occurrence, they stopped at the gate of a large mansion. One of her
attendants knocked, the door was opened, and they entered a paved
court. "Where are we?" demanded Inez, with anxiety. "At the house of a
friend, senora," replied the man. "Ascend this staircase with me, and
in a moment you will meet your father."
They ascended a staircase, that led to a suite of splendid apartments.
They passed through several, until they came to an inner chamber. The
door opened--some one approached; but what was her terror at
perceiving, not her father, but Don Ambrosio!
The men who had seized upon the alchymist had, at least, been more
honest in their professions. They were, indeed, familiars of the
inquisition. He was conducted in silence to the gloomy prison of that
horrible tribunal. It was a mansion whose very aspect withered joy,
and almost shut out hope. It was one of those hideous abodes which the
bad passions of men conjure up in this fair world, to rival the
fancied dens of demons and the accursed.
Day after day went heavily by, without anything to mark the lapse of
time, but the decline and reappearance of the light that feebly
glimmered through the narrow window of the dungeon in which the
unfortunate alchymist was buried rather than confined. His mind was
harassed with uncertainties and fears about his daughter, so helpless
and inexperienced. He endeavoured to gather tidings of her from the
man who brought his daily portion of food. The fellow stared, as if
astonished at being asked a question in that mansion of silence and
mystery, but departed without saying a word. Every succeeding attempt
was equally fruitless.
The poor alchymist was oppressed by many griefs; and it was not the
least, that he had been again interrupted in his labours on the very
point of success. Never was alchymist so near attaining the golden
secret--a little longer, and all his hopes would have been realized.
The thoughts of these disappointments afflicted him more even than the
fear of all that he might suffer from the merciless inquisition. His
waking thoughts would follow him into his dreams. He would be
transported in fancy to his laboratory, busied again among retorts and
alembics, and surrounded by Lully, by D'Abano, by Olybius, and the
other masters of the sublime art. The moment of projection would
arrive; a seraphic form would rise out of the furnace, holding forth a
vessel containing the precious elixir; but, before he could grasp the
prize, he would awake, and find himself in a dungeon.
All the devices of inquisitorial ingenuity were employed to ensnare
the old man, and to draw from him evidence that might be brought
against himself, and might corroborate certain secret information that
had been given against him. He had been accused of practising
necromancy and judicial astrology, and a cloud of evidence had been
secretly brought forward to substantiate the charge. It would be
tedious to enumerate all the circumstances, apparently corroborative,
which had been industriously cited by the secret accuser. The silence
which prevailed about the tower, its desolateness, the very quiet of
its inhabitants, had been adduced as proofs that something sinister
was perpetrated within. The alchymist's conversations and soliloquies
in the garden had been overheard and misrepresented. The lights and
strange appearances at night, in the tower, were given with violent
exaggerations. Shrieks and yells were said to have been heard from
thence at midnight, when, it was confidently asserted, the old man
raised familiar spirits by his incantations, and even compelled the
dead to rise from their graves, and answer to his questions.
The alchymist, according to the custom of the inquisition, was kept in
complete ignorance of his accuser; of the witnesses produced against
him; even of the crimes of which he was accused. He was examined
generally, whether he knew why he was arrested, and was conscious of
any guilt that might deserve the notice of the holy office? He was
examined as to his country, his life, his habits, his pursuits, his
actions, and opinions. The old man was frank and simple in his
replies; he was conscious of no guilt, capable of no art, practised in
no dissimulation. After receiving a general admonition to bethink
himself whether he had not committed any act deserving of punishment
and to prepare, by confession, to secure the well known mercy of the
tribunal, he was remanded to his cell.
He was now visited in his dungeon by crafty familiars of the
inquisition, who, under pretence of sympathy and kindness, came to
beguile the tediousness of his imprisonment with friendly
conversation. They casually introduced the subject of alchymy, on
which they touched with great caution and pretended indifference.
