"I under fair pretence of friendly ends,
And well-placed words of glozing courtesy,
Baited with reasons not unplausible,
Wind me into the easy-hearted man,
And hug him into snares."
MILTON.
While Vivaldi and Ellena were on the way from San Stefano, the Marchese
Vivaldi was suffering the utmost vexation, respecting his son; and
the Marchesa felt not less apprehension, that the abode of Ellena
might be discovered; yet this fear did not withhold her from mingling
in all the gaieties of Naples. Her assemblies were, as usual, among
the most brilliant of that voluptuous city, and she patronized, as
zealously as before, the strains of her favourite composer. But,
notwithstanding this perpetual dissipation, her thoughts frequently
withdrew themselves from the scene, and dwelt on gloomy forebodings of
disappointed pride.
A circumstance, which rendered her particularly susceptible to such
disappointment at this time, was, that overtures of alliance had been
lately made to the Marchese, by the father of a lady, who was held
suitable, in every consideration, to become his daughter; and whose
wealth rendered the union particularly desirable at a time, when the
expences of such an establishment as was necessary to the vanity of the
Marchesa, considerably exceeded his income, large as it was.
The Marchesa's temper had been thus irritated by the contemplation
of her son's conduct in an affair, which so materially affected the
fortune, and, as she believed, the honour of his family; when a courier
from the Abbess of San Stefano brought intelligence of the flight
of Ellena with Vivaldi. She was in a disposition, which heightened
disappointment into fury; and she forfeited, by the transports to
which she yielded, the degree of pity that otherwise was due to a
mother, who believed her only son to have sacrificed his family and
himself to an unworthy passion. She believed, that he was now married,
and irrecoverably lost. Scarcely able to endure the agony of this
conviction, she sent for her ancient adviser Schedoni, that she might,
at least, have the relief of expressing her emotions; and of examining
whether there remained a possibility of dissolving these long-dreaded
nuptials. The phrenzy of passion, however, did not so far overcome
her circumspection as to compel her to acquaint the Marchese with the
contents of the Abbess's letter, before she had consulted with her
Confessor. She knew that the principles of her husband were too just,
upon the grand points of morality, to suffer him to adopt the measures
she might judge necessary; and she avoided informing him of the
marriage of his son, until the means of counteracting it should have
been suggested and accomplished, however desperate such means might be.
Schedoni was not to be found. Trifling circumstances encrease the
irritation of a mind in such a state as was her's. The delay of an
opportunity for unburthening her heart to Schedoni, was hardly to be
endured; another and another messenger were dispatched to her Confessor.
"My mistress has committed some great sin, truely!" said the servant,
who had been twice to the convent within the last half hour. "It must
lie heavy on her conscience, in good truth, since she cannot support
it for one half hour. Well! the rich have this comfort, however, that,
let them be ever so guilty, they can buy themselves innocent again, in
the twinkling of a ducat. Now a poor man might be a month before he
recovered his innocence, and that, too, not till after many a bout of
hard flogging."
In the evening Schedoni came, but it was only to confirm her worst
fear. He, too, had heard of the escape of Ellena, as well as that
she was on the lake of Celano; and was married to Vivaldi. How he
had obtained this information he did not chuse to disclose, but he
mentioned so many minute circumstances in confirmation of it's truth,
and appeared to be so perfectly convinced of the facts he related, that
the Marchesa believed them, as implicitly as himself; and her passion
and despair transgressed all bounds of decorum.
Schedoni observed, with dark and silent pleasure, the turbulent excess
of her feelings; and perceived that the moment was now arrived, when
he might command them to his purpose, so as to render his assistance
indispensable to her repose; and probably so as to accomplish the
revenge he had long meditated against Vivaldi, without hazarding
the favour of the Marchesa. So far was he from attempting to sooth
her sufferings, that he continued to irritate her resentment, and
exasperate her pride; effecting this, at the same time, with such
imperceptible art, that he appeared only to be palliating the conduct
of Vivaldi, and endeavouring to console his distracted mother.
