_Beatrice resolves to take the Veil.--Euthanasia
visits Florence._
On the following day Beatrice seemed far more calm. Euthanasia had
feared, that the reviving the memory of past sorrows, might awaken the
frenzy from which she had before suffered; but it was not so. She had
pined for confidence; her heart was too big to close up in secrecy all
the mighty store of unhappiness to which it was conscious; but, having
now communicated the particulars to another, she felt somewhat relieved.
She and Euthanasia walked up and down the overgrown paths of the
palace-garden; and, as Beatrice held her friend's hand, after a silence
of a few minutes she said:
"I do not like to pry into the secrets of my own heart; and yet I am
ever impelled to do it. I was about to compare it to this unweeded
garden; but here all is still; and the progress of life, be it beautiful
or evil, goes on in peace: in my soul all jars,--one thought strikes
against another, and produces most vile discord. Sometimes for a moment
this ceases; and would that that state of peace would endure for ever:
but, crash!--comes in the stroke of a mightier hand, which destroys all
harmony and melody, alas! that may be found in your gentler heart; in
mine all recollection of it even is extinct."
"I will tell you how this is, my sweet Beatrice," replied Euthanasia,
playfully. "I will tell you what the human mind is; and you shall learn
to regulate its various powers. The human soul, dear girl, is a vast
cave, in which many powers sit and live. First, Consciousness is as a
centinel at the entrance; and near him wait Joy and Sorrow, Love and
Hate, and all the quick sensations that through his means gain entrance
into our hearts.
"In the vestibule of this cavern, still illumined by the light of day,
sit Memory with banded eyes, grave Judgement bearing her scales, and
Reason in a lawyer's gown. Hope and Fear dwell there, hand in hand, twin
sisters; the first (the elder by some brief moments, of ruddy
complexion, firm step, eyes eagerly looking forward, and lips apart in
earnest expectation,) would often hurry on to take her seat beside Joy;
if she were not held back by Fear, the younger born; who, pale and
trembling, would as often fly, if Hope held not her hand, and supported
her; her eyes are ever turned back to appeal to Memory, and you may see
her heart beat through her dun robe. Religion dwells there also, and
Charity, or sometimes in their place, their counterfeits or opposites,
Hypocrisy, Avarice and Cruelty.
"Within, excluded from the light of day, Conscience sits, who can see
indeed, as an owl, in the dark. His temples are circled by a diadem of
thorns, and in his hand he bears a whip; yet his garb is kingly, and his
countenance, though severe, majestical.
"But beyond all this there is an inner cave, difficult of access, rude,
strange, and dangerous. Few visit this, and it is often barren and
empty; but sometimes (like caverns that we read of, which are discovered
in the bosoms of the mountains, and exist in beauty, unknown and
neglected) this last recess is decorated with the strongest and most
wondrous devices;--stalactites of surpassing beauty, stores of
unimagined wealth, and silver sounds, which the dropping water makes, or
the circulation of the air, felt among the delicate crystals. But here
also find abode owls, and bats, and vipers, and scorpions, and other
deadly reptiles. This recess receives no light from outward day; nor has
Conscience any authority here. Sometimes it is lighted by an inborn
light; and then the birds of night retreat, and the reptiles creep not
from their holes. But, if this light do not exist, oh! then let those
beware who would explore this cave. It is hence that bad men receive
those excuses for their crimes, which take the whip from the hand of
Conscience, and blunt his sharp crown; it is hence that the daring
heretic learns strange secrets. This is the habitation of the madman,
when all the powers desert the vestibule, and he, finding no light,
makes darkling, fantastic combinations, and lives among them. From
thence there is a short path to hell, and the evil spirits pass and
repass unreproved, devising their temptations.
"But it is here also that Poetry and Imagination live; it is here that
Heroism, and Self-sacrifice, and the highest virtues dwell, and here
they find a lore far better than all the lessons of the world; and here
dwells the sweet reward of all our toil, Content of Mind, who crowned
with roses, and bearing a flower-wreathed sceptre, rules, instead of
Conscience, those admitted to her happy dominion."
Euthanasia talked thus, trying to give birth in the mind of Beatrice to
calmer ideas; but it was in vain; the poor girl listened, and when her
friend had finished, she raised her eyes heavy with tears. "Talk no more
in this strain," she said; "every word you utter tells me only too
plainly what a lost wretch I am. No content of mind exists for me, no
beauty of thought, or poetry; and, if imagination live, it is as a
tyrant, armed with fire, and venomed darts, to drive me to despair."
A torrent of tears followed these words; and no caresses or consolation
could soothe her.
Soon after, Euthanasia received an answer from Castruccio to the letter
in which she had sketched Beatrice's unhappy story. He lamented the
misfortunes, which through his means had overwhelmed the poor
prophetess. "I know," he continued, "of no refuge or shelter for her, if
it be not in your protecting affection. If she were as when I knew her,
her own feelings might suggest a cloister, as the last resource for one
so outraged and so miserable as she is. But she is a Paterin; and, until
she be reclaimed from this detestable heresy, she is shut out from the
consolations of our religion."
