THE _ITALIAN_,
OR
THE CONFESSIONAL of the BLACK PENITENTS.
_A ROMANCE._
BY
ANN RADCLIFFE,
AUTHOR OF THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO, &c. &c.
He, wrapt in clouds of mystery and silence,
Broods o'er his passions, bodies them in deeds,
And sends them forth on wings of Fate to others:
Like the invisible Will, that guides us,
Unheard, unknown, unsearchable!
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
Printed for T. CADELL Jun. and W. DAVIES
(successors to Mr. CADELL) in the STRAND.
1797.
_THE ITALIAN_,
OR
THE CONFESSIONAL of the BLACK PENITENTS.
About the year 1764, some English travellers in Italy, during one of
their excursions in the environs of Naples, happened to stop before the
portico of the _Santa Maria del Pianto_, a church belonging to a very
ancient convent of the order of the _Black Penitents_. The magnificence
of this portico, though impaired by time, excited so much admiration,
that the travellers were curious to survey the structure to which it
belonged, and with this intention they ascended the marble steps that
led to it.
Within the shade of the portico, a person with folded arms, and eyes
directed towards the ground, was pacing behind the pillars the whole
extent of the pavement, and was apparently so engaged by his own
thoughts, as not to observe that strangers were approaching. He turned,
however, suddenly, as if startled by the sound of steps, and then,
without further pausing, glided to a door that opened into the church
and disappeared.
There was something too extraordinary in the figure of this man, and
too singular in his conduct, to pass unnoticed by the visitors. He was
of a tall thin figure, bending forward from the shoulders; of a sallow
complexion, and harsh features, and had an eye, which, as it looked up
from the cloke that muffled the lower part of his countenance, seemed
expressive of uncommon ferocity.
The travellers, on entering the church, looked round for the stranger,
who had passed thither before them, but he was no where to be seen,
and, through all the shade of the long aisles, only one other person
appeared. This was a friar of the adjoining convent, who sometimes
pointed out to strangers the objects in the church, which were most
worthy of attention, and who now, with this design, approached the
party that had just entered.
The interior of this edifice had nothing of the shewy ornament and
general splendor, which distinguish the churches of Italy, and
particularly those of Naples; but it exhibited a simplicity and
grandeur of design, considerably more interesting to persons of taste,
and a solemnity of light and shade much more suitable to promote the
sublime elevation of devotion.
When the party had viewed the different shrines and whatever had been
judged worthy of observation, and were returning through an obscure
aisle towards the portico, they perceived the person who had appeared
upon the steps, passing towards a confessional on the left, and, as he
entered it, one of the party pointed him out to the friar, and enquired
who he was; the friar turning to look after him, did not immediately
reply, but, on the question being repeated, he inclined his head, as in
a kind of obeisance, and calmly replied, "He is an assassin."
"An assassin!" exclaimed one of the Englishmen; "an assassin and at
liberty!"
An Italian gentleman, who was of the party, smiled at the astonishment
of his friend.
"He has sought sanctuary here," replied the friar; "within these walls
he may not be hurt."
"Do your altars, then, protect the murderer?" said the Englishman.
"He could find shelter no where else," answered the friar meekly.
"This is astonishing!" said the Englishman; "of what avail are your
laws, if the most atrocious criminal may thus find shelter from them?
But how does he contrive to exist here! He is, at least, in danger of
being starved?"
"Pardon me," replied the friar; "there are always people willing to
assist those, who cannot assist themselves; and as the criminal may not
leave the church in search of food, they bring it to him here."
"Is this possible!" said the Englishman, turning to his Italian friend.
"Why, the poor wretch must not starve," replied the friend; "which he
inevitably would do, if food were not brought to him! But have you
never, since your arrival in Italy, happened to see a person in the
situation of this man? It is by no means an uncommon one."
"Never!" answered the Englishman, "and I can scarcely credit what I see
now!"
"Why, my friend," observed the Italian, "if we were to shew no mercy
to such unfortunate persons, assassinations are so frequent, that our
cities would be half depopulated."
In notice of this profound remark, the Englishman could only gravely
bow.
"But observe yonder confessional," added the Italian, "that beyond
the pillars on the left of the aisle, below a painted window. Have
you discovered it? The colours of the glass throw, instead of light,
a shade over that part of the church, which, perhaps, prevents your
distinguishing what I mean!"
The Englishman looked whither his friend pointed, and observed a
confessional of oak, or some very dark wood, adjoining the wall, and
remarked also, that it was the same, which the assassin had just
entered. It consisted of three compartments, covered with a black
canopy. In the central division was the chair of the confessor,
elevated by several steps above the pavement of the church; and on
either hand was a small closet, or box, with steps leading up to a
grated partition, at which the penitent might kneel, and, concealed
from observation, pour into the ear of the confessor, the consciousness
of crimes that lay heavy on his heart.
"You observe it?" said the Italian.
"I do," replied the Englishman; "it is the same, which the assassin has
passed into; and I think it one of the most gloomy spots I ever beheld;
the view of it is enough to strike a criminal with despair!"
"We, in Italy, are not so apt to despair," replied the Italian
smilingly.
"Well, but what of this confessional?" enquired the Englishman. "The
assassin entered it!"
"He has no relation, with what I am about to mention," said the
Italian; "but I wish you to mark the place, because some very
extraordinary circumstances belong to it."
"What are they?" said the Englishman.
"It is now several years since the confession, which is connected with
them, was made at that very confessional," added the Italian; "the
view of it, and the sight of this assassin, with your surprize at the
liberty which is allowed him, led me to a recollection of the story.
When you return to the hotel, I will communicate it to you, if you have
no pleasanter way of engaging your time."
