Valperga (45 page)

"I am not angry--but I am nothing.--There is a heretic, at
least a girl accused of heresy, confined in your prisons, whom I
wish you to free, and, for the love of Heaven, not by the shortest
delay to add another moment of sorrow to her heap: she has suffered
much."

"A heretic! that is beyond my jurisdiction; I do not meddle
with religion."

"Yes, you do;--you see priests every day: but I intreat you
not to oblige me to argue with you; listen to me a few moments, and
I shall say no more. She is very unfortunate, and fears death and
pain with a horror that almost deprives her of reason; she is
young; and it is piteous to see one scarcely more than twenty years
of age, under the fangs of these bloodhounds; she was once happy;
alas! pity her, since she feels to the very centre of her heart the
change from joy to grief."

"Yet no harm will happen to her, at most a few months'
imprisonment: if she dread death and pain, she will of course
recant and be freed; what will she suffer for so short a
time?"

"Fear; the worst of evils, far worse than death. I would
fain persuade you to throw aside this hard-heartedness, which is
not natural to you; moments are years, if they are lengthened out
by pain; every minute that she lives in her dungeon is to her a
living death of agony; but I will tell you her name,--at her
request I wished to conceal it: but that will win you, if you are
not already won by the sweet hope of saving one who suffers
torments you can never know."

"Euthanasia, do not look so gloomily; I am not thinking of
your heretic; I hesitate, that I may keep you here: you have your
will; I will never refuse a request of yours."

A smile of fleeting disdain passed over her countenance.
"Nay, when you know who she is, you may grant my prayer for
her own sake. I come from Beatrice, the daughter of Wilhelmina of
Bohemia."

If the ghost of the poor prophetess had suddenly arisen, it
could not have astounded Castruccio more, than to hear her name
thus spoken by Euthanasia, coupled with the appellations of heretic
and prisoner. The tide of his life ebbed; and, when it flowed
again, he thought of the celestial Beatrice, her light step, her
almost glorious presence; and the memory of her pale cheek and
white lips when he last saw her, thrilled his heart. Years had
passed since then; what had she suffered? What was she? A heretic?
Alas! she was the daughter of Wilhelmina, the nursling of Magfreda,
the ward of a leper, the adopted child of the good bishop of
Ferrara.

Euthanasia saw the great confluence of passions, which agitated
Castruccio, and made him alternately pale and red; she was silent,
her quiet eyes beaming upon him in compassion; for a long time his
heart could not find a voice, but at length he
spoke,--"Hasten! hasten! free her, take her to you!
Euthanasia, you are the angel itself of charity; you know all her
sad story--all that relates to me; calm her, console her, make her
herself again,--poor, poor Beatrice!"

"Farewell then; I go,--send one of your officers with the
order; I will hasten to her, as quickly as you can wish."

"Yet pause, stay one moment; shall I never see you again?
You have cast me off utterly; yet, I pray you, be happy. Why should
you be pale and sorrowful? you have other friends; must all that
love me, mourn? Surely I am not a devil, that all I touch must
wither. Beware! tear the veil from your heart; read, read its
inmost secrets, and eternal words imprinted in its core; you do not
despise me, you love me,--be mine."

The pale cheek of Euthanasia was flushed, her eyes flashed
fire,-- "Never! tie myself to tyranny, to slavery, to war, to
deceit, to hate? I tell thee I am as free as air. But I am hurried
far beyond the bounds I prescribed for myself, and now not a word
more."

"Yes, one word more; not of yourself, wild enthusiast, but
of Beatrice. I destroyed her; not that I knew what I did; but
heedlessly, foolishly, destroyed her; do you then repair my work; I
would give half my soul that she should be as when I first saw her.
You have heard a part of her story, and you will now perhaps learn
those sufferings which she has endured since we parted; it is
doubtless a strange and miserable tale; but do you be the
ministering angel of mercy and love to her."

Sorrow and even humiliation were marked on Castruccio's
countenance; Euthanasia looked at it, almost for the first time
since she had entered; she sighed softly, and said nearly in a
whisper, "Alas! that you should no longer be what you once
were!"

Pride now returned and swelled every feature of Castruccio;
"Enough, enough: whatever wine of life I drain, I mingled it
myself. Euthanasia, if we never meet again, remember, I am content;
can you be more?"

