Bring roses, violets, and the cold snow-drop,
Beautiful in tears, to strew the path-way
Of our saintly sister.
A few devotees only had begun to ascend the mountain, and Vivaldi kept
aloof even from these, pursuing a lonely track, for his thoughtful mind
desired solitude. The early breeze sighing among the foliage, that
waved high over the path, and the hollow dashing of distant waters, he
listened to with complacency, for these were sounds which soothed yet
promoted his melancholy mood; and he sometimes rested to gaze upon the
scenery around him, for this too was in harmony with the temper of his
mind. Disappointment had subdued the wilder energy of the passions,
and produced a solemn and lofty state of feeling; he viewed with
pleasing sadness the dark rocks and precipices, the gloomy mountains
and vast solitudes, that spread around him; nor was the convent he was
approaching a less sacred feature of the scene, as its gray walks and
pinnacles appeared beyond the dusky groves. "Ah! if it should enclose
her!" said Vivaldi, as he caught a first glimpse of its hall. "Vain
hope! I will not invite your illusions again, I will not expose myself
to the agonies of new disappointment; I will search, but not expect.
Yet, if she should be there!"
Having reached the gates of the convent, he passed with hasty steps
into the court; where his emotion encreased as he paused a moment and
looked round its silent cloisters. The porter only appeared, when
Vivaldi, fearful lest he should perceive him not to be a pilgrim, drew
his hood over his face, and, gathering up his garments still closer in
his folded arms, passed on without speaking, though he knew not which
of the avenues before him led to the shrine. He advanced, however,
towards the church, a stately edifice, detached, and at some little
distance, from the other parts of the convent. Its highly vaulted
aisles, extending in twilight perspective, where a monk, or a pilgrim
only, now and then crossed, whose dark figures, passing without sound,
vanished like shadows; the universal stillness of the place, the gleam
of tapers from the high altar, and of lamps, which gave a gloomy pomp
to every shrine in the church:--all these circumstances conspired to
impress a sacred awe upon his heart.
He followed some devotees through a side aisle to a court, that was
overhung by a tremendous rock, in which was a cave, containing the
shrine of _our Lady of Mount Carmel_. This court was enclosed by the
rock, and by the choir of the church, except that to the south a small
opening led the eye to a glimpse of the landscape below, which, seen
beyond the dark jaws of the cliff, appeared free, and light, and gaily
coloured, melting away into the blue and distant mountains.
Vivaldi entered the cave, where, enclosed within a filigree screen of
gold, lay the image of the saint, decorated with flowers and lighted
up by innumerable lamps and tapers. The steps of the shrine were
thronged with kneeling pilgrims, and Vivaldi, to avoid singularity,
kneeled also; till a high peal of the organ, at a distance, and the
deep voices of choristers announced that the first mass was begun. He
left the cave, and, returning into the church, loitered at an extremity
of the aisles, where he listened awhile to the solemn harmony pealing
along the roofs, and softening away in distance. It was such full and
entrancing music as frequently swells in the high festivals of the
Sicilian church, and is adapted to inspire that sublime enthusiasm,
which sometimes elevates its disciples. Vivaldi, unable to endure long
the excess of feeling, which this harmony awakened, was leaving the
church, when suddenly it ceased, and the tolling of a bell sounded in
its stead. This seemed to be the knell of death, and it occurred to
him, that a dying person was approaching to receive the last sacrament;
when he heard remotely a warbling of female voices, mingling with the
deeper tones of the monks, and with the hollow note of the bell, as it
struck at intervals. So sweetly, so plaintively, did the strain grow
on the air, that those, who listened, as well as those, who sung, were
touched with sorrow, and seemed equally to mourn for a departing friend.
Vivaldi hastened to the choir, the pavement of which was strewn with
palm-branches and fresh flowers. A pall of black velvet lay upon the
steps of the altar, where several priests were silently attending.
Every where appeared the ensigns of solemn pomp and ceremony, and
in every countenance the stillness and observance of expectation.
