"In earliest Greece to thee, with partial choice,
The grief-full Muse address'd her infant tongue;
The maids and matrons on her awful voice,
Silent and pale, in wild amazement hang."
COLLINS'S ODE TO FEAR.
The wounds of Vivaldi, and of his servant, were pronounced, by the
Benedictine who had examined and dressed them, to be not dangerous,
but those of one of the ruffians were declared doubtful. Some few
of the brothers displayed much compassion and kindness towards the
prisoners; but the greater part seemed fearful of expressing any
degree of sympathy for persons who had fallen within the cognizance of
the Holy Office, and even kept aloof from the chamber, in which they
were confined. To this self-restriction, however, they were not long
subjected; for Vivaldi and Paulo were compelled to begin their journey
as soon as some short rest had sufficiently revived them. They were
placed in the same carriage, but the presence of two officers prevented
all interchange of conjecture as to the destination of Ellena, and with
respect to the immediate occasion of their misfortune. Paulo, indeed,
now and then hazarded a surmise, and did not scruple to affirm, that
the Abbess of San Stefano was their chief enemy; that the Carmelite
friars, who had overtaken them on the road, were her agents; and that,
having traced their route, they had given intelligence where Vivaldi
and Ellena might be found.
"I guessed we never should escape the Abbess," said Paulo, "though I
would not disturb you, Signor mio, nor the poor lady Ellena, by saying
so. But your Abbesses are as cunning as Inquisitors, and are so fond of
governing, that they had rather, like them, send a man to the devil,
than send him no where."
Vivaldi gave Paulo a significant look, which was meant to repress
his imprudent loquacity, and then sunk again into silence and the
abstractions of deep grief. The officers, mean while, never spoke,
but were observant of all that Paulo said, who perceived their
watchfulness, but because he despised them as spies, he thoughtlessly
despised them also as enemies, and was so far from concealing opinions,
which they might repeat to his prejudice, that he had a pride in
exaggerating them, and in daring the worst, which the exasperated
tempers of these men, shut up in the same carriage with him, and
compelled to hear whatever he chose to say against the institution
to which they belonged, could effect. Whenever Vivaldi, recalled from
his abstractions by some bold assertion, endeavoured to check his
imprudence, Paulo was contented to solace his conscience, instead of
protecting himself, by saying, "It is their own fault; they would
thrust themselves into my company; let them have enough of it; and,
if ever they take me before their reverences, the Inquisitors, _they_
shall have enough for it too. I will play up such a tune in the
Inquisition as is not heard there every day. I will jingle all the
bells on their fool's caps, and tell them a little honest truth, if
they make me smart for it ever so."
Vivaldi, aroused once more, and seriously alarmed for the consequences
which honest Paulo might be drawing upon himself, now insisted on his
silence, and was obeyed.
They travelled during the whole night, stopping only to change horses.
At every post house, Vivaldi looked for a carriage that might inclose
Ellena, but none appeared, nor any sound of wheels told him that she
followed.
With the morning light he perceived the dome of St. Peter, appearing
faintly over the plains that surrounded Rome, and he understood, for
the first time, that he was going to the prisons of the Inquisition in
that city. The travellers descended upon the Campania, and then rested
for a few hours at a small town on its borders.
When they again set forward, Vivaldi perceived that the guard was
changed, the officer who had remained with him in the apartment of
the inn only appearing among the new faces which surrounded him. The
dress and manners of these men differed considerably from those of
the other. Their conduct was more temperate, but their countenances
expressed a darker cruelty, mingled with a sly demureness, and a
solemn self-importance, that announced them at once as belonging to
the Inquisition. They were almost invariably silent; and when they
did speak, it was only in a few sententious words. To the abounding
questions of Paulo, and the few earnest entreaties of his master, to be
informed of the place of Ellena's destination, they made not the least
reply; and listened to all the flourishing speeches of the servant
against Inquisitors and the Holy Office with the most profound gravity.
Vivaldi was struck with the circumstance of the guard being changed,
and still more with the appearance of the party, who now composed it.
When he compared the manners of the late, with those of the present
guard, he thought he discovered in the first the mere ferocity of
ruffians; but in the latter, the principles of cunning and cruelty,
which seemed particularly to characterize Inquisitors; he was inclined
to believe, that a stratagem had enthralled him, and that now, for the
first time, he was in the custody of the _Holy Office_.
