Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated)

by Ann Radcliffe

  “You believe then, that I am willing to give faith to wonderful stories,” said Vivaldi, smiling. “But what have you heard, that is so extraordinary, respecting this convent? Speak low, or we may be discovered.”

  “Why, Signor, the story is not generally known,” said Paulo in a whisper; “I half promised never to reveal it.”

  “If you are under any promise of secresy,” interrupted Vivaldi, “I forbid you to tell this wonderful tale, which, however, seems somewhat too big to rest within your brain.”

  “The story would fain expand itself to your’s, Signor,” said Paulo; “and, as I did not absolutely promise to conceal it, I am very willing to reveal it.”

  “Proceed, then,” said Vivaldi; “but let me once more caution you to speak low.”

  “You are obeyed, Signor. You must know, then, Maestro, that it was on the eve of the festival of Santo Marco, and about six years since” —

  “Peace!” said Vivaldi. They were silent; but every thing remaining still, Paulo, after some time, ventured to proceed, though in a yet lower whisper. “It was on the eve of the Santo Marco, and when the last bell had rung, that a person” — He stopped again, for a rustling sound passed near him.

  “You are too late,” said a sudden voice beside Vivaldi, who instantly recognized the thrilling accents of the monk.— “It is past midnight; she departed an hour ago. Look to your steps!”

  Though thrilled by this wellknown voice, Vivaldi scarcely yielded to his feelings for a moment, but, checking the question which would have asked “who departed?” he, by a sudden spring, endeavoured to seize the intruder, while Paulo, in the first hurry of his alarm, fired a pistol, and then hastened for the torch. So certainly did Vivaldi believe himself to have leaped upon the spot whence the voice proceeded, that, on reaching it, he instantly extended his arms, and searching around, expected every moment to find his enemy in his grasp. Darkness again baffled his attempt.

  “You are known,” cried Vivaldi; “you shall see me at the Santa dell Pianto! What, oh! Paulo, the torch! — the torch!”

  Paulo, swift as the wind, appeared with it. “He passed up those steps in the rock, Signor; I saw the skirts of his garments ascending!”

  “Follow me, then,” said Vivaldi, mounting the steps. “Away, away, Maestro!” said Paulo, impatiently; “but, for Heaven’s sake, name no more the convent of the Santa dell Pianto; our lives may answer it!”

  He followed to the terrace above, where Vivaldi, holding high the torch, looked round for the monk. The place, however, as far as his eye could penetrate, was for saken and silent. The glare of the torch enlightened only the rude walls of the citadel, some points of the cliff below, and some tall pines that waved over them, leaving in doubtful gloom many a recess of the ruin, and many a tangled thicket, that spread among the rocks beyond.

  “Do you perceive any person, Paulo?” said Vivaldi, waving the torch in the air to rouse the flame. “Among those arches on the left, Signor, those arches that stand duskily beyond the citadel, I thought I saw a shadowy sort of a figure pass. He might be a ghost, by his silence, for aught I know, Maestro; but he seems to have a good mortal instinct in taking care of himself, and to have as swift a pair of heels to assist in carrying him off, as any Lazaro in Naples need desire.”

  “Fewer words, and more caution!” said Vivaldi, lowering the torch, and pointing it towards the quarter which Paulo had mentioned. “Be vigilant, and tread lightly.”

  “You are obeyed, Signor; but their eyes will inform them, though their ears refuse, while we hold a light to our own steps.”

  “Peace, with this buffoonery!” said Vivaldi, somewhat sternly; “follow in silence, and be on your guard.”

  Paulo submitted, and they proceeded towards the range of arches, which communicated with the building, whose singular structure had formerly arrested the attention of Bonarmo, and whence Vivaldi himself had returned with such unexpected precipitancy and consternation.

  On perceiving the place he was approaching, he suddenly stopped, and Paulo observing his agitation, and probably not relishing the adventure, endeavoured to dissuade him from further research: “For we know not who may inhabit this gloomy place, Signor, or their numbers, and we are only two of us after all! Besides, Signor, it was through that door, yonder;” and he pointed to the very spot whence Vivaldi had so fearfully issued; “through that door, that I fancied, just now, I saw something pass.”

  “Are you certain as to this?” said Vivaldi, with increased emotion. “What was its form?”

  “It was so dusky thereabout, Maestro, that I could not distinguish.” Vivaldi’s eyes were fixed upon the building, and a violent conflict of feelings seemed to shake his soul. A few seconds decided it. “I will go on,” said he, “and terminate, at any hazard, this state of intolerable anxiety. Paulo, pause a moment, and consider well whether you can depend on your courage, for it may be severely tried. If you can, descend with me in silence, and I warn you to be wary; if you cannot, I will go alone.”

  “It is too late now, Signor, to ask myself that question,” replied Paulo, with a submissive air; “and if I had not settled it long ago, I should not have followed you thus far. My courage, Signor, you never doubted before.”

