power to prove the sincerity of my words.”

The Confessor bowed his head.

“I trust that the services you have rendered me, shall be gratefully repaid — rewarded, I dare not hope, for what benefit could possibly reward a service so vast, as it may, perhaps, be in your power to confer upon my family! What recompence could be balanced against the benefit of having rescued the honour of an ancient house!”

“Your goodness is beyond my thanks, or my desert,” said Schedoni, and he was again silent.

The Marchesa wished him to lead her back to the point, from which she herself had deviated, and he seemed determined, that she should lead him thither. She mused, and hesitated. Her mind was not yet familiar with atrocious guilt; and the crime which Schedoni had suggested, somewhat alarmed her. She feared to think, and still more to name it; yet, so acutely susceptible was her pride, so stern her indignation, and so profound her desire of vengeance, that her mind was tossed as on a tempestuous ocean, and these terrible feelings threatened to overwhelm all the residue of humanity in her heart. Schedoni observed all its progressive movements, and, like a gaunt tyger, lurked in silence, ready to spring forward at the moment of opportunity.

“It is your advice, then, father,” resumed the Marchesa, after a long pause,— “it is your opinion — that Ellena.” — She hesitated, desirous that Schedoni should anticipate her meaning; but he chose to spare his own delicacy rather than that of the Marchesa.

“You think, then, that this insidious girl deserves” — She paused again, but the Confessor, still silent, seemed to wait with submission for what the Marchesa should deliver.

“I repeat, father, that it is your opinion this girl deserves severe punishment.” —

“Undoubtedly,” replied Schedoni, “Is it not also your own?”

“That not any punishment can be too severe?” continued the Marchesa. “That justice, equally with necessity, demands — her life? Is not this your opinion too?”

“O! pardon me,” said Schedoni, “I may have erred; that only was my opinion; and when I formed it, I was probably too much under the influence of zeal to be just. When the heart is warm, how is it possible that the judgment can be cool.”

“It is not then, your opinion, holy father,” said the Marchesa with displeasure.

“I do not absolutely say that,” replied the Confessor. — But I leave it to your better judgment to decide upon its justness.”

As he said this, he rose to depart. The Marchesa was agitated and perplexed, and requested he would stay; but he excused himself by alledging, that it was the hour when he must attend a particular mass.

“Well then, holy father, I will occupy no more of your valuable moments at present; but you know how highly I estimate your advice, and will not refuse, when I shall at some future time request it.

“I cannot refuse to accept an honour,” replied the Confessor, with an air of meekness, “but the subject you allude to is delicate” — .

“And therefore I must value, and require your opinion upon it,” rejoined the Marchesa.

“I would wish you to value your own,” replied Schedoni; “you cannot have a better director.”

“You flatter, father.”

“I only reply, my daughter.”