It was near midnight when the prisoners entered the _Porto del
Popolo_, and found themselves in the midst of the Carnival at Rome.
The _Corso_, through which they were obliged to pass, was crowded with
gay carriages and masks, with processions of musicians, monks, and
mountebanks, was lighted up with innumerable flambeaux, and resounded
with the heterogeneous rattling of wheels, the music of serenades,
and the jokes and laughter of the revellers, as they sportively threw
about their sugar-plumbs. The heat of the weather made it necessary
to have the windows of the coach open, and the prisoners, therefore,
saw all that passed without. It was a scene, which contrasted cruelly
with the feelings and circumstances of Vivaldi; torn as he was from
her he most loved, in dreadful uncertainty as to her fate, and himself
about to be brought before a tribunal, whose mysterious and terrible
proceedings appalled even the bravest spirits. Altogether, this was
one of the most striking examples, which the chequer-work of human life
could shew, or human feelings endure, Vivaldi sickened as he looked
upon the splendid crowd, while the carriage made its way slowly with
it; but Paulo, as he gazed, was reminded of the Corso of Naples, such
as it appeared at the time of Carnival, and, comparing the present
scene with his native one, he found fault with every thing he beheld.
The dresses were tasteless, the equipages without splendor, the people
without spirit; yet, such was the propensity of his heart to sympathize
with whatever was gay, that, for some moments, he forgot that he was
a prisoner on his way to the Inquisition; almost forgot that he was a
Neapolitan; and, while he exclaimed against the dullness of a Roman
carnival, would have sprung through the carriage window to partake of
its spirit, if his fetters and his wounds had not withheld him. A deep
sigh from Vivaldi recalled his wandering imagination; and, when he
noticed again the sorrow in his master's look, all his lightly joyous
spirits fled.
"My _maestro_, my dear _maestro_!"--he said, and knew not how to finish
what he wished to express.
At that moment they passed the theatre of San Carlo, the doors of which
were thronged with equipages, where Roman ladies, in their gala habits,
courtiers in their fantastic dresses, and masks of all descriptions,
were hastening to the opera. In the midst of this gay bustle, where
the carriage was unable to proceed, the officials of the Inquisition
looked on in solemn silence, not a muscle of their features relaxing
in sympathy, or yielding a single wrinkle of the self-importance that
lifted their brows; and, while they regarded with secret contempt
those, who could be thus lightly pleased, the people, in return, more
wisely, perhaps, regarded with contempt the proud moroseness, that
refused to partake of innocent pleasures, because they were trifling,
and shrunk from countenances furrowed with the sternness of cruelty.
But, when their office was distinguished, part of the crowd pressed
back from the carriage in affright, while another part advanced with
curiosity; though, as the majority retreated, space was left for the
carriage to move on. After quitting the Corso, it proceeded for some
miles through dark and deserted streets, where only here and there a
lamp, hung on high before the image of a saint, shed it's glimmering
light, and where a melancholy and universal silence prevailed. At
intervals, indeed, the moon, as the clouds passed away, shewed, for a
moment, some of those mighty monuments of Rome's eternal name, those
sacred ruins, those gigantic skeletons, which once enclosed a soul,
whose energies governed a world! Even Vivaldi could not behold with
indifference the grandeur of these reliques, as the rays fell upon the
hoary walls and columns, or pass among these scenes of ancient story,
without feeling a melancholy awe, a sacred enthusiasm, that withdrew
him from himself. But the illusion was transient; his own misfortunes
pressed too heavily upon him to be long unfelt, and his enthusiasm
vanished like the moonlight.