Meanwhile the sounds drew nearer, and Vivaldi perceived a procession of
nuns approaching from a distant aisle.
As they advanced, he distinguished the lady abbess leading the train,
dressed in her pontifical robes, with the mitre on her head; and well
he marked her stately step, moving in time to the slow minstrelsy, and
the air of proud yet graceful dignity, with which she characterized
herself. Then followed the nuns, according to their several orders, and
last came the novices, carrying lighted tapers, and surrounded by other
nuns, who were distinguished by a particular habit.
Having reached a part of the church appropriated for their reception,
they arranged themselves in order. Vivaldi with a palpitating heart
enquired the occasion of this ceremony, and was told that a nun was
going to be professed.
"You are informed, no doubt, brother," added the prior who gave him
this intelligence, "that on the morning of our high festival, our
_lady_'s day, it is usual for such as devote themselves to heaven, to
receive the veil. Stand bye a while, and you will see the ceremony."
"What is the name of the novice who is now to receive it?" said
Vivaldi, in a voice whose tremulous accents betrayed his emotion.
The friar glanced an eye of scrutiny upon him, as he replied, "I know
not her name, but if you will step a little this way, I will point her
out to you."
Vivaldi, drawing his hood over his face, obeyed in silence.
"It is she on the right of the abbess," said the stranger, "who leans
on the arm of a nun, she is covered with a white veil, and is taller
than her companions."
Vivaldi observed her with a fearful eye, and though he did not
recognise the person of Ellena, yet, whether it was that his fancy was
possessed with her image, or that there was truth in his surmise, he
thought he perceived a resemblance of her. He enquired how long the
novice had resided in the convent, and many other particulars, to which
the stranger either could not or dared not reply.
With what anxious solicitude did Vivaldi endeavour to look through
the veils of the several nuns in search of Ellena, whom he believed
the barbarous policy of his mother might already have devoted to the
cloister! With a solicitude still stronger, he tried to catch a glimpse
of the features of the novices, but their faces were shaded by hoods,
and their white veils, though thrown half back, were disposed in such
artful folds that they concealed them from observation, as effectually
as did the pendant lawn the features of the nuns.
The ceremony began with the exhortation of the _Father-Abbot_,
delivered with solemn energy; then the novice kneeling before him, made
her profession, for which Vivaldi listened with intense attention, but
it was delivered in such low and trembling accents, that he could not
ascertain even the tone. But during the anthem that mingled with the
ensuing part of the service, he thought he distinguished the voice of
Ellena, that touching and well-known voice, which in the church of San
Lorenzo had first attracted his attention. He listened, scarcely daring
to draw breath, lest he should lose a note; and again he fancied her
voice spoke in a part of the plaintive response delivered by the nuns.
Vivaldi endeavoured to command his emotion, and to await with patience
some further unfolding of the truth; but when the priest prepared to
withdraw the white veil from the face of the novice, and throw the
black one over her, a dreadful expectation that she was Ellena seized
him, and he with difficulty forbore stepping forward and discovering
himself on the instant.
The veil was at length withdrawn, and a very lovely face appeared,
but not Ellena's. Vivaldi breathed again, and waited with tolerable
composure for the conclusion of the ceremony; till, in the solemn
strain that followed the putting on of the black veil, he heard again
the voice, which he was now convinced was her's. Its accents were low,
and mournful, and tremulous, yet his heart acknowledged instantaneously
their magic influence.
When this ceremony had concluded, another began; and he was told it was
that of a noviciation. A young woman, supported by two nuns, advanced
to the altar, and Vivaldi thought he beheld Ellena. The priest was
beginning the customary exhortation, when she lifted her half-veil,
and, shewing a countenance where meek sorrow was mingled with heavenly
sweetness, raised her blue eyes, all bathed in tears, and waved her
hand as if she would have spoken.--It was Ellena herself.
The priest attempted to proceed.
