Valperga (26 page)

"Well! where is she?" were the first words of
Castruccio.

"Safe I hope, I trust that I shall not be deceived. I
endeavoured to move the abbot to let her escape; I would have gone
to the abbess, whose consent I must have obtained, and have used
all the influence my station would have given me with her; but the
abbot stopped me;--he assured me that he would take care that no
harm befell the devoted victim; he begged me not to ask an
explanation;--that he and his monks had the charge of the
preparation for the Judgement, and that much was in their power;
again and again he assured me that she should receive no
injury.

"I do not like this:--she must be protected by falsehood
and perjury, a lying and blasphemous mockery of the name of God.
The abbot, who was a servant of the Popes at Avignon, laughs at my
scruples; and I am obliged to yield. She will be saved, and God, I
hope, will pardon our human weaknesses. Let the sin lie on the
souls of those blood-hounds, who would pursue to destruction the
loveliest creature that breathes upon earth."

THE OLD man was gloomy and depressed; he retired early to
prayer. Castruccio had not slept the preceding night, and he felt
his eyes weighed down, although in mind he was agitated and
restless; he slept some hours, starting from feverish dreams, in
which Euthanasia and poor Beatrice, alike in danger, alike weeping
and imploring his aid, filled him with agony. He was awaked before
day-break by the bishop's servant; he repaired to the
bed-chamber of the prelate, who was sitting on a couch, with
haggard looks, and eyes red and inflamed with watching.

"My dear lord," cried the bishop, "I pray you
pardon me that I disturb your rest; I cannot sleep. In two hours
this ceremony--this mockery begins. I shall not be there; it
becomes not my character to be present at such temptations of
God's justice: this is my excuse. But I could not go; I should
die if I were to behold Beatrice bound and suffering. Yet, do you
go, and come quickly back to tell me of her success;--go, and see,
if the abbot keeps his word, and if ever I shall behold my child
again."

Castruccio endeavoured to console his unhappy friend; but the
strong affection and fears of the good man would listen to no
comfort. "Let her be saved," he said, "and I am
content; but this doubt, this pause of horrid expectation, is more
than I can bear; I love her more than father ever loved a child,
and she was mine by every tie;--I feel my very life-strings crack,
sometimes I am apprehensive I shall die in the agony of doubt; go,
go, my dearest lord, go and return quickly, if you love
me!"

The bell of the church now began to toll, and announced that the
monks were occupied in the prayers that were to precede the
ceremony; Castruccio hurried to the scene. It was to take place in
a large square of Ferrara, under the walls of the garden of the
convent of St. Anna, and before the gates of the monastery to the
care of whose monks the Judgement was intrusted. As Castruccio
approached, he found every avenue choked up by the multitude, and
the house-tops covered with people,--even on towers, whence the
square could only appear a confused speck, the people crowded in
eager expectation. He joined a few nobles who were admitted through
the garden of the monastery; as he passed the sacred precincts, he
saw the chapel filled with the brothers, who were praying, while
high mass was performed to sanctify their proceedings, and the
eucharist was distributed as a pledge of their truth.

The square presented a busy, but awful scene; the houses, the
windows of the monastery, the walls of the convent, were covered by
people; some clinging to the posts, and to the walls; fixing their
feet upon small protuberances of stone, they hung there, as if they
stood on air. A large part of the square had been railed off in a
semicircle round the door of the monastery, and outside this the
people were admitted, while it was guarded on the inside by Gascon
soldiers, that with drawn swords kept in awe the eager spectators,
whose fury of hope and fear approached madness: their voices it is
true were still, for the solemn tolling of the bell struck them
with awe, and hushed them, as the roar of the lion in the forest
silences the timid herd; but their bodies and muscles were in
perpetual motion; some foamed at the mouth, and others gazed with
outstretched necks, and eyes starting from their sockets.

