Valperga (28 page)

"Surely, oh! most certainly," she thought, "thus
I am commanded by the Power who has so often revealed his will to
me. Can I penetrate his hidden designs? can I do more than execute
his decrees? did I not feel thus, when with prophetic transport I
foretold distant events that surely came to pass? when I foresaw
yet afar off the death of Lorenzo, that lovely child blooming in
health, when every one called me a false prophet? And yet he died.
And now, the marquess's return? nay, am I not approved by
heaven? did I not escape from the malice of my enemies through its
miraculous interposition? Oh! I will no longer scan with
presumptuous argument, purposes that are ruled by mightier hands
than mine; I will resign myself to the guidance of what has ever
conducted me aright, and which now points out the path to
happiness."

The next morning, her cheeks flushed, her eyes weighed down,
trembling and abashed, she sought Castruccio. It is impossible that
there should not have been much tenderness in his manner towards
this lovely girl; her history, her strange and romantic
contemplations and impulses, and the great intimacy which had
arisen between them, were sufficient for this. He regarded her also
as a nun; and this made him feel less restraint in the manner of
his address, since he feared not to be misconstrued; while at the
same time it gave an elevation and unusual tone to his ideas
concerning her, that made him watch her every motion with interest.
She now approached; and he said playfully; "Where is thy mark,
prophetess? art thou no longer the Maiden of God? For some days
thou hast cast aside the hallowed diadem."

"I still have it," she replied; "but I have
dismissed it from my brow; I will give it you; come, my lord, this
evening at midnight to the secret entrance of the viscountess's
palace." Saying these words, she fled to hide her burning
blushes in solitude, and again to feel the intoxicating delusions
that led her on to destruction.

Castruccio came. If it were in human virtue to resist the
invitation of this angelic girl, his was not the mind, strictly
disciplined to right, self-examining and jealous of its own
integrity, that should thus weigh its actions, and move only as
approved by conscience. He was frank and noble in his manner; his
nature was generous; and, though there lurked in his heart the germ
of an evil-bearing tree, it was as yet undeveloped and inanimated;
and, in obeying the summons of Beatrice, he passively gave himself
up to the strong excitements of curiosity and wonder.

He went again and again. When the silent night was spread over
every thing, and the walls of the town stood black and confused
amidst the overshadowing trees, whose waving foliage was
diversified by no gleam of light, but all was formless as the
undistinguishable air; or if a star were dimly seen, it just
glistened on the waters of the marsh, and then swiftly the heavy
web of clouds hid both star and water; when the watch dogs were
mute, unawakened by the moon, and the wind that blew across the
plain alone told to the ear the place of the trees; when the bats
and the owls were lulled by the exceeding darkness; it was on such
nights as these, that Castruccio sought the secret entrance of the
viscountess's palace, and was received by the beautiful
Beatrice, enshrined in an atmosphere of love and joy.

She was a strange riddle to him. Without vow, without even that
slight shew of distrust which is the child of confidence itself;
without seeking the responsive professions of eternal love, she
surrendered herself to his arms. And, when the first maiden
bashfulness had passed away, all was deep tenderness and ardent
love. Yet there was a dignity and a trusting affection in her most
unguarded moments, that staggered him: a broken expression would
sometimes fall from her lips, that seemed to say that she believed
him indissolubly hers, which made him start, as if he feared that
he had acted with perfidy; yet he had never solicited, never
promised,--what could she mean? What was she? He loved her as he
would have loved any thing that was surpassingly beautiful; and,
when these expressions, that intimated somewhat of enduring and
unchangeable in their intercourse, intruded themselves, they pained
and irritated him: he turned to the recollection of Euthanasia, his
pure, his high-minded, and troth-plight bride;--she seemed as if
wronged by such an idea; and yet he hardly dared think her purer
than poor Beatrice, whose soul, though given up to love, was imbued
in its very grain and texture with delicate affections and
honourable feelings; all that makes the soul and living spark of
virtue. If she had not resisted the impulses of her soul, it was
not that she wanted the power; but that, deluded by the web of
deceit that had so long wound itself about her, she believed them,
not only lawful, but inspired by the special interposition of
heaven.

