Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated)

by Ann Radcliffe

  The Inquisitor having administered the oath, and the attendant having noted it in his book, the examination began. After demanding, as is usual, the names and titles of Vivaldi and his family, and his place of residence, to which he fully replied, the Inquisitor asked, whether he understood the nature of the accusation on which he had been arrested.

  “The order for my arrestation informed me.” replied Vivaldi.

  “Look to your words!” said the Inquisitor, “and remember your oath. What was the ground of accusation?”

  “I understood;” said Vivaldi, “that I was accused of having stolen a nun from her sanctuary.”

  A faint degree of surprise appeared on the brow of the Inquisitor. “You confess it, then?” he said, after the pause of a moment, and making a signal to the Secretary, who immediately noted Vivaldi’s words.

  “I solemnly deny it,” replied Vivaldi, “the accusation is false and malicious.”

  “Remember the oath you have taken!” repeated the Inquisitor, “learn also, that mercy is shewn to such as make full confession; but that the torture is applied to those, who have the folly and the obstinacy to withhold the truth.”

  “If you torture me till I acknowledge the justness of this accusation,” said Vivaldi, “I must expire under your inflictions, for suffering never shall compel me to assert a falsehood. It is not the truth, which you seek; it is not the guilty, whom you punish; the innocent, having no crimes to confess, are the victims of your cruelty, or, to escape from it, become criminal, and proclam a lie.”

  “Recollect yourself,” said the Inquisitor, sternly. “You are not brought hither to accuse, but to answer accusation. You say you are innocent; yet acknowledge yourself to be acquainted with the subject of the charge which is to be urged against you! How could you know this, but from the voice of conscience?”

  “From the words of your own summons,” replied Vivaldi, “and from those of your officials who arrested me.”

  “How!” exclaimed the Inquisitor, note that,” pointing to the Secretary; he says by the words of our summons; now we know, that you never read that summons. He says also by the words of our officials; — it appears, then, he is ignorant, that death would follow such a breach of confidence.”

  “It is true, I never did read the summons,” replied Vivaldi, “and as true, that I never asserted I did; the friar, who read it, told of what it accused me, and your officials confirmed the testimony.”

  “No more of this equivocation!” said the Inquisitor, “Speak only to the question.”

  “I will not suffer my assertions to be misrepresented,” replied Vivaldi, “or my words to be perverted against myself. I have sworn to speak the truth only; since you believe I violate my oath, and doubt my direct and simple words, I will speak no more.”

  The Inquisitor half rose from his chair, and his countenance grew paler. “Audacious heretic!” he said, “will you dispute, insult, and disobey, the commands of our most holy tribunal! You will be taught the consequence of your desperate impiety. — To the torture with him!”

  A stern smile was on the features of Vivaldi, his eyes were calmly fixed on the Inquisitor, and his attitude was undaunted and firm. His courage, and the cool contempt, which his looks expressed, seemed to touch his examiner, who perceived that he had not a common mind to operate upon. He abandoned, therefore, for the present, terrific measures, and, resuming his usual manner, proceeded in the examination.

  “Where were you arrested?”

  “At the chapel of San Sebastian, on the lake of Celano.”

  “You are certain as to this?” asked the Inquisitor, “you are sure it was not at the village of Legano, on the high road between Celano and Rome?”

  Vivaldi, while he confirmed his assertion, recollected with some surprize that Legano was the place where the guard had been changed, and he mentioned the circumstance. The Inquisitor, however, proceeded in his questions, without appearing to notice it. “Was any person arrested with you?”

  “You cannot be ignorant,” replied Vivaldi, “that Signora di Rosalba, was seized at the same time, upon the false charge of being a nun, who had broken her vows, and eloped from her convent; nor that Paulo Mendrico, my faithful servant! was also made a prisoner, though upon what pretence he was arrested I am utterly ignorant.”

