"Unfold th' impenetrable mystery,
That sets your soul and you at endless discord."
MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.
When Vivaldi returned to Naples, he enquired for the Marchesa, of whom
he wished to ask some questions concerning Schedoni, which, though he
scarcely expected they would be explicitly answered, might yet lead to
part of the truth he sought for.
The Marchesa was in her closet, and Vivaldi found the confessor with
her. "This man crosses me, like my evil genius," said he to himself as
he entered, "but I will know whether he deserves my suspicions before I
leave the room."
Schedoni was so deeply engaged in conversation, that he did not
immediately perceive Vivaldi, who stood for a moment examining his
countenance, and tracing subjects for curiosity in its deep lines. His
eyes, while he spoke, were cast downward, and his features were fixed
in an expression at once severe and crafty. The Marchesa was listening
with deep attention, her head inclined towards him, as if to catch the
lowest murmur of his voice, and her face picturing the anxiety and
vexation of her mind. This was evidently a conference, not a confession.
Vivaldi advancing, the monk raised his eyes; his countenance suffered
no change, as they met those of Vivaldi. He rose, but did not take
leave, and returned the slight and somewhat haughty salutation of
Vivaldi, with an inclination of the head, that indicated a pride
without pettishness, and a firmness bordering on contempt.
The Marchesa, on perceiving her son, was somewhat embarrassed, and
her brow, before slightly contracted by vexation, now frowned with
severity. Yet it was an involuntary emotion, for she endeavoured to
chace the expression of it with a smile. Vivaldi liked the smile still
less than the frown.
Schedoni seated himself quietly, and began, with almost the ease of
a man of the world, to converse on general topics. Vivaldi, however,
was reserved and silent; he knew not how to begin a conversation,
which might lead to the knowledge he desired, and the Marchesa did
not relieve him from the difficulty. His eye and his ear assisted him
to conjecture at least, if not to obtain the information he wished;
and, as he listened to the deep tones of Schedoni's voice, he became
almost certain, that they were not the accents of his unknown adviser,
though he considered, at the same moment, that it was not difficult
to disguise, or to feign a voice. His stature seemed to decide
the question more reasonably; for the figure of Schedoni appeared
taller than that of the stranger; and though there was something of
resemblance in their air, which Vivaldi had never observed before, he
again considered, that the habit of the same order, which each wore,
might easily occasion an artificial resemblance. Of the likeness as
to countenance, he could not judge, since the stranger's had been so
much shrouded by his cowl, that Vivaldi had never distinctly seen a
single feature. Schedoni's hood was now thrown back, so that he could
not compare even the air of their heads under similar circumstances;
but as he remembered to have seen the confessor on a former day
approaching his mother's closet with the cowl shading his face, the
same gloomy severity seemed to characterize both, and nearly the same
terrible portrait was drawn on his fancy. Yet this again might be only
an artificial effect, a character which the cowl alone gave to the
head; and any face seen imperfectly beneath its dark shade, might have
appeared equally severe. Vivaldi was still extremely perplexed in his
opinion. One circumstance, however, seemed to throw some light on his
judgment. The stranger had appeared in the habit of a monk, and, if
Vivaldi's transient observation might be trusted, he was of the very
same order with that of Schedoni. Yet if he were Schedoni, or even
his agent, it was not probable that he would have shewn himself in a
dress that might lead to a discovery of his person. That he was anxious
for concealment, his manner had strongly proved; it seemed then, that
this habit of a monk was only a disguise, assumed for the purpose
of misleading conjecture. Vivaldi, however, determined to put some
questions to Schedoni, and at the same time to observe their effect on
his countenance. He took occasion to notice some drawings of ruins,
which ornamented the cabinet of the Marchesa, and to say that the
fortress of Paluzzi was worthy of being added to her collection. "You
have seen it lately, perhaps, reverend father," added Vivaldi, with a
penetrating glance.
"It is a striking relique of antiquity," replied the confessor.
"That arch," resumed Vivaldi, his eye still fixed on Schedoni, "that
arch suspended between two rocks, the one overtopped by the towers of
the fortress, the other shadowed with pine and broad oak, has a fine
effect. But a picture of it would want human figures. Now either the
grotesque shapes of banditti lurking within the ruin, as if ready
to start out upon the traveller, or a friar rolled up in his black
garments, just stealing forth from under the shade of the arch, and
looking like some supernatural messenger of evil, would finish the
piece."