"I have a curiosity to hear it," replied the Englishman, "cannot you
relate it now?"
"It is much too long to be related now; that would occupy a week; I
have it in writing, and will send you the volume. A young student of
Padua, who happened to be at Naples soon after this horrible confession
became public"----
"Pardon me," interrupted the Englishman, "that is surely very
extraordinary? I thought confessions were always held sacred by the
priest, to whom they were made."
"Your observation is reasonable," rejoined the Italian; "the faith
of the priest is never broken, except by an especial command from
an higher power; and the circumstances must even then be very
extraordinary to justify such a departure from the law. But, when you
read the narrative, your surprise on this head will cease. I was going
to tell you, that it was written by a student of Padua, who, happening
to be here soon after the affair became public, was so much struck with
the facts, that, partly as an exercise, and partly in return for some
trifling services I had rendered him, he committed them to paper for
me. You will perceive from the work, that this student was very young,
as to the arts of composition, but the facts are what you require, and
from these he has not deviated. But come, let us leave the church."
"After I have taken another view of this solemn edifice," replied the
Englishman, "and particularly of the confessional you have pointed to
my notice!"
While the Englishman glanced his eye over the high roofs, and along the
solemn perspectives of the Santa del Pianto, he perceived the figure
of the assassin stealing from the confessional across the choir, and,
shocked on again beholding him, he turned his eyes and hastily quitted
the church.
The friends then separated, and the Englishman, soon after returning to
his hotel, received the volume. He read as follows:
THE _ITALIAN_.
CHAPTER I.
"What is this secret sin; this untold tale,
That art cannot extract, nor penance cleanse?"
MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.
It was in the church of San Lorenzo at Naples, in the year 1758, that
Vincentio di Vivaldi first saw Ellena Rosalba. The sweetness and
fine expression of her voice attracted his attention to her figure,
which had a distinguished air of delicacy and grace; but her face was
concealed in her veil. So much indeed was he fascinated by the voice,
that a most painful curiosity was excited as to her countenance, which
he fancied must express all the sensibility of character that the
modulation of her tones indicated. He listened to their exquisite
expression with a rapt attention, and hardly withdrew his eyes from her
person till the matin service had concluded; when he observed her leave
the church with an aged lady, who leaned upon her arm, and who appeared
to be her mother.
Vivaldi immediately followed their steps, determined to obtain, if
possible, a view of Ellena's face, and to discover the home to which
she should retire. They walked quickly, looking neither to the right
or left, and as they turned into the Strada di Toledo he had nearly
lost them; but quickening his pace, and relinquishing the cautious
distance he had hitherto kept, he overtook them as they entered on the
Terrazzo Nuovo, which runs along the bay of Naples, and leads towards
the Gran Corso. He overtook them; but the fair unknown still held her
veil close, and he knew not how to introduce himself to her notice, or
to obtain a view of the features, which excited his curiosity. He was
embarrassed by a respectful timidity, that mingled with his admiration,
and which kept him silent, notwithstanding his wish to speak.
In descending the last steps of the _Terrazzo_, however, the foot of
the elder lady faltered, and, while Vivaldi hastened to assist her,
the breeze from the water caught the veil, which Ellena had no longer
a hand sufficiently disengaged to confine, and, wafting it partially
aside, disclosed to him a countenance more touchingly beautiful than
he had dared to image. Her features were of the Grecian outline, and,
though they expressed the tranquillity of an elegant mind, her dark
blue eyes sparkled with intelligence. She was assisting her companion
so anxiously, that she did not immediately observe the admiration she
had inspired; but the moment her eyes met those of Vivaldi, she became
conscious of their effect, and she hastily drew her veil.
The old lady was not materially hurt by her fall, but, as she
walked difficultly, Vivaldi seized the opportunity thus offered,
and insisted that she should accept his arm. She refused this with
many acknowledgments; but he pressed the offer so repeatedly and
respectfully, that, at length, she accepted it, and they walked towards
her residence together.
On the way thither, he attempted to converse with Ellena, but her
replies were concise, and he arrived at the end of the walk while he
was yet considering what he could say, that might interest and withdraw
her from this severe reserve. From the style of their residence,
he imagined that they were persons of honourable, but moderate
independence. The house was small, but exhibited an air of comfort,
and even of taste. It stood on an eminence, surrounded by a garden and
vineyards, which commanded the city and bay of Naples, an ever-moving
picture, and was canopied by a thick grove of pines and majestic
date-trees; and, though the little portico and collonade in front were
of common marble, the style of architecture was elegant. While they
afforded a shelter from the sun, they admitted the cooling breezes
that rose from the bay below, and a prospect of the whole scope of its
enchanting shores.
Vivaldi stopped at the little gate, which led into the garden, where
the elder lady repeated her acknowledgments for his care, but did
not invite him to enter; and he, trembling with anxiety and sinking
with disappointment, remained for a moment gazing upon Ellena,
unable to take leave, yet irresolute what to say that might prolong
the interview, till the old lady again bade him good-day. He then
summoned courage enough to request he might be allowed to enquire
after her health, and, having obtained her permission, his eyes bade
adieu to Ellena, who, as they were parting, ventured to thank him for
the care he had taken of her aunt. The sound of her voice, and this
acknowledgment of obligation, made him less willing to go than before,
but at length he tore himself away. The beauty of her countenance
haunting his imagination, and the touching accents of her voice still
vibrating on his heart, he descended to the shore below her residence,
pleasing himself with the consciousness of being near her, though he
could no longer behold her; and sometimes hoping that he might again
see her, however distantly, in a balcony of the house, where the silk
awning seemed to invite the breeze from the sea. He lingered hour after
hour, stretched beneath the umbrageous pines that waved over the shore,
or traversing, regardless of the heat, the base of the cliffs that
crowned it; recalling to his fancy the enchantment of her smile, and
seeming still to listen to the sweetness of her accents.
