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Chapter XXIChapter XXI
Chapter XXI
The old woman immediately hastened to obey, and to give commands, under
the sanction of that name, which by whomsoever pronounced, always set the
whole household on the alert; for it never entered the imagination of any one,
that another person would venture to use it unauthorized. She reached
Malanotte shortly before the carriage arrived; and on seeing it approach, got
out of the litter, beckoned to the driver to stop, advanced towards the door,
and whispered to Nibbio, who put his head out of the window, the wishes of his
master.
Lucia aroused herself, on feeling the carriage stop, and, awaking from a
kind of lethargy, was seized with renewed terror, as she wildly gazed around
her. Nibbio had pushed himself back on the seat, and the old woman, with her
chin resting on the door, was looking at Lucia, and saying, `Come, my good
girl; come, you poor thing; come with me, for I have orders to treat you well,
and try to comfort you.`
At the sound of a female voice, the poor girl felt a ray of comfort - a
momentary flash of courage; but she quickly relapsed into still more terrible
fears. `Who are you?` asked she, in a trembling voice, fixing her astonished
gaze on the old woman`s face.
`Come, come, you poor creature,` was the unvaried answer she received.
Nibbio, and his two companions, gathering from the words, and the unusually
softened tones of the old hag, what were intentions of their lord,
endeavoured, by kind and soothing words, to persuade the unhappy girl to obey.
She only continued, however, to stare wildly around; and though the unknown
and savage character of the place, and the close guardianship of her keepers,
forbade her indulging a hope of relief, she nevertheless, attempted to cry
out; but seeing Nibbio cast a glance towards the handkerchief, she stopped,
trembled, gave a momentary shudder, and was then seized, and placed in the
litter. The old woman entered after her; Nibbio left the other two villains to
follow behind as an escort, while he himself took the shortest ascent to
attend to the call of his master.
`Who are you?` anxiously demanded Lucia of her unknown and ugly - visaged
companion: `Why am I with you? Where am I? Where are you taking me?`
`To one who wishes to do you good,` replied the aged dame; `to a
great . . . Happy are they to whom he wishes good! You are very lucky, I can
tell you. Don`t be afraid - be cheerful; he bid me try to encourage you.
You`ll tell him, won`t you, that I tried to comfort you?`
`Who is he? - why? - what does he want with me? I don`t belong to him!
Tell me where I am! let me go! bid these people let me go - bid them carry me
to some church. Oh! you who are a woman, in the name of Mary the
Virgin! . . .`
This holy and soothing name, once repeated with veneration in her early
years, and now for so long a time uninvoked, and, perhaps, unheard, produced
in the mind of the unhappy creature, on again reaching her ear, a strange,
confused, and distant recollection, like the remembrance of light and form in
an aged person, who has been blind from infancy.
In the meanwhile, the Unnamed, standing at the door of his castle, was
looking downwards, and watching the litter, as before he had watched the
carriage, while it slowly ascended, step by step; Nibbio rapidly advancing
before it at a distance which every moment became greater. When he had at
length attained the summit, `Come this way,` cried the Signor; and taking the
lead, he entered the castle, and went into one of the apartments.
`Well?` said he, making a stand.
