_Beatrice, disguised as a Pilgrim, visits Valperga.--Castruccio
relates her Story._
Spring advanced, and the mountains looked forth from beneath the snow:
the chesnuts began to assume their light and fanlike foliage; the dark
ilex and cork trees which crowned the hills, threw off their burthen of
snow; and the olives now in flower starred the mountain paths with their
small fallen blossoms; the heath perfumed the air; the melancholy voice
of the cuckoo issued from the depths of the forests; the swallows
returned from their pilgrimage; and in soft moonlight evenings the
nightingales answered one another from the copses; the vines with
freshest green hung over the springing corn; and various flowers adorned
the banks of each running stream. Euthanasia beheld the advance of
summer with careless eyes: her heart was full of one thought, of one
image; and all she saw, whether it were the snow-clad mountains of
winter, or the green and flowery fields of spring, was referred by her
to one feeling, one only remembrance. She determined to think no more of
Castruccio; but every day, every moment of every day, was as a broken
mirror, a multiplied reflection of his form alone.
They had often met during the winter in the palaces of the Lucchese
nobles, and sometimes at her own castle; he was ever gentle and
deferential to her, and sometimes endeavoured to renew the courtship
that had formerly subsisted between them. Euthanasia had not strength of
purpose sufficient to avoid these meetings; but each of them was as the
life-blood taken from her heart, and left her in a state of despair and
grief that preyed like fever upon her vitals. To see him, to hear him,
and yet not to be his, was as if to make her food of poison; it might
assuage the pangs of hunger, but it destroyed the principle of life. She
became pale, sleepless, the shadow of what she had been; her friends
perceived the change, and knew the cause; and they endeavoured to
persuade her to go to Florence, or to take some journey, which might
occupy her mind, and break the chain that now bound her to sorrow. She
felt that she ought to comply with their suggestions; but even _her_
spirit, strong and self-sustaining as it had been, sank beneath the
influence of love, and she had no power to fly, though to remain were
death. Tears and grief were her daily portion; yet she took it
patiently, as that to which she was doomed, and hardly prayed to have
the bitter cup removed.
A circumstance that occurred just at this crisis, when she seemed to
stand on the sharp edge which divides life from death, saved her from
destruction, and led her back to taste for a few more years the food of
sorrow and disappointment which was doled out to her.
The summer solstice had passed, and Castruccio had been absent during
several months, carrying his conquests along the shore beyond the Magra,
while every day brought the news of some fresh success he had obtained.
This was the season of pilgrimages to Monte San Pelegrino, a wild and
high Apennine in the neighbourhood of Valperga. It is said, that a king
of Scotland, resigning his crown to his son, and exiling himself from
his country, finished his days in penitence and prayer on this mountain.
In Italy every unknown pilgrim was a king or prince: but this was a
strange tradition; and it would seem as if the royal penitent,
disdaining the gladsome plains of Italy, sought for the image of his
native country on this naked peak among the heaped masses of the
Apennines.
His memory was there canonized, and many indulgences were the reward of
three successive visits to his rocky tomb; every year numberless
pilgrims flocked, and still continue to flock thither. Straining up the
rugged paths of the mountain, careless of the burning sun, they walk on,
shadowed by their broad pilgrim's hats, repeating their _pater-nosters_,
and thus, by the toil of the body, buy indulgence for the soul's
idleness. Many on their return visited the castle of Valperga, and
partook its hospitality. One party had just withdrawn, as the _Ave
Maria_ sounded from the vale below; and they chaunted the evening hymn,
as they wound down the steep. Euthanasia listened from her tower, and
heard the last song of the sleepy cicala among the olive woods, and the
buz of the numerous night insects, that filled the air with their slight
but continual noise. It was the evening of a burning day; and the breeze
that slightly waved the grass, and bended the ripe corn with its quick
steps, was as a refreshing bath to the animals who panted under the
stagnant air of the day. Amid the buzzing of the crickets and dragon
flies, the agiolo's monotonous and regular cry told of clear skies and
sunny weather; the flowers were bending beneath the dew, and her acacia,
now in bloom, crowning its fan-like foliage with a roseate crest, sent
forth a sweet scent. A few of the latest fire-flies darted here and
there, with bright green light; but it was July, and their season was
well nigh past. Towards the sea, on the horizon, a faint lightning
shewed the over-heated state of the atmosphere, and killed by its
brightness the last glories of the orange sunset; the mountains were
losing their various tints in darkness; and their vast amphitheatre
looked like a ponderous unformed wall, closing in Lucca, whose lights
glimmered afar off.