Within this inclosure one part was assigned for the Dominican
brothers, who, in their black habits and red crosses, at an early
hour occupied their seats, which were raised one above another in
the form of a small amphitheatre; another part was assigned to some
of the nobles of both sexes, the spectators of this piteous scene.
Within this inclosure was another small one, close to the gate of
the monastery; it had two corresponding entrances, near one of
which a large cross was erected, and near the other a white
standard with the words Agnus Dei embroidered on it. This inclosure
was at first empty, except that in one corner a pile of wood was
heaped.

Half an hour passed in tremendous expectation: Castruccio felt
sick with dread; the heavy and monotonous tolling of the bell
struck on his soul, his head ached, his heart sunk within him. At
length the gates of the monastery were thrown open, and a number of
monks came forward in procession, carrying lights, and chaunting
hymns. They saluted the cross, and then ranged themselves round the
outside of the inner inclosure; after a pause of a few moments,
another party came out with Beatrice in the midst of them; she was
wrapped in her capuchin, the cowl drawn over her face; the crowd
spoke not as she appeared, but a sound, as of the hollow north-wind
among the mighty trees of a sea- like forest, rose from among them;
an awful, deep and nameless breath, a sigh of many hearts; she was
led to the cross, and knelt down silently before it, while the
brothers continued to chaunt alternately the staves of a melancholy
hymn.

Then came forth a third party of monks; they bore ploughshares
and torches, mattocks and other instruments, that again spread a
groan of horror through the multitude. The pyre was lighted; the
shares thrown in among the blazing wood; while other monks threw up
the soil of the inclosure with their mattocks, forming six furrows,
two feet distant one from the other. At length the bell, which had
been silent for a few minutes, began again to toll, in signal for
the ceremony to begin. At the command of the monks Beatrice arose,
and threw off her capuchin; she was drest in a short vest of black
stuff, fastened at the waist with a girdle of rope; it was without
sleeves, and her fairest arms were crossed on her breast; her black
and silken hair was scattered on her shoulders; her feet, whiter
than monumental marble, were bare. She did not notice the crowd
about her, but prayed fervently: her cheek was pale, but her eyes
beamed; and in her face and person there was an indescribable
mixture of timidity, with a firm reliance on the aid of a superior
power. One of the monks bound her arms, and tied a scarf over her
eyes: the shares, white with the excessive heat, were drawn from
the fire with large tongs, and the monks crowded round, and fixed
them in the furrows; the earth seemed to smoke with the heat as
they were laid down.

Then the barrier of the entrance to the inclosure was thrown
down; the monks quitted it at the opposite end, and one of them
with a loud voice, recommending Beatrice to the justice of God,
bade her advance. Every heart beat fast; Castruccio overcome by
uncontrollable pity, would have darted forward to save her, but
some one held him back; and in a moment, before the second beating
of his heart, before he again drew breath, horror was converted to
joy and wonder. Beatrice, her eyes covered, her arms bound, her
feet bare, passed over the burning shares with a quick light step,
and reaching the opposite barrier, fell on her knees, uttering an
exclamation of thanksgiving to God. These were the first words she
had spoken: they were followed by a long and deafening shout of
triumph from the multitude, which now manifested its joy as wildly,
as before they had painfully restrained their pity and indignation.
They were no longer to be contained by the palings of the
inclosures; all was broken through and destroyed; the inquisitors
had slunk away; and the Gascon troops galloped off from the
ground.

Immediately on the completion of her task, Beatrice had been
unbound, and her capuchin was thrown over her; the noble ladies who
were present crowded round her; she was silent and collected; her
colour indeed was heightened by her internal agitation, and her
limbs trembled with the exertion of her fortitude; but she
commanded her countenance and spirits, and at least wore the
appearance of serenity. She received the congratulations and
respectful salutation of her friends with affectionate cordiality;
while the air resounded with the triumphant Te Deum of the monks,
and the people pressed around, awed, but joyful. They endeavoured
to touch the garment of the newly declared saint; mothers brought
her their sick children; the unhappy intreated for her prayers;
and, however, bashful and unwilling, she was obliged to bestow her
blessing on all around. Suddenly a procession of nuns came forth
from the garden-gate of the convent; covered with their long veils,
and singing their hymns, they surrounded Beatrice, and led her,
attended by the other ladies in company, to their cloisters, where
her maternal friend the viscountess Marchesana waited to clasp her
in her arms.