`Everything exactly right,` replied Nibbio, with a profound obeisance;
`the intelligence in time, the girl in time, nobody on the spot, only one
scream, nobody attracted by it, the coachman ready, the horses swift, nobody
met with: but . . .`
`But what?`
`But . . . I will tell the truth; I would rather have been commanded to
shoot her in the back, without hearing her speak - without seeing her face.`
`What? . . . what? . . . what do you mean?`
`I mean that all this time . . . all this time . . . I have felt too much
compassion for her.`
`Compassion! What do you know of compassion? What is compassion?`
`I never understood so well what it was as this time; it is something
that rather resembles fear; let it once take possession of you, and you are no
longer a man.`
`Let me hear a little of what she did to excite your compassion.`
`O, most noble Signor! such a time! . . . weeping, praying, and looking
at one with such eyes! and becoming pale as death! and then sobbing, and
praying again, and certain words . . .`
- I won`t have this creature in my house, - thought the Unnamed,
meanwhile, to himself. - In an evil hour, I engaged to do it; but I`ve
promised - I`ve promised. When she`s far away . . . And raising his face with
an imperious air towards Nibbio, `Now, said he, `you must lay aside
compassion, mount your horse, take a companion - two, if you like - and ride
away, till you get to the palace of this Don Rodrigo, you know. Tell him to
send immediately . . . immediately, or else . . .`
But another internal no, more imperative than the first, prohibited his
finishing. `No,` said he, in a resolute tone, almost, as it were, to express
to himself the command of this secret voice. `No: go and take some rest; and
to - morrow morning . . . you shall do as I will tell you.`
- This girl must have some demon of her own, - thought he, when left
alone, standing with his arms crossed on his breast, and his gaze fixed upon a
spot on the floor, where the rays of the moon, entering through a lofty
window, traced out a square of pale light, chequered like a draught - board by
the massive iron bars, and more minutely divided into smaller compartments by
the little panes of glass. - Some demon, or . . . some angel who protects her
. . . Compassion in Nibbio! . . . To - morrow morning - to - morrow morning,
early she must be off from this; she must go to her place of destination; and
she shall not be spoken of again, and, - continued he to himself, with the
resolution with which one gives a command to a rebellious child, knowing that
it will not be obeyed, - and she shall not be thought of again, either. That
animal of a Don Rodrigo must not come to pester me with thanks; for . . . I
don`t want to hear her spoken of any more. I have served him because . . .
because I promised; and I promised, because . . . it was my destiny. But I`m
determined the fellow shall pay me well for this piece of service. Let me see
a little . . . -
And he tried to devise some intricate undertaking, to impose upon Don
Rodrigo by way of compensation, and almost as a punishment; but the words
again shot across his mind - Compassion in Nibbio! - What can this girl have
done? - continued he, following out the thought; - I must see her. Yet no -
yes, I will see her. -
He went from one room to another, came to the foot of a flight of stairs,
and irresolutely ascending, proceeded to the old woman`s apartment; here he
knocked with his foot at the door.
`Who`s there?`
`Open the door.`
The old woman made three bounds at the sound of his voice; the bolt was
quickly heard grating harshly in the staples, and the door was thrown wide
open. The Unnamed cast a glance round the room, as he paused in the doorway;
and by the light of a lamp which stood on a three - legged table, discovered
Lucia crouched down on the floor, in the corner farthest from the entrance.
`Who bid you throw her there, like a bag of rags, you uncivil old
beldame?` said he to the aged matron, with an angry frown.
`She chose it herself,` replied she, in an humble tone. `I`ve done my
best to encourage her; she can tell you so herself; but she won`t mind me.`
Get up,` said he to Lucia, approaching her. But she, whose already
terrified mind had experienced a fresh and mysterious addition to her terror
at the knocking, the opening of the door, his footstep, and his voice, only
gathered herself still closer into the corner, and, with her face buried in
her hands, remained perfectly motionless, excepting that she trembled from
head to foot.
`Get up,` I will do you no harm . . . and I can do you some good,`
repeated the Signor . . . `Get up!` thundered he forth at last, irritated at
having twice commanded in vain.
As if invigorated by fear, the unhappy girl instantly raised herself upon
her knees, and joining her hands, as she would have knelt before a sacred
image, lifted her eyes to the face of the Unnamed, and instantly dropping them
said: `Here I am, kill me if you will.`
`I have told you I would do you no harm,` replied the Unnamed, in a
softened tone, gazing at her agonized features of grief and terror.
`Courage, courage,` said the old woman; `if he himself tells you he will
do you no harm . . .`
`And why,` rejoined Lucia, with a voice in which the daringness of
despairing indignation was mingled with the tremor of fear, `why make me
suffer the agonies of hell? What have I done to you? . . .`
`Perhaps they have treated you badly? Tell me . . .`
`Treated me badly! They have seized me by treachery - by force! Why - why
have they seized me? Why am I here? Where am I? I am a poor harmless girl.