In the evening he returned to his father's palace at Naples, thoughtful
yet pleased, anxious yet happy; dwelling with delightful hope on the
remembrance of the thanks he had received from Ellena, yet not daring
to form any plan as to his future conduct. He returned time enough to
attend his mother in her evening ride on the Corso, where, in every
gay carriage that passed, he hoped to see the object of his constant
thought; but she did not appear. His mother, the Marchesa di Vivaldi,
observed his anxiety and unusual silence, and asked him some questions,
which she meant should lead to an explanation of the change in his
manners; but his replies only excited a stronger curiosity, and, though
she forbore to press her enquiries, it was probable that she might
employ a more artful means of renewing them.
Vincentio di Vivaldi was the only son of the Marchese di Vivaldi, a
nobleman of one of the most ancient families of the kingdom of Naples,
a favourite possessing an uncommon share of influence at Court, and a
man still higher in power than in rank. His pride of birth was equal to
either, but it was mingled with the justifiable pride of a principled
mind; it governed his conduct in morals as well as in the jealousy of
ceremonial distinctions, and elevated his practice as well as his
claims. His pride was at once his vice and his virtue, his safeguard
and his weakness.
The mother of Vivaldi, descended from a family as ancient as that of
his father, was equally jealous of her importance; but her pride was
that of birth and distinction, without extending to morals. She was
of violent passions, haughty, vindictive, yet crafty and deceitful;
patient in stratagem, and indefatigable in pursuit of vengeance, on the
unhappy objects who provoked her resentment. She loved her son, rather
as being the last of two illustrious houses, who was to re-unite and
support the honour of both, than with the fondness of a mother.
Vincentio inherited much of the character of his father, and very
little of that of his mother. His pride was as noble and generous as
that of the Marchese; but he had somewhat of the fiery passions of
the Marchesa, without any of her craft, her duplicity, or vindictive
thirst of revenge. Frank in his temper, ingenuous in his sentiments,
quickly offended, but easily appeased; irritated by any appearance of
disrespect, but melted by a concession, a high sense of honor rendered
him no more jealous of offence, than a delicate humanity made him ready
for reconciliation, and anxious to spare the feelings of others.
On the day following that, on which he had seen Ellena, he returned
to the villa Altieri, to use the permission granted him of enquiring
after the health of Signora Bianchi. The expectation of seeing Ellena
agitated him with impatient joy and trembling hope, which still
encreased as he approached her residence, till, having reached the
garden-gate, he was obliged to rest for a few moments to recover breath
and composure.
Having announced himself to an old female servant, who came to the
gate, he was soon after admitted to a small vestibule, where he
found Signora Bianchi winding balls of silk, and alone; though from
the position of a chair which stood near a frame for embroidery,
he judged that Ellena had but just quitted the apartment. Signora
Bianchi received him with a reserved politeness, and seemed very
cautious in her replies to his enquiries after her niece, who, he
hoped, every moment, would appear. He lengthened his visit till there
was no longer an excuse for doing so; till he had exhausted every
topic of conversation, and till the silence of Signora Bianchi seemed
to hint, that his departure was expected. With a heart saddened by
disappointment, and having obtained only a reluctant permission to
enquire after the health of that lady on some future day, he then took
leave.
On his way through the garden he often paused to look back upon the
house, hoping to obtain a glimpse of Ellena at a lattice; and threw a
glance around him, almost expecting to see her seated beneath the shade
of the luxuriant plantains; but his search was every where vain, and he
quitted the place with the slow and heavy step of despondency.
The day was employed in endeavours to obtain intelligence concerning
the family of Ellena, but of this he procured little that was
satisfactory. He was told, that she was an orphan, living under the
care of her aunt, Signora Bianchi; that her family, which had never
been illustrious, was decayed in fortune, and that her only dependence
was upon this aunt. But he was ignorant of what was very true, though
very secret, that she assisted to support this aged relative, whose
sole property was the small estate on which they lived, and that she
passed whole days in embroidering silks, which were disposed of to
the nuns of a neighbouring convent, who sold them to the Neapolitan
ladies, that visited their grate, at a very high advantage. He little
thought, that a beautiful robe, which he had often seen his mother
wear, was worked by Ellena; nor that some copies from the antique,
which ornamented a cabinet of the Vivaldi palace, were drawn by her
hand. If he had known these circumstances, they would only have served
to encrease the passion, which, since they were proofs of a disparity
of fortune, that would certainly render his family repugnant to a
connection with hers, it would have been prudent to discourage.
Ellena could have endured poverty, but not contempt; and it was to
protect herself from this effect of the narrow prejudices of the world
around her, that she had so cautiously concealed from it a knowledge
of the industry, which did honor to her character. She was not ashamed
of poverty, or of the industry which overcame it, but her spirit
shrank from the senseless smile and humiliating condescension, which
prosperity sometimes gives to indigence. Her mind was not yet strong
enough, or her views sufficiently enlarged, to teach her a contempt of
the sneer of vicious folly, and to glory in the dignity of virtuous
independence. Ellena was the sole support of her aunt's declining
years; was patient to her infirmities, and consoling to her sufferings;
and repaid the fondness of a mother with the affection of a daughter.
Her mother she had never known, having lost her while she was an
infant; and from that period Signora Bianchi had performed the duties
of one for her.
Thus innocent and happy in the silent performance of her duties and
in the veil of retirement, lived Ellena Rosalba, when she first saw
Vincentio di Vivaldi. He was not of a figure to pass unobserved when
seen, and Ellena had been struck by the spirit and dignity of his
air, and by his countenance, so frank, noble, and full of that kind
of expression, which announces the energies of the soul. But she was
cautious of admitting a sentiment more tender than admiration, and
endeavoured to dismiss his image from her mind, and by engaging in her
usual occupations, to recover the state of tranquillity, which his
appearance had somewhat interrupted.
