assure himself that none overheard their conversation, he addressed
Cincolo: “Pardon me, my dear friend; I am hasty, and the sight of that
man made every drop of my blood cry aloud in my veins. But I do not come
here to indulge in private sorrows or private revenge, and my design
ought alone to engross me. It is necessary for me to see speedily and
secretly Messer Guielmo Lostendardo, the Neapolitan commander. I bear a
message to him from the Countess Elizabeth, the mother of Corradino, and
I have some hope that its import may induce him to take at least a
neutral part during the impending conflict. I have chosen you, Cincolo,
to aid me in this, for not only you are of that little note in your town
that you may act for me without attracting observation, but you are
brave and true, and I may confide to your known worth. Lostendardo
resides at the _Palagio del Governo_. When I enter its doors I am in the
hands of my enemies, and its dungeons may alone know the secret of my
destiny. I hope better things. But if after two hours I do not appear or
let you hear of my welfare, carry this packet to Corradino at Pisa. You
will then learn who I am; and if you feel any indignation at my fate,
let that feeling attach you still more strongly to the cause for which I
live and die.”
As Ricciardo spoke, he still walked on, and Cincolo observed that,
without his guidance, he directed his steps towards the _Palagio del
Governo_.
“I do not understand this,” said the old man. “By what argument, unless
you bring one from the other world, do you hope to induce Messer Guielmo
to aid Corradino? He is so bitter an enemy of Manfred, that although
that prince is dead, yet when he mentions his name he grasps the air as
it were a dagger. I have heard him with horrible imprecations curse the
whole house of Swabia.”
A tremor shook the frame of Ricciardo, but he replied, “Lostendardo was
once the firmest support of that house, and the friend of Manfred.
Strange circumstances gave birth in his mind to this unnatural hatred,
and he became a traitor. But, perhaps, now that Manfred is in Paradise,
the youth, the virtues, and the inexperience of Corradino may inspire
him with more generous feelings, and reawaken his ancient faith. At
least I must make this last trial. This cause is too holy, too sacred,
to admit of common forms of reasoning or action. The nephew of Manfred
must sit upon the throne of his ancestors; and to achieve that I will
endure what I am about to endure.”
They entered the palace; Messer Guielmo was carousing in the great hall.
“Bear this ring to him, good Cincolo, and say that I wait. Be speedy,
that my courage, my life, do not desert me at the moment of trial.”
Cincolo, casting one more inquisitive glance on his extraordinary
companion, obeyed his orders, while the youth leant against one of the
pillars of the court and passionately cast up his eyes to the clear
firmament.
“Oh, ye stars!” he cried in a smothered voice, “ye are eternal; let my
purpose, my will, be as constant as ye!”
Then, more calm, he folded his arms in his cloak, and with strong inward
struggle endeavoured to repress his emotion. Several servants approached
him, and bade him follow them. Again he looked at the sky and said,
“Manfred,” and then he walked on with slow but firm steps. They led him
through several halls and corridors to a large apartment hung with
tapestry, and well lighted by numerous torches; the marble of the floor
reflected their glare, and the arched roof echoed the footsteps of one
who paced the apartment as Ricciardo entered. It was Lostendardo. He
made a sign that the servants should retire; the heavy door closed
behind them, and Ricciardo stood alone with Messer Guielmo; his
countenance pale but composed, his eyes cast down as in expectation, not
in fear; and but for the convulsive motion of his lips, you would have
guessed that every faculty was almost suspended by intense agitation.
Lostendardo approached. He was a man in the prime of life, tall and
athletic; he seemed capable with a single exertion to crush the frail
being of Ricciardo. Every feature of his countenance spoke of the
struggle of passions, and the terrible egotism of one who would
sacrifice even himself to the establishment of his will: his black
eyebrows were scattered, his grey eyes deep-set and scowling, his look
at once stern and haggard. A smile seemed never to have disturbed the
settled scorn which his lips expressed; his high forehead, already
becoming bald, was marked by a thousand contradictory lines. His voice
was studiously restrained as he said: “Wherefore do you bring that
ring?”
Ricciardo looked up and met his eye, which glanced fire as he exclaimed,
“Despina!”—He seized her hand with a giant’s grasp: “I have prayed for
this night and day, and thou art now here! Nay, do not struggle; you are
mine; for by my salvation I swear that thou shalt never again escape
me.”