Poor Beatrice! She had inherited from her mother the most ardent
imagination that ever animated a human soul. Its images were as
vivid as reality, and were so overpowering, that they appeared to
her, when she compared them to the calm sensations of others, as
something superhuman; and she followed that as a guide, which she
ought to have bound with fetters, and to have curbed and crushed by
every effort of reason. Unhappy prophetess! the superstitions of
her times had obtained credit for, and indeed given birth to her
pretensions, and the compassion and humanity of her follow
creatures had stamped them with the truth-attesting seal of a
miracle. There is so much life in love! Beatrice was hardly
seventeen, and she loved for the first time; and all the exquisite
pleasures of that passion were consecrated to her, by a
mysteriousness and delusive sanctity that gave them tenfold zest.
It is said, that in love we idolize the object; and, placing him
apart and selecting him from his fellows, look on him as superior
in nature to all others. We do so; but, even as we idolize the
object of our affections, do we idolize ourselves: if we separate
him from his fellow mortals, so do we separate ourselves, and,
glorying in belonging to him alone, feel lifted above all other
sensations, all other joys and griefs, to one hallowed circle from
which all but his idea is banished; we walk as if a mist or some
more potent charm divided us from all but him; a sanctified victim
which none but the priest set apart for that office could touch and
not pollute, enshrined in a cloud of glory, made glorious through
beauties not our own. Thus we all feel during the entrancing dream
of love; and Beatrice, the ardent, affectionate Beatrice, felt this
with multiplied power: and, believing that none had ever felt so
before, she thought that heaven itself had interfered to produce so
true a paradise. If her childish dreams had been full of fire, how
much more vivid and overpowering was the awakening of her soul when
she first loved! It seemed as if some new and wondrous spirit had
descended, alive, breathing and panting, into her colder heart, and
gave it a new impulse, a new existence. Ever the dupe of her
undisciplined thoughts, she cherished her reveries, believing that
heavenly and intellectual, which was indebted for its force to
earthly mixtures; and she resigned herself entire to her visionary
joys, until she finally awoke to truth, fallen, and for ever
lost.

In the mean time peace was entirely restored to Ferrara: on the
fifteenth of August Castel Tealdo surrendered, and the Pope's
governor, with his foreign guard, quitted the territories of the
marquess of Este. Galeazzo Visconti returned to Milan, but still
Castruccio lingered: he wished to go; he found himself out of place
as a dangling courtier in the train of Obizzo; but how could he
leave Beatrice? What did she expect or wish? The passionate
tenderness that she evinced, could not be an ephemeral spark of
worthless love; and how often did the We, she used in talking of
futurity, make him pause when he wished to speak of their
separation! She seemed happy; her words flowed in rich abundance,
and were adorned with various imagery and with delicate thoughts,
shewing that her soul, at rest from fear, wandered as it was wont
amidst the wilds of her imagination. He found her untaught,
undisciplined, but so sincere, so utterly forgetful of self, so
trusting, that he dared not speak that, which each day shewed more
clearly would be as a dagger to her heart. A thousand times he
cursed himself for having mistaken her, and imagining, inspired as
she believed herself to be, that her actions and feelings had not
been dictated by the loftiest impulses. But the time arrived, when
he was obliged to undeceive her; and the hand, that tore away the
ties her trusting heart had bound round itself, at the same time
tore away the veil which had for her invested all nature, and
shewed her life as it was--naked and appalling.

They sat in her apartment at the Malvezzi palace; she radiant,
beautiful, and happy; and, twining her lovely arms around
Castruccio, she said: "The moon will set late tomorrow--night,
and you must not venture here; and indeed for several nights it
will spread too glaring a beam. But tell me, are you become a
citizen of Ferrara? They averred that you were the head of a noble
city; but I see they must have been mistaken, or the poor city must
totter strangely, so headless as your absence must make it. How is
this, my only friend? Are you not Antelminelli? Are we not to go to
Lucca?"