"I protest in the presence of this congregation," said she solemnly,
"that I am brought hither to pronounce vows which my heart disclaims. I
protest"----
A confusion of voices interrupted her, and at the same instant she
perceived Vivaldi rushing towards the altar. Ellena gazed for a moment,
and then, stretching forth her supplicating hands towards him, closed
her eyes, and sunk into the arms of some persons round her, who vainly
endeavoured to prevent him from approaching and assisting her. The
anguish, with which he bent over her lifeless form, and called upon her
name, excited the commiseration even of the nuns, and especially of
Olivia, who was most assiduous in efforts to revive her young friend.
When Ellena unclosed her eyes, and looking up, once more beheld
Vivaldi, the expression, with which she regarded him, told that her
heart was unchanged, and that she was unconscious of the miseries
of imprisonment while he was with her. She desired to withdraw, and,
assisted by Vivaldi and Olivia, was leaving the church, when the abbess
ordered that she should be attended by the nuns only; and, retiring
from the altar, she gave directions that the young stranger should be
conducted to the parlour of the convent.
Vivaldi, though he refused to obey an imperious command, yielded to
the entreaties of Ellena, and to the gentle remonstrances of Olivia;
and, bidding Ellena farewell for a while, he repaired to the parlour
of the abbess. He was not without some hope of awakening her to a
sense of justice, or of pity; but he found that her notions of right
were inexorably against him, and that pride and resentment usurped
the influence of every other feeling. She began her lecture with
expressing the warm friendship she had so long cherished for the
Marchesa, proceeded to lament that the son of a friend, whom she so
highly esteemed, should have forgotten his duty to his parents, and
the observance due to the dignity of his house, so far as to seek
connection with a person of Ellena di Rosalba's inferior station; and
concluded with a severe reprimand for having disturbed the tranquillity
of her convent and the decorum of the church by his intrusion.
Vivaldi listened with submitting patience to this mention of morals and
decorum from a person, who, with the most perfect self-applause, was
violating some of the plainest obligations of humanity and justice;
who had conspired to tear an orphan from her home, and who designed to
deprive her for life of liberty, with all the blessings it inherits.
But, when she proceeded to speak of Ellena with the caustic of severe
reprobation, and to hint at the punishment, which her public rejection
of the vows had incurred, the patience of Vivaldi submitted no longer;
indignation and contempt rose high against the Superior, and he
exhibited a portrait of herself in the strong colours of truth. But
the mind, which compassion could not persuade, reason could not appal;
selfishness had hardened it alike to the influence of each; her pride
only was affected, and she retaliated the mortification she suffered by
menace and denunciation.
Vivaldi, on quitting her apartment, had no other resource than an
application to the _Abate_, whose influence, at least, if not his
authority, might assuage the severity of her power. In this Abate,
a mildness of temper, and a gentleness of manner were qualities of
less value than is usually and deservedly imputed to them; for, being
connected with feebleness of mind, they were but the pleasing merits of
easy times, which in an hour of difficulty never assumed the character
of virtues, by inducing him to serve those, for whom he might feel. And
thus, with a temper and disposition directly opposite to those of the
severe and violent abbess, he was equally selfish, and almost equally
culpable, since by permitting evil, he was nearly as injurious in his
conduct as those who planned it. Indolence and timidity, a timidity
the consequence of want of clear perception, deprived him of all energy
of character; he was prudent rather than wise, and so fearful of being
thought to do wrong that he seldom did right.
To Vivaldi's temperate representations and earnest entreaties that he
would exert some authority towards liberating Ellena, he listened with
patience; acknowledged the hardships of her situation; lamented the
unhappy divisions between Vivaldi and his family, and then declined
advancing a single step in so delicate an affair. Signora di Rosalba,
he said, was in the care of the abbess, over whom he had no right of
control in matters relative to her domestic concerns. Vivaldi then
supplicated, that, though he possessed no authority, he would, at
least, intercede or remonstrate against so unjust a procedure as that
of detaining Ellena a prisoner, and assist in restoring her to the
home, from which she had been forcibly carried.