Vivaldi, mean while, restless from disappointment, and impatient from
anxiety, having passed the greater part of the day in enquiries, which
repaid him only with doubt and apprehension, determined to return to
the villa Altieri, when evening should conceal his steps, consoled by
the certainty of being near the object of his thoughts, and hoping,
that chance might favour him once more with a view, however transient,
of Ellena.
The Marchesa Vivaldi held an assembly this evening; and a suspicion
concerning the impatience he betrayed, induced her to detain him about
her person to a late hour, engaging him to select the music for her
orchestra, and to superintend the performance of a new piece, the work
of a composer whom she had brought into fashion. Her assemblies were
among the most brilliant and crowded in Naples, and the nobility, who
were to be at the palace this evening, were divided into two parties
as to the merits of the musical genius, whom she patronised, and those
of another candidate for fame. The performance of the evening, it was
expected, would finally decide the victory. This, therefore, was a
night of great importance and anxiety to the Marchesa, for she was as
jealous of the reputation of her favourite composer as of her own, and
the welfare of her son did but slightly divide her cares.
The moment he could depart unobserved, he quitted the assembly, and,
muffling himself in his cloak, hastened to the villa Altieri, which lay
at a short distance to the west of the city. He reached it unobserved,
and, breathless with impatience, traversed the boundary of the garden;
where, free from ceremonial restraint, and near the object of his
affection, he experienced for the few first moments a joy as exquisite
as her presence could have inspired. But this delight faded with its
novelty, and in a short time he felt as forlorn as if he was separated
for ever from Ellena, in whose presence he but lately almost believed
himself.
The night was far advanced, and, no light appearing from the house, he
concluded the inhabitants had retired to rest, and all hope of seeing
her vanished from his mind. Still, however, it was sweet to be near
her, and he anxiously sought to gain admittance to the gardens, that
he might approach the window where it was possible she reposed. The
boundary, formed of trees and thick shrubs, was not difficult to be
passed, and he found himself once more in the portico of the villa.
It was nearly midnight, and the stillness that reigned was rather
soothed than interrupted by the gentle dashing of the waters of the
bay below, and by the hollow murmurs of Vesuvius, which threw up,
at intervals its sudden flame on the horizon, and then left it to
darkness. The solemnity of the scene accorded with the temper of his
mind, and he listened in deep attention for the returning sounds, which
broke upon the ear like distant thunder muttering imperfectly from
the clouds. The pauses of silence, that succeeded each groan of the
mountain, when expectation listened for the rising sound, affected the
imagination of Vivaldi at this time with particular awe, and, rapt
in thought, he continued to gaze upon the sublime and shadowy outline
of the shores, and on the sea, just discerned beneath the twilight of
a cloudless sky. Along its grey surface many vessels were pursuing
their silent course, guided over the deep waters only by the polar
star, which burned with steady lustre. The air was calm, and rose from
the bay with most balmy and refreshing coolness; it scarcely stirred
the heads of the broad pines that overspread the villa; and bore no
sounds but of the waves and the groans of the far-off mountain,--till
a chaunting of deep voices swelled from a distance. The solemn
character of the strain engaged his attention; he perceived that it
was a requiem, and he endeavoured to discover from what quarter it
came. It advanced, though distantly, and then passed away on the air.
The circumstance struck him; he knew it was usual in some parts of
Italy to chaunt this strain over the bed of the dying; but here the
mourners seemed to walk the earth, or the air. He was not doubtful as
to the strain itself;--once before he had heard it, and attended with
circumstances which made it impossible that he should ever forget it.
As he now listened to the choral voices softening in distance, a few
pathetic notes brought full upon his remembrance the divine melody he
had heard Ellena utter in the church of San Lorenzo. Overcome by the
recollection, he started away, and, wandering over the garden, reached
another side of the villa, where he soon heard the voice of Ellena
herself, performing the midnight hymn to the Virgin, and accompanied by
a lute, which she touched with most affecting and delicate expression.
He stood for a moment entranced; and scarcely daring to breathe, lest
he should lose any note of that meek and holy strain, which seemed to
flow from a devotion almost saintly. Then, looking round to discover
the object of his admiration, a light issuing from among the bowery
foliage of a clematis led him to a lattice, and shewed him Ellena. The
lattice had been thrown open to admit the cool air, and he had a full
view of her and the apartment. She was rising from a small altar where
she had concluded the service; the glow of devotion was still upon her
countenance as she raised her eyes, and with a rapt earnestness fixed
them on the heavens. She still held the lute, but no longer awakened
it, and seemed lost to every surrounding object. Her fine hair was
negligently bound up in a silk net, and some tresses that had escaped
it, played on her neck, and round her beautiful countenance, which now
was not even partially concealed by a veil. The light drapery of her
dress, her whole figure, air, and attitude, were such as might have
been copied for a Grecian nymph.
Vivaldi was perplexed and agitated between the wish of seizing an
opportunity, which might never again occur, of pleading his love, and
the fear of offending, by intruding upon her retirement at so sacred
an hour; but while he thus hesitated, he heard her sigh, and then
with a sweetness peculiar to her accent, pronounce his name. During
the trembling anxiety, with which he listened to what might follow
this mention of his name, he disturbed the clematis that surrounded
the lattice, and she turned her eyes towards the window; but Vivaldi
was entirely concealed by the foliage. She, however, rose to close the
lattice; as she approached which, Vivaldi, unable any longer to command
himself, appeared before her. She stood fixed for an instant, while her
countenance changed to an ashy paleness; and then, with trembling haste
closing the lattice, quitted the apartment. Vivaldi felt as if all his
hopes had vanished with her.
