Valperga (53 page)

Euthanasia returned from Florence. She was much disappointed,
much grieved, to find her friend far worse both in body and mind,
than when she left her. More than all wildness of words and manner,
she feared her silence and reserve, so very unlike her latest
disposition. If the convent, or her future plans were named, she
listened calmly, but did not reply; no intreaties could persuade
her to give words to that which preyed upon her mind. She would
weep; and then, flying from the affectionate reproaches of her
protectress, she would shut herself up to grieve alone, or far more
dangerously to dream of the return of love and joy. Euthanasia
reasoned, persuaded, intreated, but vainly: accustomed to the
caprices of this unfortunate girl, she saw nothing in what now
occurred, that appeared to arise from any external impulse; and she
hoped that indulgence and kindness would in time restore her to her
former calm. She reproached herself for having left her; and she
resolved that, unless indeed Beatrice took the veil, which now
seemed doubtful, she would never again separate herself from her.
She loved her tenderly, and pitied her so truly, that she was
willing to sacrifice all her own hopes of future peace to soothe
and restore her to some degree of happiness.

Her endeavours were useless. The melancholy of poor Beatrice was
undissipated by the slightest gleam of tranquillity: for five days
she had not spoken, and had hardly touched any food. Euthanasia
tried in vain to console her, and, hopeless of good, sought to
excite any passion that might rouse her from her mute reveries; she
spoke not, but wandered restlessly from room to room, or among the
wild paths of the garden; and thence she would have escaped into
the open country, but that her weak limbs sunk beneath her. One
night Euthanasia slept, when Beatrice suddenly entered the room;
and, twining herself round her neck, and wrapping the long and
thick hair of her friend around her brows--

"Save me!" she cried, "save me from madness,
which, as a fiend, pursues and haunts me. I endeavour to fly him;
but still he hovers near: is there no escape? Oh! If God be good,
surely he will redeem my soul from this curse. I would fain
preserve my reason; my lips are bloodless, and my hair quite grey;
I am a skeleton without flesh or form; I am to what lives, like the
waning moon at noonday, which floats up as a vapour, and the blue
air seems to penetrate its pale and sickly form. Happiness, beauty,
love have passed away; but I would fain preserve that without which
I am as a poor hunted beast, whose sole repose is on the spear of
the huntsman. Breathe on me, Euthanasia, breathe on my hands, my
eyes; perhaps some portion of calm may flow from your bosom to
mine. I only wish not to be mad; yet, if what is said be true,
these wonderful things may be, and I still sane. There, there, your
hand is cool; press my head. I know you well; you are Euthanasia; I
am Beatrice; I may still be preserved from madness."

Euthanasia wept; she folded Beatrice in her arms; she placed her
cool hand on her brow, and her pale cheek close to the flushed one
of the poor sick girl. Beatrice rested a few moments in silence;
and then again she spoke. "It has been said, that I am a
witch, one who has power over the elements, and still more over the
mind of man. I do not believe this: once, I knew, a very long time
ago, I fancied myself a prophetess; but I awoke from that dream
many years since. Why then do they madden me with these
insinuations? I will tell you, Euthanasia (sweet name, dear,
much-loved friend), that sometimes I fancy this is true.--Oh! that
I could tell the heavy secret that weighs upon my soul! I have
sworn--they did not well, that made me swear:--yet there is some
truth in what they say, doubtless there is some truth, and it shall
be proved. Well, well; I have sworn, and I will not tell--Good
night, dearest; I shall sleep now; so not a word more; I have
reasoned with myself, and am content."

Beatrice crept back to her chamber; but Euthanasia could not
again rest. She was amazed at her friend's strange words, and
tried to divine whether they proceeded from the heated imagination
of the prophetess, or from some real event of which Euthanasia was
ignorant; but she had no clue to guide her in her conjectures; and
it appeared to her most probable, that Beatrice was moved by the
suggestions of her own heart; she could not guess the dreadful and
maniac thoughts that really disturbed her, or the frightful
incitements that had been employed to deceive her.

