"What, would'st thou have a serpent sting thee twice?"
SHAKESPEARE.
The Marchesa, alarmed at some hints dropped by Vivaldi in the late
interview between them, and by some circumstances of his latter
conduct, summoned her constant adviser, Schedoni. Still suffering
with the insult he had received in the church of the _Spirito Santo_,
he obeyed with sullen reluctance, yet not without a malicious hope
of discovering some opportunity for retaliation. That insult, which
had pointed forth his hypocrisy, and ridiculed the solemn abstraction
he assumed, had sunk deep in his heart, and, fermenting the direst
passions of his nature, he meditated a terrible revenge. It had
subjected him to mortifications of various kinds. Ambition, it has
already appeared, was one of his strongest motives of action, and he
had long since assumed a character of severe sanctity, chiefly for
the purposes of lifting him to promotion. He was not beloved in the
society of which he was a member; and many of the brotherhood, who had
laboured to disappoint his views, and to detect his errors, who hated
him for his pride, and envied him for his reputed sanctity, now gloried
in the mortification he had received, and endeavoured to turn the
circumstance to their own advantage. They had not scrupled already to
display by insinuation and pointed sneers, their triumph, and to menace
his reputation; and Schedoni, though he deserved contempt, was not of a
temper to endure it.
But above all, some hints respecting his past life, which had fallen
from Vivaldi, and which occasioned him so abruptly to leave the church,
alarmed him. So much terror, indeed, had they excited, that it is not
improbable that he would have sealed his secret in death, devoting
Vivaldi to the grave, had he not been restrained by the dreaded
vengeance of the Vivaldi family. Since that hour he had known no peace,
and had never slept; he had taken scarcely any food, and was almost
continually on his knees upon the steps of the high altar. The devotees
who beheld him, paused and admired; such of the brothers as disliked
him, sneered and passed on. Schedoni appeared alike insensible to each;
lost to this world, and preparing for a higher.
The torments of his mind and the severe penance he had observed, had
produced a surprising change in his appearance, so that he resembled
a spectre rather than a human being. His visage was wan and wasted,
his eyes were sunk and become nearly motionless, and his whole air and
attitudes exhibited the wild energy of something--not of this earth.
When he was summoned by the Marchesa, his conscience whispered this to
be the consequence of circumstances, which Vivaldi had revealed; and,
at first, he had determined not to attend her; but, considering that if
it was so, his refusal would confirm suspicion, he resolved to trust
once more to the subtilty of his address for deliverance.
With these apprehensions, tempered by this hope, he entered the
Marchesa's closet. She almost started on observing him, and could not
immediately withdraw her eyes from his altered visage, while Schedoni
was unable wholly to conceal the perturbation which such earnest
observation occasioned. "Peace rest with you, daughter!" said he, and
he seated himself, without lifting his eyes from the floor.
"I wished to speak with you, father, upon affairs of moment," said the
Marchesa gravely, "which are probably not unknown to you." She paused,
and Schedoni bowed his head, awaiting in anxious expectation what was
to follow.
"You are silent, father," resumed the Marchesa. "What am I to
understand by this?"
"That you have been misinformed," replied Schedoni, whose apt
confidence betrayed his discretion.
"Pardon me," said the Marchesa, "I am too well informed, and should not
have requested your visit if any doubt had remained upon my mind."
"Signora! be cautious of what you credit," said the confessor
imprudently; "you know not the consequence of a hasty credulity."
"Would that mine were a rash credulity!" replied the Marchesa; "but--we
are betrayed."
"_We?_" repeated the monk, beginning to revive: "What has happened?"
The Marchesa informed him of Vivaldi's absence, and inferred from its
length, for it was now several days since his departure, that he had
certainly discovered the place of Ellena's confinement, as well as the
authors of it.
Schedoni differed from her, but hinted, that the obedience of youth was
hopeless, unless severer measures were adopted.
"Severer!" exclaimed the Marchesa; "good father, is it not severe
enough to confine her for life?"
"I mean severer with respect to your son, lady," replied Schedoni.
"When a young man has so far overcome all reverence for an holy
ordinance as publicly to insult its professors, and yet more, when
that professor is in the very performance of his duties, it is time he
should be controlled with a strong hand. I am not in the practice of
advising such measures, but the conduct of Signor Vivaldi is such as
calls aloud for them. Public decency demands it. For myself, indeed, I
should have endured patiently the indignity which has been offered me,
receiving it as a salutary mortification, as one of those inflictions
that purify the soul from the pride which even the holiest men may
unconsciously cherish. But I am no longer permitted to consider myself;
the public good requires that an example should be made of the horrible
impiety of which your son, it grieves me, daughter, to disclose
it!--your son, unworthy of such a mother! has been guilty."