What have I done to you? In the name of God . . .`
`God, God!` interrupted the Unnamed, `always God! They who cannot defend
themselves - who have not the strength to do it, must always bring forward
this God, as if they had spoken to him. What do you expect by this word? To
make me? . . .` and he left the sentence unfinished.
`O Signor, expect! What can a poor girl like me expect, except that you
should have mercy upon me? God pardons so many sins for one deed of mercy. Let
me go; for charity`s sake, let me go. It will do no good to one who must die,
to make a poor creature suffer thus. Oh! you who can give the command, bid
them let me go! They brought me here by force. Bid them send me again with
this woman, and take me to * * *, where my mother is. Oh! most holy Virgin! My
mother! my mother! - for pity`s sake, my mother. Perhaps she is not far from
here . . . I saw my mountains. Why do you give me all this suffering? Bid them
take me to a church; I will pray for you all my life. What will it cost you to
say one word? Oh, see! you are moved to pity: say one word, oh say it! God
pardons so many sins for one deed of mercy!`
- Oh, why isn`t she the daughter of one of the rascally dogs that
outlawed me! - thought the Unnamed; - of one of the villains who wish me dead;
then I should enjoy her sufferings; but instead . . . -
`Don`t drive away a good inspiration!` continued Lucia, earnestly,
reanimated by seeing a certain air of hesitation in the countenance and
behaviour of her oppressor. `If you don`t grant me this mercy, the Lord will
do it for me. I shall die, and all will be over with me; but you . . .
Perhaps, some day, even you . . . But no, no; I will always pray the Lord to
keep you from every evil. What will it cost you to say one word? If you knew
what it was to suffer this agony! . . .`
`Come, take courage` interrupted the Unnamed, with a gentleness that
astonished the old woman. `Have I done you any harm? Have I threatened you?`
`Oh no! I see that you have a kind heart, and feel some pity for an
unhappy creature. If you chose, you could terrify me more than all the others:
you could kill me with fear; but instead of that, you have . . . rather
lightened my heart; God will reward you for it. Finish your deed of mercy; set
me free, set me free.`
`To - morrow morning . . .`
`Oh! set me free now - now . . .
`To - morrow morning, I will see you again, I say. Come, in the mean
while, be of good courage. Take a little rest; you must want something to eat.
They shall bring you something directly.`
`No, no; I shall die, if anybody comes here; I shall die! Take me to a
church . . . God will reward you for that step.`
`A woman shall bring you something to eat,` said the Unnamed; and having
said so, he stood wondering at himself how such a remedy had entered his mind,
and how the wish had arisen to seek a remedy for the sorrows of a poor humble
villager.
`And you,` resumed he hastily, turning to the aged matron, `persuade her
to eat something, and let her lie down to rest on this bed; and if she is
willing to have you as a companion, well; if not, you can sleep well enough
for one night on the floor. Encourage her, I say, and keep her cheerful.
Beware that she has no cause to complain of you.`
So saying, he moved quickly towards the door. Lucia sprang up, and ran to
detain him, and renew her entreaties, but he was gone.
`Oh, poor me! Shut the door quickly.` And having heard the door closed,
and the bolt again drawn, she returned to seat herself in her corner. "Oh,
poor me!` repeated she, sobbing; `whom shall I implore now? Where am I? Do you
tell me - tell me, for pity`s sake, who is this Signor . . . he who has been
speaking to me?`
`Who is he, eh? - who is he? Do you think I may tell you? Wait till he
tells you himself. You are proud, because he protects you; and you want to be
satisfied, and make me your go - between. Ask him yourself. If I were to tell
you this, I shouldn`t get the good words he has just given you. I am an old
woman, an old woman,` continued she, muttering between her teeth. `Hang these
young folks, who may make a fine show of either laughing or crying, just as
they like, and yet are always in the right.` But hearing Lucia`s sobs and the
commands of her master returning in a threatening manner to her memory, she
stooped toward the poor crouching girl, and, in a gentler and more humane
tone, resumed: `Come, I have said no harm to you; be cheerful. Don`t ask me
questions which I`ve no business to answer; but pluck up heart, my good girl.