A returning gleam lighted up, soon after, the rude and extensive area,
which the carriage was crossing. It appeared, from it's desolation, and
the ruins scattered distantly along its skirts, to be a part of the
city entirely abandoned by the modern inhabitants to the reliques of
its former grandeur. Not even the shadow of a human being crossed the
waste, nor any building appeared, which might be supposed to shelter
one. The deep tone of a bell, however, rolling on the silence of the
night, announced the haunts of man to be not far off; and Vivaldi
perceived in the distance, to which he was approaching, an extent of
lofty walls and towers, that, as far as the gloom would permit his eye
to penetrate, bounded the horizon. He judged these to be the prisons
of the Inquisition. Paulo pointed them out at the same moment. "Ah,
Signor!" said he despondingly, "that is the place! what strength! If,
my Lord, the Marchese were but to see where we are going! Ah!"----
He concluded with a deep sigh, and sunk again into the state of
apprehension and mute expectation, which he had suffered from the
moment that he quitted the Corso.
The carriage having reached the walls, followed their bendings to a
considerable extent. These walls, of immense height, and strengthened
by innumerable massy bulwarks, exhibited neither window or grate, but a
vast and dreary blank; a small round tower only, perched here and there
upon the summit, breaking their monotony.
The prisoners passed what seemed to be the principal entrance, from the
grandeur of its portal, and the gigantic loftiness of the towers that
rose over it; and soon after the carriage stopped at an arch-way in the
walls, strongly barricadoed. One of the escort alighted, and, having
struck upon the bars, a folding door within was immediately opened, and
a man bearing a torch appeared behind the barricado, whose countenance,
as he looked through it, might have been copied for the
"Grim-visaged comfortless Despair"
of the Poet.
No words were exchanged between him and the guard; but on perceiving
who were without, he opened the iron gate, and the prisoners, having
alighted, passed with the two officials beneath the arch, the guard
following with a torch. They descended a flight of broad steps, at
the foot of which another iron gate admitted them to a kind of hall;
such, however, it at first appeared to Vivaldi, as his eyes glanced
through its gloomy extent, imperfectly ascertaining it by the lamp,
which hung from the centre of the roof. No person appeared, and a
death-like silence prevailed; for neither the officials nor the guard
yet spoke; nor did any distant sound contradict the notion, that they
were traversing the chambers of the dead. To Vivaldi it occurred, that
this was one of the burial vaults of the victims, who suffered in the
Inquisition, and his whole frame thrilled with horror. Several avenues,
opening from the apartment, seemed to lead to distant quarters of this
immense fabric, but still no footstep whispering along the pavement,
or voice murmuring through the arched roofs, indicated it to be the
residence of the living.
Having entered one of the passages, Vivaldi perceived a person clothed
in black, and who bore a lighted taper, crossing silently in the remote
perspective; and he understood too well from his habit, that he was a
member of this dreadful tribunal.
The sound of footsteps seemed to reach the stranger, for he turned, and
then paused, while the officers advanced. They then made signs to each
other, and exchanged a few words, which neither Vivaldi or his servant
could understand, when the stranger, pointing with his taper along
another avenue, passed away. Vivaldi followed him with his eyes, till a
door at the extremity of the passage opened, and he saw the Inquisitor
enter an apartment, whence a great light proceeded, and where several
other figures, habited like himself, appeared waiting to receive him.
The door immediately closed; and, whether the imagination of Vivaldi
was affected, or that the sounds were real, he thought, as it closed,
he distinguished half-stifled groans, as of a person in agony.
The avenue, through which the prisoners passed, opened, at length,
into an apartment gloomy like the first they had entered, but more
extensive. The roof was supported by arches, and long arcades branched
off from every side of the chamber, as from a central point, and were
lost in the gloom, which the rays of the small lamps, suspended in
each, but feebly penetrated.
They rested here, and a person soon after advanced, who appeared to be
the jailor, into whose hands Vivaldi and Paulo were delivered. A few
mysterious words having been exchanged, one of the officials crossed
the hall, and ascended a wide stair-case, while the other, with the
jailor and the guard, remained below, as if awaiting his return.
A long interval elapsed, during which the stillness of the place was
sometimes interrupted by a closing door, and, at others, by indistinct
sounds, which yet appeared to Vivaldi like lamentations and extorted
groans. Inquisitors, in their long black robes, issued, from time to
time from the passages, and crossed the hall to other avenues. They
eyed the prisoners with curiosity, but without pity. Their visages,
with few exceptions, seemed stamped with the characters of demons.
Vivaldi could not look upon the grave cruelty, or the ferocious
impatience, their countenances severally expressed, without reading
in them the fate of some fellow creature, the fate, which these men
seemed going, even at this moment, to confirm; and, as they passed
with soundless steps, he shrunk from observation, as if their very
looks possessed some supernatural power, and could have struck death.