It is evident that in the style, at least, of this accusation, Schedoni
suffered the force of his resentment to prevail over the usual subtilty
of his address, the deep and smooth insinuation of his policy.
"To what do you allude, righteous father?" enquired the astonished
Marchesa; "what indignity, what impiety has my son to answer for? I
entreat you will speak explicitly, that I may prove I can lose the
mother in the strict severity of the judge."
"That is spoken with the grandeur of sentiment, which has always
distinguished you, my daughter! Strong minds perceive that justice is
the highest of the moral attributes, mercy is only the favourite of
weak ones."
Schedoni had a view in this commendation beyond that of confirming the
Marchesa's present resolution against Vivaldi. He wished to prepare
her for measures, which might hereafter be necessary to accomplish the
revenge he meditated, and he knew that by flattering her vanity, he
was most likely to succeed. He praised her, therefore, for qualities
he wished her to possess, encouraged her to reject general opinions by
admiring as the symptoms of a superior understanding, the convenient
morality upon which she had occasionally acted; and, calling sternness
justice, extolled that for strength of mind, which was only callous
insensibility.
He then described to her Vivaldi's late conduct in the church of the
_Spirito Santo_, exaggerated some offensive circumstances of it,
invented others, and formed of the whole an instance of monstrous
impiety and unprovoked insult.
The Marchesa listened to the relation with no less indignation than
surprize, and her readiness to adopt the confessor's advice allowed him
to depart with renovated spirits and most triumphant hopes.
Meanwhile, the Marchese remained ignorant of the subject of the
conference with Schedoni. His opinions had formerly been sounded, and
having been found decidedly against the dark policy it was thought
expedient to practise, he was never afterwards consulted respecting
Vivaldi. Parental anxiety and affection began to revive, as the
lengthened absence of his son was observed. Though jealous of his rank,
he loved Vivaldi; and, though he had never positively believed that
he designed to enter into a sacred engagement with a person, whom
the Marchese considered to be so much his inferior as Ellena, he had
suffered doubts, which gave him considerable uneasiness. The present
extraordinary absence of Vivaldi renewed his alarm. He apprehended
that if she was discovered at this moment, when the fear of losing
her for ever, and the exasperation, which such complicated opposition
occasioned, had awakened all the passions of his son, this rash
young man might be prevailed upon to secure her for his own by the
indissoluble vow. On the other hand, he dreaded the effect of Vivaldi's
despair, should he fail in the pursuit; and thus, fearing at one moment
that for which he wished in the next, the Marchese suffered a tumult of
mind inferior only to his son's.
The instructions, which he delivered to the servants whom he sent in
pursuit of Vivaldi, were given under such distraction of thought, that
scarcely any person perfectly understood his commission; and, as the
Marchesa had been careful to conceal from him her knowledge of Ellena's
abode, he gave no direction concerning the route to _San Stefano_.
While the Marchese at Naples was thus employed, and while Schedoni
was forming further plans against Ellena, Vivaldi was wandering from
village to village, and from town to town, in pursuit of her, whom all
his efforts had hitherto been unsuccessful to recover. From the people
at the post-house at Bracelli, he had obtained little information
that could direct him; they only knew that a carriage, such as had
been already described to Vivaldi, with the blinds drawn up, changed
horses there on the morning, which he remembered to be that of Ellena's
departure, and had proceeded on the road to Morgagni.
When Vivaldi arrived thither, all trace of Ellena was lost; the master
of the post could not recollect a single circumstance connected with
the travellers, and, even if he had noticed them, it would have been
insufficient for Vivaldi's purpose, unless he had also observed the
road they followed; for at this place several roads branched off into
opposite quarters of the country; Vivaldi, therefore, was reduced to
chuse one of these, as chance or fancy directed; and, as it appeared
probable that the Marchesa had conveyed Ellena to a convent, he
determined to make enquiries at every one on his way.
He had now passed over some of the wildest tracts of the Apennine,
among scenes, which seemed abandoned by civilized society to the
banditti who haunted their recesses. Yet even here amidst wilds that
were nearly inaccessible, convents, with each its small dependent
hamlet, were scattered, and, shrouded from the world by woods and
mountains, enjoyed unsuspectedly many of its luxuries, and displayed,
unnoticed, some of its elegance. Vivaldi, who had visited several of
these in search of Ellena, had been surprized at the refined courtesy
and hospitality with which he was received.
It was on the seventh day of his journey, and near sun-set, that he was
bewildered in the woods of Rugieri. He had received a direction for the
road he was to take at a village some leagues distant, and had obeyed
it confidently till now, when the path was lost in several tracts
that branched out among the trees. The day was closing, and Vivaldi's
spirits began to fail, but Paulo, light of heart and ever gay,
commended the shade and pleasant freshness of the woods, and observed,
that if his master did lose his way, and was obliged to remain here for
the night, it could not be so very unlucky, for they could climb up
among the branches of a chestnut, and find a more neat and airy lodging
than any inn had yet afforded them.