  The Inquisitor remained for some moments in thoughtful silence, and then enquired slightly concerning the family of Ellena, and her usual place of residence. Vivaldi, fearful of making some assertion that might be prejudicial to her, referred him to herself; but the inquiry was repeated.

  “She is now within these walls,” replied Vivaldi, hoping to learn from the manner of his examiner, whether his fears were just, “and can answer these questions better than myself.”

  The Inquisitor merely bade the Notary write down her name, and then remained for a few moments meditating. At length, he said, “Do you know where you now are?”

  Vivaldi, smiling at the question, replied, “I understand that I am in the prisons of the Inquisition, at Rome.”

  “Do you know what are the crimes that subject persons to the cognizance of the Holy Office?”

  Vivaldi was silent.

  “Your conscience informs you, and your silence confirms me. Let me admonish you, once more, to make a full confession of your guilt; remember that this is a merciful tribunal, and shews favour to such as acknowledge their crimes?”

  Vivaldi smiled; but the Inquisitor proceeded.

  “It does not resemble some severe, yet just courts, where immediate execution follows the confession of a criminal. No! it is merciful, and though it punishes guilt, it never applies the torture but in cases of necessity, when the obstinate silence of the prisoner requires such a measure. You see, therefore, what you may avoid, and what expect.”

  “But if the prisoner has nothing to confess?” said Vivaldi,— “Can your tortures make him guilty? They may force a weak mind to be guilty of falsehood; to escape present anguish, a man may unwarily condemn himself to the death! You will find that I am not such an one.”

  “Young man,” replied the Inquisitor, “you will understand too soon, that we never act, but upon sure authority; and will wish, too late, that you had made an honest confession. Your silence cannot keep from us a knowledge of your offences; we are in possession of facts; and your obstinacy can neither wrest from us the truth, or pervert it. Your most secret offences are already written on the tablets of the Holy Office; your conscience cannot reflect them more justly. — Tremble, therefore, and revere. But understand, that, though we have sufficient proof of your guilt, we require you to confess; and that the punishment of obstinacy is as certain, as that of any other offence.”

  Vivaldi made no reply, and the Inquisitor, after a momentary silence, added, “Was you ever in the church of the Spirito Santo, at Naples?”

  “Before I answer the question,” said Vivaldi, “I require the name of my accuser.”

  “You are to recollect that you have no right to demand any thing in this place,” observed the Inquisitor, “nor can you be ignorant that the name of the Informer is always kept sacred from the knowledge of the Accused. Who would venture to do his duty, if his name was arbitrarily to be exposed to the vengeance of the criminal against whom he informs? It is only in a particular process that the Accuser is brought forward,” “The names of the Witnesses?” demanded Vivaldi. The same justice conceals them also from the knowledge of the Accused, replied the Inquisitor.

  “And is no justice left for the Accused?” said Vivaldi. “Is he to be tried and condemned without being confronted with either his Prosecutor, or the Witnesses!”

  “Your questions are too many,” said the Inquisitor, and your answers too few. The Informer is not also the Prosecutor; the Holy Office, before which the information is laid, is the Prosecutor, and the dispenser of justice; its Public Accuser lays the circumstances, and the testimonies of the Witnesses, before the Court. But too much of this.”

  “How!” exclaimed Viva
ldi, “is the tribunal at once the Prosecutor, Witness, and Judge! What can private malice wish for more, than such a court of justice, at which to arraign it’s enemy? The stiletto of the Assassin is not so sure, or so fatal to innocence. I now perceive, that it avails me nothing to be guiltless; a single enemy is sufficient to accomplish my destruction.”

  “You have an enemy then?” observed the Inquisitor.

  Vivaldi was too well convinced that he had one, but there was not sufficient proof, as to the person of this enemy, to justify him in asserting that it was Schedoni. The circumstance of Ellena having been arrested, would have compelled him to suspect another person as being at least accessary to the designs of the Confessor, had not credulity started in horror from the supposition, that a mother’s resentment could possibly betray her son into the prisons of the Inquisition, though this mother had exhibited a temper of remorseless cruelty towards a stranger, who had interrupted her views for that son.

