Valperga (50 page)

"But it is here also that Poetry and Imagination live; it
is here that Heroism, and Self-sacrifice, and the highest virtues
dwell, and here they find a lore far better than all the lessons of
the world; and here dwells the sweet reward of all our toil,
Content of Mind, who crowned with roses, and bearing a
flower--wreathed sceptre, rules, instead of Conscience, those
admitted to her happy dominion."

Euthanasia talked thus, trying to give birth in the mind of
Beatrice to calmer ideas; but it was in vain; the poor girl
listened, and when her friend had finished, she raised her eyes
heavy with tears. "Talk no more in this strain," she
said; "every word you utter tells me only too plainly what a
lost wretch I am. No content of mind exists for me, no beauty of
thought, or poetry; and, if imagination live, it is as a tyrant,
armed with fire, and venomed darts, to drive me to
despair."

A torrent of tears followed these words; and no caresses or
consolation could soothe her.

Soon after, Euthanasia received an answer from Castruccio to the
letter in which she had sketched Beatrice's unhappy story. He
lamented the misfortunes, which through his means had overwhelmed
the poor prophetess. "I know," he continued, "of no
refuge or shelter for her, if it be not in your protecting
affection. If she were as when I knew her, her own feelings might
suggest a cloister, as the last resource for one so outraged and so
miserable as she is. But she is a Paterin; and, until she be
reclaimed from this detestable heresy, she is shut out from the
consolations of our religion."

"And he writes thus coldly of this ruined temple, which was
once all that is fair and beautiful! Ah! I wonder not,"
thought Euthanasia, "that he cast away my affections, since he
can spare no deeper sympathy for Beatrice. She does not interfere
with his ambition or his designs; it is therefore hardness of heart
alone which dictates his chilling councils."

At this moment Beatrice entered. To see that beautiful creature
only (for beautiful she still was in spite of calamity and
madness), was to behold all that can be imagined of soft and lovely
in woman, soft and lovely, yet wild, so that, while you gazed with
delight, you feared. Her low brow, though its fairness were
tarnished by the sun, still gleamed beneath her raven-black hair;
her eyes, which had reassumed some of their ancient gentleness,
slept as it were beneath their heavy lids. Her angry look, which
was lightning, her smile, which was as paradise, all elevated her
above her fellow creatures; she seemed like the incarnation of some
strange planetary spirit, that, robed in flesh, felt uneasy in its
bonds, and longed to be away on the wings of its own will.

She spoke with trepidation: "Do not blush, my friend, or
endeavour to conceal that paper; I know what it is; and, if you
care for my peace of mind, if you love me, if the welfare of my
almost lost soul be dear to you, let me see that writing."

"There is no consolation for you in it," replied
Euthanasia, sadly.

"Now, of that I alone can judge; look, I kneel to you,
Euthanasia; and do you deny me? I intreat you to give me that
paper."

"My own Beatrice, do not torture me thus: if I do not shew
it you-- Never mind: here it is; read it, and know what Castruccio
is."

Beatrice read it with a peaceful air; and then, folding in up,
said composedly;--"I see no ill in this; and his will shall be
done. It is a strange coincidence, that I had already decided on
what he advises; and I trust he will be glad to find that the
wandering prophetess again seeks her ancient path of religion and
peace. I must explain these things to you, my Euthanasia. I know
that you wish to remove to Florence: I can never leave this town. I
shall never see him again, hear him speak, or be any thing to him;
but to live within the same walls, to breathe the air of heaven
which perhaps has hovered near him, this is a joy which I will
never, never forego. My resolution is fixed: but you perish here;
and would find loving and cherished friends there, where he can
never come. I would not detain you; I have chosen the mode of my
future destiny, and planned it all. The convent nearest to his
palace is one of nuns dedicated to San Michele. I have already sent
for the confessor of that convent; through him I shall make my
peace with the church; and, when he believes me sufficiently pure
to become an inhabitant of those sainted walls, I shall enter
myself as a novice, and afterwards become a nun of that order. I
intreat you, dearest, to stay only till my vows are made, when,
wholly dedicated to heaven, I shall feel less an earthly
separation."