Despina replied calmly: “Thou mayest well believe that in thus placing
myself in thy power I do not dread any injury thou canst inflict upon
me, or I were not here. I do not fear thee, for I do not fear death.
Loosen then thy hold, and listen to me. I come in the name of those
virtues that were once thine; I come in the name of all noble sentiment,
generosity, and ancient faith, and I trust that in listening to me your
heroic nature will second my voice, and that Lostendardo will no longer
rank with those whom the good and great never name but to condemn.”
Lostendardo appeared to attend little to what she said. He gazed on her
with triumph and malignant pride; and if he still held her his motive
appeared rather the delight he felt in displaying his power over her,
than any fear that she would escape. You might read in her pale cheek
and glazed eye, that if she feared, it was herself alone that she
mistrusted; that her design lifted her above mortal dread, and that she
was as impassive as the marble she resembled to any event that did not
either advance or injure the object for which she came. They were both
silent, until Lostendardo leading her to a seat, and then standing
opposite to her, his arms folded, every feature dilated by triumph, and
his voice sharpened by agitation, he said: “Well, speak! What wouldst
thou with me?”
“I come to request, that if you cannot be induced to assist Prince
Corradino in the present struggle, you will, at least, stand neutral,
and not oppose his advance to the kingdom of his ancestors.”
Lostendardo laughed. The vaulted roof repeated the sound, but the harsh
echo, though it resembled the sharp cry of an animal of prey whose paw
is on the heart of its enemy, was not so discordant and dishuman as the
laugh itself. “How,” he asked, “dost thou pretend to induce me to
comply? This dagger”—and he touched the hilt of one that was half
concealed in his vesture—“is yet stained by the blood of Manfred; ere
long it will be sheathed in the heart of that foolish boy.”
Despina conquered the feeling of horror these words inspired, and
replied: “Will you give a few minutes’ patient hearing?”
“I will give you a few minutes’ hearing, and if I be not so patient as
in the Palagio Reale, fair Despina must excuse me. Forbearance is not a
virtue to which I aspire.”
“Yes, it was in the Palagio Reale at Naples, the palace of Manfred, that
you first saw me. You were then the bosom friend of Manfred, selected by
him as his confidant and counsellor. Why did you become a traitor? Start
not at that word: if you could hear the united voice of Italy, and even
of those who call themselves your friends, they would echo that name.
Why did you thus degrade and belie yourself? You call me the cause, yet
I am most innocent. You saw me at the Court of your master, an attendant
on Queen Sibilla, and one who, unknown to herself, had already parted
with her heart, her soul, her will, her entire being, an involuntary
sacrifice at the shrine of all that is noble and divine in human nature.
My spirit worshipped Manfred as a saint, and my pulses ceased to beat
when his eye fell upon me. I felt this, but I knew it not. You awoke me
from my dream. You said that you loved me, and you reflected in too
faithful a mirror my own emotions: I saw myself and shuddered. But the
profound and eternal nature of my passion saved me. I loved Manfred. I
loved the sun because it enlightened him; I loved the air that fed him;
I deified myself, for that my heart was the temple in which he resided.
I devoted myself to Sibilla, for she was his wife, and never in thought
or dream degraded the purity of my affection towards him. For this you
hated him. He was ignorant of my passion: my heart contained it as a
treasure, which you having discovered came to rifle. You could more
easily deprive me of life than my devotion for your king, and therefore
you were a traitor. Manfred died, and you thought that I had then
forgotten him. But love would indeed be a mockery if death were not the
most barefaced cheat. How can he die who is immortalized in my
thoughts—my thoughts, that comprehend the universe, and contain eternity
in their graspings? What though his earthly vesture is thrown as a
despised weed beside the verde, he lives in my soul as lovely, as noble,
as entire, as when his voice awoke the mute air; nay, his life is more
entire, more true. For before, that small shrine that encased his spirit
was all that existed of him; but now, he is a part of all things; his
spirit surrounds me, interpenetrates; and divided from him during his
life, his death has united me to him for ever.”