  “Come on then,” said Vivaldi. He drew his sword, and entering the narrow doorway, the torch, which he had now resigned to Paulo, shewed a stone passage, that was, however, interminable to the eye.

  As they proceeded, Paulo observed, that the walls were stained in several places with what appeared to be blood, but prudently forbore to point this out to his master, observing the strict injunction of silence he had received.

  Vivaldi stepped cautiously, and often paused to listen, after which he went on with a quicker pace, making signs only to, Paulo to follow, and be vigilant. The passage terminated in a staircase, that seemed to lead to vaults below. Vivaldi remembered the light which had formerly appeared there, and, as recollection of the past gathered on his mind, he faultered in his purpose.

  Again he paused, looked back upon Paulo, but was going forward, when Paulo himself seized his arm. “Stop! Signor,” said he in a low voice. “Do you not distinguish a figure standing yonder, in the gloom?”

  Vivaldi looked onward, and perceived, indistinctly, something as of human form, but motionless and silent. It stood at the dusky extremity of the avenue, near the staircase. Its garments, if garments they were, were dark; but its whole figure was so faintly traced to the eye, that it was impossible to ascertain whether this was the monk. Vivaldi took the light, and held it forward, endeavouring to distinguish the object before he ventured further; but the enquiry was useless, and, resigning the torch to Paulo, he rushed on. When he reached the head of the staircase, however, the form, whatever it might be, was gone. Vivaldi had heard no footstep. Paulo pointed out the exact spot where it had stood, but no vestige of it appeared. Vivaldi called loudly upon the monk, but he heard only the lengthening echoes of his own voice revolving among the chambers below, and, after hesitating a while on the head of the stairs, he descended.

  Paulo had not followed down many steps, when he called out, “It is there! Signor; I see it again! and now it flits away through the door that opens to the vaults!”

  Vivaldi pursued so swiftly, that Paulo could scarcely follow fast enough with the light; and, as at length he rested to take breath, he perceived himself in the same spacious chamber to which he had formerly descended. At this moment Paulo perceived his countenance change. “You are ill, Signor,” said he. “In the name of our holy Saint, let us quit this hideous place. Its inhabitants can be nothing good, and no good can come of our remaining here.”

  Vivaldi made no reply; he drew breath with difficulty, and his eyes remained fixed on the ground, till a noise, like the creaking of a heavy hinge, rose in a distant part of the vault. Paulo turned his eyes, at the same instant, towards the place whence it came, and they both perceived a door in the wall slowly opened, and immediately closed again, as if the person within had
feared to be discovered. Each believed, from the transient view he had of it, that this was the same figure which had appeared on the staircase, and that it was the monk himself. Reanimated by this belief, Vivaldi’s nerves were instantly rebraced, and he sprang to the door, which was unfastened, and yielded immediately to his impetuous hand. “You shall not deceive me now,” cried he, as he entered; “Paulo! keep guard at the door!”

  He looked round the second vault, in which he now found himself, but no person appeared; he examined the place, and particularly the walls, without discovering any aperture, either of door or window, by which the figure could have quitted the chamber; a strongly-grated casement, placed near the roof, was all that admitted air, and probably light. Vivaldi was astonished! “Have you seen any thing pass?” said he Paulo.

  “Nothing, Maestro,” replied the servant.

  “This is almost incredible,” exclaimed Vivaldi; “‘tis certain, this form can be nothing human!”

  “If so, Signor,” observed Paulo, “why should it fear us? as surely it does; or why should it have fled?”

  “That is not so certain,” rejoined Vivaldi; “it may have fled only to lead us into evil. But bring hither the torch; here is something in the wall which I would examine.”

  Paulo obeyed. It was merely a ruggedness in the stones, not the partition of a door, that had excited his curiosity. “This is inexplicable!” exclaimed Vivaldi, after a long pause. “What motive could any human being have for thus tormenting me.”

  “Or any being superhuman, either, my Signor?” said Paulo.

  “I am warned of evils that await me,” continued Vivaldi, musing; “of events that are regularly fulfilled; the being who warns me, crosses my path perpetually, yet, with the cunning of a demon, as constantly eludes my grasp, and baffles my pursuit! It is incomprehensible, by what means he glides thus away from my eye, and fades, as if into air, at my approach! He is repeatedly in my presence, yet is never to be found!”

  “It is most true, Signor,” said Paulo, “that he is never to be found, and therefore let me entreat you to give up the pursuit. This place is enough to make one believe in the horrors of purgatory! Let us go, Signor.”

  “What but spirit could have quitted this vault so mysteriously,” continued Vivaldi, not attending to Paulo; “what but spirit!” —

  “I would fain prove,” said the servant, “that substance can quit it as easily; I would fain evaporate through that door myself.”