There was no need of such craftiness. The honest enthusiast had no
suspicion in his nature: the moment they touched upon his favourite
theme, he forgot his misfortunes and imprisonment, and broke forth
into rhapsodies about the divine science.
The conversation was artfully turned to the discussion of elementary
beings. The alchymist readily avowed his belief in them; and that
there had been instances of their attending upon philosophers, and
administering to their wishes. He related many miracles said to have
been performed by Apollonius Thyaneus, through the aid of spirits or
demons; insomuch that he was set up by the heathens in opposition to
the Messiah; and was even regarded with reverence by many Christians.
The familiars eagerly demanded whether he believed Apollonius to be a
true and worthy philosopher. The unaffected piety of the alchymist
protected him even in the midst of his simplicity; for he condemned
Apollonius as a sorcerer and an impostor. No art could draw from him
an admission that he had ever employed or invoked spiritual agencies
in the prosecution of his pursuits, though he believed himself to have
been frequently impeded by their invisible interference.
The inquisitors were sorely vexed at not being able to inveigle him
into a confession of a criminal nature; they attributed their failure
to craft, to obstinacy, to every cause but the right one, namely, that
the harmless visionary had nothing guilty to confess. They had
abundant proof of a secret nature against him; but it was the practice
of the inquisition to endeavour to procure confession from the
prisoners. An auto da fé was at hand; the worthy fathers were eager
for his conviction, for they were always anxious to have a good number
of culprits condemned to the stake, to grace these solemn triumphs. He
was at length brought to a final examination.
The chamber of trial was spacious and gloomy. At one end was a huge
crucifix, the standard of the inquisition. A long table extended
through the centre of the room, at which sat the inquisitors and their
secretary; at the other end, a stool was placed for the prisoner.
He was brought in, according to custom, bare-headed and bare-legged.
He was enfeebled by confinement and affliction; by constantly brooding
over the unknown fate of his child, and the disastrous interruption of
his experiments. He sat bowed down and listless; his head sunk upon
his breast; his whole appearance that of one "past hope, abandoned,
and by himself given over."
The accusation alleged against him was now brought forward in a
specific form; he was called upon by name, Felix de Vasquez, formerly
of Castile, to answer to the charges of necromancy and demonology. He
was told that the charges were amply substantiated; and was asked
whether he was ready, by full confession, to throw himself upon the
well-known mercy of the holy inquisition.
The philosopher testified some slight surprise at the nature of the
accusation, but simply replied, "I am innocent."
"What proof have you to give of your innocence?"
"It rather remains for you to prove your charges," said the old man.
"I am a stranger and a sojourner in the land, and know no one out of
the doors of my dwelling. I can give nothing in my vindication but the
word of a nobleman and a Castilian."
The inquisitor shook his head, and went on to repeat the various
inquiries that had before been made as to his mode of life and
pursuits. The poor alchymist was too feeble and too weary at heart to
make any but brief replies. He requested that some man of science
might examine his laboratory, and all his books and papers, by which
it would be made abundantly evident that he was merely engaged in the
study of alchymy.
To this the inquisitor observed, that alchymy had become a mere covert
for secret and deadly sins. That the practisers of it were apt to
scruple at no means to satisfy their inordinate greediness of gold.
Some had been known to use spells and impious ceremonies; to conjure
the aid of evil spirits; nay, even to sell their souls to the enemy of
mankind, so that they might riot in boundless wealth while living.
The poor alchymist had heard all patiently, or, at least, passively.
He had disdained to vindicate his name otherwise than by his word; he
had smiled at the accusations of sorcery, when applied merely to
himself; but when the sublime art, which had been the study and
passion of his life, was assailed, he could no longer listen in
silence. His head gradually rose from his bosom; a hectic colour came
in faint streaks to his cheek; played about there, disappeared,
returned, and at length kindled into a burning glow. The clammy
dampness dried from his forehead; his eyes, which had nearly been
extinguished, lighted up again, and burned with their wonted and
visionary fires. He entered into a vindication of his favourite art.