The countenance of Lostendardo darkened fearfully. When she paused, he
looked black as the sea before the heavily charged thunder-clouds that
canopy it dissolve themselves into rain. The tempest of passion that
arose in his heart seemed too mighty to admit of swift manifestation; it
came slowly up from the profoundest depths of his soul, and emotion was
piled upon emotion before the lightning of his anger sped to its
destination. “Your arguments, eloquent Despina,” he said, “are indeed
unanswerable. They work well for your purpose. Corradino is, I hear, at
Pisa: you have sharpened my dagger; and before the air of another night
rust it, I may, by deeds, have repaid your insulting words.”
“How far do you mistake me! And is praise and love of all heroic
excellence insult to you? Lostendardo, when you first knew me, I was an
inexperienced girl; I loved, but knew not what love was, and
circumscribing my passion in narrow bounds, I adored the being of
Manfred as I might love an effigy of stone, which, when broken, has no
longer an existence. I am now much altered. I might before have treated
you with disdain or anger, but now these base feelings have expired in
my heart. I am animated but by one feeling—an aspiration to another
life, another state of being. All the good depart from this strange
earth; and I doubt not that when I am sufficiently elevated above human
weaknesses, it will also be my turn to leave this scene of woe. I
prepare myself for that moment alone; and in endeavouring to fit myself
for a union with all the brave, generous, and wise, that once adorned
humanity, and have now passed from it, I consecrate myself to the
service of this most righteous cause. You wrong me, therefore, if you
think there is aught of disdain in what I say, or that any degrading
feelings are mingled with my devotion of spirit when I come and
voluntarily place myself in your power. You can imprison me for ever in
the dungeons of this palace, as a returned Ghibelline and spy, and have
me executed as a criminal. But before you do this, pause for your own
sake; reflect on the choice of glory or ignominy that you are now about
to make. Let your old sentiments of love for the house of Swabia have
some sway in your heart; reflect, that as you are the despised enemy, so
you may become the chosen friend of its last descendant, and receive
from every heart the praise of having restored Corradino to the honours
and power to which he was born. Compare this prince to the hypocritical,
the bloody and mean-spirited Charles. When Manfred died I went to
Germany, and have resided at the court of the Countess Elizabeth; I have
therefore been an hourly witness of the great and good qualities of
Corradino. The bravery of his spirit makes him rise above the weakness
of youth and inexperience; he possesses all the nobility of spirit that
belongs to the family of Swabia, and, in addition, a purity and
gentleness that attracts the respect and love of the old and wary
courtiers of Frederic and Conrad. You are brave, and would be generous,
did not the fury of your passions, like a consuming fire, destroy in
their violence every generous sentiment: how then can you become the
tool of Charles? His scowling eyes and sneering lips betoken the
selfishness of his mind. Avarice, cruelty, meanness, and artifice are
the qualities that characterize him, and render him unworthy of the
majesty he usurps. Let him return to Provence, and reign with paltry
despotism over the luxurious and servile French; the free-born Italians
require another lord. They are not fit to bow to one whose palace is the
change-house of money-lenders, whose generals are usurers, whose
courtiers are milliners or monks, and who basely vows allegiance to the
enemy of freedom and virtue, Clement, the murderer of Manfred. Their
king, like them, should be clothed in the armour of valour and
simplicity; his ornaments, his shield and spear; his treasury, the
possessions of his subjects; his army, their unshaken lover. Charles
will treat you as a tool; Corradino as a friend. Charles will make you
the detested tyrant of a groaning province; Corradino, the governor of a
prosperous and happy people. I cannot tell by your manner if what I have
said has in any degree altered your determination. I cannot forget the
scenes that passed between us at Naples. I might then have been
disdainful; I am not so now. Your execrations of Manfred excited every
angry feeling in my mind; but, as I have said, all but the feeling of
love expired in my heart when Manfred died, and methinks that where love
is, excellence must be its companion. You said you loved me; and though,
in other times, that love was twin-brother to hate,—though then, poor
prisoner in your heart, jealousy, rage, contempt, and cruelty, were its
handmaids,—yet if it were love, methinks that its divinity must have
purified your heart from baser feelings; and now that I, the bride of
Death, am removed from your sphere, gentler feelings may awaken in your
bosom, and you may incline mildly to my voice. If indeed you loved me,
will you not now be my friend? Shall we not hand in hand pursue the same
career? Return to your ancient faith; and now that death and religion
have placed the seal upon the past, let Manfred’s spirit, looking down,
behold his repentant friend the firm ally of his successor, the best and
last scion of the house of Swabia.”