The features of Schedoni suffered no change during this speech. "Your
picture is complete," said he, "and I cannot but admire the facility
with which you have classed the monks together with banditti."
"Your pardon, holy father," said Vivaldi, "I did not draw a parallel
between them."
"O! no offence, Signor," replied Schedoni, with a smile somewhat
ghastly.
During the latter part of this conversation, if conversation it may
be called, the Marchesa had followed a servant, who had brought her a
letter, out of the apartment, and as the confessor appeared to await
her return, Vivaldi determined to press his enquiry. "It appears,
however," said he, "that Paluzzi, if not haunted by robbers, is at
least frequented by ecclesiastics; for I have seldom passed it without
seeing one of the order, and that one has appeared so suddenly, and
vanished so suddenly, that I have been almost compelled to believe he
was literally a spiritual being!"
"The convent of the Black Penitents is not far distant," observed the
confessor.
"Does the dress of this convent resemble that of your order, reverend
father? for I observed that the monk I speak of was habited like
yourself; aye, and he was about your stature, and very much resembled
you."
"That well may be, Signor," replied the confessor calmly; "there are
many brethren who, no doubt, resemble each other; but the brothers of
the Black Penitents are clothed in sackcloth; and the death's head on
the garment, the peculiar symbol of this order, would not have escaped
your observation; it could not, therefore, be a member of their society
whom you have seen."
"I am not inclined to think that it was," said Vivaldi; "but be it who
it may, I hope soon to be better acquainted with him, and to tell him
truths so strong, that he shall not be permitted even to affect the
misunderstanding of them."
"You will do right, if you have cause of complaint against him,"
observed Schedoni.
"And _only_ if I have cause of complaint, holy father? Are strong
truths to be told only when there is direct cause of complaint? Is
it only when we are injured that we are to be sincere?" He believed
that he had now detected Schedoni, who seemed to have betrayed a
consciousness that Vivaldi had reason for complaint against the
stranger.
"You will observe, reverend father, that I have not said I am injured,"
he added. "If you know that I am, this must be by other means than by
my words; I have not even expressed resentment."
"Except by your voice and eye, Signor," replied Schedoni drily. "When
a man is vehement and disordered, we usually are inclined to suppose
he feels resentment, and that he has cause of complaint, either real
or imaginary. As I have not the honour of being acquainted with the
subject you allude to, I cannot decide to which of the two your cause
belongs."
"I have never been in doubt as to that," said Vivaldi haughtily; "and
if I had, you will pardon me, holy father, but I should not have
requested your decision. My injuries are, alas! too real; and I now
think it is also too certain to whom I may attribute them. The secret
adviser, who steals into the bosom of a family only to poison its
repose, the informer--the base asperser of innocence, stand revealed in
one person before me."
Vivaldi delivered these words with a tempered energy, at once dignified
and pointed, which seemed to strike directly to the heart of Schedoni;
but, whether it was his conscience or his pride that took the alarm,
did not certainly appear. Vivaldi believed the former. A dark malignity
overspread the features of the monk, and at that moment Vivaldi thought
he beheld a man, whose passions might impel him to the perpetration of
almost any crime, how hideous soever. He recoiled from him, as if he
had suddenly seen a serpent in his path, and stood gazing on his face,
with an attention so wholly occupied as to be unconscious that he did
so.
Schedoni almost instantly recovered himself; his features relaxed from
their first expression, and that portentous darkness passed away from
his countenance; but with a look that was still stern and haughty,
he said, "Signor, however ignorant I may be of the subject of your
discontent, I can not misunderstand that your resentment is, to some
extent or other, directed against myself as the cause of it. Yet I
will not suppose, Signor; I say I will not suppose," raising his voice
significantly, "that you have dared to brand me with the ignominious
titles you have just uttered; but"--
"I have applied them to the author of my injuries," interrupted
Vivaldi; "you, father, can best inform me whether they applied to
yourself."
"I have then nothing to complain of," said Schedoni, adroitly, and
with a sudden calmness, that surprised Vivaldi. "If you directed
them against the author of your injuries, whatever they may be, I am
satisfied."