"This is a rash step, certainly," said the Confessor; "but he is young,
very young, and, therefore, does not foresee the consequence to which
it leads. He does not perceive how seriously it will affect the dignity
of his house;--how much it will depreciate his consequence with the
court, with the nobles of his own rank, and even with the plebeians,
with whom he has condescended to connect himself. Intoxicated with the
passions of youth, he does not weigh the value of those blessings,
which wisdom and the experience of maturer age know how to estimate. He
neglects them _only_ because he does not perceive their influence in
society, and that lightly to resign them, is to degrade himself in the
view of almost every mind. Unhappy young man! he is to be pitied fully
as much as blamed."
"Your excuses, reverend father," said the tortured Marchesa, "prove
the goodness of your heart; but they illustrate, also, the degeneracy
of his mind, and detail the full extent of the effects which he has
brought upon his family. It affords me no consolation to know, that
this degradation proceeds from his head, rather than his heart; it is
sufficient that he has incurred it, and that no possibility remains of
throwing off the misfortune."
"Perhaps that is affirming too much," observed Schedoni.
"How, father!" said the Marchesa.
"Perhaps a possibility does remain," said he.
"Point it out to me, good father! I do not perceive it."
"Nay, my lady," replied the subtle Schedoni, correcting himself, "I am
by no means assured, that such possibility does exist. My solicitude
for your tranquillity, and for the honour of your house, makes me
so unwilling to relinquish hope, that, perhaps, I only imagine a
possibility in your favour. Let me consider.----Alas! the misfortune,
severe as it is, must be endured;--there remain no means of escaping
from it."
"It was cruel of you, father, to suggest a hope which you could not
justify," observed the Marchesa.
"You must excuse my extreme solicitude, then," replied the Confessor.
"But how is it possible for me to see a family of your ancient
estimation brought into such circumstances; its honours blighted by the
folly of a thoughtless boy, without feeling sorrow and indignation,
and looking round for even some desperate means of delivering it from
disgrace." He paused.
"Disgrace!" exclaimed the Marchesa, "father, you--you--Disgrace!--The
word is a strong one, but----it is, alas! just. And shall we submit to
this?--Is it possible we _can_ submit to it?"
"There is no remedy," said Schedoni, coolly.
"Good God!" exclaimed the Marchesa, "that there should be no law to
prevent, or, at least, to punish such criminal marriages!"
"It is much to be lamented," replied Schedoni.
"The woman who obtrudes herself upon a family, to dishonour it,"
continued the Marchesa, "deserves a punishment nearly equal to that of
a state criminal, since she injures those who best support the state.
She ought to suffer"----
"Not nearly, but quite equal," interrupted the Confessor, "she
deserves----death!"
He paused, and there was a moment of profound silence, till he
added--"for death only can obliviate the degradation she has
occasioned; her death alone can restore the original splendor of the
line she would have sullied."
He paused again, but the Marchesa still remaining silent, he added, "I
have often marvelled that our lawgivers should have failed to perceive
the justness, nay the necessity, of such punishment!"
"It is astonishing," said the Marchesa, thoughtfully, "that a regard
for their own honour did not suggest it."
"Justice does not the less exist, because her laws are neglected,"
observed Schedoni. "A sense of what she commands lives in our breasts;
and when we fail to obey that sense, it is to weakness, not to virtue,
that we yield."
"Certainly," replied the Marchesa, "that truth never yet was doubted."
"Pardon me, I am not so certain as to that," said the Confessor, "when
justice happens to oppose prejudice, we are apt to believe it virtuous
to disobey her. For instance, though the law of justice demands the
death of this girl, yet because the law of the land forbears to enforce
it, you, my daughter, even you! though possessed of a man's spirit, and
his clear perceptions, would think that virtue bade her live, when it
was only fear!"
"Hah!" exclaimed the Marchesa, in a low voice, "What is that you mean?
You shall find I have a man's courage also."
"I speak without disguise," replied Schedoni, "my meaning requires
none."
The Marchesa mused, and remained silent.
"I have done my duty," resumed Schedoni, at length. "I have pointed out
the only way that remains for you to escape dishonour. If my zeal is
displeasing----but I have done."
"No, good father, no," said the Marchesa; "you mistake the cause of my
emotion. New ideas, new prospects, open!--they confuse, they distract
me! My mind has not yet attained sufficient strength to encounter them;
some woman's weakness still lingers at my heart."