Euthanasia said not a word; she vanished, her bright presence
was gone; and Castruccio, to whom, as to the fallen arch-angel,
that line might be applied.

Vaunting aloud, though rack'd with deep despair, tearless,
his lips pressed together, sat recalling to mind her words and
looks, until, remembering his boast, he looked up with angry
defiance; and, shaking from his heart the dew of tenderness he
plunged amidst the crowd where he commanded, where his very eye was
obeyed.

Euthanasia hastened to the prison, where the kind-hearted gaoler
led her with a face of joyful triumph to the dungeon of Beatrice;
the poor thing was sleeping, the traces of tears were on her cheeks
(for like a child she had cried herself to sleep), and several
times she started uneasily. Euthanasia made a sign to the gaoler to
be silent, and knelt down beside her, looking at her countenance,
once so gloriously beautiful; the exquisite carving of her well
shaped eyelids, her oval face, and pointed chin still shewed signs
of what she had been; the rest was lost. Her complexion was
sunburnt, her hands very thin and yellow, and care had already
marked her sunken cheeks and brow with many lines; her jet black
hair was mingled with grey; her long tresses had been cut, and now
reached only to her neck; while, strait and thin, they were the
shadow merely of what they had been; her face, her whole person was
emaciated, worn and faded. She awoke and beheld the eyes of
Euthanasia, like heaven itself, clear and deep, gazing on
her.--"Arise, poor sufferer, you are free!"

Beatrice looked wildly; then, starting up, she clapped her hands
in a transport of joy, she threw herself at the feet of her
deliverer, she embraced the gaoler, she was frantic. "Free!
free!" for some time she could repeat no other word. At length
she said, "Pardon me; yesterday I was rude and selfish; I
tormented and reproached you, who are all kindness. And you,
excellent man, you will forgive me, will you not? What was it that
I feared? Now that I am going to leave my dungeon, methinks it is a
good cell enough, and I could stay here always well content; it is
somewhat dark and cold, but one can wrap oneself up, and shut
one's eyes, and fancy one's self under the sun of
heaven."

She continued prattling, and would have said much more, but that
Euthanasia with gentle force drew her from the dungeon, out of the
gloomy prison; and they hastened to her palace, where Beatrice was
quickly refreshed by a bath and food. But, when the first joy of
liberation was passed, she sunk to melancholy: she would not speak,
but sat listlessly, and her tears fell in silence. Euthanasia tried
to comfort her; but many days passed, during which she continued
sullen and intractable.

In the mean time Euthanasia received several billets from
Castruccio, with earnest enquiries concerning the welfare of this
poor girl. "God knows," he wrote, "what has happened
to this unfortunate being since we parted. My heart is agonized,
not only for what she suffers, but for what she may have suffered.
She is now, they say, a heretic, a Paterin, one who believes in the
ascendancy of the evil spirit in the world; poor insane girl!
Euthanasia, for her soul's sake, and for mine which must answer
for hers, reason with her, and convert her; be to her as an
affectionate sister, an angel of peace and pardon. I leave the
guidance of her future destiny to your judgement: but do not lose
sight of her. What do I ask of you? And what right have I to bring
upon you the burthen of my faults? But you are good, and will
forgive me."

EUTHANASIA was meditating on this letter, when Beatrice entered,
and sat down beside her. She took her hand, and kissed it, and then
said, "How can you forgive my ingratitude? I am self-willed,
sullen, and humorous; alas! sometimes the memory of the evils I
have suffered presses on me, and I forget all my duties. Duties!
until I knew you I had none; for five years my life has been one
scene of despair: you cannot tell what a fall mine was."

"Forget, I do intreat you, poor sufferer, all your past
unhappiness; forget every thing that you once were."

"Aye, you say right; I must forget every thing, or to be
what I am must torture me to despair. Poor, misled, foolish,
insensate Beatrice! I can accuse myself alone for my many ills;
myself, and that power who sits on high, and scatters evil like dew
upon the earth, a killing, blighting honey dew."

"Hush! my poor girl, do not talk thus; indeed I must not
have you utter these sentiments."

"Oh! let me speak: before all others I must hide my
bursting feelings, deep, deep. Yet for one moment let me
curse!"

