Valperga (44 page)

Thus she thought, as she saw the country, late so beautiful, the
Earth, lovely as a young mother nursing her only care, now as wild
and forlorn as that mother if she be ruthlessly bereft of her
infant. The fields were hardened by frost; and the flood lay
moveless and white over the plain; the hills were covered with
snow. It was a grievous change from the smiles of summer; but it
did not last long; and thaw quickly reversed the scene. The earth
was again alive; and the rivers and floods again filled the air
with sound. Euthanasia resolved to wait only until the season
should be somewhat more advanced, to make her long delayed journey
to Florence.

WHILE Euthanasia yet remained at Lucca in this uncertain manner,
a circumstance occurred which caused her to suspend the
preparations for her journey. Late one night (it was nearly twelve
o'clock), the visit of a stranger was announced; a man, they
said, so wrapped up in his capuchin, that his physiognomy could not
be distinguished. Why did Euthanasia's heart beat fast, and the
colour desert her warm lips? What could she hope or fear? The man
was admitted, and one glance sufficed to satisfy her curiosity, and
to quiet her trembling expectation. He was one of the meaner class;
and, when he threw back his cloak, Euthanasia perceived that he was
an entire stranger to her; but there was a kindness, a rough
sensibility in his face, that pleased her, and she gently enquired
what he had to say to her.

"Noble countess, I come on a work of charity, which would
ruin me for ever if my superiors were to discover it. I am the
gaoler of the Lucchese prison; and this morning the Dominican
inquisitors put under my custody a Paterin woman, whom it would
move any soul but theirs to behold. She has touched me with the
greatest pity by her tears and heart-breaking intreaties: she
denies her heresy, and says that you can prove her faith; but she
must see you first; and I, at peril of all that I am worth, am come
to conduct you to her dungeon, for I can admit you only by night.
Surely you will come; poor thing, she is very young and fearful,
and is now lying on the floor of her prison panting with terror and
expectation."

"Unfortunate creature! Did she tell you her name?"

"She says that you do not know it; but she intreats you to
remember a pilgrim girl, whom you once received at your castle, and
whom you pitied; a sun-burnt, way-worn creature who said that she
was on the way to Rome."

"I do not recollect; but if she is unhappy, and desires to
see me, it is enough, I follow you."

Euthanasia wrapped her capuchin around her, and followed the man
through the dark, wet streets of Lucca: the thaw had not yet
completed its work; the snow was deep and miry under their feet;
while the melting collections of several days dripped, or rather
streamed from the house-roofs on their heads: the Libeccio blew a
warm, cloud- bringing wind, that made the night so black, that they
could not avoid the standing pools that interspersed the streets.
At length they arrived at the prison; the gaoler entered by a
small, low door which he carefully closed after them, and then
struck a light. He led Euthanasia through the bare and mildewed
vaults, sometimes unlocking a massy gate, drawing back the harsh
bolts which grated with rust and damp; sometimes they emerged into
a passage open to the sky, but narrow, with tall black walls about
it, which dropped their melted snow with a continual and sullen
splash upon the pavement: small, glassless, grated windows looked
into these strait passages; these were the holes that admitted
light into the dungeons. At length they ascended a small, broken
staircase of wood; and, opening a door at the head of it, and
consigning his lamp to the countess, the gaoler said: "She is
here; comfort her; in two hours I shall come to conduct you
back."

Euthanasia entered the prison-chamber, awe-stricken and
trembling; for the good ever feel humiliated at the sight of
misfortune in others: the poor prisoner was seated crouched in a
corner; she looked wildly towards the door; and, seeing Euthanasia,
she leaped up, and, throwing herself at her feet, clinging to her
knees, and clasping them with convulsive strength, she said,
"Save me! You alone on earth can save me."

Poor Euthanasia was moved to tears; she raised the sufferer,
and, taking her in her arms, tried to soothe her: the prisoner only
sobbed, leaning her head upon Euthanasia's hand: "Fear
not, you shall be saved; poor sufferer, calm yourself; speak, what
would you with me? fear not, no harm shall reach you; I will be
your friend."

"Will you indeed--indeed--be my friend? and go to him, and
bid him save me? He alone can do it."