A fortnight passed thus; when the Albinois brought a message
from Mandragola, bidding Beatrice repair that same night at twelve,
to a wood about four miles from Lucca. At this time Castruccio was
employed in building the tower of Nozzano, on a small hill which
was surrounded by the wood chosen by the witch. The weather (it was
in the month of July) was exceedingly hot; the cattle panted
beneath the sun; the earth was herbless; all life decayed: but
delicious nights succeeded these oppressive days; and Castruccio
was accustomed to repair, as early as two in the morning, to visit
the fortress. Mandragola knew the spot near which he passed; and
she so planned her scheme, that her incantation should be wound to
the desired pitch, at the moment when he should ride through the
wood: and thus, to the simple mind of the Albinois, and the exalted
imagination of Beatrice, afford a proof of the extent of her
power.

It is impossible to say what her object was in all this; she
might be merely instigated by the desire to excite respect and
terror, and have trusted that this apparent confirmation of her
assertions would enable her to acquire unlimited power over the
mind of her victims. She did not intend on this occasion that
Beatrice should speak to the prince;--that she should call for him,
and he appear, was sufficient mummery for one day: another time
more might be done, and another step taken in the labyrinth of
error and fraud.

That same night Bindo tapped at the door of Beatrice's
chamber. The prophetess opened it;--she looked aghast and wild, but
spoke not.-- "This is the hour," said the Albinois.

"Wrap your cloak round you," he continued, "that
you may not be known." Beatrice did as he desired, moving her
arms like inanimate machines, and turning her eyes around, as if
she saw nothing. Bindo led her down-stairs; they quitted the palace
by a small back door; he made her mount a horse; and they rode out
of the town. All passed in silence; Beatrice hardly appeared to
know whither she was going, or why she went; the bridle fell from
her hands, and hung loosely on the horse's neck; but the animal
mechanically followed Bindo's horse, which led the way.

They arrived at the wood, and dismounted. Bindo tied the horses
to a tree, and proceeded cautiously through the intricate paths of
the forest. It was an ilex wood; and the dark foliage canopied them
above, while the moonbeams penetrated through the interstices of
the leaves, and made a chequered shadow upon the ground, which was
despoiled of its grassy covering through long drouth. At length
they came to a more trodden road; and this led to a kind of woody
amphitheatre, an open space in the midst of the trees, one of the
corners of which the path traversed, and all around the ilexes
formed a circular boundary of ample circumference. At one of the
extremities, farthest from the path, was a fountain, which kept a
soft murmuring all the still night through. Near this fountain the
witch sat: she was weaving two coronals of ivy, and muttering as
she wove; Beatrice and the Albinois were before her, but she
appeared not to notice them. Beatrice stood, her arms hanging down,
her head fallen on her bosom in a mute lethargy, her cloak had
dropped from her shoulders, and fallen to her feet; she was
dressed, as the witch had commanded, in white: several years had
passed since she had been thus habited, and her attire displayed
the thinness of her form and the paleness of her wasted cheeks; her
hands were skinny and yellow, her hair perfectly grey; a few weeks
ago, although mingled with white, its ancient colour was preserved;
but since then it had quite changed; her eyes were sunken, ringed
with black, and rayless.

When the witch had finished her work, she rose; and, taking some
of the water of the fountain in the hollow of her hand, she threw
it over Beatrice, and then crowned her with one of the chaplets;
she placed the other on her own head; and then she said to
Bindo:--"I am about to sanctify this place; you must
depart."

Bindo bowed assent, and disappeared. She took up a curiously
fashioned ewer of brass; and, filling it at the fount, she walked
round the amphitheatre of trees, sprinkling the ground as she went,
and muttering her incantations, till she came round again to the
spot, where Beatrice stood, white, motionless, and silent.
"You appear faint, daughter," she said; "drink of
this water."--She put it to the lips of her victim, who drank
it eagerly; and immediately a change took place in her appearance;
her eyes lighted up, her cheeks were flushed, the heavy chain of
mortality seemed to fall from her, she became active and even gay;
by degrees a kind of transport seized her, a drunkenness of spirit,
which made her lose all constraint over her words and actions,
although it did not blind her to what was passing around.

"Aye, mother," she said, "I know what I come for;
now let us begin; I am an enchantress, you say; I can conjure him
to appear, who before defied my powers? be it so;--let us
begin."