But he followed their fleeting figures, as they proceeded on their
work of horror, to where the last glimmering ray faded into darkness,
expecting to see other doors of other chambers open to receive them.
While meditating upon these horrors, Vivaldi lost every selfish
consideration in astonishment and indignation of the sufferings, which
the frenzied wickedness of man prepares for man, who, even at the
moment of infliction, insults his victim with assertions of the justice
and necessity of such procedure. "Is this possible!" said Vivaldi
internally, "Can this be in human nature!--Can such horrible perversion
of right be permitted! Can man, who calls himself endowed with reason,
and immeasurably superior to every other created being, argue himself
into the commission of such horrible folly, such inveterate cruelty, as
exceeds all the acts of the most irrational and ferocious brute. Brutes
do not deliberately slaughter their species; it remains for man only,
man, proud of his prerogative of reason, and boasting of his sense of
justice, to unite the most terrible extremes of folly and wickedness!"
Vivaldi had been no stranger to the existence of this tribunal; he
had long understood the nature of the establishment, and had often
received particular accounts of its customs and laws but, though he
had believed before, it was now only that conviction appeared to
impress his understanding. A new view of human nature seemed to burst,
at once, upon his mind, and he could not have experienced greater
astonishment, if this had been the first moment, in which he had heard
of the institution. But, when he thought of Ellena, considered that she
was in the power of this tribunal, and that it was probable she was at
this moment within the same dreadful walls, grief, indignation, and
despair irritated him almost to frenzy. He seemed suddenly animated
with supernatural strength, and ready to attempt impossibilities for
her deliverance. It was by a strong effort for self command, that he
forbore bursting the bonds, which held him, and making a desperate
attempt to seek her through the vast extent of these prisons.
Reflection, however, had not so entirely forsaken him, but that he
saw the impossibility of succeeding in such an effort, the moment he
had conceived it, and he forbore to rush upon the certain destruction,
to which it must have led. His passions, thus restrained, seemed to
become virtues, and to display themselves in the energy of his courage
and his fortitude. His soul became stern and vigorous in despair, and
his manner and countenance assumed a calm dignity, which seemed to awe,
in some degree, even his guards. The pain of his wounds was no longer
felt; it appeared as if the strength of his intellectual self had
subdued the infirmities of the body, and, perhaps, in these moments of
elevation, he could have endured the torture without shrinking.
Paulo, meanwhile, mute and grave, was watchful of all that passed;
he observed the revolutions in his master's mind, with grief first,
and then with surprize, but he could not imitate the noble fortitude,
which now gave weight and steadiness to Vivaldi's thoughts. And when
he looked on the power and gloom around him, and on the visages of
the passing Inquisitors, he began to repent, that he had so freely
delivered his opinion of this tribunal, in the presence of its
agents, and to perceive, that if he played up the kind of tune he had
threatened, it would probably be the last he should ever be permitted
to perform in this world.
At length, the chief officer descended the stair-case, and immediately
bade Vivaldi follow him. Paulo was accompanying his master, but was
withheld by the guard, and told he was to be disposed of in a different
way. This was the moment of his severest trial; he declared he would
not be separated from his master.
"What did I demand to be brought here for," he cried, "if it was not
that I might go shares with the Signor in all his troubles? This is
not a place to come to for pleasure, I warrant; and I can promise ye,
gentlemen, I would not have come within an hundred miles of you, if it
had not been for my master's sake."
The guards roughly interrupted him, and were carrying him away, when
Vivaldi's commanding voice arrested them. He returned to speak a few
words of consolation to his faithful servant, and, since they were to
be separated, to take leave of him.
Paulo embraced his knees, and, while he wept, and his words were almost
stifled by sobs, declared no force should drag him from his master,
while he had life; and repeatedly appealed to the guards, with--"What
did I demand to be brought here for? Did ever any body come here to
seek pleasure? What right have you to prevent my going shares with my
master in his troubles?"
"We do not intend to deny you that pleasure, friend," replied one of
the guards.