Euthanasia was awaked from the reverie, half painful, half pleasing,
that engaged her as she sat at her window; for she was too true a child
of nature, not to feel her sorrows alleviated by the sight of what is
beautiful in the visible world;--she was roused, I say, by her servant
who told her that a female pilgrim was at the gate, and desired to see
the lady of the castle. "Receive her," said Euthanasia, "and let her be
led to the bath, I will see her when she is refreshed."
"She will not enter," replied the servant, "but desires earnestly, she
says, to see you: she absolutely refuses to enter the castle."
Euthanasia descended to the gate; her quick light steps trod the
pavement of the hall, her long golden tresses waved upon the wind, and
her blue eyes seemed to have drunk in the azure of departed day, they
were in colour so deep, so clear. The pilgrim stood at the door leaning
on her staff, a large hat covered her head, and was pulled down over her
brows, and her coarse cloak fell in undistinguishing folds round her
slim form; but Euthanasia, accustomed to see the peasantry alone resort
to this mountain, was struck by the small white hand that held the
staff, and the delicately moulded and snowy feet which, shod in the
rudest sandals, seemed little used to labour or fatigue.
"I intreat you," she said, "to come into the castle to rest yourself;
the _Ave Maria_ is passed, and your toils for the day are ended; you
will find a bath, food and rest; will you not enter?" Euthanasia held
forth her hand.
"Lady, I must not. I intreat you only to bestow your alms on a pilgrim
going to Rome, but who has turned aside to perform a vow among these
mountains."
"Most willingly; but I also have made a vow, which is, not to suffer a
tired pilgrim to pass my gates without rest and food. Where can you go
to-night? Lucca is six long miles off; you are weak and very weary:
come; I ask you for alms; they are your prayers which must be told on
the soft cushions of a pleasant bed amid your dreams this night. Come
in; the heavy dews that fall from the clear sky after this burning day
may hurt you: this is a dangerous hour in the plain; can you not be
persuaded?"
Euthanasia saw quick drops fall from the flashing and black eyes of the
poor pilgrim: she raised them to heaven, saying, "Thy will be done! I am
now all humbleness."
As she threw up her head Euthanasia looked on her countenance; it was
beautiful, but sunburnt and wild; her finely carved eyes, her lips
curved in the line of beauty, her pointed and dimpled chin still beamed
loveliness, and her voice was low and silver-toned. She entered the
castle, but would go no further than the outer hall. The eloquence of
Euthanasia was wasted; and she was obliged to order cushions and food to
be brought to the hall: they then sat down; the pilgrim took off her
hat, and her black and silken ringlets fell around her face; she parted
them with her small fingers, and then sat downcast and silent.
Euthanasia placed fruit, sweetmeats and wine before her; "Eat," she
said, "you are greatly fatigued."
The poor pilgrim tried; but her lips refused the fruit she would have
tasted. She felt that she should weep; and, angry at her own weakness,
she drank a little wine, which somewhat revived her; and then, sitting
thus, overcome, bent and sorrowing, beside the clear loveliness of
Euthanasia, these two ladies entered into conversation, soft and
consoling on one part, on the other hesitating and interrupted. At first
the pilgrim gazed for a moment on the golden hair and bluest eyes of
Euthanasia, her heavenly smile, and clear brow; and then she said: "You
are the lady of this castle? You are named Euthanasia?"
"Most true: and might I in return ask you who you are, who wander alone
and unhappy? Believe me I should think myself very fortunate, if you
would permit me to know your grief, and to undertake the task of
consoling you. If you mourn for your faults, does not a moment of real
repentance annihilate them all? Come, I will be your confessor; and
impose on you the light penances of cheerfulness and hope. Do you mourn
your friends? poor girl! weep not; that is a sorrow time alone can cure:
but time can cure it, if with a patient heart you yield yourself to new
affections and feelings of kindness. Sweet, hush the storm that agitates
you: if you pray, let not your words be drops of agony, but as the
morning dew of faith and hope. You are silent; you are angry that I
speak; so truly do I prize the soft peace that was for years the inmate
of my own heart, that I would bestow it on others with as earnest a
labour, as for myself I would try to recal it to the nest from which it
has fled."
"How! and are you not happy?" The eyes of the pilgrim glanced a sudden
fire, that was again quenched by her downcast lids.
"I have had my share of tranquillity. For five-and-twenty years few
sorrows, and those appeaseable by natural and quickly dried tears,
visited me; now my cares rise thick, while, trust me, with eager
endeavour, I try to dissipate them. But you are young, very young; you
have quaffed the gall, and will now come to the honey of your cup.