"Who? Speak calmly, dearest; pause awhile; reassure
yourself, and then speak. Look, you are safe in my arms; I clasp
them round you, do not fear!"

The prisoner sunk in Euthanasia's embrace: she was chilled,
icy- cold;--and she lay panting, as a bleeding fawn who gazes on
its death's wound. The warmth of Euthanasia's arms somewhat
restored her; and she said, dividing the entangled strings of her
hair with her thin fingers; "You do not remember me, nor would
he; I am as unlike what I was when he saw me, as is the yellow,
fallen leaf to the bright-green foliage of May. You do not remember
me?"

"Yes, now it flashes on my memory; are you then
indeed--" Euthanasia paused; the name of Beatrice hovered on
her lips, but a feeling of delicacy prevented her from speaking it:
she continued; "Yes, I recollect the pilgrim, your refusal to
remain at Valperga, and the deep interest I took in your
sorrows."

"You were very, very kind; are you not so now? Will you not
go to him, and ask him to order my release?"

"To whom am I to go? and from whom do I come?" asked
Euthanasia, half- smiling; for, notwithstanding the prisoner
recalled to her memory a scene, which made it appear that she was
certainly Beatrice; yet so long had all trace of her been lost,
that she wished for some confirmation from her own lips.

"Alas!" replied the unhappy girl, "I would not
have him know, if I could help it. Do you think that, if you were
to tell him that a poor girl, who five years ago had just attained
her seventeenth year, who was then happy, loving and adored,--who
is now pursued for heresy-- falsely--or if you will--truly; one
very unfortunate, who earnestly implores him as he loves his own
soul, to save her; do you not think he would compassionate
me?"

"Who? you speak in riddles."

"In riddles! Are you not Euthanasia? You must know whom I
mean; why, Antelminelli,--Castruccio."

The prison hid her face with her hands. She blushed deeply, and
her fast-falling tears trickled through her fingers; Euthanasia
blushed also, a tremulous hectic, that quickly vanished, while her
companion's cheeks still burned.

"Yes, I will go to him, or to any one on earth to save
you.--Yet methinks I had better go to the father-inquisitors; I am
known to them, and I think I could as easily move them as the
prince; he is careless--"

"Oh! no--no; you must go to him: he knew me once, and
surely would compassionate me. Try him first with the echo of my
complaints, and a relation of my tears; surely his eyes, which can
look into the soul, would then be dimmed: would they not?"

Euthanasia thought of Leodino; and she was about to reply, that
warriors, politicians, and ambitious princes, such as Castruccio,
were accustomed to regard with contempt woes like hers. But she
hesitated; she would not rob him, whom she had once loved, of the
smallest mite of another's praise, however undeserved; besides,
she felt that the name of Beatrice alone would move him to
compassion, perhaps to remorse. She was therefore silent; and the
prisoner continued, with a voice of trembling earnestness,
"Try every argument first; but, if he is obdurate, then tell
him that he once knew me,--that now my fortunes are changed,--he
will guess the cause: yet perhaps he will think wrong, for that is
not the cause. Tell him I am one Beatrice;--he saw me some years
ago at the house of the good bishop of Ferrara."

The poor fallen prophetess now burst into a passion of weeping;
she wrung her hands, and tore her hair, while her companion looked
on her, unable to restrain her tears. Castruccio had described his
Beatrice, so bright, so ethereal in her loveliness, that it moved
Euthanasia's inmost soul to see what a change a very few years
had made. Perceiving the blushes and shame of the lost girl, she
concealed her knowledge of her tale, and answered only by
endeavouring to soothe her, and to assure her of her safety.

"Am I safe? I tell you that I fear, oh! how much I fear! I
am very young; I was once happy; but, since that, I have suffered
beyond human utterance; yet I dread death; and, more than all, do I
fear pain. They call me a heretic; aye," (and her dark eyes
beamed fiercely) "I am one; I do not belong to their maudlin
creed; I feel my wrongs, and I dare curse--But, hush, not so
loud.--You pardon me, do you not? Alas! if you turn against me,
they seize on me, tear me, burn me!"

