I promessi sposi. English

  CHAPTER XXI.

  The old woman hastened to obey, and gave orders, under authority of thatname which, by whomsoever pronounced, set the whole castle in motion, asno one imagined that any one would dare to use it unauthorised. Shereached _Malanotte_ a little before the carriage: when it was near athand, she left the litter; and making a sign to the coachman to stop,approached the window, and whispered in the ear of Nibbio the will ofher master.

  Lucy, sensible that the motion of the carriage had ceased, shook off thelethargy into which she had for some time been plunged, and in an agonyof terror looked around her. Nibbio had drawn himself back on the seat,and the old woman, resting her chin on the window, said to Lucy, "Come,my child; come, poor girl; come with me. I have orders to treat youkindly, and to offer you every consolation."

  At the sound of a female voice the unfortunate girl felt a momentaryrelief, which was, however, succeeded by deeper terror as she looked atthe person from whom it proceeded. "Who are you?" said she, anxiouslyfixing her eyes upon her.

  "Come, come, poor girl," repeated the old woman.

  Nibbio and his two companions, inferring the designs of their masterfrom the extraordinary deportment of the old woman, endeavoured topersuade the poor girl to obey; but Lucy kept gazing at the wild andsavage solitude around, which left her no ray of hope. However, sheattempted to cry out; but seeing Nibbio give a look to the handkerchief,she stopped, trembled, was seized, and then placed in the litter. Theold woman was placed beside her; and Nibbio left the two villains fortheir escort, and hastened forward at the call of his master. Lucy,aroused to momentary energy by the near approach of the deformed andwithered features of her companion, cried, "Where am I? Where are youtaking me?"

  "To one who wishes you well; to a great--you are a lucky girl; be happy,do not be afraid; be happy. He has told me to encourage you; you willtell him that I have done so, will you not?"

  "Who is this man? What is he? What does he want with me? I do not belongto him. Tell me where I am. Let me go. Tell these men to let me go, totake me to some church. Oh, you, who are a woman, in the name of theholy Virgin, I entreat you."

  This holy and tender name, so often pronounced with respect in her earlyyears, and for so long a time neglected and forgotten, produced on themind of the wretched woman, who had not heard it for so long a time, aconfused impression, like the remembrance of lights and shadows on themind of one blind from infancy.

  Meanwhile the Unknown, standing at the door of the castle, looked below,and saw the litter slowly ascending, and Nibbio walking a few steps inadvance of it. At the sight of his master, he hurried forward. "Comehere," said the signor to him, and led the way to an inner hall. "Well?"said he, stopping.--"All has been done according to your wishes,"replied Nibbio, bowing. "The order in time, the young girl in time, noone near the place, a single cry, no one alarmed, the coachman diligent,the horses swift; but----"

  "But what?"

  "But, to say truth, I would rather have received orders to plunge adagger in her heart at once, than to have been obliged to look at her,and hear her entreaties."

  "What is this? What is this? What do you mean?"

  "I would say that during the whole journey--yes, during the wholejourney--she has excited my compassion."

  "Compassion! What dost thou know of compassion? What _is_ compassion?"

  "I have never understood what it is until to-day; it is something likefear; if it takes possession of one, one is no longer a man."

  "Let me hear, then, what she has done to excite your compassion?"

  "Oh, most illustrious signor, she wept, implored, and looked sopiteously; then turned pale, pale as death; then wept, and prayed again,and said such words----"

  "I will not have this girl in the castle," thought the Unknown. "I waswrong to embark in this business; but I have promised, I have promised:when she is far away----" And looking imperiously at Nibbio, "Now," saidhe, "put an end to your compassion; mount a horse, take with you two orthree companions, if you wish; go to the castle of Don Roderick, thouknowest it. Tell him to send immediately, immediately--or otherwise----"

  But another _No_, more imperious than the first, whose sound was heardin the depth of his soul, prevented his proceeding. "_No_," said he in adetermined tone, as if expressing the command of this secretvoice,--"_no_; go to bed; and to-morrow morning you shall do what Ishall then order."