"And this, again," replied the Abate, "does not come within my
jurisdiction; and I make it a rule never to encroach upon that of
another person."
"And can you endure, holy father," said Vivaldi, "to witness a flagrant
act of injustice and not endeavour to counteract it? not even step
forward to rescue the victim when you perceive the preparation for the
sacrifice?"
"I repeat, that I never interfere with the authority of others,"
replied the Superior; "having asserted my own, I yield to them in their
sphere, the obedience which I require in mine."
"Is power then," said Vivaldi, "the infallible test of justice? Is it
morality to obey where the command is criminal? The whole world have a
claim upon the fortitude, the active fortitude of those who are placed
as you are, between the alternative of confirming a wrong by your
consent, or preventing it by your resistance. Would that your heart
expanded towards that world, reverend father!"
"Would that the whole world were wrong that you might have the glory
of setting it right!" said the Abate, smiling. "Young man! you are an
enthusiast, and I pardon you. You are a knight of chivalry, who would
go about the earth fighting with every body by way of proving your
right to do good; it is unfortunate that you are born somewhat too
late."
"Enthusiasm in the cause of humanity"-- said Vivaldi, but he checked
himself; and despairing of touching a heart so hardened by selfish
prudence, and indignant at beholding an apathy so vicious in its
consequence, he left the Abate without other effort. He perceived that
he must now have recourse to further stratagem, a recourse which
his frank and noble mind detested, but he had already tried, without
success, every other possibility of rescuing the innocent victim of the
Marchesa's prejudice and pride.
Ellena meanwhile had retired to her cell, agitated by a variety of
considerations, and contrary emotions, of which, however, those of joy
and tenderness were long predominant. Then came anxiety, apprehension,
pride, and doubt, to divide and torture her heart. It was true that
Vivaldi had discovered her prison, but, if it were possible, that he
could release her, she must consent to quit it with him; a step from
which a mind so tremblingly jealous of propriety as hers, recoiled
with alarm, though it would deliver her from captivity. And how, when
she considered the haughty character of the Marchese di Vivaldi, the
imperious and vindictive nature of the Marchesa, and, still more, their
united repugnance to a connection with her, how could she endure to
think, even for a moment, of intruding herself into such a family!
Pride, delicacy, good sense seemed to warn her against a conduct so
humiliating and vexatious in its consequences, and to exhort her
to preserve her own dignity by independence; but the esteem, the
friendship, the tender affection, which she had cherished for Vivaldi,
made her pause, and shrink with emotions, of little less than horror,
from the eternal renunciation, which so dignified a choice required.
Though the encouragement, which her deceased relative had given to
this attachment, seemed to impart to it a sacred character, that
considerably soothed the alarmed delicacy of Ellena, the approbation
thus implied, had no power to silence her own objections, and she would
have regretted the mistaken zeal, which had contributed to lead her
into the present distressing situation, had she revered the memory
of her aunt, or loved Vivaldi, less. Still, however, the joy, which
his presence had occasioned, and which the consciousness that he was
still near her had prolonged, was not subdued, though it was frequently
obscured, by such anxious considerations. With jealous and indiscreet
solicitude, she now recollected every look, and the accent of every
word, which had told that his affection was undiminished, thus seeking,
with inconsistent zeal, for a conviction of the very tenderness, which
but a moment before she had thought it would be prudent to lament, and
almost necessary to renounce.
She awaited with extreme anxiety the appearance of Olivia, who might
probably know the result of Vivaldi's conference with the abbess, and
whether he was yet in the convent.
In the evening Olivia came, a messenger of evil; and Ellena, informed
of the conduct of the abbess, and the consequent departure of Vivaldi,
perceived all her courage, and all the half-formed resolutions, which
a consideration of his family had suggested, faulter and expire.
Sensible only of grief and despondency, she ascertained, for the first
time, the extent of her affection and the severity of her situation.