She spoke in a hurried, faltering voice, and closed her speech
in tears; she threw herself into Euthanasia's arms, and they
both wept.-- "Oh! no, unhappy, but dear, dear Beatrice, indeed
you shall not leave me. I can be of little use now in the world to
myself or others: but to cheer you, to teach you, as well as my
poor skill will permit, the softest path to heaven, these shall be
my tasks; you shall never leave me."

Beatrice disengaged herself from the arms of Euthanasia; and,
casting up her eyes, with that look of inspiration which seemed to
seek and find converse with the powers above, she said: "I
thank you from the depth of my heart, and may God bless you as you
deserve, divine Euthanasia; but I am fixed. Alas! my mind is as the
waters, now lashed into waves by the winds of circumstance, now
coldly dark under a lowering heaven, but never smiled upon by the
life-giving sun. And this perishable frame is to my soul as a weak,
tempest-beaten promontory, against which the Libeccio impels the
undermining sea. I shall soon perish: but let my death be that of
the holy; and that can alone be in the solitude of a cloister: that
is the consummation of my fate. Oppose me no more: has not he
pronounced? And I will obey his word, as if he were my king, my
lord, my--Speak not; contradict me not; you see what a fragile
being I am."

And now this Beatrice, this Paterin, who had so lately with
heartfelt hatred told the tale of all the miseries that are
suffered under the sun, and cursed the author of them, became as
docile to the voice of the priest, as a seven-years-old child. The
confessor for whom she had sent, found it no difficult task to turn
her mind to the reception of his tenets; and prayer and penitence
became again for her the law of the day. She never went out; she
remained secluded in Euthanasia's palace; and, with her beads
in her hand, her wild eyes turned heavenwards, she sought for
peace, and she found at least a respite from some of the dreadful
feelings that had hitherto tormented her.

In the mean time "the mother of the months" had many
times waned, and again refilled her horn; and summer, and its
treasure of blue skies, odorous flowers, merry insects, and
sweet-voiced birds, again bade the world be happy. The peasant
prepared the threshing floor, choosing a sunny spot which he
carefully cleared of grass and weeds, and pouring water on it, beat
it, till it was as hard as a barn-floor in the north. The ploughs,
whose rough workmanship Virgil describes, lay useless beside the
tilth, now filled with the rising corn: the primroses had faded;
but one began to scent the myrtle on the mountains; the innumerable
fireflies, loving the green wheat, made a second heaven of
twinkling stars upon a verdant floor, or, darting among the olive
copses, formed a fairy scene of the sweet Italian night; the
soft-eyed oxen reposed in their stalls; and the flowers of the
chestnuts and olives had given place to the young, half-formed
fruit. This is the season that man has ever chosen for the
destruction of his fellow-creatures, to make the brooks run blood,
the air, filled with the carolling of happy birds, to echo also to
the groans and shrieks of the dying, and the blue and serene heaven
to become tainted with the dew which the unburied corpse exhales;
winter were Bellona's fitting mate; but, no; she hangs about
the neck of summer, who would fain shake her off, as might well be
expected for so quarrelsome a bride.

Castruccio now possessed the whole territory of Lucca and
several other circumjacent provinces, in peace and obedience. But
his eyes were always turned towards Florence; and his most ardent
wish was to humble, if not possess himself of, that city. He made
another step towards it during the summer. The abbot of Pacciana
got by popular favour entire power in Pistoia; he used this in
behalf of Castruccio, turning out the Florentine ambassadors, and
giving up to the prince of Lucca many of the strong-holds and
towers of the Pistoian territory. Castruccio was possessed of the
fortresses placed on the mountain which overlooked the town, where
he hovered, like a hawk over his prey, ready to pounce, delaying
only for the destined minute.