After lingering in the garden for some time without perceiving a light
in any other part of the building, or hearing a sound proceed from
it, he took his melancholy way to Naples. He now began to ask himself
some questions, which he ought to have urged before, and to enquire
wherefore he sought the dangerous pleasure of seeing Ellena, since her
family was of such a condition as rendered the consent of his parents
to a marriage with her unattainable.
He was lost in revery on this subject, sometimes half resolved to seek
her no more, and then shrinking from a conduct, which seemed to strike
him with the force of despair, when, as he emerged from the dark arch
of a ruin, that extended over the road, his steps were crossed by a
person in the habit of a monk, whose face was shrouded by his cowl
still more than by the twilight. The stranger, addressing him by his
name, said, "Signor! your steps are watched; beware how you revisit
Altieri!" Having uttered this, he disappeared, before Vivaldi could
return the sword he had half drawn into the scabbard, or demand an
explanation of the words he had heard. He called loudly and repeatedly,
conjuring the unknown person to appear, and lingered near the spot for
a considerable time; but the vision came no more.
Vivaldi arrived at home with a mind occupied by this incident, and
tormented by the jealousy to which it gave rise; for, after indulging
various conjectures, he concluded with believing the notice, of which
he had been warned, to be that of a rival, and that the danger which
menaced him, was from the poniard of jealousy. This belief discovered
to him at once the extent of his passion, and of the imprudence, which
had thus readily admitted it; yet so far was this new prudence from
overcoming his error, that, stung with a torture more exquisite than he
had ever known, he resolved, at every event, to declare his love, and
sue for the hand of Ellena. Unhappy young man, he knew not the fatal
error, into which passion was precipitating him!
On his arrival at the Vivaldi palace, he learned, that the Marchesa had
observed his absence, had repeatedly enquired for him, and had given
orders that the time of his return should be mentioned to her. She had,
however, retired to rest; but the Marchese, who had attended the King
on an excursion to one of the royal villas on the bay, returned home
soon after Vincentio; and, before he had withdrawn to his apartment,
he met his son with looks of unusual displeasure, but avoided saying
any thing, which either explained or alluded to the subject of it; and,
after a short conversation, they separated.
Vivaldi shut himself in his apartment to deliberate, if that may
deserve the name of deliberation, in which a conflict of passions,
rather than an exertion of judgment, prevailed. For several hours he
traversed his suite of rooms, alternately tortured by the remembrance
of Ellena, fired with jealousy, and alarmed for the consequence of the
imprudent step, which he was about to take. He knew the temper of his
father, and some traits of the character of his mother, sufficiently
to fear that their displeasure would be irreconcilable concerning the
marriage he meditated; yet, when he considered that he was their only
son, he was inclined to admit a hope of forgiveness, notwithstanding
the weight which the circumstance must add to their disappointment.
These reflexions were frequently interrupted by fears lest Ellena had
already disposed of her affections to this imaginary rival. He was,
however, somewhat consoled by remembering the sigh she had uttered, and
the tenderness, with which she had immediately pronounced his name.
Yet, even if she were not averse to his suit, how could he solicit
her hand, and hope it would be given him, when he should declare that
this must be in secret? He scarcely dared to believe that she would
condescend to enter a family who disdained to receive her; and again
despondency overcame him.
The morning found him as distracted as the night had left him; his
determination, however, was fixed; and this was, to sacrifice what
he now considered as a delusive pride of birth, to a choice which
he believed would ensure the happiness of his life. But, before
he ventured to declare himself to Ellena, it appeared necessary to
ascertain whether he held an interest in her heart, or whether she had
devoted it to the rival of his love, and who this rival really was.
It was so much easier to wish for such information than to obtain it,
that, after forming a thousand projects, either the delicacy of his
respect for Ellena, or his fear of offending her, or an apprehension
of discovery from his family before he had secured an interest in her
affections, constantly opposed his views of an enquiry.
In this difficulty he opened his heart to a friend, who had long
possessed his confidence, and whose advice he solicited with somewhat
more anxiety and sincerity than is usual on such occasions. It was
not a sanction of his own opinion that he required, but the impartial
judgment of another mind. Bonarmo, however little he might be qualified
for the office of an adviser, did not scruple to give his advice. As
a means of judging whether Ellena was disposed to favour Vivaldi's
addresses, he proposed that, according to the custom of the country,
a serenade should be given; he maintained, that, if she was not
disinclined towards him, some sign of approbation would appear; and if
otherwise, that she would remain silent and invisible. Vivaldi objected
to this coarse and inadequate mode of expressing a love so sacred as
his, and he had too lofty an opinion of Ellena's mind and delicacy, to
believe, that the trifling homage of a serenade would either flatter
her self-love, or interest her in his favour; nor, if it did, could he
venture to believe, that she would display any sign of approbation.
His friend laughed at his scruples and at his opinion of what he
called such romantic delicacy, that his ignorance of the world was his
only excuse for having cherished them. But Vivaldi interrupted this
raillery, and would neither suffer him for a moment to speak thus of
Ellena, or to call such delicacy romantic. Bonarmo, however, still
urged the serenade as at least a possible means of discovering her
disposition towards him before he made a formal avowal of his suit; and
Vivaldi, perplexed and distracted with apprehension and impatience to
terminate his present state of suspense, was at length so far overcome
by his own difficulties, rather than by his friend's persuasion, that
he consented to make the adventure of a serenade on the approaching
night. This was adopted rather as a refuge from despondency, than with
any hope of success; for he still believed that Ellena would not give
any hint, that might terminate his uncertainty.