Ah! if you knew how many people would be glad to hear him speak, as he has
spoken to you! Be cheerful, for he will send you something to eat just now;
and I know . . . by the way he spoke, I`m sure it will be something good. And
then you lie down, and . . . you will leave just a little corner for me,`
added she, with an accent of suppressed rancour.
`I don`t want to eat, I don`t want to sleep. Let me alone; don`t come
near me; but you won`t leave the room?`
`No, no, not I,` said the old woman, drawing back, and seating herself on
an old arm - chair, whence she cast sundry glances of alarm, and at the same
time of envy, towards the poor girl. Then she looked at the bed, vexed at the
idea of being, perhaps, excluded from it for the whole night, and grumbling at
the cold. But she comforted herself with the thoughts of supper, and with the
hope that there might be some to spare for her. Lucia was sensible of neither
cold nor hunger, and, almost as if deprived of her senses, had but a confused
idea of her very grief and terror, like the undefined objects seen by a
delirious patient.
She roused herself, when she heard a knocking at the door; and raising
her head, exclaimed, in much alarm, `Who`s there? - who`s there? Don`t let any
one in!`
`Nobody, nobody; good news!` said the old woman; `it`s Martha bringing
something to eat.`
`Shut the door, shut the door!` cried Lucia.
`Ay, directly,` replied the old woman; and taking a basket out of
Martha`s hand, she hastily nodded to her, shut the door, and came and set the
basket on a table, in the middle of the room. She then repeatedly invited
Lucia to come and partake of the tempting repast, and employing words, which,
according to her ideas, were most likely to be efficacious in restoring the
poor girl`s appetite, broke forth into exclamations on the excellence of the
food; - `Morsels which, when common people have once got a taste, they don`t
forget in a hurry! Wine, which her master drank with his friends . . . when
any of them happened to arrive . . . and they wanted to be merry! Hem!` But
seeing that all these charms produced no effect - `It is you who won`t eat,`
said she. `Don`t you be saying to - morrow that I didn`t try to persuade you.
I`ll eat something, however; and then there`ll be more than enough left for
you, when you come to your senses, and are willing to do you as are bid.` So
saying, she applied herself with avidity to the refreshments. When she had
satisfied herself, she rose, advanced towards the corner, and bending over
Lucia, again invited her to take something, and then lie down.
`No, no, I don`t want anything,` replied she, with a feeble and almost
drowsy voice. Then with more energy she continued; `Is the door locked? - is
it well secured?` And having looked around, she rose, and feeling with her
hands, walked with a suspicious step towards the door.
The old woman sprang thither before her, stretched out her hand to the
lock, seized the handle, shook it, rattled the bolt, and made it grate against
the staple that received and secured it. `Do you hear? - do you see? - is it
well locked? Are you content now?`
`Oh, content! I content here!` said Lucia, again arranging herself in her
corner. `But the Lord knows I`m here!`
`Come to bed; what would you do there, crouching like a dog? Did ever
anybody see a person refuse comforts, when he could get them?`
`No, no; let me alone.`
`Well, it`s your own wish. See, I`ll leave you the best place; I`m lying
here on the very edge; I shall be uncomfortable enough, for your sake. If you
want to come to bed, you know what you have to do. Remember, I`ve asked you
very often.` So saying, she crept, dressed as she was, under the counterpane,
and soon all was silent.