She perceived, also, that the injustice, which his family had exercised
towards her, absolved her from all consideration of their displeasure,
otherwise than as it might affect herself; but this was a conviction,
which it were now probably useless to admit.
Olivia not only expressed the tenderest interest in her welfare, but
seemed deeply affected with her situation; and, whether it was that the
nun's misfortunes bore some resemblance to Ellena's, or from whatever
cause, it is remarkable that her eyes were often filled with tears,
while she regarded her young friend, and she betrayed so much emotion
that Ellena noticed it with surprise. She was, however, too delicate
to hint any curiosity on the subject; and too much engaged by a nearer
interest, to dwell long upon the circumstance.
When Olivia withdrew, Ellena retired to her turret, to soothe her
spirits with a view of serene and majestic nature, a recourse which
seldom failed to elevate her mind and soften the asperities of
affliction. It was to her like sweet and solemn music, breathing peace
over the soul--like the oaten stop of Milton's Spirit,
"Who with his soft pipe, and smooth-dittied song,
Well knew to still the wild winds when they roar
And hush the waving woods."
While she sat before a window, observing the evening light beaming up
the valley, and touching all the distant mountains with misty purple,
a reed as sweet, though not as fanciful, sounded from among the rocks
below. The instrument and the character of the strain were such as she
had been unaccustomed to hear within the walls of San Stefano, and the
tone diffused over her spirits a pleasing melancholy, that rapt all her
attention. The liquid cadence, as it trembled and sunk away, seemed to
tell the dejection of no vulgar feelings, and the exquisite taste,
with which the complaining notes were again swelled, almost convinced
her, that the musician was Vivaldi.
On looking from the lattice, she perceived a person perched on a point
of the cliff below, whither it appeared almost impracticable for any
human step to have climbed, and preserved from the precipice only by
some dwarf shrubs that fringed the brow. The twilight did not permit
her immediately to ascertain whether it was Vivaldi, and the situation
was so dangerous that she hoped it was not he. Her doubts were removed,
when, looking up, he perceived Ellena, and she heard his voice.
Vivaldi had learned from a lay-brother of the convent, whom Paulo had
bribed, and who, when he worked in the garden, had sometimes seen
Ellena at the window, that she frequented this remote turret; and, at
the hazard of his life, he had now ventured thither, with a hope of
conversing with her.
Ellena, alarmed at his tremendous situation, refused to listen to
him, but he would not leave the spot till he had communicated a plan
concerted for her escape, and, entreating that she would confide
herself to his care, assured her she would be conducted wherever she
judged proper. It appeared that the brother had consented to assist his
views, in consideration of an ample reward, and to admit him within
the walls on this evening, when, in his pilgrim's habit, he might have
an opportunity of again seeing Ellena. He conjured her to attend, if
possible, in the convent parlour during supper, explaining, in a few
words, the motive for this request, and the substance of the following
particulars:
The Lady-abbess, in observance of the custom upon high festivals,
gave a collation to the _Padre-abate_, and such of the priests as
had assisted at the vesper service. A few strangers of distinction
and pilgrims were also to partake of the entertainments of this
night, among which was included a concert to be performed by the
nuns. At the collation was to be displayed a profusion of delicacies,
arranged by the sisters, who had been busy in preparing the pastry and
confectionary during several days, and who excelled in these articles
no less than in embroidery and other ingenious arts. This supper was
to be given in the abbess's outer parlour, while she herself, attended
by some nuns of high rank, and a few favourites, was to have a table
in the inner apartment, where, separated only by the grate, she could
partake of the conversation of the holy fathers. The tables were to be
ornamented with artificial flowers, and a variety of other fanciful
devices upon which the ingenuity of the sisters had been long employed,
who prepared for these festivals with as much vanity, and expected them
to dissipate the gloomy monotony of their usual life, with as much
eagerness of delight, as a young beauty anticipated a first ball.