"Don't you? Then heaven bless you!" cried Paulo, springing from his
knees, and shaking the man by the hand with a violence, that would
nearly have dislocated the shoulder of a person less robust.
"So come with us," added the guard, drawing him away from Vivaldi.
Paulo now became outrageous, and, struggling with the guards, burst
from them, and again fell at the feet of his master, who raised and
embraced him, endeavouring to prevail with him to submit quietly to
what was inevitable and to encourage him with hope.
"I trust that our separation will be short," said Vivaldi, "and that we
shall meet in happier circumstances. My innocence must soon appear."
"We shall never, never meet again, Signormio, in this world," said
Paulo, sobbing violently, "so don't make me hope so. That old Abbess
knows what she is about too well to let us escape; or she would
not have catched us up so cunningly as she did; so what signifies
innocence! O! if my old lord, the Marchese, did but know where we are!"
Vivaldi interrupted him, and turning to the guards said, "I recommend
my faithful servant to your compassion; he is innocent. It will some
time, perhaps, be in my power to recompence you for any indulgence you
may allow him, and I shall value it a thousand times more highly, than
any you could shew to myself! Farewell, Paulo,----farewel! Officer, I
am ready."
"O stay! Signor, for one moment--stay!" said Paulo.
"We can wait no longer," said the guard, and again drew Paulo away,
who looking piteously after Vivaldi, alternately repeated, "Farewel,
dear maestro! farewel dear, dear maestro!" and "What did I demand to be
brought here for? What did I demand to be brought here for?--what was
it for, if not to go shares with my maestro?" till Vivaldi was beyond
the reach of sight and of hearing.
Vivaldi, having followed the officer up the stair-case, passed through
a gallery to an anti-chamber, where, being delivered into the custody
of some persons in waiting, his conductor disappeared beyond a folding
door, that led to an inner apartment. Over this door was an inscription
in Hebrew characters, traced in blood-colour. Dante's inscription on
the entrance of the infernal regions, would have been suitable to a
place, where every circumstance and feature seemed to say, "_Hope, that
comes to all, comes not here!_"
Vivaldi conjectured, that in this chamber they were preparing for him
the instruments, which were to extort a confession; and though he knew
little of the regular proceedings of this tribunal, he had always
understood, that the torture was inflicted upon the accused person,
till he made confession of the crime, of which he was suspected. By
such a mode of proceeding, the innocent were certain of suffering
longer than the guilty; for, as they had nothing to confess, the
Inquisitor, mistaking innocence for obstinacy, persevered in his
inflictions, and it frequently happened that he compelled the innocent
to become criminal, and assert a falsehood, that they might be released
from anguish, which they could no longer sustain. Vivaldi considered
this circumstance undauntedly; every faculty of his soul was bent up to
firmness and endurance. He believed that he understood the extent of
the charge, which would be brought against him, a charge as false, as
a specious confirmation of it, would be terrible in it's consequence
both to Ellena and himself. Yet every art would be practised to bring
him to an acknowledgment of having carried off a nun, and he knew also,
that, since the prosecutor and the witnesses are never confronted with
the prisoner in cases of severe accusation, and since their very names
are concealed from him, it would be scarcely possible for him to prove
his innocence. But he did not hesitate an instant whether to sacrifice
himself for Ellena, determining rather to expire beneath the merciless
inflictions of the Inquisitors, than to assert a falsehood, which must
involve her in destruction.
The officer, at length, appeared, and, having beckoned Vivaldi to
advance, uncovered his head, and bared his arms. He then led him
forward through the folding door into the chamber; having done which,
he immediately withdrew, and the door, which shut out Hope, closed
after him.
Vivaldi found himself in a spacious apartment, where only two persons
were visible, who were seated at a large table, that occupied the
centre of the room. They were both habited in black; the one, who
seemed by his piercing eye, and extraordinary physiognomy, to be an
Inquisitor, wore on his head a kind of black turban, which heightened
the natural ferocity of his visage; the other was uncovered, and his
arms bared to the elbows. A book, with some instruments of singular
appearance, lay before him. Round the table were several unoccupied
chairs, on the backs of which appeared figurative signs; at the upper
end of the apartment, a gigantic crucifix stretched nearly to the
vaulted roof; and, at the lower end, suspended from an arch in the
wall, was a dark curtain, but whether it veiled a window, or shrowded
some object or person, necessary to the designs of the Inquisitor,
there were little means of judging. It was, however, suspended from an
arch such as sometimes contains a casement, or leads to a deep recess.