Lucia remained motionless, shrunk up into the corner, her knees drawn
close to her breast, her hands resting on her knees, and her face buried in
her hands. She was neither asleep nor awake, but worn out with a rapid
succession - a tumultuous alternation, of thoughts, anticipations, and heart -
throbbings. Recalled, in some degree, to consciousness, and recollecting more
distinctly the horrors she had seen and suffered that terrible day, she would
now dwell mournfulay on the dark and formidable realities in which she found
herself involved; then, her mind being carried onward into a still more
obscure region, she had to struggle against the phantoms conjured up by
uncertainty and terror. In this distressing state she continued for a long
time, which we would here prefer to pass over rapidly; but at length,
exhausted and overcome, she relaxed her hold on her benumbed limbs, and
sinking at full length upon the floor, remained for some time in a state
closely resembling real sleep. But suddenly awaking, as at some inward call,
she tried to arouse herself completely, to regain her scattered senses, and to
remember where she was, and how, and why. She listened to some sound that
caught her ear; it was the slow, deep breathing of the old woman. She opened
her eyes, and saw a faint light, now glimmering for a moment, and then again
dying away: it was the wick of the lamp, which, almost ready to expire,
emitted a tremulous gleam, and quickly drew it back, so to say, like the ebb
and flow of a wave on the sea - shore; and thus, withdrawing from the
surrounding objects ere there was time to display them in distinct colouring
and relief, it merely presented to the eye a succession of confused and
indistinct glimpses. But the recent impressions she had received quickly
returned to her mind, and assisted her in distinguishing what appeared so
disorderly to her visual - organs. When fully aroused, the unhappy girl
recognized her prison; all the recollections of the horrible day that was
fled, all the uncertain terrors of the future, rushed at once upon her mind:
the very calm in which she now found herself after so much agitation, the sort
of repose she had just tasted, the desertion in which she was left, all
combined to inspire her with new dread, till, overcome by alarm, she earnestly
longed for death. But at this juncture, she remembered that she could still
pray; and with that thought there seemed to shine forth a sudden ray of
comfort. She once more took out her rosary, and began to repeat the prayers;
and in proportion as the words fell from her trembling lips she felt an
indefinite confiding faith taking possession of her heart. Suddenly another
thought rushed into her mind, that her prayer might, perhaps, be more readily
accepted, and more certainly heard, if she were to make some offering in her
desolate condition. She tried to remember what she most prized, or rather,
what she had once most prized; for at this moment her heart could feel no
other affection than that of fear, nor conceive any other desire than that of
deliverance. She did remember it, and resolved at once to make the sacrifice.
Rising upon her knees, and clasping her hands, from whence the rosary was
suspended before her breast, she raised her face and eyes to heaven, and said,
`O most holy Virgin! thou to whom I have so often recommended myself, and who
hast so often comforted me! - thou who hast borne so many sorrows, and art now
so glorious! - thou who hast wrought so many miracles for the poor and
afflicted, help me! Bring me out of this danger; bring me safely to my mother,
O Mother of our Lord; and I vow unto thee to continue a virgin! I renounce for
ever my unfortunate betrothed, that from henceforth I may belong only to
thee!`
Having uttered these words, show bowed her head, and placed the beads
around her neck, almost as a token of her consecration, and, at the same time,
as a safeguard, a part of the armour for the new warfare to which she had
devoted herself. Seating herself again on the floor, a king of tranquillity, a
more childlike reliance, gradually diffused themselves over her soul. The to -
morrow morning, repeated by the unknown nobleman, came to her mind, and seemed
to her ear to convey a promise of deliverance. Her senses, wearied by such
struggles, gradually gave way before these soothing thoughts; until at length,
towards day - break, and with the name of her protectress upon her lips, Lucia
sank into a profound and unbroken sleep.
But in this same castle there was one who would willingly have followed
her example, yet who tried in vain. After departing, or rather escaping, from
Lucia, giving orders for her supper, and paying his customary visits to
several posts in his castle, with her image ever vividly before his eyes, and
her words resounding in his ears, the nobleman had hastily retired to his
chamber, impetuously shut the door behind him, and hurriedly undressing, had
lain down. But that image, which now more closely than ever haunted his mind,
seemed at that moment to say: `Thou shalt not sleep!` - What absurd womanly
curiosity tempted me to go see her? - thought he. - That fool of a Nibbio was
right: one is no longer a man; yes, one is no longer a man! . . . I? . . . am
I no longer a man? What has happened? What devil has got possession of me?
What is there new in all this? Didn`t I know, before now, that women always
weep and implore? Even men do sometimes, when they have not the power to
rebel. What the -! have I never heard women cry before? -
And here, without giving himself much trouble to task his memory, it
suggested to him, of its own accord, more than one instance in which neither
entreaties nor lamentations availed to deter him from the completion of
enterprises upon which he had once resolved. But these remembrances, instead
of inspiring him with the courage he now needed to prosecute his present
design as it would seem he expected and wished they might, instead of helping
to dispel his feelings of compassion, only added to them those of terror and
consternation, until they compelled him to return to that first image of
Lucia, against which he had been seeking to fortify his courage. - She still
lives, - said he: - She is here; I am in time; I can yet say to her, Go, and
be happy; I can yet see that countenance change; I can even say, Forgive
me . . . Forgive me? I ask forgiveness? And of a woman, too? I? . . . Ah,
however! if one word, one such word could do me good, could rid me of the
demon that now possesses me, I would say it; yes, I feel that I would say it.