"Pardon my inconsiderate zeal," said Schedoni, with affected humility,
"I have been to blame. If your's is a weakness, it is, at least, an
amiable one, and, perhaps, deserves to be encouraged, rather than
conquered."
"How, father! If it deserves encouragement, it is not a weakness, but a
virtue."
"Be it so," said Schedoni, coolly, "the interest I have felt on this
subject, has, perhaps, misled my judgment, and has made me unjust.
Think no more of it, or, if you do, let it be only to pardon the zeal I
have testified."
"It does not deserve pardon, but thanks," replied the Marchesa, "not
thanks only, but reward. Good father, I hope it will some time be in
my power to prove the sincerity of my words."
The Confessor bowed his head.
"I trust that the services you have rendered me, shall be gratefully
repaid--rewarded, I dare not hope, for what benefit could possibly
reward a service so vast, as it may, perhaps, be in your power to
confer upon my family! What recompence could be balanced against the
benefit of having rescued the honour of an ancient house!"
"Your goodness is beyond my thanks, or my desert," said Schedoni, and
he was again silent.
The Marchesa wished him to lead her back to the point, from which she
herself had deviated, and he seemed determined, that she should lead
him thither. She mused, and hesitated. Her mind was not yet familiar
with atrocious guilt; and the crime which Schedoni had suggested,
somewhat alarmed her. She feared to think, and still more to name it;
yet, so acutely susceptible was her pride, so stern her indignation,
and so profound her desire of vengeance, that her mind was tossed as
on a tempestuous ocean, and these terrible feelings threatened to
overwhelm all the residue of humanity in her heart. Schedoni observed
all its progressive movements, and, like a gaunt tyger, lurked in
silence, ready to spring forward at the moment of opportunity.
"It is your advice, then, father," resumed the Marchesa, after a long
pause,--"it is your opinion--that Ellena."----She hesitated, desirous
that Schedoni should anticipate her meaning; but he chose to spare his
own delicacy rather than that of the Marchesa.
"You think, then, that this insidious girl deserves"----She paused
again, but the Confessor, still silent, seemed to wait with submission
for what the Marchesa should deliver.
"I repeat, father, that it is your opinion this girl deserves severe
punishment."----
"Undoubtedly," replied Schedoni, "Is it not also your own?"
"That not any punishment can be too severe?" continued the Marchesa.
"That justice, equally with necessity, demands----her life? Is not this
your opinion too?"
"O! pardon me," said Schedoni, "I may have erred; that only _was_
my opinion; and when I formed it, I was probably too much under the
influence of zeal to be just. When the heart is warm, how is it
possible that the judgment can be cool."
"It is _not_ then, your opinion, holy father," said the Marchesa with
displeasure.
"I do not absolutely say that," replied the Confessor.--"But I leave it
to your better judgment to decide upon its justness."
As he said this, he rose to depart. The Marchesa was agitated and
perplexed, and requested he would stay; but he excused himself by
alledging, that it was the hour when he must attend a particular mass.
"Well then, holy father, I will occupy no more of your valuable moments
at present; but you know how highly I estimate your advice, and will
not refuse, when I shall at some future time request it."
"I cannot refuse to accept an honour," replied the Confessor, with an
air of meekness, "but the subject you allude to is delicate"----
"And therefore I must value, and require your opinion upon it,"
rejoined the Marchesa.
"I would wish you to value your own," replied Schedoni; "you cannot
have a better director."
"You flatter, father."
"I only reply, my daughter."
"On the evening of to-morrow," said the Marchesa, gravely, "I shall
be at vespers in the church of San Nicolo; if you should happen to
be there, you will probably see me, when the service is over, and the
congregation is departed, in the north cloister. We can there converse
on the subject nearest my heart, and without observation.----Farewell!"
"Peace be with you, daughter! and wisdom council your thoughts!" said
Schedoni, "I will not fail to visit San Nicolo."
He folded his hands upon his breast, bowed his head, and left the
apartment with the silent footstep, that indicates weariness and
conscious duplicity.
The Marchesa remained in her closet, shaken by ever-varying passions,
and ever-fluctuating opinions; meditating misery for others, and
inflicting it only upon herself.