Castruccio had already returned to the bishop; yet he came not
so quickly, but that the news of the success of his Beatrice,
passing from mouth to mouth, had reached him. His first emotions
were joy, gratitude, and wonder; but these subsided; and the good
old man kneeled humiliated, trembling and penitent, when he
considered that God's name had been called on in vain, that his
consecrated servants were perjured, and that falsehood was firmly
established, on foundations where truth alone ought to rest. He
listened to the account of Castruccio with interrupted exclamations
and tears; and when it was ended he exclaimed, "This is the
most miserable--the happiest day of my life!"

In the evening the palace of the prelate was crowded by his
friends, who, knowing the interest he took in Beatrice, came to
congratulate him on her victory, and to express their delight that
God had thought their town worthy of this manifestation of his
grace. The bishop, joyful, but full of shame, listened in silence
to their conjectures, exclamations, and long relations of the
morning's scene; his heart was glad, but he was angry with
himself for feeling pleasure at the triumph of falsehood; and,
although a smile played on his lips, a blush spread itself over his
aged cheeks.

The viscountess Malvezzi, radiant with delight, and the lovely
Beatrice blushing under her newly acquired honours, now entered;
the nobles pressed round the prophetess, kissing her hand, and the
hem of her garment; while she, modest, half abashed, yet believing
in her right to the reverence of her friends, smiled upon all.
Castruccio was not among the last of her worshippers; she had never
appeared so beautiful; her eyes, sparkling with the light of
triumph, were yet half hid by their heavy lids, her cheeks glowing,
her graceful person, clothed in her modest garb of white woollen,
moved with gestures ever new and beautiful:--she seemed another
being from her he had before seen, as inspired, as ethereal, but
more lovely.

After the crowd of visitors had retired, a few of the intimate
friends who formed the council of the bishop remained; the lady
Marchesana invited them immediately to adopt some plan for the
entrance of their prince into the city; she continued: "I
speak but the words of my child, when I say this; pardon me,
saintly Beatrice, that I call you thus. It is sweet to me to fancy
that you are my daughter, although I am much unworthy of such a
child, and you are the offspring of heaven alone."

Beatrice kissed the hand of her excellent friend with respect
and gratitude; the bishop was much troubled at his sister's
expression; the remembrance of her heretic mother, and his
prison-scene with Magfreda, was full in his recollection, and he
looked up to heaven, as if to ask God to pardon him, and to avert
the punishment of deceit from the guileless Beatrice.

One of the nobles present asked the sacred maiden, to name the
day when the prince should enter the town. She said in a gentle
voice: "My lords, the hour of victory is at hand: the Popes,
in despite of their duty, have deserted their sacred city, have
relinquished their lawful rule, and would now establish tyranny
among us,--it will not be. Four days hence, on the evening of
Monday, we shall receive our sovereign, and on the following
morning his banner will be unfurled on the battlements of this
city."

"On Monday," cried a noble, "my heart misgives
me; methinks it is an AEgyptian day; has no one a
calendar?"

"It is an AEgyptian day," exclaimed Beatrice, with
vivacity; "but the adverse aspect of the stars falls on our
adversaries; for us there is joy and victory."

"Monday is an early day," said Castruccio; "but
as the holy Beatrice commands, so shall it be. And, my honoured
lord, I shall leave you at day-break to-morrow. I shall not see you
again, divine prophetess, until I come with your prince, to assert
his right. I pray you therefore to bless my arms, and cause, that I
may be doubly valiant, approved by one whom heaven has sent
us."

Castruccio kneeled to the beautiful girl; he looked up at her
with his ardent eyes, his passion-formed lips, and countenance of
frank and noble beauty; she blushing placed her hand on his raven
hair, and said, "May God bless and prosper thee and thy
cause!"--Then, beckoning her aged friend, she silently saluted
the company, and withdrew, abashed, confused, but her heart beating
with a new and strange sense of pleasure.