Wherefore are you bound for Rome?"
"It were a long tale to tell, lady, and one I would not willingly
disclose. Yet, methinks, you should be happy; your eyes are mild, and
made for peace. I thought,--I heard,--that a thousand blessed
circumstances conduced to render you fortunate beyond all others."
"Circumstances change as fast as the fleeting clouds of an autumnal sky.
If happiness depends upon occasion, how unstable is it! We can alone
call that ours which lives in our own bosoms. Yet those feelings also
are bound to mutability; and, as the priests have doubtless long since
taught you, there is no joy that endures upon earth."
"How is this! He is not dead!--he must be--" The pilgrim suddenly
stopped, her cheek burning with blushes.
"Who dead? What do you mean?"
"Your father, your brother, any one you love. But, lady, I will intrude
no longer; the dews are fallen, and I find the air of the castle close
and suffocating. I long for the free air."
"You will not sleep here?"
"I must not; do not ask me again; you pain me much; I must pursue my
journey!"
The pilgrim gathered up her raven locks, and put on her hat; then,
leaning on her staff, she held forth her little hand, and said in a
smothered voice, so low that the tone hardly struck the air, "Your alms,
lady."
Euthanasia took out gold; the pilgrim smiled sadly, saying, "My vow
prevents my receiving more than three soldi; let that sum be the limit
of your generous aid."
Euthanasia found something so inexplicable, reserved, and almost
haughty, in the manner of her guest, that she felt checked, and ill
disposed to press her often rejected services; she gave the small sum
asked, saying, "You are penurious in your courtesies; this will hardly
buy for me one _pater-noster_."
"It will buy the treasure of my heart in prayers for your welfare;
prayers, which I once thought all powerful, may be as well worth perhaps
as those of the beggar whom we fee on the road-side. Farewel!"
The pilgrim spoke earnestly and sweetly; and then drawing her cloak
about her, she left the castle, winding slowly down the steep. After she
had awhile departed, Euthanasia sent a servant to the nunnery of St.
Ursula, which was on the road the pilgrim was to follow, with a loaded
basket of fruits, wine and other food, and a message to the nuns to
watch for and receive the unhappy stranger. All passed as she desired.
The pilgrim entered the convent; and, after praying in the chapel, and
silently partaking a frugal meal of fruit and bread, she went to rest in
her lowly cell. The next morning the abbess had intended to question
her, and to win her to some comfort; but, before the dawn of day, the
pilgrim had left the convent; and, with slow steps and a sorrowing
heart, pursued her way towards Rome.
This occurrence had greatly struck Euthanasia. She felt, that there was
something uncommon in the visit of the stranger, and that, although
unknown to her, there must be some link between them, which she vainly
strove to discover. It happened, that, about a fortnight after, she was
at the Fondi palace in Lucca, where Castruccio was in company; and she
related this incident, dwelling on the beauty of the pilgrim, her
graceful manners, and deep sorrow. When she described her form and
countenance, Castruccio, struck by some sudden recollection, advanced
towards Euthanasia, and began to question her earnestly as to the very
words and looks of the stranger; then, checking himself, he drew back,
and entered into conversation with another person. When however
Euthanasia rose to depart, he approached, and said in a low tone: "I am
afraid that I can solve the riddle of this unfortunate girl; permit me
to see you alone to-morrow; I must know every thing that passed."
Euthanasia assented, and waited with impatience for the visit.
He came; and at his request she related minutely all that had happened.
Castruccio listened earnestly; and, when he heard what had been her last
words, he cried, "It must be she! It is the poor Beatrice!"
"Beatrice!--Who is Beatrice?"
Castruccio endeavoured to evade the question, and afterwards to answer
it by the relation of a few slight circumstances; but Euthanasia, struck
by his manner, questioned him so seriously, that he ended by relating
the whole story. Euthanasia was deeply moved; and earnest pity succeeded
to her first astonishment; astonishment for her powers and strange
errors, and then compassion for her sorrows and mighty fall. Castruccio,
led on by the memory of her enchantments, spoke with ardour, scarcely
knowing to whom he spoke; and, when he ended, Euthanasia cried, "She
must be followed, brought back, consoled; her misery is great; but there
is a cure for it."