"Listen," replied Mandragola, "no art requires so
much patience as ours. We will make our incantations; and you will
see him pass on horseback along that road: do not now seek to speak
to him. Exercise your power moderately at first; and it will be
greater afterwards: bind him now with a straw; in time he will be
inextricably enthralled. To-night be it enough that you see
him."

"Enough! oh! I would lay down my life for one, one
moment's sight!"

The night was perfectly still; the air was sultry, and not a
leaf moved: the trees, bathed as it were in the cold moonshine,
slept; and the earth received their moveless shadows on her quiet
bosom. The fountain murmured on; beside it stood the witch and
Beatrice;-- Beatrice, her eyes lifted to heaven, her arms crossed
on her bosom, her hair clinging round her faded neck. Mandragola
was full of business; she piled a small heap of wood, walking often
around it, singing or chanting strange verses, and scattering water
and oil about her; she drew, with a wand formed of a peeled
chestnut-bough, a circle which surrounded the pile and the spot
whereon Beatrice stood, and commanded her not to pass the line till
she should give permission; since that circle would preserve her
from the spirits that their terrible incantations had called around
them. She then turned to the pile again, and placed on it incense
and odoriferous gums, and plants, and strange devices, cut in wood,
or moulded in wax, which no one might understand: then to crown the
work she cut off a lock of Beatrice's hair, and threw it on the
heap.

She had just accomplished this work, when a slight sound struck
her ear; "Now is the time!" she exclaimed; and she set up
a wild song to drown the trampling of the approaching horses; she
lighted a torch, and cried--"This is your work, mistress of
the powers of air; light the pyre, and call thrice on the name of
the prince of Lucca!"

Beatrice started forward with frantic haste; she seized the
torch, thrust it into the pile, which caught the flame, and blazed
up as she cried aloud, "Castruccio! Castruccio!
Castruccio!"

And then, unable to restrain her impatience, she ran towards the
path in which Mandragola had said he would appear. The witch called
on her to stay; but she was too decrepit to follow swiftly to stop
her: the sound of coming horsemen was now distinctly heard;
Beatrice threw herself on her knees, in the midst of the path by
which they must pass; with flashing eyes and outstretched arms, she
gazed eagerly forwards: the dark wood covered her; the moon beams
fell on her; and there she, once the loveliest, now the most lost,
the most utterly undone of women, kneeled in frantic expectation.
The horsemen approached; a turn in the path concealed them, until
they were full upon her; and then she saw Castruccio and Tripalda
advance. Her brain, already on fire with impatience, and her
spirits exalted by the drug administered to her, could no longer
sustain the sensations that overpowered her. The presence of
Tripalda was to her the sign of diabolical interference; she
believed him dead; that it was his spirit which then appeared; and,
if so, it was also an unreal form, the resemblance of Castruccio
alone, that she beheld.--She sunk in convulsions on the road.

Castruccio, surprised at what he saw, leaped from his horse; and
his example was followed by his attendants. The witch, who had
hitherto hobbled towards Beatrice, seeing them dismount,
endeavoured to escape; but Tripalda, who, judging of others by
himself, was ever ready to suspect knavery, cut off her retreat,
and ordered two of the servants to hold her. She submitted quietly,
but remained invincibly silent to all the questions that were put
to her. Beatrice was carried to the fountain; and they endeavoured,
by chafing her temples, and rubbing her hands, to bring her to
life: the prince himself supported her head; but he did not
recognize her; so utterly was she changed from what the prophetess
of Ferrara had been. Once she opened her eyes; she saw the face of
Castruccio leaning over her, and she smiled. Castruccio thought
that he knew that smile; but Tripalda, leaving the witch, pressed
in among those who were about her.--No one who had seen him could
ever forget him; she saw what she believed to be the evil genius of
her life; and she again sunk into insensibility.

In the mean time the Albinois, who had been lurking near the
spot, hearing the trampling of horses, and the sound of men's
voices, ventured forward. Mandragola saw him first, as he came into
the moonshine from under the dark covert of trees. She darted
forward, and cried aloud--"Fly! fly!" Her words and
gesture attracted the notice of her guards, as Bindo turned about
to obey her orders. They pursued him, and easily took him
prisoner.