To what am I reduced! I`m no longer a man; surely, no longer a man! . . .
Away! - said he, turning himself with impetuosity on the couch which had now
become so hard, under the covering which had now become so intolerable a
weight: - Away! these are fooleries which have many a time passed through my
head. This will take its flight too. -
And to effect such a riddance, he began seeking some important subject,
some of the many which often so busily occupied his mind, in hopes he might be
entirely engrossed by it; but he sought in vain. All appeared changed: that
which once most urgently stimulated his desires, now no longer possessed any
charms for him: his passions, like a steed suddenly become restive at the
sight of a shadow, refused to carry him any further. In reflecting on
enterprises engaged in, and not yet concluded, instead of animating himself to
their completion, and feeling irritated at the obstacles interposed, (for
anger at this moment would have been sweet to him,) he felt regret, nay,
almost consternation, at the steps already taken. His life presented itself to
his mind devoid of all interest, deprived of all will, divested of every
action, and only laden with insupportable recollections; every hour resembling
that which now rolled so slowly and heavily over his head. He drew out before
his fancy all his ruffians in a kind of battle - array, and could contrive
nothing of importance in which to employ one of them; nay, the very idea of
seeing them again, and mixing among them, was an additional weight, a fresh
object of annoyance and detestation. And when he sought an occupation for the
morrow, a feasible employment, he could only remember that on the morrow, he
might liberate his unfortunate prisoner.
- I will set her free; yes, I will. I will fly to her by day - break, and
bid her depart safely. She shall be accompanied by . . . And my promise? My
engagement? Don Rodrigo? . . . Who is Don Rodrigo? -
Like one suddenly surprised by an unexpected and embarrassing question
from a superior, the Unnamed hastily sought for an answer to the query he had
just put to himself, or rather which had been suggested to him by that new
voice which had all at once made itself heard, and sprung up to be, as it
were, a judge of his former self. He tried to imagine any reasons which could
have induced him, almost before being requested, to engage in inflicting so
much suffering, without any incentives of hatred or fear, on a poor unknown
creature, only to render a service to this man; but instead of succeeding in
discovering such motives as he would now have deemed sufficient to excuse the
deed, he could not even imagine how he had ever been induced to undertake it.
The willingness, rather than the determination to do so, had been the
instantaneous impulse of a mind obedient to its old and habitual feelings, the
consequence of a thousand antecedent actions; and to account for this one
deed, the unhappy self - examiner found himself involved in an examination of
his whole life. Backwards from year to year, from engagement to engagement,
from bloodshed to bloodshed, from crime to crime, each one stood before his
conscience - stricken soul, divested of the feelings which had induced him to
will and commit it, and therefore appearing in all its monstrousness, which
those feelings had, at the time, prevented his perceiving. They were all his
own, they made up himself; and the horror of this thought, renewed with each
fresh remembrance, and cleaving to all, increased at last to desperation. He
sprang up impetuously in his bed, eagerly stretched out his hand towards the
wall at his side, touched a pistol, grasped it, reached it down, and . . . at
the moment of finishing a life which had become insupportable, his thoughts,
seized with terror and a (so to say) superstitious dread, rushed forward to
the time which would still continue to flow on after his end. He pictured with
horror his disfigured corpse, lying motionless, and in the power of his vilest
survivor; the astonishment, the confusion of the castle in the morning:
everything turned upside down; and he, powerless and voiceless, thrown aside,
he knew not whither. He fancied the reports that would be spread, the
conversations to which it would give rise, both in the castle, the
neighbourhood, and at a distance, together with the rejoicings of his enemies.