She then concerted with Castruccio the plan for tracing her steps, and
inducing her to return. Messengers were sent on the road to Rome, who
were promised high rewards if they succeeded in finding her; others were
sent to Ferrara to learn if her friends there had any knowledge of her
course. These researches occupied several weeks; but they were
fruitless: the messengers from Ferrara brought word, that she had left
that city early in the preceding spring in a pilgrimage to Rome, and
that she had never since been heard of. The lady Marchesana,
inconsolable for her departure, had since died; and the good bishop
Marsilio, who had not returned from France, where he had been made a
cardinal, was at too great a distance to understand the circumstances of
her departure, or to act upon them. Nor were the tidings brought from
Rome more satisfactory; she was traced from Lucca to Pisa, Florence,
Arezzo, Perugia, Foligno, Spoletto, and even to Terni; but there all
trace was lost. It appeared certain that she had never arrived in Rome;
none of the priests had heard of her; every church and convent was
examined; but no trace of her could be found. Every exertion was vain:
it appeared as if she had sunk into the bowels of the earth.
During the period occupied by these researches, a great change had taken
place in the mind of Euthanasia. Before, though her atmosphere had been
torn by storms, and blackened by the heaviest clouds, her love had ever
borne her on towards one point with resistless force; and it seemed as
if, body and soul, she would in the end be its victim. Now the tide
ebbed, and left her, as a poor wretch upon one point of rock, when the
rising ocean suddenly subsides, and restores him unexpectedly to life.
She had loved Castruccio; and, as is ever the case with pure and exalted
minds, she had separated the object of her love from all other beings,
and, investing him with a glory, he was no longer to her as one among
the common herd, nor ever for a moment could she confound him and class
him with his fellow men. It is this feeling that is the essence and life
of love, and that, still subsisting even after esteem and sympathy had
been destroyed, had caused the excessive grief in which she had been
plunged. She had separated herself from the rest as his chosen one; she
had been selected from the whole world for him to love, and therefore
was there a mighty barrier between her and all things else; no sentiment
could pass through her mind unmingled with his image, no thought that
did not bear his stamp to distinguish it from all other thoughts; as the
moon in heaven shines bright, because the sun illumines her with his
rays, so did she proceed on her high path in serene majesty, protected
through her love for him from all meaner cares or joys; her very person
was sacred, since she had dedicated herself to him; but, the god
undeified, the honours of the priestess fell to the dust. The story of
Beatrice dissolved the charm; she looked on him now in the common light
of day; the illusion and exaltation of love was dispelled for ever: and,
although disappointment, and the bitterness of destroyed hope, robbed
her of every sensation of enjoyment, it was no longer that mad despair,
that clinging to the very sword that cut her, which before had tainted
her cheek with the hues of death. Her old feelings of duty, benevolence,
and friendship returned; all was not now, as before, referred to love
alone; the trees, the streams, the mountains, and the stars, no longer
told one never-varying tale of disappointed passion: before, they had
oppressed her heart by reminding her, through every change and every
form, of what she had once seen in joy; and they lay as so heavy and sad
a burthen on her soul, that she would exclaim as a modern poet has since
done:
Thou, thrush, that singest loud, and loud, and free,
Into yon row of willows flit,
Upon that alder sit,
Or sing another song, or choose another tree!
Roll back, sweet rill, back to thy mountain bounds,
And there for ever be thy waters chained!
For thou dost haunt the air with sounds
That cannot be sustained.
* * * *
Be any thing, sweet rill, but that which thou art now
But now these feverish emotions ceased. Sorrow sat on her downcast eye,
restrained her light step, and slept in the unmoved dimples of her fair
cheek; but the wildness of grief had died, the fountain of selfish tears
flowed no more, and she was restored from death to life. She considered
Castruccio as bound to Beatrice; bound by the deep love and anguish of
the fallen prophetess, by all her virtues, even by her faults; bound by
his falsehood to her who was then his betrothed, and whom he carelessly
wronged, and thus proved how little capable he was of participating in
her own exalted feelings. She believed that he would be far happier in
the passionate and unquestioning love of this enthusiast, than with her,
who had lived too long to be satisfied alone with the affection of him
she loved, but required in him a conformity of tastes to those she had
herself cultivated, which in Castruccio was entirely wanting. She felt
half glad, half sorry, for the change she was aware had been operated in
her heart; for the misery that she before endured was not without its
momentary intervals, which busy love filled with dreams and hopes, that
caused a wild transport, which, although it destroyed her, was still
joy, still delight. But now there was no change; one steady hopeless
blank was before her; the very energies of her mind were palsied; her
imagination furled its wings, and the owlet, reason, was the only
dweller that found sustenance and a being in her benighted soul.