"And he writes thus coldly of this ruined temple, which was once all
that is fair and beautiful! Ah! I wonder not," thought Euthanasia, "that
he cast away my affections, since he can spare no deeper sympathy for
Beatrice. She does not interfere with his ambition or his designs; it is
therefore hardness of heart alone which dictates his chilling councils."
At this moment Beatrice entered. To see that beautiful creature only
(for beautiful she still was in spite of calamity and madness), was to
behold all that can be imagined of soft and lovely in woman, soft and
lovely, yet wild, so that, while you gazed with delight, you feared. Her
low brow, though its fairness were tarnished by the sun, still gleamed
beneath her raven-black hair; her eyes, which had reassumed some of
their ancient gentleness, slept as it were beneath their heavy lids. Her
angry look, which was lightning, her smile, which was as paradise, all
elevated her above her fellow creatures; she seemed like the incarnation
of some strange planetary spirit, that, robed in flesh, felt uneasy in
its bonds, and longed to be away on the wings of its own will.
She spoke with trepidation: "Do not blush, my friend, or endeavour to
conceal that paper; I know what it is; and, if you care for my peace of
mind, if you love me, if the welfare of my almost lost soul be dear to
you, let me see that writing."
"There is no consolation for you in it," replied Euthanasia, sadly.
"Nay, of that I alone can judge; look, I kneel to you, Euthanasia; and
do you deny me? I intreat you to give me that paper."
"My own Beatrice, do not torture me thus: if I do not shew it you--Never
mind: here it is; read it, and know what Castruccio is."
Beatrice read it with a peaceful air; and then, folding it up, said
composedly;--"I see no ill in this; and his will shall be done. It is a
strange coincidence, that I had already decided on what he advises; and
I trust he will be glad to find that the wandering prophetess again
seeks her antient path of religion and peace. I must explain these
things to you, my Euthanasia. I know that you wish to remove to
Florence: I can never leave this town. I shall never see him again, hear
him speak, or be any thing to him; but to live within the same walls, to
breathe the air of heaven which perhaps has hovered near him, this is a
joy which I will never, never forego. My resolution is fixed: but you
perish here; and would find loving and cherished friends there, where he
can never come. I would not detain you; I have chosen the mode of my
future destiny, and planned it all. The convent nearest to his palace is
one of nuns dedicated to San Michele. I have already sent for the
confessor of that convent; through him I shall make my peace with the
church; and, when he believes me sufficiently pure to become an
inhabitant of those sainted walls, I shall enter myself as a novice, and
afterwards become a nun of that order. I intreat you, dearest, to stay
only till my vows are made, when, wholly dedicated to heaven, I shall
feel less an earthly separation."
She spoke in a hurried, faltering voice, and closed her speech in tears;
she threw herself into Euthanasia's arms, and they both wept.--"Oh! no,
unhappy, but dear, dear Beatrice, indeed you shall not leave me. I can
be of little use now in the world to myself or others: but to cheer you,
to teach you, as well as my poor skill will permit, the softest path to
heaven, these shall be my tasks; you shall never leave me."
Beatrice disengaged herself from the arms of Euthanasia; and, casting up
her eyes, with that look of inspiration which seemed to seek and find
converse with the powers above, she said: "I thank you from the depth of
my heart, and may God bless you as you deserve, divine Euthanasia; but I
am fixed. Alas! my mind is as the waters, now lashed into waves by the
winds of circumstance, now coldly dark under a lowering heaven, but
never smiled upon by the life-giving sun. And this perishable frame is
to my soul as a weak, tempest-beaten promontory, against which the
Libeccio impels the undermining sea. I shall soon perish: but let my
death be that of the holy; and that can alone be in the solitude of a
cloister: that is the consummation of my fate. Oppose me no more: has
not he pronounced? And I will obey his word, as if he were my king, my
lord, my----Speak not; contradict me not; you see what a fragile being
I am."
And now this Beatrice, this Paterin, who had so lately with heartfelt
hatred told the tale of all the miseries that are suffered under the
sun, and cursed the author of them, became as docile to the voice of the
priest, as a seven-years-old child. The confessor for whom she had sent,
found it no difficult task to turn her mind to the reception of his
tenets; and prayer and penitence became again for her the law of the
day. She never went out; she remained secluded in Euthanasia's palace;
and, with her beads in her hand, her wild eyes turned heavenwards, she
sought for peace, and she found at least a respite from some of the
dreadful feelings that had hitherto tormented her.
In the mean time "the mother of the months" had many times waned, and
again refilled her horn; and summer, and its treasure of blue skies,
odorous flowers, merry insects, and sweet-voiced birds, again bade the
world be happy. The peasant prepared the threshing floor, choosing a
sunny spot which he carefully cleared of grass and weeds, and pouring
water on it, beat it, till it was as hard as a barn-floor in the north.