The Inquisitor called on Vivaldi to advance, and, when he had reached
the table, put a book into his hands, and bade him swear to reveal the
truth, and keep for ever secret whatever he might see or hear in the
apartment.
Vivaldi hesitated to obey so unqualified a command. The Inquisitor
reminded him, by a look, not to be mistaken, that he was absolute here;
but Vivaldi still hesitated. "Shall I consent to my own condemnation?"
said he to himself, "The malice of demons like these may convert
the most innocent circumstances into matter of accusation, for my
destruction, and I must answer whatever questions they choose to ask.
And shall I swear, also, to conceal whatever I may witness in this
chamber, when I know that the most diabolical cruelties are hourly
practised here?"
The Inquisitor, in a voice which would have made a heart less fortified
than was Vivaldi's tremble, again commanded him to swear; at the same
time, he made a signal to the person, who sat at the opposite end of
the table, and who appeared to be an inferior officer.
Vivaldi was still silent, but he began to consider that, unconscious
as he was of crime, it was scarcely possible for his words to be
tortured into a self-accusation; and that, whatever he might witness,
no retribution would be prevented, no evil withheld by the oath,
which bound him to secresy, since his most severe denunciation could
avail nothing against the supreme power of this tribunal. As he did
not perceive any good, which could arise from refusing the oath; and
saw much immediate evil from resistance, he consented to receive it.
Notwithstanding this, when he put the book to his lips, and uttered the
tremendous vow prescribed to him, hesitation and reluctance returned
upon his mind, and an icy coldness struck to his heart. He was so much
affected, that circumstances, apparently the most trivial, had at this
moment influence upon his imagination. As he accidentally threw his
eyes upon the curtain, which he had observed before without emotion,
and now thought it moved, he almost started in expectation of seeing
some person, an Inquisitor perhaps, as terrific as the one before him,
or an Accuser as malicious as Schedoni, steal from behind it.
The Inquisitor having administered the oath, and the attendant having
noted it in his book, the examination began. After demanding, as is
usual, the names and titles of Vivaldi and his family, and his place of
residence, to which he fully replied, the Inquisitor asked, whether he
understood the nature of the accusation on which he had been arrested.
"The order for my arrestation informed me," replied Vivaldi.
"Look to your words!" said the Inquisitor, "and remember your oath.
What was the ground of accusation?"
"I understood," said Vivaldi, "that I was accused of having stolen a
nun from her sanctuary."
A faint degree of surprise appeared on the brow of the Inquisitor. "You
confess it, then?" he said, after the pause of a moment, and making a
signal to the Secretary, who immediately noted Vivaldi's words.
"I solemnly deny it," replied Vivaldi, "the accusation is false and
malicious."
"Remember the oath you have taken!" repeated the Inquisitor, "learn
also, that mercy is shewn to such as make full confession; but that the
torture is applied to those, who have the folly and the obstinacy to
withhold the truth."
"If you torture me till I acknowledge the justness of this accusation,"
said Vivaldi, "I must expire under your inflictions, for suffering
never shall compel me to assert a falsehood. It is not the truth, which
you seek; it is not the guilty, whom you punish; the innocent, having
no crimes to confess, are the victims of your cruelty, or, to escape
from it, become criminal, and proclaim a lie."
"Recollect yourself," said the Inquisitor, sternly. "You are not
brought hither to accuse, but to answer accusation. You say you are
innocent; yet acknowledge yourself to be acquainted with the subject of
the charge which is to be urged against you! How could you know this,
but from the voice of conscience?"
"From the words of your own summons," replied Vivaldi, "and from those
of your officials who arrested me."
"How!" exclaimed the Inquisitor, "note that," pointing to the
Secretary; "he says by the words of our summons; now we know, that
you never read that summons. He says also by the words of our
officials;--it appears, then, he is ignorant, that death would follow
such a breach of confidence."
"It is true, I never did read the summons," replied Vivaldi, "and as
true, that I never asserted I did; the friar, who read it, told of what
it accused me, and your officials confirmed the testimony."