His voice at first was feeble and broken; but it gathered strength as
he proceeded, until it rolled in a deep and sonorous volume. He
gradually rose from his seat, as he rose with his subject; he threw
back the scanty black mantle which had hitherto wrapped his limbs; the
very uncouthness of his form and looks gave an impressive effect to
what he uttered; it was as though a corpse had become suddenly
animated.
He repelled with scorn the aspersions cast upon alchymy by the
ignorant and vulgar. He affirmed it to be the mother of all art and
science, citing the opinions of Paracelsus, Sandivogius, Raymond
Lully, and others, in support of his assertions. He maintained that it
was pure and innocent and honourable both in its purposes and means.
What were its objects? The perpetuation of life and youth, and the
production of gold. "The elixir vitae," said he, "is no charmed
potion, but merely a concentration of those elements of vitality which
nature has scattered through her works. The philosopher's stone, or
tincture, or powder, as it is variously called, is no necromantic
talisman, but consists simply of those particles which gold contains
within itself for its reproduction; for gold, like other things, has
its seed within itself, though bound up with inconceivable firmness,
from the vigour of innate fixed salts and sulphurs. In seeking to
discover the elixir of life, then," continued he, "we seek only to
apply some of nature's own specifics against the disease and decay to
which our bodies are subjected; and what else does the physician, when
he tasks his art, and uses subtle compounds and cunning distillations,
to revive our languishing powers, and avert the stroke of death for a
season?
"In seeking to multiply the precious metals, also, we seek but to
germinate and multiply, by natural means, a particular species of
nature's productions; and what else does the husbandman, who consults
times and seasons, and, by what might be deemed a natural magic, from
the mere scattering of his hand, covers a whole plain with golden
vegetation? The mysteries of our art, it is true, are deeply and
darkly hidden; but it requires so much the more innocence and purity
of thought, to penetrate unto them. No, father! the true alchymist
must be pure in mind and body; he must be temperate, patient, chaste,
watchful, meek, humble, devout. 'My son,' says Hermes Trismegestes,
the great master of our art, 'my son, I recommend you above all things
to fear God.' And indeed it is only by devout castigation of the
senses, and purification of the soul that the alchymist is enabled to
enter into the sacred chambers of truth. 'Labour, pray, and read,' is
the motto of our science. As De Nuysment well observes, 'These high
and singular favours are granted unto none, save only unto the sons of
God, (that is to say, the virtuous and devout,) who, under his
paternal benediction, have obtained the opening of the same, by the
helping hand of the queen of arts, divine Philosophy.' Indeed, so
sacred has the nature of this knowledge been considered, that we are
told it has four times been expressly communicated by God to man,
having made a part of that cabalistical wisdom which was revealed to
Adam to console him for the loss of Paradise; and to Moses in the
bush, and to Solomon in a dream, and to Esdras by the angel.
"So far from demons and malign spirits being the friends and abettors
of the alchymist, they are the continual foes with which he has to
contend. It is their constant endeavour to shut up the avenues to
those truths which would enable him to rise above the abject state
into which he has fallen, and return to that excellence which was his
original birthright. For what would be the effect of this length of
days, and this abundant wealth, but to enable the possessor to go on
from art to art, from science to science, with energies unimpaired by
sickness, uninterrupted by death? For this have sages and philosophers
shut themselves up in cells and solitudes; buried themselves in caves
and dens of the earth; turning from the joys of life, and the
pleasance of the world; enduring scorn, poverty, persecution. For this
was Raymond Lully stoned to death in Mauritania. For this did the
immortal Pietro D'Abano suffer persecution at Padua, and, when he
escaped from his oppressors by death, was despitefully burnt in
effigy. For this have illustrious men of all nations intrepidly
suffered martyrdom. For this, if unmolested, have they assiduously
employed the latest hour of life, the expiring throb of existence;
hoping to the last that they might yet seize upon the prize for which
they had struggled, and pluck themselves back even from the very jaws
of the grave!