  "This girl must have some demon who protects her," thought he, as heremained alone, with his arms crossed on his breast, regarding thefitful shadows cast by the rays of the moon on the floor, which dartedthrough the grating of the lofty windows. "She must have some demon oran angel who protects her. Compassion in Nibbio! To-morrow morning,to-morrow morning at the latest, she shall be sent away; she must submitto her destiny, that is certain. And," continued he, with the tone ofone who gives a command to a wayward child, under the conviction that hewill not obey it, "we will think of it no more. This animal Don Roderickmust not come to torment me with thanks, for--I do not wish to hear herspoken of. I have served him--because I promised to do so; and Ipromised, because it was my destiny. But Don Roderick shall pay me withusury. Let us see----"

  And he endeavoured to imagine some difficult enterprise in which toengage Don Roderick as a punishment; but his thoughts involuntarilyrecurred to another subject. "Compassion in Nibbio! What has she done? Imust see her. No! Yes! I must see her."

  He passed through several halls, and arriving at the apartment of theold woman, knocked with his foot at the door.

  "Who is there?"

  "Open."

  At the sound of this voice, the old woman quickly obeyed, and flung thedoor wide open. The Unknown threw a glance around the chamber, and bythe light of the lantern, which stood on the table, saw Lucy on thefloor in one corner of it.

  "Why did you place her there?" said he, with a frowning brow.

  "She placed herself there," replied she, timidly. "I have done all Icould to encourage her; but she will not listen to me."

  "Rise," said he to Lucy, who, at the noise of his step, and at the soundof his voice, had been seized with new terror. She buried her face inher hands, and remained silent and trembling before him.

  "Rise; I will not harm you; I can befriend you," said the signor."Rise!" repeated he, in a voice of thunder, irritated at having spokenin vain.

  As if alarm had restored her exhausted strength, the unfortunate girlfell on her knees, clasped her hands on her breast, as if before asacred image, then with her eyes fixed on the earth, exclaimed, "Here Iam, murder me if you will."

  "I have already told you that I will not harm you," replied the Unknown,in a more gentle tone, gazing at her agonised and altered features.

  "Courage, courage," said the old woman. "He tells you himself that hewill not harm you."

  "And why," resumed Lucy, in a voice in which indignation and despairwere mingled with alarm and dismay,--"why make me suffer the torments ofhell? What have I done to you?"

  "Perhaps they have not treated you kindly? Speak!"

  "Oh, kindly treated! They have brought me hither by treachery and force.Why, why did they bring me? Why am I here? Where am I? I am a poorcreature. What have I done to you? In the name of God----"

  "God! God! always God!" said the Unknown. "Those who are too weak todefend themselves, always make use of the name of God, as if they knewsomething concerning him! What! do you mean by this word to make me----"and he left the sentence unfinished.

  "Oh, signor, what could I mean, a poor girl like me, except that youshould have pity on me? God pardons so many deeds for one act of mercy!Let me go; for pity, for charity, let me go. Do not make a poor creaturesuffer thus! Oh, you, who have it in your power, tell them to let me go.They brought me hither by force. Put me again in the carriage with thiswoman, and let it carry me to my mother. O holy Virgin! My mother! mymother! Perhaps she is not far from here--I thought I saw my mountains!Why do you make me suffer? Carry me to a church; I will pray for you allmy life. Does it cost you so much
to say one word? Oh, I see that youare touched! Say but the word, say it. God pardons so many deeds for oneact of mercy."

  "Oh, why is she not the daughter of one of the cowards who outlawedme?" thought the Unknown. "I should then enjoy her sufferings; butnow----"

  "Do not stifle so good an inspiration," pursued Lucy, on seeinghesitation in the countenance of her persecutor. "If you do not grant memercy, the Lord will; he will send death to relieve me, and all will beover. But you--one day, perhaps, you also--but no, no--I will pray theLord to preserve you from evil. What would it cost you to say one word?If ever you experience these torments----"

  "Well, well, take courage," said the Unknown, with a gentleness thatastonished the old woman. "Have I done you any harm? Have I menacedyou?"