"No more of this equivocation!" said the Inquisitor, "Speak only to the
question."
"I will not suffer my assertions to be misrepresented," replied
Vivaldi, "or my words to be perverted against myself. I have sworn to
speak the truth only; since you believe I violate my oath, and doubt my
direct and simple words, I will speak no more."
The Inquisitor half rose from his chair, and his countenance grew
paler. "Audacious heretic!" he said, "will you dispute, insult, and
disobey, the commands of our most holy tribunal! You will be taught the
consequence of your desperate impiety.--To the torture with him!"
A stern smile was on the features of Vivaldi; his eyes were calmly
fixed on the Inquisitor, and his attitude was undaunted and firm.
His courage, and the cool contempt, which his looks expressed, seemed
to touch his examiner, who perceived that he had not a common mind
to operate upon. He abandoned, therefore, for the present, terrific
measures, and, resuming his usual manner, proceeded in the examination.
"Where were you arrested?"
"At the chapel of San Sebastian, on the lake of Celano."
"You are certain as to this?" asked the Inquisitor, "you are sure it
was not at the village of Legano, on the high road between Celano and
Rome?"
Vivaldi, while he confirmed his assertion, recollected with some
surprise that Legano was the place where the guard had been changed,
and he mentioned the circumstance. The Inquisitor, however, proceeded
in his questions, without appearing to notice it. "Was any person
arrested with you?"
"You cannot be ignorant," replied Vivaldi, "that Signora di Rosalba,
was seized at the same time, upon the false charge of being a nun,
who had broken her vows, and eloped from her convent; nor that Paulo
Mendrico, my faithful servant! was also made a prisoner, though upon
what pretence he was arrested I am utterly ignorant."
The Inquisitor remained for some moments in thoughtful silence, and
then enquired slightly concerning the family of Ellena, and her usual
place of residence. Vivaldi, fearful of making some assertion that
might be prejudicial to her, referred him to herself, but the inquiry
was repeated.
"She is now within these walls," replied Vivaldi, hoping to learn from
the manner of his examiner, whether his fears were just, "and can
answer these questions better than myself."
The Inquisitor merely bade the Notary write down her name, and then
remained for a few moments meditating. At length, he said, "Do you know
where you now are?"
Vivaldi, smiling at the question, replied, "I understand that I am in
the prisons of the Inquisition, at Rome."
"Do you know what are the crimes that subject persons to the cognizance
of the Holy Office?"
Vivaldi was silent.
"Your conscience informs _you_, and your silence confirms _me_. Let
me admonish you, once more, to make a full confession of your guilt;
remember that this is a merciful tribunal, and shews favour to such as
acknowledge their crimes?"
Vivaldi smiled; but the Inquisitor proceeded.
"It does not resemble some severe, yet just courts, where immediate
execution follows the confession of a criminal. No! it is merciful, and
though it punishes guilt, it never applies the torture but in cases of
necessity, when the obstinate silence of the prisoner requires such a
measure. You see, therefore, what you may avoid, and what expect."
"But if the prisoner has nothing to confess?" said Vivaldi,--"Can your
tortures make him guilty? They may force a weak mind to be guilty
of falsehood; to escape present anguish, a man may unwarily condemn
himself to the death! You will find that I am not such an one."
"Young man," replied the Inquisitor, "you will understand too soon,
that we never act, but upon sure authority; and will wish, too late,
that you had made an honest confession. Your silence cannot keep from
us a knowledge of your offences; we are in possession of facts; and
your obstinacy can neither wrest from us the truth, or pervert it. Your
most secret offences are already written on the tablets of the Holy
Office; your conscience cannot reflect them more justly,--Tremble,
therefore, and revere. But understand, that, though we have sufficient
proof of your guilt, we require you to confess; and that the punishment
of obstinacy is as certain, as that of any other offence."
Vivaldi made no reply, and the Inquisitor, after a momentary silence,
added, "Was you ever in the church of the Spirito Santo, at Naples?"
"Before I answer the question," said Vivaldi, "I require the name of my
accuser."