On this evening, therefore, every member of the convent would be
engaged either by amusement or business, and to Vivaldi, who had been
careful to inform himself of these circumstances, it would be easy,
with the assistance of the brother, to obtain admittance, and mingle
himself among the spectators, disguised in his pilgrim's habit. He
entreated, therefore, that Ellena would contrive to be in the abbess's
apartment this evening, when he would endeavour to convey to her
some further particulars of the plan of escape, and would have mules
in waiting at the foot of the mountain, to conduct her to the villa
Altieri, or to the neighbouring convent of the Santa della Pieta.
Vivaldi secretly hoped that she might be prevailed with to give him her
hand on quitting San Stefano, but he forbore to mention this hope, lest
it should be mistaken for a condition, and that Ellena might be either
reluctant to accept his assistance, or, accepting it, might consider
herself bound to grant a hasty consent.
To his mention of escape she listened with varying emotion; at one
moment attending to it with hope and joy, as promising her only chance
of liberation from an imprisonment, which was probably intended to
last for her life, and of restoring her to Vivaldi; and at another,
recoiling from the thought of departing with him, while his family was
so decidedly averse to their marriage. Thus, unable to form any instant
resolution on the subject, and entreating that he would leave his
dangerous station before the thickening twilight should encrease the
hazard of his descent, Ellena added, that she would endeavour to obtain
admittance to the apartment of the abbess, and to acquaint him with
her final determination. Vivaldi understood all the delicacy of her
scruples, and though they afflicted him, he honoured the good sense
and just pride that suggested them.
He lingered on the rock till the last moments of departing light,
and then, with a heart fluttering with hopes and fears, bade Ellena
farewel, and descended; while she watched his progress through the
silent gloom, faintly distinguishing him gliding along ledges of the
precipice, and making his adventurous way from cliff to cliff, till
the winding thickets concealed him from her view. Still anxious, she
remained at the lattice, but he appeared no more; no voice announced
disaster; and, at length, she returned to her cell, to deliberate on
the subject of her departure.
Her considerations were interrupted by Olivia, whose manner indicated
something extraordinary; the usual tranquillity of her countenance was
gone, and an air of grief mingled with apprehension appeared there.
Before she spoke, she examined the passage and looked round the cell.
"It is as I feared," said she abruptly; "my suspicions are justified,
and you, my child, are sacrificed, unless it were possible for you to
quit the convent this night."
"What is it that you mean?" said the alarmed Ellena.
"I have just learned," resumed the nun, "that your conduct this
morning, which is understood to have thrown a premeditated insult upon
the abbess, is to be punished with what they _call_ imprisonment; alas!
why should I soften the truth,--with what I believe is death itself,
for who ever returned alive from that hideous chamber!"
"With death!" said Ellena, aghast; "Oh, heavens! how have I deserved
death?"
"That is not the question, my daughter, but how you may avoid it.
Within the deepest recesses of our convent, is a stone chamber, secured
by doors of iron, to which such of the sisterhood as have been guilty
of any heinous offence have, from time to time, been consigned.
This condemnation admits of no reprieve; the unfortunate captive is
left to languish in chains and darkness, receiving only an allowance
of bread and water just sufficient to prolong her sufferings, till
nature, at length, sinking under their intolerable pressure, obtains
refuge in death. Our records relate several instances of such horrible
punishment, which has generally been inflicted upon nuns, who, weary
of the life which they have chosen under the first delusions of the
imagination, or which they have been compelled to accept by the rigour
or avarice of parents, have been detected in escaping from the convent."
The nun paused, but Ellena remaining wrapt in silent thought, she
resumed: "One miserable instance of this severity has occurred within
my memory. I saw the wretched victim enter that apartment--never more
to quit it alive! I saw, also, her poor remains laid at rest in the
convent garden! During nearly two years she languished upon a bed of
straw, denied even the poor consolation of conversing through the grate
with such of the sisters as pitied her; and who of us was there that
did not pity her! A severe punishment was threatened to those, who
should approach with any compassionate intention; thank God! I incurred
it, and I endured it, also, with secret triumph."