"For, when once the alchymist shall have attained the object of his
toils; when the sublime secret shall be revealed to his gaze, how
glorious will be the change in his condition! How will he emerge from
his solitary retreat, like the sun breaking forth from the darksome
chamber of the night, and darting his beams throughout the earth!
Gifted with perpetual youth and boundless riches, to what heights of
wisdom may he attain! How may he carry on, uninterrupted, the thread
of knowledge, which has hitherto been snapped at the death of each
philosopher! And, as the increase of wisdom is the increase of virtue,
how may he become the benefactor of his fellow-men; dispensing, with
liberal but cautious and discriminating hand, that inexhaustible
wealth which is at his disposal; banishing poverty, which is the cause
of so much sorrow and wickedness; encouraging the arts; promoting
discoveries, and enlarging all the means of virtuous enjoyment! His
life will be the connecting band of generations. History will live in
his recollection; distant ages will speak with his tongue. The nations
of the earth will look to him as their preceptor, and kings will sit
at his feet and learn wisdom. Oh glorious! oh celestial alchymy!"--
Here he was interrupted by the inquisitor, who had suffered him to go
on thus far, in hopes of gathering something from his unguarded
enthusiasm. "Senor," said he, "this is all rambling, visionary talk.
You are charged with sorcery, and in defence you give us a rhapsody
about alchymy. Have you nothing better than this to offer in your
defence?"
The old man slowly resumed his seat, but did not deign a reply. The
fire that had beamed in his eye gradually expired. His cheek resumed
its wonted paleness; but he did not relapse into inanity. He sat with
a steady, serene, patient look. Like one prepared not to contend, but
to suffer.
His trial continued for a long time, with cruel mockery of justice,
for no witnesses were ever in this court confronted with the accused,
and the latter had continually to defend himself in the dark. Some
unknown and powerful enemy had alleged charges against the unfortunate
alchymist, but who he could not imagine. Stranger and sojourner as he
was in the land, solitary and harmless in his pursuits, how could he
have provoked such hostility? The tide of secret testimony, however,
was too strong against him; he was convicted of the crime of magic,
and condemned to expiate his sins at the stake, at the approaching
auto da fé.
While the unhappy alchymist was undergoing his trial at the
inquisition, his daughter was exposed to trials no less severe. Don
Ambrosio, into whose hands she had fallen, was, as has before been
intimated, one of the most daring and lawless profligates in all
Granada. He was a man of hot blood and fiery passions, who stopped at
nothing in the gratification of his desires; yet with all this he
possessed manners, address, and accomplishments, that had made him
eminently successful among the sex. From the palace to the cottage he
had extended his amorous enterprises; his serenades harassed the
slumbers of half the husbands in Granada; no balcony was too high for
his adventurous attempts, nor any cottage too lowly for his perfidious
seductions. Yet he was as fickle as he was ardent; success had made
him vain and capricious; he had no sentiment to attach him to the
victim of his arts; and many a pale cheek and fading eye, languishing
amidst the sparkling of jewels, and many a breaking heart, throbbing
under the rustic bodice, bore testimony to his triumphs and his
faithlessness.
He was sated, however, by easy conquests, and wearied of a life of
continual and prompt gratification. There had been a degree of
difficulty and enterprise in the pursuit of Inez that he had never
before experienced. It had aroused him from the monotony of mere
sensual life, and stimulated him with the charm of adventure. He had
become an epicure in pleasure; and now that he had this coy beauty in
his power, he was determined to protract his enjoyment, by the gradual
conquest of her scruples and downfall of her virtue. He was vain of
his person and address, which he thought no woman could long
withstand; and it was a kind of trial of skill to endeavour to gain,
by art and fascination, what he was secure of obtaining at any time by
violence.