During this summer also he conceived some hopes of taking Pisa.
The head of the government there, who reigned entirely through the
affections of the people, suddenly offended his masters; he was
decapitated; and the various parties in the town, running to arms,
entered into a bloody warfare. At this moment Castruccio appeared
with his army on the hill of St. Giuliano: this sight pacified the
combatants; they elected a new lord, and turned their powers
towards resisting the common enemy. Castruccio retreated to Lucca;
but he was so moved by the overthrow of the Pisan chief, that,
resolving to trust no more, as he had hitherto done, to the
affections of his people, he erected in the same year a strong
fortress within the walls of his city, which he called Agosta. He
spared no expense or labour in it; and it was considered by all as
the most magnificent work of those days: it was situated in that
part of the town which looks towards Pisa, surrounded by a strong
and high wall, and fortified by thirty towers. The inhabitants of a
whole quarter were turned out of their dwellings, to make room for
this new symbol of tyranny; and here he, his family, and followers,
lived in proud security.

Towards the end of the month of June, Euthanasia, who had
hitherto been occupied in attending to the sorrows of Beatrice,
received information, that one of her most valued Florentine
friends was dangerously ill, and earnestly desired her attendance.
She mentioned this to her guest; and Beatrice, ever variable, was
then in a docile mood. She had long listened with deep and earnest
faith to the lessons of Padre Lanfranco, the confessor of the
convent to which she was about to retire. It would seem that this
old man humoured warily and wisely her disturbed understanding; for
she appeared at peace with herself and others: if she now wept, she
did not accuse, as she had before done, Him who had created the
fountain of her tears.

"Go, kind friend," said she to Euthanasia; "go;
but return again. Remember, I claim your companionship, until I
take the veil,--then you are free. Methinks, I should like to be
left now in utter solitude; I could commune more intensely with the
hopes and heavenly gifts that I entertain. Go; blessed spirit of
Good, guardian Angel of poor Beatrice, poor in all but
gratitude,--you shall not see your work marred on your return; you
will still find me the good, obedient child, which I have been,
now, I think, for more than a month."

Euthanasia left her with pain, and with a mournful presentiment;
but, as all wore the aspect of peace, she thought herself bound to
obey the voice of friendship, and to see, perhaps for the last
time, one who had been the friend and companion of her early youth;
and she departed for Florence. There were for her too many
associations allied to the Val di Nievole, to permit her to choose
that route. Besides Castruccio's army occupied the passes, and
she feared to meet him. She accordingly went round by Pisa. Nothing
could be more beautiful than the country; the low Pisan hills
covered with chestnut and olive woods, interspersed with darker
patches of pine and cork (while, among all, the cypresses raised
their tapering spires), and, crowned by castles and towers, bounded
in a plain of unparalleled fertility. The corn was cutting, and the
song of the reapers kept time as it were with the noisy cicale in
the olive trees, and the chirping birds. Peace, for the first time
for several years, sat brooding with outspread wings over the land;
and underneath their blessed shade sprung joy and plenty.

Euthanasia arrived at Florence. She found her friend recovered;
but all her acquaintance, who had eagerly expected her arrival,
were much disappointed when they heard that it was her intention to
return to Lucca. She however both loved and pitied Beatrice too
much, to be wanting in any of the duties of friendship towards her.
After a month's residence in her natal and beloved city, she
again departed from Florence. In the mean time what had become of
the ill-fated prophetess?

THE Albinois Bindo had been greatly struck by the appearance of
Beatrice. There was a wildness in her countenance and gestures that
excited his curiosity; and he seemed to feel instinctively that she
had about her the marks of one who dealt with unembodied spirits.
He had ventured to speak to his mistress concerning her; but he
learnt nothing except that Ferrara was her native town. With this
slight information he visited his friend, the witch, and they
canvassed the subject together.

"Her eye sees beyond this world," said Bindo; "if
you were to look on her, you would find a companion in your art. I
have discovered that there is a mysterious connection between her
and the prince: he liberated her when she was imprisoned by the
Dominican fathers, as a Paterin, they say, but I suspect that it
was for magic."

"At any rate," replied the witch, "there is a
mystery in this that I will clear up. I will go to Ferrara, and
learn who and what she is. Expect me back in less than a month; in
the mean time watch her; watch every word and action; something may
come of this."