She ceased; for the glare of savage triumph which, as a rising fire at
night-time, enlightened with growing and fearful radiance the face of
Lostendardo, made her pause in her appeal. He did not reply; but when
she was silent he quitted the attitude in which he had stood immovably
opposite to her, and pacing the hall with measured steps, his head
declined, he seemed to ruminate on some project. Could it be that he
weighed her reasonings? If he hesitated, the side of generosity and old
fidelity would certainly prevail. Yet she dared not hope; her heart beat
fast; she would have knelt, but she feared to move, lest any motion
should disturb his thoughts, and curb the flow of good feeling which she
fondly hoped had arisen within him: she looked up and prayed silently as
she sat. Notwithstanding the glare of the torches, the beams of one
small star struggled through the dark window pane; her eye resting on
it, her thoughts were at once elevated to the eternity and space which
that star symbolized; it seemed to her the spirit of Manfred, and she
inwardly worshipped it, as she prayed that it would shed its benign
influence on the soul of Lostendardo.
Some minutes elapsed in this fearful silence, and then he approached
her. “Despina, allow me to reflect on your words; to-morrow I will
answer you. You will remain in this palace until the morning, and then
you shall see and judge of my repentance and returning faith.”
He spoke with studious gentleness. Despina could not see his face, for
the lights shone behind him. When she looked up to reply, the little
star twinkled just above his head, and seemed with its gentle lustre to
reassure her. Our minds, when highly wrought, are strangely given to
superstition, and Despina lived in a superstitious age. She thought that
the star bade her comply, and assured her of protection from
Heaven;—from where else could she expect it? She said, therefore, “I
consent. Only let me request that you acquaint the man who gave you my
ring that I am safe, or he will fear for me.”
“I will do as you desire.”
“And I will confide myself to your care. I cannot, dare not, fear you.
If you would betray me, still I trust in the heavenly saints that guard
humanity.”
Her countenance was so calm,—it beamed with so angelic a self-devotion
and a belief in good, that Lostendardo dared not look on her. For one
moment—as she, having ceased to speak, gazed upon the star—he felt
impelled to throw himself at her feet, to confess the diabolical scheme
he had forged, and to commit himself body and soul to her guidance, to
obey, to serve, to worship her. The impulse was momentary; the feeling
of revenge returned on him. From the moment she had rejected him, the
fire of rage had burned in his heart, consuming all healthy feeling, all
human sympathies, and gentleness of soul. He had sworn never to sleep on
a bed, or to drink aught but water, until his first cup of wine was
mingled with the blood of Manfred. He had fulfilled this vow. A strange
alteration had worked within him from the moment he had drained that
unholy cup. The spirit, not of a man, but of a devil, seemed to live
within him, urging him to crime, from which his long protracted hope of
more complete revenge had alone deterred him. But Despina was now in his
power, and it seemed to him as if fate had preserved him so long only
that he might now wreak his full rage upon her. When she spoke of love,
he thought how from that he might extract pain. He formed his plan; and
this slight human weakness now conquered, he bent his thoughts to its
completion. Yet he feared to stay longer with her; so he quitted her,
saying that he would send attendants who would show her an apartment
where she might repose. He left her, and several hours passed; but no
one came. The torches burnt low, and the stars of heaven could now with
twinkling beams conquer their feebler light. One by one these torches
went out, and the shadows of the high windows of the hall, before
invisible, were thrown upon its marble pavement. Despina looked upon the
shade, at first unconsciously, until she found herself counting one,
two, three, the shapes of the iron bars that lay so placidly on the
stone. “Those grates are thick,” she said; “this room would be a large
but secure dungeon.” As by inspiration, she now felt that she was a
prisoner. No change, no word, had intervened since she had walked
fearlessly in the room, believing herself free. But now no doubt of her
situation occurred to her mind; heavy chains seemed to fall around her;
the air to feel thick and heavy as that of a prison; and the star-beams
that had before cheered her, became the dreary messengers of fearful
danger to herself, and of the utter defeat of all the hopes she had
dared nourish of success to her beloved cause.