  "Oh, no. I see that you have a good heart, and that you pity a poorcreature. If you chose, you could alarm me more than any of them, youcould make me die with fear; and on the contrary, you have--you havegiven me some consolation. God reward you! Accomplish the work you havebegun; save me, save me."

  "To-morrow morning."

  "Oh, save me now, now!"

  "To-morrow morning I will see you again, I tell you. Be of good courage.Rest yourself. You must need food; it shall be brought to you."

  "No, no, I shall die if any one comes into this room, I shall die. Takeme away, God will reward you."

  "A servant will bring you something to eat," said the Unknown; "andyou," continued he, turning to the old woman, "persuade her to eat, andto repose on the bed. If she consents to have you sleep with her, well;if not, you can sleep very well on the floor. Be kind to her, I say; andtake care that she makes no complaint of you."

  He hastily quitted the room, before Lucy could renew her entreaties.

  "Oh, miserable that I am! Shut, shut the door!" said Lucy, returning toseat herself in her corner. "Oh, miserable that I am! Who shall Iimplore now? Where am I? Tell me, tell me, for charity, who is thissignor? Who has been talking to me? who is he?"

  "Who is he? Do you wish me to tell you? you must wait awhile first. Youare proud, because he protects you; provided you are satisfied, nomatter what becomes of me. Ask _him_ his name. If I should tell you, hewould not speak to me so gently as he did to you. I am an old woman, Iam an old woman," continued she, grumbling: but hearing the sobs ofLucy, she remembered the threat of her master; and addressing her in aless bitter tone, "Well! I have said no harm. Be cheerful. Do not ask mewhat I cannot tell you, but have courage. How satisfied most peoplewould be, should he speak to them as he has spoken to you! Be cheerful!Directly, you shall have something to eat; and from what he said, I knowit will be something good. And then, you must lie down, and you willleave a little room for me," added she, with an accent of suppressedrancour.

  "I cannot eat; I cannot sleep. Leave me, approach me not. You will notgo away?"

  "No, no," said the old woman, seating herself on a large arm-chair, andregarding her with a mingled expression of alarm and rage. She looked atthe bed, and did not very well relish the idea of being banished from itfor the night, as it was very cold; but she hoped at least for a goodsupper. Lucy felt neither cold nor hunger; she remained stupified withgrief and terror; her ideas became vague and confused as in the deliriumof a fever.

  She shuddered at hearing a knock at the door. "Who is there?" cried she,"who is there? Don't let any one come in."

  "It is only Martha, bringing something to eat."

  "Shut, shut the door!" cried Lucy.

  "Certainly," replied the old woman. Taking a basket from the hands ofMartha, she placed it on the table, and closed the door. She invitedLucy to taste the delicious food, bestowing on it profuse praises, andon the wine too, which was such as the signor himself drank with hisfriends; but seeing that they were useless she said, "It is your ownfault, you _must_ not forget to tell him that I asked you. I will eat,however, and leave enough for you, if you should come to your senses."When her supper was finished she approached Lucy again, and renewed hersolicitations.

  "No, no, I wish nothing," replied she, in a faint and exhausted voice."Is the door shut?" she exclaimed, with momentary energy; "is it wellsecured?"

  The old woman approached the door, and showed her that it was firmlybolted. "You see," said she, "it is well fastened. Are you satisfiednow?"

  "Oh! satisfied! satisfied! in this place!" said Lucy, sinking into hercorner. "But God knows that I am here."

  "Come to bed. What would you do there, lying like a dog? How silly torefuse comforts when you can have them!"

  "No, no, leave me to myself."

  "Well, remember it is your own fault; if you wish to come to bed, youcan--I have left room enough for you; remember I have asked you veryoften." Thus saying, she drew the clothes over her, and soon all wasprofound silence.