The darkness and silence around him presented death in a still more mournful
and frightful aspect; it seemed to him that he would not have hesitated in
open day, out of doors, and in the presence of spectators, to throw himself
into the water, and vanish. Absorbed in such tormenting reflections, he
continued alternately snapping and unsnapping the cock of his pistol with a
convulsive movement of his thumb, when another thought flashed across his
mind. - If this other life, of which they told me when I was a boy, of which
everybody talks now, as if it were a certain thing, if there be not such a
thing, if it be an invention of the priests; what am I doing? why should I
die? what matters all that I have done? what matters it? It is an absurdity,
my . . . But if there really be another life!. . . -
At such a doubt, at such a risk, he was seized with a blacker and deeper
despair, from which even death afforded no escape. He dropped the pistol, and
lay with his fingers twined among his hair, his teeth chattering, and
trembling in every limb. Suddenly the words he had heard repeated a few hours
before rose to his remembrance: - God pardons so many sins for one deed of
mercy! - They did not come to him with that tone of humble supplication in
which they had been pronounced; they came with a voice of authority, which at
the same time excited a distant glimmering of hope. It was a moment of relief:
he raised his hands from his temples, and, in a more composed attitude, fixed
his mind`s eye on her who had uttered the words; she seemed to him no longer
like his prisoner and suppliant, but in the posture of one who dispenses mercy
and consolation. He anxiously awaited the dawn of day, that he might fly to
liberate her, and to hear from her lips other words of alleviation and life,
and even thought of conducting her himself to her mother. - And then? what
shall I do to - morrow for the rest of the day? What shall I do the day after
to - morrow? And the day after that again? And at night? the night which will
return in twelve hours? Oh, the night! no, no, the night! - And falling again
into the weary void of the future, he sought in vain for some employment of
time, some way of living through the days and nights. One moment he proposed
leaving his castle, and going into some distant country, where he had never
been known or heard of; but he felt that he should carry himself with him.
Then a dark hope would arise that he should resume his former courage and
inclinations, and that this would prove only a transient delirium. Now he
dreaded the light which would show him to his followers so miserably changed;
then he longed for it, as if it would bring light also to his gloomy thoughts.
And, lo! about break of day, a few moments after Lucia had fallen asleep,
while he was seated motionless in his bed, a floating and confused murmur
reached his ear, bringing with it something joyous and festive in its sound.
Assuming a listening posture, he distinguished a distant chiming of bells;
and, giving still more attention, could hear the mountain echo, every now and
then, languidly repeating the harmony, and mingling itself with it.
Immediately afterwards his ear caught another, and still nearer peal: then
another, and another. - What rejoicings are these? What are they all so merry
about? What is their cause of gladness? - He sprang from his bed of thorns;
and, half - dressing himself in haste, went to the window, threw up the sash,
and looked out. The mountains were still wrapt in gloom; the sky was not so
much cloudy, as composed of one entire lead - coloured cloud; but by the
already glimmering light of day, he distinguished in the road, at the bottom
of the valley, numbers of people passing eagerly along, - some leaving their
dwellings and moving on with the crowd, and all taking the same direction
towards the outlet of the vale on the right of the castle; he could even
distinguish the joyous bearing and holiday dress of the passengers. - What the
- is the matter with these people? What cause of merriment can there be in
this cursed neighbourhood? - And calling a confidential bravo who slept in the
adjoining room, he asked him what was the cause of this movement. The man
replied that he knew no more than his master, but would go directly to make
inquiry. The Signor remained with his eyes riveted upon the moving spectacle,
which increasing day rendered every moment more distinct. He watched crowds
pass by, and new crowds constantly appear; men, women, children, in groups, in
couples, or alone; one, overtaking another who was before him, walked in
company with him; another, just leaving his door, accompanied the first he
fell in with by the way; and so they proceeded together, like friends in a
preconcerted journey. Their behaviour evidently indicated a common haste and
joy; and the unharmonious, but simultaneous burst of the different chimes,
some more, some less contiguous and distinct, seemed, so to say, the common
voice of these gestures, and a supplement to the words which could not reach
him from below. He looked and looked, till he felt more than common curiosity
to know what could communicate so unanimous a will, so general a festivity, to
so many different people.
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