  He had scarcely spoken the words, when the door closed, with a thundering clap that echoed through all the vaults; and Vivaldi and Paulo stood for a moment aghast! and then both hastened to open it, and to leave the place. Their consternation may be easily conceived, when they found that all their efforts at the door were ineffectual. The thick wood was inlaid with solid bars of iron; and was of such unconquerable strength, that it evidently guarded what had been designed for a prison, and appeared to be the keep or dungeon of the ancient fort.

  “Ah, Signor mio!” said Paulo, “if this was a spirit, ‘tis plain he knew we were not so, by his luring us hither. Would we could exchange natures with him for a moment; for I know not how, as mere mortal men, we can ever squeeze ourselves out of this scrape. You must allow, Maestro, that this was not one of the evils he warned you of; or, if he did, it was through my organs, for I entreated you.” —

  “Peace, good Signor Buffo!” said Vivaldi; “a truce with this nonsense, and assist in searching for some means of escape.”

  Vivaldi again examined the walls, and as unsuccessfully as before; but in one corner of the vault lay an object, which seemed to tell the fate of one who had been confined here, and to hint his own: it was a garment covered with blood. Vivaldi and his servant discovered it at the same instant; and a dreadful foreboding of their own destiny fixed them, for some moments, to the spot. Vivaldi first recovered himself, when instead of yielding to despondency, all his faculties were aroused to devise some means for escaping; but Paulo’s hopes seemed buried beneath the dreadful vestments upon which he still gazed. “Ah, my Signor!” said he, at length, in a faultering accent, “who shall dare to raise that garment? What if it should conceal the mangled body whose blood has stained it!”

  Vivaldi, shudderingly, turned to look on it again.

  “It moves!” exclaimed Paulo; “I see it move!” as he said which, he started to the opposite side of the chamber. ‘Vivaldi stepped a few paces back, and as quickly returned; when; determined to know the event at once, he raised the garment upon the point of his sword, and perceived, beneath, other remains of dress, heaped high together, while even the floor below was stained with gore.

  Believing that fear had deceived the eyes of Paulo, Vivaldi watched this horrible spectacle for some time, but without perceiving the least motion; when he became convinced, that not any remains of life were shrouded beneath it, and that it contained only articles of dress, which had belonged to some unfortunate person, who had probably been decoyed hither for plunder, and afterwards murdered. This belief, and the repugnance he felt to dwell upon the spectacle, prevented him from examining further, and he turned away to a remote part of the vault. A conviction of his own fate, and of his servant’s, filled his mind for a while with despair. It appeared that he had been ensnared by robbers, till, as he recollected the circumstances which had attended his entrance, and the several peculiar occurrences connected with the archway, this conjecture seemed highly improbable. It was unreasonable, that robbers should have taken the trouble to decoy, when they might at first have seized him; still more so, that they would have persevered so long in the attempt; and most of all, that when he had formerly been in their power, they should have neglected their opportunity, and suffered him to leave the ruin unmolested. Yet, granting that all this, improbable as it was, were, however, possible, the solemn warnings and predictions of the monk, so frequently delivered, and so faithfully fulfilled, could have no connection with the schemes of banditti. It appeared, therefore, that Vivaldi was not in the hands of robbers; or, if he were, that the monk, at least, had no connection with them; yet it was certain that he had just heard the voice of this monk beneath the arch; that his servant had said, he saw the vestments of one ascending the steps of the fort; and that they had both reason, afterward, to believe it was his shadowy figure, which they had pursued to the very chamber where they were now confined.

  As Vivaldi considered all these circumstances, his perplexity encreased, and he was more than ever inclined to believe, that the form, which had assumed the appearance of a monk, was something superhuman.

  “If this being had appeared only,” said he to himself, “I should, perhaps, have thought it the perturbed spirit of him, who doubtless has been murdered here, and that it led me hither to discover the deed, that his bones might be removed to holy ground; but this monk, or whatever it is, was neither silent, nor apparently anxious concerning himself; he spoke only of events connected with my peace, and predicted of the future, as well as reverted to the past! If he had either hinted of himself, or had been wholly silent, his appearance, and manner of eluding pursuit, is so extraordinary, that I should have yielded, for once, perhaps, to the tales of our grandfathers, and thought he was the spectre of a murdered person.”

  As Vivaldi expressed his incredulity, however, he returned to examine the garment once more, when, as he raised it, he observed, what had before escaped his notice, black drapery mingled with the heap beneath; and, on lifting this also on the point of his sword, he perceived part of the habiliment of a monk! He started at the discovery, as if he had seen the apparition, which had so long been tempting his credulity. Here were the vest and scapulary, rent and stained with blood! Having gazed for a moment, he let them drop upon the heap; when Paulo, who had been silently observing him, exclaimed, “Signor! that should be the garment of the demon who led us hither. Is it a winding-sheet for us, Maestro? Or was it one for the body he inhabited while on earth!” “Neither, I trust,” replied Vivaldi, endeavouring to command the p
erturbation he suffered, and turning from the spectacle; “therefore we will try once more to regain our liberty.”