The ploughs, whose rough workmanship Virgil describes, lay useless
beside the tilth, now filled with the rising corn: the primroses had
faded; but one began to scent the myrtle on the mountains; the
innumerable fireflies, loving the green wheat, made a second heaven of
twinkling stars upon a verdant floor, or, darting among the olive
copses, formed a fairy scene of the sweet Italian night; the soft-eyed
oxen reposed in their stalls; and the flowers of the chesnuts and olives
had given place to the young, half-formed fruit. This is the season that
man has ever chosen for the destruction of his fellow-creatures, to make
the brooks run blood, the air, filled with the carolling of happy birds,
to echo also to the groans and shrieks of the dying, and the blue and
serene heaven to become tainted with the dew which the unburied corpse
exhales; winter were Bellona's fitting mate; but, no; she hangs about
the neck of summer, who would fain shake her off, as might well be
expected for so quarrelsome a bride.
Castruccio now possessed the whole territory of Lucca and several other
circumjacent provinces, in peace and obedience. But his eyes were always
turned towards Florence; and his most ardent wish was to humble, if not
possess himself of, that city. He made another step towards it during
the summer. The abbot of Pacciana got by popular favour entire power in
Pistoia; he used this in behalf of Castruccio, turning out the
Florentine ambassadors, and giving up to the prince of Lucca many of the
strong-holds and towers of the Pistoian territory. Castruccio was
possessed of the fortresses placed on the mountain which overlooked the
town, where he hovered, like a hawk over his prey, ready to pounce,
delaying only for the destined minute.
During this summer also he conceived some hopes of taking Pisa. The head
of the government there, who reigned entirely through the affections of
the people, suddenly offended his masters; he was decapitated; and the
various parties in the town, running to arms, entered into a bloody
warfare. At this moment Castruccio appeared with his army on the hill of
St. Giuliano: this sight pacified the combatants; they elected a new
lord, and turned their powers towards resisting the common enemy.
Castruccio retreated to Lucca; but he was so moved by the overthrow of
the Pisan chief, that, resolving to trust no more, as he had hitherto
done, to the affections of his people, he erected in the same year a
strong fortress within the walls of his city, which he called Agosta. He
spared no expence or labour in it; and it was considered by all as the
most magnificent work of those days: it was situated in that part of the
town which looks towards Pisa, surrounded by a strong and high wall, and
fortified by thirty towers. The inhabitants of a whole quarter were
turned out of their dwellings, to make room for this new symbol of
tyranny; and here he, his family, and followers, lived in proud
security.
Towards the end of the month of June, Euthanasia, who had hitherto been
occupied in attending to the sorrows of Beatrice, received information,
that one of her most valued Florentine friends was dangerously ill, and
earnestly desired her attendance. She mentioned this to her guest; and
Beatrice, ever variable, was then in a docile mood. She had long
listened with deep and earnest faith to the lessons of Padre Lanfranco,
the confessor of the convent to which she was about to retire. It would
seem that this old man humoured warily and wisely her disturbed
understanding; for she appeared at peace with herself and others: if she
now wept, she did not accuse, as she had before done, Him who had
created the fountain of her tears.
"Go, kind friend," said she to Euthanasia; "go; but return again.
Remember, I claim your companionship, until I take the veil,--then you
are free. Methinks, I should like to be left now in utter solitude, I
could commune more intensely with the hopes and heavenly gifts that I
entertain. Go; blessed spirit of Good, guardian Angel of poor Beatrice,
poor in all but gratitude,--you shall not see your work marred on your
return; you will still find me the good, obedient child, which I have
been, now, I think, for more than a month."
Euthanasia left her with pain, and with a mournful presentiment; but, as
all wore the aspect of peace, she thought herself bound to obey the
voice of friendship, and to see, perhaps for the last time, one who had
been the friend and companion of her early youth; and she departed for
Florence. There were for her too many associations allied to the Val di
Nievole, to permit her to choose that route. Besides Castruccio's army
occupied the passes, and she feared to meet him. She accordingly went
round by Pisa. Nothing could be more beautiful than the country; the low
Pisan hills covered with chesnut and olive woods, interspersed with
darker patches of pine and cork (while, among all, the cypresses raised
their tapering spires), and, crowned by castles and towers, bounded in a
plain of unparalleled fertility. The corn was cutting, and the song of
the reapers kept time as it were with the noisy cicale in the olive
trees, and the chirping birds. Peace, for the first time for several
years, sat brooding with outspread wings over the land; and underneath
their blessed shade sprung joy and plenty.
Euthanasia arrived at Florence. She found her friend recovered; but all
her acquaintance, who had eagerly expected her arrival, were much
disappointed when they heard that it was her intention to return to
Lucca. She however both loved and pitied Beatrice too much, to be
wanting in any of the duties of friendship towards her. After a month's
residence in her natal and beloved city, she again departed from
Florence. In the mean time what had become of the ill-fated prophetess?