Castruccio could not stand the questioning of her soft yet
earnest eyes; he withdrew himself from her arms, and taking her
hands in his, kissed them silently. "How is my noble
lord?" she repeated, "have you had ill news? are you
again banished? that cannot be, or methinks my heart would have
told me the secret. Yet, if you are, be not unhappy:--your own
Beatrice, with prophetic words, and signs from heaven that lead the
multitude, will conduct you to greater glory and greater power than
you before possessed. My gentle love, you have talked less about
yourself, and about your hopes and desires, than I should have
wished:--Do not think me a foolish woman, tied to an embroidery
frame, or that my heart would not beat high at the news of your
success, or that with my whole soul I should not enter into your
plans, and tell you how the stars looked upon your intents. In
truth my mind pants for fitting exertion; and, in being joined to
thee, dearest love, I thought that I had found the goal for which
heaven had destined me. Nay, look not away from me; I do not
reproach thee; I know that, in finding thee, in being bound to thy
fate, mine is fulfilled; and I am happy. Now speak--tell me what
has disturbed thy thoughts."

"Sweetest Beatrice, I have nothing to tell; yet I have for
many days wished to speak; for in truth I must return to
Lucca."

The quick sensations of Beatrice could not be deceived. The
words of Castruccio were too plain; she looked at him, as if she
would read the secret in his soul,--she did read it:--his downcast
eyes, confused air, and the words he stammered out in explanation,
told her every thing. The blood rushed to her face, her neck, her
hands; and then as suddenly receding, left even her lips pale. She
withdrew her arms from the soft caress she had bestowed; playfully
she had bound his head with her own hair and the silken strings
entangled with his; she tore her tresses impatiently to disengage
herself from him; then, trembling, white, and chilled, she sat
down, and said not a word. Castruccio looked on with fear; he
attempted consolation.

"I shall visit thee again, my own Beatrice; for a time we
must part;-- the viscountess--the good bishop--you cannot leave
them,--fear not but that we shall meet again."

"We shall meet again!" she exclaimed with a passionate
voice; "Never!"

Her tone, full of agitation and grief, sunk into the soul of
Castruccio. He took her hand; it was lifeless; he would have kissed
her; but she drew back coldly and sadly. His words had not been
those of the heart; he had hesitated and paused: but now
compassion, and the memory of what she had been, awoke his powers,
and he said warmly, and with a voice whose modulations seemed tuned
by love: "You mistake me, Beatrice; indeed you do. I love
you;--who could help loving one so true, so gentle, and so
trusting?--we part for a while;--this is necessary. Does not your
character require it? the part you act in the world? every
consideration of honour and delicacy?--Do you think that I can ever
forget you? does not your own heart tell you, that your love, your
caresses, your sweet eyes, and gentle words, have woven a net which
must keep me for ever? You will remain here, and I shall go; but a
few suns, a few moons, and we shall meet again, and the joy of that
moment will make you forget our transient separation."

How cold were these words to the burning heart of the
prophetess; she, who thought that Heaven had singled out Castruccio
to unite him to her, who thought that the Holy Spirit had revealed
himself to bless their union, that, by the mingled strength of his
manly qualities, and her divine attributes, some great work might
be fulfilled on earth; who saw all as God's command, and done
by his special interposition; to find this heavenly tissue swept
away, beaten down, and destroyed! It was to his fortunes, good or
bad, that she had bound herself, to share his glory or soothe his
griefs; and not to be the mistress of the passing hour, the distaff
of the spinning Hercules. It was her heart, her whole soul she had
given; her understanding, her prophetic powers, all the little
universe that with her ardent spirit she grasped and possessed, she
had surrendered, fully, and without reserve; but alas! the most
worthless part alone had been accepted, and the rest cast as dust
upon the winds. How in this moment did she long to be a winged
soul, that her person heedlessly given, given only as a part of
that to the whole of which he had an indefeasible right, and which
was now despised, might melt away from the view of the despiser,
and be seen no more! The words of her lover brought despair, not
comfort; she shook her head in silence; Castruccio spoke again and
again; but many words are dangerous where there is much to conceal,
and every syllable he uttered laid bare some new forgery of her
imagination, and shewed her more and more clearly the harsh
reality. She was astounded, and drank in his words eagerly, though
she answered not; she was impatient when he was silent, for she
longed to know the worst; yet she dared not direct the course of
his explanations by a single enquiry: she was as a mother, who
reads the death--warrant of her child on the physician's brow,
yet blindly trusting that she decyphers ill, will not destroy the
last hope by a question. Even so she listened to the assurances of
Castruccio, each word being a fresh assurance of her misery, yet
not stamping that last damning seal on her despair.