A gleam of satisfaction passed over Olivia's countenance as she spoke
this; it was the sweetest that Ellena had ever observed there. With a
sympathetic emotion, she threw herself on the bosom of the nun, and
wept; for some moments they were both silent. Olivia, at length said,
"Do you not believe, my child, that the officious and offended abbess
will readily seize upon the circumstance of your disobedience, as a
pretence for confining you in that fatal chamber? The wishes of the
Marchesa will thus surely be accomplished, without the difficulty of
exacting your obedience to the vows. Alas! I have received proof too
absolute of her intention, and that to-morrow is assigned as the day
of your sacrifice; you may, perhaps, be thankful that the business of
the festival has obliged her to defer executing the sentence even till
to-morrow."
Ellena replied only with a groan, as her head still drooped upon the
shoulder of the nun; she was not now hesitating whether to accept the
assistance of Vivaldi, but desponding lest his utmost efforts for her
deliverance should be vain.
Olivia, who mistook the cause of her silence, added, "Other hints I
could give, which are strong as they are dreadful, but I will forbear.
Tell me how it is possible I may assist you; I am willing to incur a
second punishment, in endeavouring to relieve a second sufferer."
Ellena's tears flowed fast at this new instance of the nun's
generosity. "But if they should discover you in assisting me to leave
the convent," she said, in a voice convulsed by her gratitude,--"O! if
they should discover you!"----
"I can ascertain the punishment," Olivia replied with firmness, "and do
not fear to meet it."
"How nobly generous this is!" said the weeping Ellena; "I ought not to
suffer you to be thus careless of yourself!"
"My conduct is not wholly disinterested," the nun modestly replied;
"for I think I could endure any punishment with more fortitude than the
sickening anguish of beholding such suffering as I have witnessed. What
are bodily pains in comparison with the subtle, the exquisite tortures
of the mind! Heaven knows I can support my own afflictions, but not
the view of those of others when they are excessive. The instruments
of torture I believe I could endure, if my spirit was invigorated with
the consciousness of a generous purpose; but pity touches upon a nerve
that vibrates instantly to the heart, and subdues resistance. Yes,
my child, the agony of pity is keener than any other, except that of
remorse, and even in remorse, it is, perhaps, the mingling unavailing
pity, that points the sting. But, while I am indulging this egotism, I
am, perhaps, increasing your danger of the suffering I deprecate."
Ellena, thus encouraged by the generous sympathy of Olivia, mentioned
Vivaldi's purposed visit of this evening; and consulted with her on
the probability of procuring admittance for herself to the abbess's
parlour. Reanimated by this intelligence, Olivia advised her to repair
not only to the supper-room, but to attend the previous concert, to
which several strangers would be admitted, among whom might probably
be Vivaldi. When to this, Ellena objected her dread of the abbess's
observation, and of the immediate seclusion that would follow, Olivia
soothed her fears of discovery, by offering her the disguise of a
nun's veil, and promising not only to conduct her to the apartment, but
to afford her every possible assistance towards her escape.
"Among the crowd of nuns, who will attend in that spacious apartment,"
Olivia added, "it is improbable you would be distinguished, even if the
sisters were less occupied by amusement, and the abbess were at leisure
to scrutinize. As it is, you will hazard little danger of discovery;
the Superior, if she thinks of you at all, will believe that you are
still a prisoner in your cell, but this is an evening of too much
importance to her vanity, for any consideration, distinct from that
emotion, to divide her attention. Let hope, therefore, support you, my
child, and do you prepare a few lines to acquaint Vivaldi with your
consent to his proposal, and with the urgency of your circumstances;
you may, perhaps, find an opportunity of conveying them through the
grate."
They were still conversing on this subject, when a particular chime
sounded, which Olivia said summoned the nuns to the concert-room; and
she immediately hastened for a black veil, while Ellena wrote the few
lines that were necessary for Vivaldi.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
Period spelling has been generally retained; however, where the text
contained a word spelt in two different ways, the more familiar variant
has been preferred. Hyphenation is inconsistent throughout.