While Paulo was thus endeavouring to make the best of what might
happen, and his master was sunk in reverie, they suddenly heard the
sound of instruments and voices from a distance. The gloom, which
the trees threw around, prevented their distinguishing objects afar
off, and not a single human being was visible, nor any trace of his
art, beneath the shadowy scene. They listened to ascertain from
what direction the sounds approached, and heard a chorus of voices,
accompanied by a few instruments, performing the evening service.
"We are near a convent, Signor," said Paulo, "listen! they are at their
devotions."
"It is as you say," replied Vivaldi; "and we will make the best of our
way towards it."
"Well, Signor! I must say, if we find as good doings here as we had at
the Capuchin's, we shall have no reason to regret our beds _al-fresco_
among the chestnut branches."
"Do you perceive any walls or spires beyond the trees?" said Vivaldi,
as he led the way.
"None, Signor," replied Paulo; "yet we draw nearer the sounds. Ah,
Signor! do you hear that note? How it dies away! And those instruments
just touched in symphony! This is not the music of peasants; a convent
must be near, though we do not see it."
Still as they advanced, no walls appeared, and soon after the music
ceased; but other sounds led Vivaldi forward to a pleasant part of
the woods, where, the trees opening, he perceived a party of pilgrims
seated on the grass. They were laughing and conversing with much
gaiety, as each spread before him the supper, which he drew from his
scrip; while he, who appeared to be the _Father-director_ of the
pilgrimage, sat with a jovial countenance in the midst of the company,
dispensing jokes and merry stories, and receiving in return a tribute
from every scrip. Wines of various sorts were ranged before him, of
which he drank abundantly, and seemed not to refuse any dainty that was
offered.
Vivaldi, whose apprehensions were now quieted, stopped to observe the
group, at the evening rays, glancing along the skirts of the wood,
threw a gleam upon their various countenances, shewing, however, in
each a spirit of gaiety that might have characterized the individuals
of a party of pleasure, rather than those of a pilgrimage. The
_Father-director_ and his flock seemed perfectly to understand each
other; the Superior willingly resigned the solemn austerity of his
office, and permitted the company to make themselves as happy as
possible, in consideration of receiving plenty of the most delicate
of their viands; yet somewhat of dignity was mingled with his
condescensions, that compelled them to receive even his jokes with a
degree of deference, and perhaps they laughed at them less for their
spirit than because they were favors.
Addressing the superior, Vivaldi requested to be directed how he
might regain his way. The father examined him for a moment before he
replied, but observing the elegance of his dress, and a certain air
of distinction; and perceiving, also, that Paulo was his servant, he
promised his services, and invited him to take a seat at his right
hand, and partake of the supper.
Vivaldi, understanding that the party was going his road, accepted
the invitation, when Paulo, having fastened the horses to a tree,
soon became busy with the supper. While Vivaldi conversed with the
father, Paulo engrossed all the attention of the pilgrims near him;
they declared he was the cleverest and the merriest fellow they had
ever seen, and often expressed a wish that he was going as far with
them as to the shrine in a convent of Carmelites, which terminated
their pilgrimage. When Vivaldi understood that this shrine was in the
church of a convent, partly inhabited by nuns, and that it was little
more than a league and a half distant, he determined to accompany them,
for it was as possible that Ellena was confined there as in any other
cloister; and of her being imprisoned in some convent, he had less
doubt, the more he considered the character and views of his mother. He
set forward, therefore, with the pilgrims, and on foot, having resigned
his horse to the weary _Father-director_.
Darkness closed over them long before they reached the village where
they designed to pass the night; but they beguiled the way with songs
and stories, now and then, only, stopping at command of the Father, to
repeat some prayer or sing a hymn. But, as they drew near a village,
at the base of the mountain on which the shrine stood, they halted to
arrange themselves in procession; and the Superior having stopped
short in the midst of one of his best jokes, dismounted Vivaldi's
horse, placed himself at their head, and beginning a loud strain they
proceeded in full chorus of melancholy music.
The peasants, hearing their sonorous voices, came forth to meet and
conduct them to their cabins. The village was already crowded with
devotees, but these poor peasants, looking up to them with love and
reverence, made every possible contrivance to accommodate all who came;
notwithstanding which, when Paulo soon after turned into his bed of
straw, he had more reasons than one to regret his chestnut mattress.
Vivaldi passed an anxious night, waiting impatiently for the dawning
of that day, which might possibly restore to him Ellena. Considering
that a pilgrim's habit would not only conceal him from suspicion, but
allow him opportunities for observation, which his own dress would
not permit, he employed Paulo to provide him one. The address of the
servant, assisted by a single ducat, easily procured it, and at an
early hour he set forward on his enquiry.