Beneath their cloaks they carried musical instruments, and, muffling
up their faces, so that they could not be known, they proceeded in
thoughtful silence on the way to the villa Altieri. Already they had
passed the arch, in which Vivaldi was stopped by the stranger on the
preceding night, when he heard a sudden sound near him, and, raising
his head from the cloak, he perceived the same figure! Before he had
time for exclamation, the stranger crossed him again. "Go not to the
villa Altieri," said he in a solemn voice, "lest you meet the fate you
ought to dread."
"What fate?" demanded Vivaldi, stepping back; "speak, I conjure you!"
But the monk was gone, and the darkness of the hour baffled observation
as to the way of his departure.
"_Dio mi guardi!_" exclaimed Bonarmo, "this is almost beyond belief!
but let us return to Naples; this second warning ought to be obeyed."
"It is almost beyond endurance," exclaimed Vivaldi; "which way did he
pass?"
"He glided by me," replied Bonarmo, "and he was gone before I could
cross him!"
"I will tempt the worst at once," said Vivaldi; "if I have a rival, it
is best to meet him. Let us go on."
Bonarmo remonstrated, and represented the serious danger that
threatened from so rash a proceeding. "It is evident that you have
a rival," said he; "and your courage cannot avail you against hired
bravos." Vivaldi's heart swelled at the mention of a rival. "If you
think it dangerous to proceed, I will go alone," said he.
Hurt by this reproof, Bonarmo accompanied his friend in silence, and
they reached without interruption the boundary of the villa. Vivaldi
led to the place by which he had entered on the preceding night, and
they passed unmolested into the garden.
"Where are these terrible bravos of whom you warned me?" said Vivaldi,
with taunting exultation.
"Speak cautiously," replied his friend; "we may, even now, be within
their reach."
"They also may be within ours," observed Vivaldi.
At length, these adventurous friends came to the orangery, which was
near the house, when, tired by the ascent, they rested to recover
breath, and to prepare their instruments for the serenade. The night
was still, and they now heard, for the first time, murmurs as of a
distant multitude; and then the sudden splendor of fireworks broke upon
the sky. These arose from a villa on the western margin of the bay,
and were given in honour of the birth of one of the royal princes.
They soared to an immense height, and, as their lustre broke silently
upon the night, it lightened on the thousand up-turned faces of the
gazing crowd, illumined the waters of the bay, with every little boat
that skimmed its surface, and shewed distinctly the whole sweep of
its rising shores, the stately city of Naples on the strand below,
and, spreading far among the hills, its terraced roofs crowded with
spectators, and the Corso tumultuous with carriages and blazing with
torches.
While Bonarmo surveyed this magnificent scene, Vivaldi turned his eyes
to the residence of Ellena, part of which looked out from among the
trees, with a hope that the spectacle would draw her to a balcony; but
she did not appear, nor was there any light, that might indicate her
approach.
While they still rested on the turf of the orangery, they heard a
sudden rustling of the leaves, as if the branches were disturbed by
some person who endeavoured to make his way between them, when Vivaldi
demanded who passed. No answer was returned, and a long silence
followed.
"We are observed," said Bonarmo, at length, "and are even now, perhaps,
almost beneath the poniard of the assassin: let us be gone."
"O that my heart were as secure from the darts of love, the assassin
of my peace," exclaimed Vivaldi, "as yours is from those of bravos! My
friend, you have little to interest you, since your thoughts have so
much leisure for apprehension."
"My fear is that of prudence, not of weakness," retorted Bonarmo, with
acrimony; "you will find, perhaps, that I have none, when you most wish
me to possess it."
"I understand you," replied Vivaldi; "let us finish this business, and
you shall receive reparation, since you believe yourself injured: I am
as anxious to repair an offence, as jealous of receiving one."
"Yes," replied Bonarmo, "you would repair the injury you have done your
friend with his blood."
"Oh! never, never!" said Vivaldi, falling on his neck. "Forgive my
hasty violence; allow for the distraction of my mind."
Bonarmo returned the embrace. "It is enough," said he; "no more, no
more! I hold again my friend to my heart."
While this conversation passed, they had quitted the orangery, and
reached the walls of the villa, where they took their station under
a balcony that overhung the lattice, through which Vivaldi had seen
Ellena on the preceding night. They tuned their instruments, and opened
the serenade with a duet.
Vivaldi's voice was a fine tenor, and the same susceptibility, which
made him passionately fond of music, taught him to modulate its
cadence with exquisite delicacy, and to give his emphasis with the
most simple and pathetic expression. His soul seemed to breathe in the
sounds,--so tender, so imploring, yet so energetic. On this night,
enthusiasm inspired him with the highest eloquence, perhaps, which
music is capable of attaining; what might be its effect on Ellena he
had no means of judging, for she did not appear either at the balcony
or the lattice, nor gave any hint of applause. No sounds stole on the
stillness of the night, except those of the serenade, nor did any
light from within the villa break upon the obscurity without; once,
indeed, in a pause of the instruments, Bonarmo fancied he distinguished
voices near him, as of persons who feared to be heard, and he listened
attentively, but without ascertaining the truth. Sometimes they seemed
to sound heavily in his ear, and then a death-like silence prevailed.
Vivaldi affirmed the sound to be nothing more than the confused murmur
of the distant multitude on the shore, but Bonarmo was not thus easily
convinced.
The musicians, unsuccessful in their first endeavour to attract
attention, removed to the opposite side of the building, and placed
themselves in front of the portico, but with as little success;
and, after having exercised their powers of harmony and of patience
for above an hour, they resigned all further effort to win upon the
obdurate Ellena. Vivaldi, notwithstanding the feebleness of his first
hope of seeing her, now suffered an agony of disappointment; and
Bonarmo, alarmed for the consequence of his despair, was as anxious to
persuade him that he had no rival, as he had lately been pertinacious
in affirming that he had one.