"You are to recollect that you have no right to demand any thing in
this place," observed the Inquisitor, "nor can you be ignorant that the
name of the Informer is always kept sacred from the knowledge of the
Accused. Who would venture to do his duty, if his name was arbitrarily
to be exposed to the vengeance of the criminal against whom he informs?
It is only in a particular process that the Accuser is brought
forward."
"The names of the Witnesses?" demanded Vivaldi.
"The same justice conceals them also from the knowledge of the
Accused," replied the Inquisitor.
"And is no justice left for the Accused?" said Vivaldi. "Is he to
be tried and condemned without being confronted with either his
Prosecutor, or the Witnesses!"
"Your questions are too many," said the Inquisitor, "and your answers
too few. The Informer is not also the Prosecutor; the Holy Office,
before which the information is laid, is the Prosecutor, and the
dispenser of justice; its Public Accuser lays the circumstances, and
the testimonies of the Witnesses, before the Court. But too much of
this."
"How!" exclaimed Vivaldi, "is the tribunal at once the Prosecutor,
Witness, and Judge! What can private malice wish for more, than such a
court of _justice_, at which to arraign it's enemy? The stiletto of the
Assassin is not so sure, or so fatal to innocence. I now perceive, that
it avails me nothing to be guiltless; a single enemy is sufficient to
accomplish my destruction."
"You have an enemy then?" observed the Inquisitor.
Vivaldi was too well convinced that he had one, but there was not
sufficient proof, as to the person of this enemy, to justify him in
asserting that it was Schedoni. The circumstance of Ellena having been
arrested, would have compelled him to suspect another person as being
at least accessary to the designs of the Confessor, had not credulity
started in horror from the supposition, that a mother's resentment
could possibly betray her son into the prisons of the Inquisition,
though this mother had exhibited a temper of remorseless cruelty
towards a stranger, who had interrupted her views for that son.
"You have an enemy then?" repeated the Inquisitor.
"That I am here sufficiently proves it," replied Vivaldi. "But I am so
little any man's enemy, that I know not who to call mine."
"It is evident, then, that you have no enemy," observed the subtle
Inquisitor, "and that this accusation is brought against you by a
respecter of truth, and a faithful servant of the Roman interest."
Vivaldi was shocked to perceive the insidious art, by which he had
been betrayed into a declaration apparently so harmless, and the
cruel dexterity with which it had been turned against him. A lofty
and contemptuous silence was all that he opposed to the treachery
of his examiner, on whose countenance appeared a smile of triumph
and self-congratulation, the life of a fellow creature being, in his
estimation, of no comparative importance with the self-applauses of
successful art; the art, too, upon which he most valued himself--that
of his profession.
The Inquisitor proceeded, "You persist, then, in withholding the
truth?" He paused, but Vivaldi making no reply, he resumed.
"Since it is evident, from your own declaration, that you have no
enemy, whom private resentment might have instigated to accuse you;
and, from other circumstances which have occurred in your conduct, that
you are conscious of more than you have confessed,--it appears, that
the accusation which has been urged against you, is not a malicious
slander. I exhort you, therefore, and once more conjure you, by our
holy faith, to make an ingenuous confession of your offences, and to
save yourself from the means, which must of necessity be enforced to
obtain a confession before your trial commences. I adjure you, also, to
consider, that by such open conduct only, can mercy be won to soften
the justice of this most righteous tribunal!"
Vivaldi, perceiving that it was now necessary for him to reply, once
more solemnly asserted his innocence of the crime alledged against
him in the summons, and of the consciousness of any act, which might
lawfully subject him to the notice of the Holy Office.
The Inquisitor again demanded what was the crime alledged, and, Vivaldi
having repeated the accusation, he again bade the secretary note it, as
he did which, Vivaldi thought he perceived upon his features something
of a malignant satisfaction, for which he knew not how to account. When
the secretary had finished, Vivaldi was ordered to subscribe his name
and quality to the depositions, and he obeyed.
The Inquisitor then bade him consider of the admonition he had
received, and prepare either to confess on the morrow, or to undergo
the question. As he concluded, he gave a signal, and the officer, who
had conducted Vivaldi into the chamber, immediately appeared.
"You know your orders," said the Inquisitor, "receive your prisoner,
and see that they are obeyed."
The official bowed, and Vivaldi followed him from the apartment in
melancholy silence.