  Lucy remained motionless, with her face buried in her hands, whichrested on her knees; she was neither awake nor asleep, but in a dreamystate of the imagination, painful, vague, and changeful. At first, sherecalled with something of self-possession the minutest circumstances ofthis horrible day; then her reason for a moment forsook its throne,vainly struggling against the phantoms conjured by uncertainty andterror; at last, weary and exhausted, she sunk on the floor, in a stateapproaching to, and resembling, sleep. But suddenly she awoke, as at aninternal call, and strove to recall her scattered senses, to know whereshe was, and why she had been brought thither. She heard a noise, andlistened; it was the heavy breathing of the old woman, in a deepslumber; she opened her eyes on the objects around her, which theflickering of the lamp, now dying in its socket, rendered confused andindistinct. But soon her recent impressions returned distinctly to hermind, and the unfortunate girl recognised her prison; and with theknowledge came associated all the terrors of this horrible day; and,overcome anew by anxiety and terror, she wished earnestly for death.She could only pray, and as the words fell from her trembling lips, shefelt her confidence revive. Suddenly a thought presented itself to hermind; that her prayer would be more acceptable if united with anoffering of something dear to her; she remembered the object to whichshe had clung for her happiness, and resolved to sacrifice it; thenclasping her hands over her chaplet, which hung upon her neck, andraising her tearful eyes to heaven, she cried, "O most holy Virgin! thouto whom I have so often prayed, and who hast so often consoled me--thouwho hast suffered so much sorrow, and art now so glorious--thou who hastperformed so many miracles for the afflicted--holy Virgin! succour me,take me from this peril, mother of God! return me safely to my mother,and I pledge myself to remain devoted to thy service; I renounce forever the unfortunate youth, and from this time devote myself to thee!"After this consecration of herself, she felt her confidence and faithincrease; she remembered the "_to-morrow morning_" uttered by theUnknown, and took it as a promise of safety. Her wearied senses yieldedto this new sentiment, and she slept profoundly and peacefully with thename of her protectress on her lips.

  But in this same castle was one who could not sleep: after havingquitted Lucy, and given orders for her supper, he had visited the postsof his fortress; but her image remained stamped on his mind, her wordsstill resounded in his ears. He retired to his chamber, and threwhimself on his bed; but in the stillness around this same image of Lucyin her desolation and anguish took possession still more absolutely ofhis thoughts, and rendered sleep hopeless. "What new feelings arethese?" thought he. "Nibbio was right; but what is there in a woman'stears to unman me thus? Did I never see a woman weep before? Ay, and howoften have I beheld their deepest agonies unmoved? But now----"

  And here he recalled, without much difficulty, many an instance whenneither prayers nor tears were able to make him swerve from hisatrocious purposes; but instead of deriving augmented resolution, as hehad hoped, from the recollection, he experienced an emotion of alarm, ofconsternation; so that even, as a relief from the torment ofretrospection, he thought of Lucy. "She lives still," said he, "she ishere; there is yet time. I have it in my power to say to her, Go inpeace! I can also ask her forgiveness.
Forgiveness! I ask forgiveness ofa woman! Ah, if in that word existed the power to drive this demon frommy soul, I would say it; yes, I feel that I would say it. To what am Ireduced? I am no longer myself! Well, well! many a time have suchfollies passed through my head; this will take its flight also."

  And to procure the desired forgetfulness, he endeavoured to busy himselfwith some new project; but in vain: all appeared changed! that which atanother time would have been a stimulus to action, had now lost itscharm; his imagination was overwhelmed with the insupportable weight ofremembered crimes. Even the idea of continuing to associate with thosewhom he had employed as the instruments of his daring and licentiouswill was revolting to his soul; and, disgusted and weary, he foundrelief only in the thought that by the dawn of morning he would set atliberty the unfortunate Lucy.

  "I will save her; yes, I will save her. As soon as the day breaks, Iwill fly to her, and say, Go, go in peace. But my promise! Ay, who isDon Roderick that I should hold sacred a promise made to _him_?" Withthe perplexity of a man to whom a superior addresses unexpectedly anembarrassing question, the Unknown endeavoured to reply to this his own,or, rather, that was whispered by this new principle, that had of asudden sprung up so awfully in his soul, to pass judgment upon him. Hewondered how he could have resolved to engage himself to inflictsuffering, without any motive of hatred or fear, on an unfortunate beingwhom he did not know, only to render a service to this man. He could notfind any excuse for it; he could not even imagine how he had been led todo it. The hasty determination had been the impulse of a mind obedientto its habitual feelings, the consequence of a thousand previous deeds;and from an examination of the motives which had led him to commit asingle deed, he was led to the retrospection of his whole life.