At length, they left the gardens, Vivaldi protesting that he would not
rest till he had discovered the stranger, who so wantonly destroyed his
peace, and had compelled him to explain his ambiguous warnings; and
Bonarmo remonstrating on the imprudence and difficulty of the search,
and representing that such conduct would probably be the means of
spreading a report of his attachment, where most he dreaded it should
be known.
Vivaldi refused to yield to remonstrance or considerations of any kind.
"We shall see," said he, "whether this demon in the garb of a monk,
will haunt me again at the accustomed place; if he does, he shall not
escape my grasp; and if he does not, I will watch as vigilantly for his
return, as he seems to have done for mine. I will lurk in the shade of
the ruin, and wait for him, though it be till death!"
Bonarmo was particularly struck by the vehemence with which he
pronounced the last words, but he no longer opposed his purpose, and
only bade him consider whether he was well armed, "For," he added, "you
may have need of arms there, though you had no use for them at the
villa Altieri. Remember that the stranger told you that your steps were
watched."
"I have my sword," replied Vivaldi, "and the dagger which I usually
wear; but I ought to enquire what are your weapons of defence."
"Hush!" said Bonarmo, as they turned the foot of a rock that overhung
the road, "we are approaching the spot; yonder is the arch!" It
appeared duskily in the perspective, suspended between two cliffs,
where the road wound from sight, on one of which were the ruins of
the Roman fort it belonged to, and on the other, shadowing pines, and
thickets of oak that tufted the rock to its base.
They proceeded in silence, treading lightly, and often throwing a
suspicious glance around, expecting every instant that the monk would
steal out upon them from some recess of the cliffs. But they passed
on unmolested to the arch-way. "We are here before him, however," said
Vivaldi as they entered the darkness. "Speak low, my friend," said
Bonarmo, "others besides ourselves may be shrouded in this obscurity. I
like not the place."
"Who but ourselves would chuse so dismal a retreat?" whispered Vivaldi,
"unless indeed, it were banditti; the savageness of the spot would, in
truth, suit their humour, and it suits well also with my own."
"It would suit their purpose too, as well as their humour," observed
Bonarmo. "Let us remove from this deep shade, into the more open road,
where we can as closely observe who passes."
Vivaldi objected that in the road they might themselves be observed,
"and if we are seen by my unknown tormentor, our design is defeated,
for he comes upon us suddenly, or not at all, lest we should be
prepared to detain him."
Vivaldi, as he said this, took his station within the thickest gloom of
the arch, which was of considerable depth, and near a flight of steps
that was cut in the rock, and ascended to the fortress. His friend
stepped close to his side. After a pause of silence, during which
Bonarmo was meditating, and Vivaldi was impatiently watching, "Do you
really believe," said the former, "that any effort to detain him would
be effectual? He glided past me with a strange facility, it was surely
more than human!"
"What is it you mean?" enquired Vivaldi.
"Why, I mean that I could be superstitious. This place, perhaps,
infests my mind with congenial gloom, for I find that, at this moment,
there is scarcely a superstition too dark for my credulity."
Vivaldi smiled. "And you must allow," added Bonarmo, "that he has
appeared under circumstances somewhat extraordinary. How should he know
your name, by which, you say, he addressed you at the first meeting?
How should he know from whence you came, or whether you designed to
return? By what magic could he become acquainted with your plans?"
"Nor am I certain that he is acquainted with them," observed Vivaldi;
"but if he is, there was no necessity for superhuman means to obtain
such knowledge."
"The result of this evening surely ought to convince you that he
is acquainted with your designs," said Bonarmo. "Do you believe it
possible that Ellena could have been insensible to your attentions, if
her heart had not been pre-engaged, and that she would not have shewn
herself at a lattice?"
"You do not know Ellena," replied Vivaldi, "and therefore I once
more pardon you the question. Yet had she been disposed to accept my
addresses, surely some sign of approbation,"--he checked himself.
"The stranger warned you not to go to the villa Altieri," resumed
Bonarmo, "he seemed to anticipate the reception, which awaited you, and
to know a danger, which hitherto you have happily escaped."
"Yes, he anticipated too well that reception," said Vivaldi, losing his
prudence in passionate exclamation; "and he is himself, perhaps, the
rival, whom he has taught me to suspect. He has assumed a disguise only
the more effectually to impose upon my credulity, and to deter me from
addressing Ellena. And shall I tamely lie in wait for his approach?
Shall I lurk like a guilty assassin for this rival?"
"For heaven's sake!" said Bonarmo, "moderate these transports;
consider where you are. This surmise of yours is in the highest degree
improbable." He gave his reasons for thinking so, and these convinced
Vivaldi, who was prevailed upon to be once more patient.
They had remained watchful and still for a considerable time, when
Bonarmo saw a person approach the end of the arch-way nearest to
Altieri. He heard no step, but he perceived a shadowy figure station
itself at the entrance of the arch, where the twilight of this
brilliant climate was, for a few paces, admitted. Vivaldi's eyes
were fixed on the road leading towards Naples, and he, therefore,
did not perceive the object of Bonarmo's attention, who, fearful of
his friend's precipitancy, forbore to point out immediately what he
observed, judging it more prudent to watch the motions of this unknown
person, that he might ascertain whether it really were the monk. The
size of the figure, and the dark drapery in which it seemed wrapt,
induced him, at length, to believe that this was the expected stranger;
and he seized Vivaldi's arm to direct his attention to him, when the
form gliding forward disappeared in the gloom, but not before Vivaldi
had understood the occasion of his friend's gesture and significant
silence. They heard no footstep pass them, and, being convinced that
this person, whatever he was, had not left the arch-way, they kept
their station in watchful stillness. Presently they heard a rustling,
as of garments, near them, and Vivaldi, unable longer to command his
patience, started from his concealment, and with arms extended to
prevent any one from escaping, demanded who was there.