Beatrice arose; she pointed to heaven; she stood in the same
attitude, as when she had prophesied to the people of Ferrara under
the portico of the church of St. Anna; but how changed! Her form
thin; her face care-worn; her love-formed lips withered; her hands
and arms, then so round and fair, now wrinkled and faded; her eyes
were not the same; they had lost that softness which, mingling with
their fire, was as something wonderful in brilliancy and beauty;
they now, like the sun from beneath a thunder cloud, glared
fiercely from under her dark and scattered hair that shaded her
brow: but even now, as in those times, she spoke with tumultuous
eloquence:

"Euthanasia, you are much deceived; you either worship a
useless shadow, or a fiend in the clothing of a god. Listen to me,
while I announce to you the eternal and victorious influence of
evil, which circulates like air about us, clinging to our flesh
like a poisonous garment, eating into us, and destroying us. Are
you blind, that you see it not? Are you deaf, that you hear no
groans? Are you insensible, that you feel no misery? Open your
eyes, and you will behold all of which I speak, standing in hideous
array before you. Look around. Is there not war, violation of
treaties, and hard-hearted cruelty? Look at the societies of men;
are not our fellow creatures tormented one by the other in an
endless circle of pain? Some shut up in iron cages, starved and
destroyed; cities float in blood, and the hopes of the husbandman
are manured by his own mangled limbs: remember the times of our
fathers, the extirpation of the Albigenses;--the cruelties of
Ezzelin, when troops of the blind, and the lame, and the mutilated,
the scum of his prisons, inundated the Italian states. Remember the
destruction of the templars. Did you never glance in thought into
the tower of famine of Ugolino; or into the hearts of the armies of
exiles, that each day the warring citizens banish from their homes?
Did you never reflect on the guilty policy of the Popes, those
ministers of the reigning king of heaven? Remember the Sicilian
vespers; the death of the innocent Conradin; the myriads whose
bones are now bleached beneath the sun of Asia: they went in honour
of His name, and thus He rewards them.

"Then reflect upon domestic life, on the strife, hatred and
uncharitableness, that, as sharp spears, pierce one's bosom at
every turn; think of jealousy, midnight murders, envy, want of
faith, calumny, ingratitude, cruelty, and all which man in his
daily sport inflicts upon man. Think upon disease, plague, famine,
leprosy, fever, and all the aching pains our limbs suffer withal;
visit in thought the hospital, the lazar house; Oh! surely
God's hand is the chastening hand of a father, that thus
torments his children! His children? his eternal enemies! look, I
am one! He created the seeds of disease, maremma, thirst, want; he
created man,--that most wretched of slaves; oh! know you not what a
wretch man is? and what a store house of infinite pain is this
much-vaunted human soul? Look into your own heart; or, if that be
too peaceful, gaze on mine; I will tear it open for your
inspection. There is remorse, hatred, grief--overwhelming, mighty,
and eternal misery. God created me: am I the work of a beneficent
being? Oh, what spirit mingled in my wretched frame love, hope,
energy, confidence,--to find indifference, to be blasted to
despair, to be as weak as the fallen leaf, to be betrayed by all!
Now I am changed,--I hate;--my energy is spent in curses, and if I
trust, it is to be the more deeply wounded.

"Did not the power you worship create the passions of man;
his desires which outleap possibility, and bring ruin upon his
head? Did he not implant the seeds of ambition, revenge and hate?
Did he not create love, the tempter: he who keeps the key of that
mansion whose motto must ever be Lasciate ogni speranza voi che
intrate.

And the imagination, that masterpiece of his malice; that
spreads honey on the cup that you may drink poison; that strews
roses over thorns, thorns sharp and big as spears; that semblance
of beauty which beckons you to the desert; that apple of gold with
the heart of ashes; that foul image, with the veil of excellence;
that mist of the maremma, glowing with roseate hues beneath the
sun, that creates it, and beautifies it, to destroy you; that
diadem of nettles; that spear, broken in the heart! He, the damned
and triumphant one, sat meditating many thousand years for the
conclusion, the consummation, the final crown, the seal of all
misery, which he might set on man's brain and heart to doom him
to endless torment; and he created the Imagination. And then we are
told the fault is ours; good and evil are sown in our hearts, and
ours is the tillage, ours the harvest; and can this justify an
omnipotent deity that he permits one particle of pain to subsist in
his world? Oh, never.