The cheerful complacency, with which he spoke this, renewed the doubts
of Vivaldi, who thought it nearly impossible that a man conscious of
guilt could assume, under the very charge of it, the tranquil and
dignified air, which the confessor now displayed. He began to accuse
himself of having condemned him with passionate rashness, and gradually
became shocked at the indecorum of his conduct towards a man of
Schedoni's age and sacred profession. Those expressions of countenance,
which had so much alarmed him, he was now inclined to think the effect
of a jealous and haughty honour, and he almost forgot the malignity,
which had mingled with Schedoni's pride, in sorrow for the offence that
had provoked it. Thus, not less precipitate in his pity than his anger,
and credulous alike to the passion of the moment, he was now as eager
to apologize for his error, as he had been hasty in committing it. The
frankness, with which he apologized and lamented the impropriety of
his conduct, would have won an easy forgiveness from a generous heart.
Schedoni listened with apparent complacency and secret contempt. He
regarded Vivaldi as a rash boy, who was swayed only by his passions;
but while he suffered deep resentment for the evil in his character, he
felt neither respect nor kindness for the good, for the sincerity, the
love of justice, the generosity, which threw a brilliancy even on his
foibles. Schedoni, indeed, saw only evil in human nature.
Had the heart of Vivaldi been less generous, he would now have
distrusted the satisfaction, which the confessor assumed, and have
discovered the contempt and malignity, that lurked behind the smile
thus imperfectly masking his countenance. The confessor perceived his
power, and the character of Vivaldi lay before him as a map. He saw,
or fancied he saw every line and feature of its plan, and the relative
proportions of every energy and weakness of its nature. He believed,
also, he could turn the very virtues of this young man against himself,
and he exulted, even while the smile of good-will was yet upon his
countenance, in anticipating the moment that should avenge him for the
past outrage, and which, while Vivaldi was ingenuously lamenting it,
he had apparently forgotten.
Schedoni was thus ruminating evil against Vivaldi, and Vivaldi
was considering how he might possibly make Schedoni atonement for
the affront he had offered him, when the Marchesa returned to the
apartment; and perceived in the honest countenance of Vivaldi some
symptoms of the agitation which had passed over it; his complexion was
flushed, and his brow slightly contracted. The face of Schedoni told
nothing but complacency, except that now and then when he looked at
Vivaldi, it was with half-shut eyes, that indicated treachery, or, at
least, cunning, trying to conceal exasperated pride.
The Marchesa, with displeasure directed against her son, enquired the
reason of his emotion; but he, stung with consciousness of his conduct
towards the monk, could neither endure to explain it, or to remain
in her presence, and saying that he would confide his honour to the
discretion of the holy father, who would speak only too favourably of
his fault, he abruptly left the room.
When he had departed, Schedoni gave, with seeming reluctance, the
explanation which the Marchesa required, but was cautious not to
speak too favourably of Vivaldi's conduct, which, on the contrary, he
represented as much more insulting than it really was; and, while he
aggravated the offensive part of it, he suppressed all mention of the
candour and self-reproach, which had followed the charge. Yet this he
managed so artfully that he appeared to extenuate Vivaldi's errors,
to lament the hastiness of his temper, and to plead for forgiveness
from his irritated mother. "He is very young," added the monk, when he
perceived that he had sufficiently exasperated the Marchesa against
her son; "he is very young, and youth is warm in its passions and
precipitate in its judgments. He was, besides, jealous, no doubt, of
the friendship, with which you are pleased to honour me; and it is
natural that a son should be jealous of the attention of such a mother."
"You are too good, father," said the Marchesa; her resentment
encreasing towards Vivaldi in proportion as Schedoni displayed his
artificial candour and meekness.
"It is true," continued the confessor, "that I perceive all the
inconveniences to which my attachment, I should say my duty to your
family exposes me; but I willingly submit to these, while it is yet
possible that my advice may be a means of preserving the honour of your
house unsullied, and of saving this inconsiderate young man from future
misery and unavailing repentance."
During the warmth of this sympathy in resentment, the Marchesa and
Schedoni mutually, and sincerely, lost their remembrance of the
unworthy motives, by which each knew the other to be influenced, as
well as that disgust which those who act together to the same bad end,
can seldom escape from feeling towards their associates. The Marchesa,
while she commended the fidelity of Schedoni, forgot his views and
her promises as to a rich benefice; while the confessor imputed her
anxiety for the splendor of her son's condition to a real interest in
his welfare, not a care of her own dignity. After mutual compliments
had been exchanged, they proceeded to a long consultation concerning
Vivaldi, and it was agreed, that their efforts for what they termed his
preservation should no longer be confined to remonstrances.