  In looking back from year to year, from enterprise to enterprise, fromcrime to crime, from blood to blood, each one of his actions appearedabstracted from the feelings which had induced their perpetration, andtherefore exposed in all their horrible deformity, but which thosefeelings had hitherto veiled from his view. They were all his own, hewas responsible for all; they comprised his life; the horror of thisthought filled him with despair; he grasped his pistol, and raised it tohis head--but at the moment in which he would have terminated hismiserable existence, his thoughts rushed onwards to the time that mustcontinue to flow on after his end. He thought of his disfigured corpse,without sense or motion, in the power of the vilest men; theastonishment and confusion which would take place in the castle, theconversation it would excite in the neighbourhood and afar off, and,more than all, the rejoicing of his enemies. The darkness and silence ofthe night inspired him with other apprehensions still; it appeared tohim that he would not have hesitated to perform the deed in open day, inthe presence of others. "And, after all, what was it? but a moment, andall would be over." And now another thought rose to his mind: "If thatother life, of which they tell, is an invention of priests, is a merefabrication, why should I die? Of what consequence is all that I havedone? It is a trifle--but if there should be another life!"

  At such a doubt, he was filled with deeper despair, a despair from whichdeath appeared no refuge. The pistol dropped from his grasp--both handswere applied to his aching head--and he trembled in every limb. Suddenlythe words he had heard a few hours before came to his memory, "Godpardons so many deeds for one act of mercy." They did not come to himclothed in the humble tone of supplication, with which he had heard thempronounced, but in one of authority which offered some gleam of hope. Itwas a moment of relief: he brought to mind the figure of Lucy, when sheuttered them; and he regarded her, not as a suppliant, but as an angelof consolation. He waited with anxiety the approach of day, that hemight hear from her mouth other words of hope and life. He imaginedhimself conducting her to her mother, "And then, what shall I doto-morrow? what shall I do for the rest of the day? what shall I do theday after, and the next day? and the night? the night which will so soonreturn? Oh, the night! let me not think of the night!" And, plunged inthe frightful void of the future, he sought in vain for some employmentof time, some method of living through the days and nights. Now hethought of abandoning his castle, and flying to some distant country,where he had never been heard of; but, could he fly from himself? Thenhe felt a confused hope of recovering his former courage and habits; andthat he should regard these terrors of his soul but as a transientdelirium: now, he dreaded the approach of day, which should exhibit himso miserably changed to his followers; then he longed for its light, asif it would bring light also to his troubled thoughts. As the day broke,a confused sound of merriment broke upon his ear. He listened; it was adistant chiming of bells, and he could hear the echo of the mountainsrepeat the harmony, and mingle itself with it. From another quarter,still nearer, and then from another, similar sounds were heard. "Whatmeans this?" said he. "For what are these rejoicings? What joyful eventhas taken place?" He rose from his bed of thorns, and opened the window.

  The mountains were still half veiled in darkness, the heavens appearedenveloped in a heavy and vast cloud; but he distinguished, through thefaint dawn of the morning, crowds passing towards the opening on theright of the castle, villagers in their holyday garments. "What arethose people doing? what has happened to cause all this joy?" Andcalling a bravo, who slept in the adjoining room, he asked him the causeof the commotion. The man replied that he was ignorant of it, but wouldgo immediately and enquire. His master remained at the window,contemplating the moving spectacle, which increasing day rendered moredistinct every moment. He saw crowds passing in succession; men, women,and children, as guided by one impulse, directing their steps in onedirection. They appeared animated by a common joy; and the bells, withtheir united sound of merriment, seemed to be an echo of the generalhilarity. The Unknown looked on intently, and felt an eager curiosity toknow what could have communicated such happiness to such a multitude ofpeople.