  “You have an enemy then?” repeated the Inquisitor.

  “That I am here sufficiently proves it,” replied Vivaldi. “But I am so little any man’s enemy, that I know not who to call mine.”

  “It is evident, then, that you have no enemy,” observed the subtle Inquisitor, “and that this accusation is brought against you by a respecter of truth, and a faithful servant of the Roman interest.”

  Vivaldi was shocked to perceive the insidious art, by which he had been betrayed into a declaration apparently so harmless, and the cruel dexterity with which it had been turned against him. A lofty and contemptuous silence was all that he opposed to the treachery of his examiner, on whose countenance appeared a smile of triumph and self-congratulation, the life of a fellow creature being, in his estimation, of no comparative importance with the self-applauses of successful art, the art, too, upon which he most valued himself — that of his profession.

  The Inquisitor proceeded, “You persist, then, in withholding the truth?” He paused, but Vivaldi making no reply, he resumed.

  “Since it is evident, from your own declaration, that you have no enemy, whom private resentment might have instigated to accuse you; and, from other circumstances which have occurred in your conduct, that you are conscious of more than you have confessed, — it appears, that the accusation which has been urged against you, is not a malicious slander. I exhort you, therefore, and once more conjure you, by our holy faith, to make an ingenuous confession of your offences, and to save yourself from the means, which must of necessity be enforced to obtain a confession before your trial commences. I adjure you, also, to consider, that by such open conduct only, can mercy be won to soften the justice of this most righteous tribunal!”

  Vivaldi, perceiving that it was now necessary for him to reply, once more solemnly asserted his innocence of the crime alledged against him in the summons, and of the consciousness of any act, which might lawfully subject him to the notice of the Holy Office.

  The Inquisitor again demanded what was the crime alledged, and, Vivaldi having repeated the accusation, he again bade the Secretary note it, as he did which, Vivaldi thought he perceived upon his features something of a malignant satisfaction, for which he knew not how to account. When the Secretary had finished, Vivaldi was ordered to subscribe his name and quality to the depositions, and he obeyed.

  The Inquisitor then bade him consider of the admonition he had received, and prepare either to confess on the morrow, or to undergo the question. As he concluded, he gave a signal, and the officer, who had conducted Vivaldi into the chamber, immediately appeared.

  “You know your orders,” said the Inquisitor, “receive your prisoner, and see that they are obeyed.”

  The official bowed, and Vivaldi followed him from the apartment in melancholy silence.

  Chapter 17

  Call up the Spirit of the ocean, bid

  Him raise the storm! The waves begin to heave,

  To curl, to foam; the white surges run far

  Upon the dark’ning waters, and mighty

  Sounds of strise are heard. Wrapt in the midnight

  Of the clouds, sits Terror, meditating

  Woe. Her doubtful form appears and sades,

  Like the shadow of Death, when he mingles

  With the gloom of the sepulchre, and broods

  In lonely silence. Her spirits are abroad!

  They do her bidding! Hark, to that shriek!

  The echoes of the shore have heard!

  Ellena, meanwhile, when she had been carried from the chapel of San Sebastian, was placed upon a horse in waiting, and, guarded by the two men who had seized her, commenced a journey, which continued with little interruption during two nights and days. She had no means of judging whither she was going, and listened in vain expectation, for the feet of horses, and the voice of Vivaldi, who, she had been told, was following on the same road.

  The steps of travellers seldom broke upon the silence of these regions, and, during the journey, she was met only by some market-people passing to a neighbouring town, or now and then by the vine-dressers or labourers in the olive grounds; and she descended upon the vast plains of Apulia, still ignorant of her situation. An encampment, not of warriors, but of shepherds, who were leading their flocks to the mountains of Abruzzo, enlivened a small tract of these levels, which were shadowed on the north and east by the mountainous ridge of the Garganus, stretching from the Apennine far into the Adriatic.