Cincolo waited, first with impatience, and then with anxiety, for the
return of the youthful stranger. He paced up and down before the gates
of the palace; hour after hour passed on; the stars arose and descended,
and ever and anon meteors shot along the sky. They were not more
frequent than they always are during a clear summer night in Italy; but
they appeared strangely numerous to Cincolo, and portentous of change
and calamity. Midnight struck, and at that moment a procession of monks
passed, bearing a corpse and chanting a solemn _De Profundis_. Cincolo
felt a cold tremor shake his limbs when he reflected how ill an augury
this was for the strange adventurer he had guided to that palace. The
sombre cowls of the priests, their hollow voices, and the dark burden
they carried, augmented his agitation even to terror. Without confessing
the cowardice to himself, he was possessed with fear lest he should be
included in the evil destiny that evidently awaited his companion.
Cincolo was a brave man; he had often been foremost in a perilous
assault; but the most courageous among us sometimes feel our hearts fail
within us at the dread of unknown and fated danger. He was struck with
panic;—he looked after the disappearing lights of the procession, and
listened to their fading voices; his knees shook, a cold perspiration
stood on his brow; until, unable to resist the impulse, he began slowly
to withdraw himself from the Palace of Government, and to quit the
circle of danger which seemed to hedge him in if he remained on that
spot.
He had hardly quitted his post by the gate of the palace, when he saw
lights issue from it, attendant on a company of men, some of whom were
armed, as appeared from the reflection their lances’ heads cast; and
some of them carried a litter, hung with black and closely drawn.
Cincolo was rooted to the spot. He could not render himself any reason
for his belief, but he felt convinced that the stranger youth was there,
about to be carried out to death. Impelled by curiosity and anxiety, he
followed the party as they went towards the Porta Romana: they were
challenged by the sentinels at the gate; they gave the word and passed.
Cincolo dared not follow, but he was agitated by fear and compassion. He
remembered the packet confided to his care; he dared not draw it from
his bosom, lest any Guelph should be near to overlook and discover that
it was addressed to Corradino; he could not read, but he wished to look
at the arms of the seal, to see whether they bore the imperial ensigns.
He returned back to the _Palagio del Governo_: all there was dark and
silent; he walked up and down before the gates, looking up at the
windows, but no sign of life appeared. He could not tell why he was thus
agitated, but he felt as if all his future peace depended on the fate of
this stranger youth. He thought of Gegia, her helplessness and age; but
he could not resist the impulse that impelled him, and he resolved that
very night to commence his journey to Pisa, to deliver the packet, to
learn who the stranger was, and what hopes he might entertain for his
safety.
He returned home, that he might inform Gegia of his journey. This was a
painful task, but he could not leave her in doubt. He ascended his
narrow stairs with trepidation. At the head of them a lamp twinkled
before a picture of the Virgin. Evening after evening it burnt there,
guarding through its influence his little household from all earthly or
supernatural dangers. The sight of it inspired him with courage; he said
an _Ave Maria_ before it; and then looking around him to assure himself
that no spy stood on the narrow landing-place, he drew the packet from
his bosom and examined the seal. All Italians in those days were
conversant in heraldry, since from ensigns of the shields of the knights
they learned, better than from their faces or persons, to what family
and party they belonged. But it required no great knowledge for Cincolo
to decipher these arms; he had known them from his childhood; they were
those of the Elisei, the family to whom he had been attached as a
partisan during all these civil contests. Arrigo de’ Elisei had been his
patron, and his wife had nursed his only daughter, in those happy days
when there was neither Guelph nor Ghibelline. The sight of these arms
reawakened all his anxiety. Could this youth belong to that house? The
seal showed that he really did; and this discovery confirmed his
determination of making every exertion to save him, and inspired him
with sufficient courage to encounter the remonstrances and fears of
Monna Gegia.
He unlocked his door; the old dame was asleep in her chair, but awoke as
he entered. She had slept only to refresh her curiosity, and she asked a
thousand questions in a breath, to which Cincolo did not reply: he stood
with his arms folded looking at the fire, irresolute how to break the
subject of his departure. Monna Gegia continued to talk.
“After you went, we held a consultation concerning this hot-brained
youth of this morning: I, Buzeccha, Beppe de’ Bosticchi who returned,
and Monna Lissa from the Mercato Nuovo. We all agreed that he must be
one of two persons; and be it one or the other, if he have not quitted
Florence, the _Stinchi_[3] will be his habitation by sunrise. Eh,
Cincolo, man! you do not speak; where did you part with your prince?”
-----
Footnote 3:
The name of the common prison at Florence.
“Prince, Gegia! Are you mad?—what prince?”