The sound ceased, and no reply was made. Bonarmo drew his sword,
protesting he would stab the air till he found the person who lurked
there; but that if the latter would discover himself, he should receive
no injury. This assurance Vivaldi confirmed by his promise. Still no
answer was returned; but as they listened for a voice, they thought
something passed them, and the avenue was not narrow enough to have
prevented such a circumstance. Vivaldi rushed forward, but did not
perceive any person issue from the arch into the highway, where the
stronger twilight must have discovered him.
"Somebody certainly passed," whispered Bonarmo, "and I think I hear a
sound from yonder steps, that lead to the fortress."
"Let us follow," cried Vivaldi, and he began to ascend.
"Stop, for heaven's sake stop!" said Bonarmo; "consider what you are
about! Do not brave the utter darkness of these ruins; do not pursue
the assassin to his den!"
"It is the monk himself!" exclaimed Vivaldi, still ascending; "he shall
not escape me!"
Bonarmo paused a moment at the foot of the steps, and his friend
disappeared; he hesitated what to do, till ashamed of suffering him
to encounter danger alone, he sprang to the flight, and not without
difficulty surmounted the rugged steps.
Having reached the summit of the rock, he found himself on a terrace,
that ran along the top of the arch-way and had once been fortified;
this, crossing the road, commanded the defile each way. Some remains of
massy walls, that still exhibited loops for archers, were all that now
hinted of its former use. It led to a watch-tower almost concealed in
thick pines, that crowned the opposite cliff, and had thus served not
only for a strong battery over the road, but, connecting the opposite
sides of the defile, had formed a line of communication between the
fort and this out-post.
Bonarmo looked round in vain for his friend, and the echoes of his own
voice only, among the rocks, replied to his repeated calls. After some
hesitation whether to enter the walls of the main building, or to cross
to the watch-tower, he determined on the former, and entered a rugged
area, the walls of which, following the declivities of the precipice,
could scarcely now be traced. The citadel, a round tower, of majestic
strength, with some Roman arches scattered near, was all that remained
of this once important fortress; except, indeed, a mass of ruins near
the edge of the cliff, the construction of which made it difficult to
guess for what purpose it had been designed.
Bonarmo entered the immense walls of the citadel, but the utter
darkness within checked his progress, and, contenting himself with
calling loudly on Vivaldi, he returned to the open air.
As he approached the mass of ruins, whose singular form had interested
his curiosity, he thought he distinguished the low accents of a human
voice, and while he listened in anxiety, a person rushed forth from a
door-way of the ruin, carrying a drawn sword. It was Vivaldi himself.
Bonarmo sprang to meet him; he was pale and breathless, and some
moments elapsed before he could speak, or appeared to hear the repeated
enquiries of his friend.
"Let us go," said Vivaldi, "let us leave this place!"
"Most willingly," replied Bonarmo, "but where have you been, and who
have you seen, that you are thus affected?"
"Ask me no more questions, let us go," repeated Vivaldi.
They descended the rock together, and when, having reached the
arch-way, Bonarmo enquired, half sportively, whether they should remain
any longer on the watch, his friend answered, "No!" with an emphasis
that startled him. They passed hastily on the way to Naples, Bonarmo
repeating enquiries which Vivaldi seemed reluctant to satisfy, and
wondering no less at the cause of this sudden reserve, than anxious to
know whom he had seen.
"It was the monk, then," said Bonarmo; "you secured him at last?"
"I know not what to think," replied Vivaldi, "I am more perplexed than
ever."
"He escaped you then?"
"We will speak of this in future," said Vivaldi; "but be it as it may,
the business rests not here. I will return in the night of to-morrow
with a torch; dare you venture yourself with me?"
"I know not," replied Bonarmo, "whether I ought to do so, since I am
not informed for what purpose."
"I will not press you to go," said Vivaldi; "my purpose is already
known to you."
"Have you really failed to discover the stranger--have you still doubts
concerning the person you pursued?"
"I have doubts, which to-morrow night, I hope, will dissipate."
"This is very strange!" said Bonarmo, "It was but now that I witnessed
the horror, with which you left the fortress of Paluzzi, and already
you speak of returning to it! And why at night--why not in the day,
when less danger would beset you?"
"I know not as to that," replied Vivaldi, "you are to observe that
day-light never pierces within the recess, to which I penetrated; we
must search the place with torches at whatsoever hour we would examine
it."
"Since this is necessary," said Bonarmo, "how happens it that you found
your way in total darkness?"
"I was too much engaged to know how; I was led on, as by an invisible
hand."
"We must, notwithstanding," observed Bonarmo, "go in day-time, if not
by day-light, provided I accompany you. It would be little less than
insanity to go twice to a place, which is probably infested with
robbers, and at their own hour of midnight."
"I shall watch again in the accustomed place," replied Vivaldi, "before
I use my last resource, and this cannot be done during the day.
Besides, it is necessary that I should go at a particular hour, the
hour when the monk has usually appeared."
"He did escape you, then?" said Bonarmo, "and you are still ignorant
concerning who he is?"
Vivaldi rejoined only with an enquiry whether his friend would
accompany him. "If not," he added, "I must hope to find another
companion."
Bonarmo said, that he must consider of the proposal, and would acquaint
him with his determination before the following evening.
While this conversation concluded, they were in Naples, and at the
gates of the Vivaldi palace, where they separated for the remainder of
the night.