When Inez, therefore, was brought into his presence by his emissaries,
he affected not to notice her terror and surprise, but received her
with formal and stately courtesy. He was too wary a fowler to flutter
the bird when just entangled in the net. To her eager and wild
inquiries about her father, he begged her not to be alarmed; that he
was safe, and had been there, but was engaged elsewhere in an affair
of moment, from which he would soon return; in the meantime, he had
left word that she should await his return in patience. After some
stately expressions of general civility, Don Ambrosio made a
ceremonious bow and retired.
The mind of Inez was full of trouble and perplexity. The stately
formality of Don Ambrosio was so unexpected as to check the
accusations and reproaches that were springing to her lips. Had he had
evil designs, would he have treated her with such frigid ceremony when
he had her in his power? But why, then, was she brought to his house?
Was not the mysterious disappearance of Antonio connected with this? A
thought suddenly darted into her mind. Antonio had again met with Don
Ambrosio--they had fought--Antonio was wounded--perhaps dying! It was
him to whom her father had gone--it was at his request that Don
Ambrosio had sent for them, to soothe his dying moments! These, and a
thousand such horrible suggestions, harassed her mind; but she tried
in vain to get information from the domestics; they knew nothing but
that her father had been there, had gone, and would soon return.
Thus passed a night of tumultuous thought, and vague yet cruel
apprehensions. She knew not what to do or what to believe--whether she
ought to fly, or to remain; but if to fly, how was she to extricate
herself?--and where was she to seek her father? As the day dawned
without any intelligence of him, her alarm increased; at length a
message was brought from him, saying that circumstances prevented his
return to her, but begging her to hasten to him without delay.
With an eager and throbbing heart did she set forth with the men that
were to conduct her. She little thought, however, that she was merely
changing her prison-house. Don Ambrosio had feared lest she should be
traced to his residence in Granada; or that he might be interrupted
there before he could accomplish his plan of seduction. He had her now
conveyed, therefore, to a mansion which he possessed in one of the
mountain solitudes in the neighbourhood of Granada; a lonely, but
beautiful retreat. In vain, on her arrival, did she look around for
her father or Antonio; none but strange faces met her eye: menials,
profoundly respectful, but who knew nor saw anything but what their
master pleased.
She had scarcely arrived before Don Ambrosio made his appearance, less
stately in his manner, but still treating her with the utmost delicacy
and deference. Inez was too much agitated and alarmed to be baffled by
his courtesy, and became vehement in her demand to be conducted to her
father.
Don Ambrosio now put on an appearance of the greatest embarrassment
and emotion. After some delay, and much pretended confusion, he at
length confessed that the seizure of her father was all a stratagem; a
mere false alarm, to procure him the present opportunity of having
access to her, and endeavouring to mitigate that obduracy, and conquer
that repugnance, which he declared had almost driven him to
distraction.
He assured her that her father was again at home in safety, and
occupied in his usual pursuits; having been fully satisfied that his
daughter was in honourable hands, and would soon be restored to him.
It was in vain that she threw herself at his feet, and implored to be
set at liberty; he only replied by gentle entreaties, that she would
pardon the seeming violence he had to use; and that she would trust a
little while to his honour. "You are here," said he, "absolute
mistress of every thing: nothing shall be said or done to offend you;
I will not even intrude upon your ear the unhappy passion that is
devouring my heart. Should you require it, I will even absent myself
from your presence; but, to part with you entirely at present, with
your mind full of doubts and resentments, would be worse than death to
me. No, beautiful Inez, you must first know me a little better, and
know by my conduct that my passion for you is as delicate and
respectful as it is vehement."
The assurance of her father's safety had relieved Inez from one cause
of torturing anxiety, only to render her fears the more violent on her
own account. Don Ambrosio, however, continued to treat her with artful
deference, that insensibly lulled her apprehensions. It is true she
found herself a captive, but no advantage appeared to be taken of her
helplessness. She soothed herself with the idea that a little while
would suffice to convince Don Ambrosio of the fallacy of his hopes,
and that he would be induced to restore her to her home. Her
transports of terror and affliction, therefore, subsided, in a few
days, into a passive, yet anxious melancholy, with which she awaited
the hoped-for event.