The two hours had swiftly passed, while Beatrice thus wept with
alternate passion. The gaoler came to reconduct Euthanasia; but
Beatrice clung to her, clasping her neck, and intwining her fingers
in her long thick hair. "No! no! You must not go!" she
cried; "I shall die, if I am again left alone. Oh! before you
came, I sometimes felt as if I did not know where I was, and
madness seemed about to fall on me: you are good, consolatory,
kind; you must not leave me."

"Then I cannot see the prince; I cannot intercede for your
liberation."

"But that is many hours hence, and the comfortable
day-light will be come; now it is quite dark; hark to the splashing
water, and the howling of the Libeccio; I had forgotten all that;
and now they come upon me with ten-fold horror; do not leave
me!"

Euthanasia could hardly distinguish the suppliant's features
by the light of the gaoler's small lamp; but she saw her eyes
bright with tears, and felt her bosom throb against her own; again
she strove to console her; reason was thrown away;--when the gaoler
urged his, her own, every one's safety--she shook her head.

"I thought you were kind; but you are not: my cheeks are
pale with fear; put up your lamp to them that you may see. She can
go early, the moment day dawns,--indeed she shall go then, but now
she must not."

Euthanasia tore herself away; though her heart was pierced by
the wild shriek of Beatrice, as she threw herself on the floor. The
gaoler led her through the melancholy passages of the prison, and
then along the wet streets, until she reached her home: and she
retired to meditate during the remaining hours of night on the
words she should employ in her representations to Castruccio the
following morning.

The expectation of this meeting flushed her cheeks, and made her
deep eyes beam, while every limb trembled. She had not seen him so
long that his assumed power, his tyrannies, and mean politics, were
lost in her recollection; she felt as if she should again see him
honest, passion-breathing, and beautiful, as when they took sweet
counsel together at Valperga. Valperga! that was now a black and
hideous ruin, and he the author of its destruction. But she
thought, "This is a dream;--I shall see him, and it will
vanish; there is a coil wound round me of sorrow and distrust,
which will snap beneath his smile, and free me,--I shall see
him!

"Why do I think of myself? I go to free this poor girl,
whom he has wronged, and to whom he belongs far more than to me;
this unhappy Beatrice, who sheds tears of agony in her dungeon. I
am nothing; I go as nothing; would that he should not recognize me!
I go a suppliant for another, and I must tame my looks: they are
not proud; but I must teach them humility; I must school my heart
not to speak, not to think of itself--I go for her; and, having
obtained my request, I will come away, forgetful that I am any
thing."

Day dawned; day, cold, wet, and cloudy, but ever cheerful to one
weighed down by the sense of darkness and inaction: day did not
dawn this dreary winter morning, until seven o'clock, and the
period had arrived when it was fitting that Euthanasia should seek
Castruccio. She threw a veil over her shining hair, while she hid
her form in a rich cloak of sables; then she stole out alone; for
she could not endure that any one should know of this strange
visit. When she arrived at the Palazzo del Governo, her rich attire
and distinguished mien won her easy entrance, and she penetrated to
the cabinet of the prince.

Her heart beat audibly; she had entered with rapid, though light
steps; now she paused; and, as it were gathering up the straggling
feelings of her mind, she endeavoured to bind them in a firm knot;
she resolved to calm herself, to still the convulsive motion of her
lips, to remember nothing but Beatrice. She entered; Antelminelli
was alone; he was at a table reading a paper, and a smile of light
derision played upon his features; he raised on her his dark,
piercing eyes, and seeing a lady before him, he rose; in a moment
Euthanasia was self-possessed and resolved; and casting back her
cloak, and throwing aside her veil, her eyes lifted up, yet not
fixed on him, she began in her silver voice to say, "My lord,
I come--"

But he was too much thunderstruck to listen; his cheeks glowed
with pleasure; all the anger and indifference he had nourished
vanished in her presence, and he broke forth in a torrent of wonder
and thanks.

She waved her hand,--"Do not thank me, but listen; for I
come on a message, an errand of charity; and if you can, hear me,
and forget who it is that speaks."

He smiled, and replied; "Certainly it were easy not to see
the sun when it shines: but, whatever your errand may be, speak it
not yet;-- if you come to make a request, I shall grant it
instantly, and then you will go; but pause awhile first, that I may
look on you; it is a whole year since I saw you last; you are
changed, you are paler,--your eyes--but you turn away from me, as
if you were angry."