  The appearance of the shepherds was nearly as wild and savage as that of the men, who conducted Ellena; but their pastoral instruments of flageolets and tabors spoke of more civilized feelings, as they sounded sweetly over the desert. Her guards rested, and refreshed themselves with goats milk, barley cakes, and almonds, and the manners of these shepherds, like those she had formerly met with on the mountains, proved to be more hospitable than their air had indicated.

  After Ellena had quitted this pastoral camp, no vestige of a human residence appeared for several leagues, except here and there the towers of a decayed fortress, perched upon the lofty acclivities she was approaching, and half concealed in the woods. The evening of the second day was drawing on, when her guards drew near the forest, which she had long observed in the distance, spreading over the many-rising steeps of the Garganus. They entered by a track, a road it could not be called, which led among oaks and gigantic chestnuts, apparently the growth of centuries, and so thickly interwoven, that their branches formed a canopy which seldom admitted the sky. The gloom which they threw around, and the thickets of cystus, juniper, and lenticus, which flourished beneath the shade, gave a character of fearful wildness to the scene.

  Having reached an eminence, where the trees were more thinly scattered, Ellena perceived the forests spreading on all sides among hills and vallies, and descending towards the Adriatic, which bounded the distance in front. The coast, bending into a bay, was rocky and bold. Lofty pinnacles, wooded to their summits, rose over the shores, and cliffs of naked marble of such gigantic proportions, that they were awful even at a distance, obtruded themselves far into the waves, breasting their eternal fury. Beyond the margin of the coast, as far as the eye could reach, appeared pointed mountains, darkened with forests, rising ridge over ridge in many successions. Ellena, as she surveyed this wild scenery, felt as if she was going into eternal banishment from society. She was tranquil, but it was with the quietness of exhausted grief, not of resignation; and she looked back upon the past, and awaited the future, with a kind of out-breathed despair.

  She had travelled for some miles through the forest, her guards only now and then uttering to each other a question, or an observation concerning the changes which had taken place in the bordering scenery, since they last passed it, when night began to close in upon them.

  Ellena perceived her approach to the sea, only by the murmurs of its surge upon the rocky coast, till, having reached an eminence, which was, however, no more than the base of two woody mountains that towered closely over it, she saw dimly it’s gray surface spreading in the
bay below. She now ventured to ask how much further she was to go, and whether she was to be taken on board one of the little vessels, apparently fishing smacks, that she could just discern at anchor.

  “You have not far to go now,” replied one of the guards, surlily; “you will soon be at the end of your journey, and at rest.”

  They descended to the shore, and presently came to a lonely dwelling, which stood so near the margin of the sea, as almost to be washed by the waves. No light appeared at any of the lattices; and, from the silence that reigned within, it seemed to be uninhabited. The guard had probably reason to know otherwise, for they halted at the door, and shouted with all their strength. No voice, however, answered to their call, and, while they persevered in efforts to rouse the inhabitants, Ellena anxiously examined the building, as exactly as the twilight would permit. It was of an ancient and peculiar structure, and, though scarcely important enough for a mansion, had evidently never been designed for the residence of peasants.

  The walls, of unhewn marble, were high, and strengthened by bastions; and the edifice had turretted corners, which, with the porch in front, and the sloping roof, were falling fast into numerous symptoms of decay. The whole building, with it’s dark windows and soundless avenues, had an air strikingly forlon and solitary. A high wall surrounded the small court in which it stood, and probably had once served as a defence to the dwelling; but the gates, which should have closed against intruders, could no longer perform their office; one of the folds had dropped from it’s fastenings, and lay on the ground almost concealed in a deep bed of weeds, and the other creaked on its hinges to every blast, at each swing seeming ready to follow the fate of it’s companion.