Peter, who had been valet to Rhodophil, who had been privy to most of his bad actions, yet had always felt gratitude to Ernest for preserving his life, and to whose information Ernest was often obliged, him Ferdinand could not retain in his family, but in the hope that a grateful mind could not be ultimately a bad one, he settled on him an annuity sufficient to maintain him with comfort, for so long as his conduct should deserve it.
The Gentlemen and their Ladies resided one month with Mr. D'Alenberg after their marriage, and then separated, with a promise of paying each other an annual visit. Louisa, at her own request, remained with Mr. D'Alenberg to supply the place of his daughter.
The Count accompanied Ferdinand and his Lady to Castle Renaud, where the worthy Ernest was presented to the Countess in such flattering terms, that the good creature almost expired with joy.—"Now (cried he, tears stealing down his face) now I have lived to see my master happy; I have lived long enough for myself; the remainder of my days must be devoted to the service of that Master, whose gracious Providence has defeated the schemes of the wicked, and having punished one error in early youth, which was productive of so many evils, has at length purified him to a fullness of joy!"
Ferdinand, from the day of his marriage with the charming Theresa, had nothing wherewith to reproach himself, or to interrupt their mutual happiness; he found, in the sweets of that union, that perfect felicity, which must result from a connexion formed on the principles of reason and virtue; whilst, generally speaking, those marriages, contracted contrary to the wishes of parents, influenced chiefly by transient personal charms, and hurried on by rash tumultuous passions, seldom fail to be productive of sorrow, regret and reproach—perhaps of punishment and shame.—We have only to add, that in less than three years after the marriage of Ferdinand, the once unfortunate, but then happy Eugenia, was translated from a state of resignation and piety, to a life of blessed immortality:—From her melancholy story may be deduced two observations of equal importance to society; when a parent exercises an undue authority over his child, and compels her to give a reluctant hand without a heart; by giving his sanction in the outset to deception and perjury; he has little to expect but that the consequences will be fatal to her honour and happiness.
A parent has an undoubted right to a negative voice, to persuade, to reason, and direct a young and unexperienced mind; but to force a child to the altar, from motives of ambition, interest, or to gratify any selfish passions, too generally lays the foundation for that indifference, and neglect of the domestic duties, which terminates in folly, vice, and the ruin of all social happiness.
In the conduct of Baron S***, may be traced the fatal effects of indulging that gloomy misanthropy, which feeds a proud spirit and a callosity of heart, insensible to every feeling but its own gratification, which, when opposed, may lead to the most determined cruelty and revenge.
Count M*** was greatly affected at the death of Eugenia; but by their separation he had been long weaned from that excess of passion he had felt in early life, and which had been productive of so much sorrow to both; his grief had less poignancy than he must otherwise have known, and the society of his friends contributed to restore his peace, though he ever preserved a tender remembrance of his first love.
In less than a twelvemonth after her decease, he offered himself to, and was accepted by, the amiable Louisa. They had no children, and Charles, the son of Ferdinand, was the worthy successor to the Count's fortune.
The compulsive marriage of Count Renaud, from which originated all the misfortunes that attended himself and his family, and the very rash and imprudent one which Ferdinand contracted, hold out lessons of equal importance to the consideration of parents and children.
But our hero, having been severely punished for the impetuosity and folly which marked his first attachment, found, in his union with Theresa, that unclouded happiness so seldom the lot of mortals.
Sensible of the blessings he received, it was his unremitting endeavour, by rectitude of conduct, by generosity to the deserving, and by benevolence to the unfortunate, to communicate an equal portion of felicity to all within the circle of his acquaintance.
From the characters of Rhodophil and Fatima, we may trace the progression of vice, and its fatal termination!
"Vice to be hated,
Needs but to be seen."
THE END
THE ITALIAN
BY ANN RADCLIFFE
Editor's Note
The Italian was Ann Radcliffe's last novel published during her lifetime (one other book would be published posthumously). It was written as a direct response to The Monk (1796), by Matthew Lewis, which in Radcliffe's estimation combined all that was the most distasteful in Gothic literature--ghosts, ruined castles, Satanism, rape, incest and mistrust of Catholicism--with gratuitous misogyny and anti-feminism.
The Italian is a by-far more subtle and realistic work, with well-developed characters, and horror that stems from circumstances rather than graphic depictions of horrific events. It was estimated by critics to be either Radcliffe's best or Radcliffe's worst work, with particular praise for the character of Father Schedoni.
Though The Italian never had the same readership as Radcliffe's earlier The Mysteries of Udolpho, it is today considered one of the greatest works of the Gothic genre.
THE ITALIAN
OR THE CONFESSIONAL OF THE BLACK PENITENTS
Contents
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
About the year 1764, some English travellers in Italy, during one of their excursions in the environs of Naples, happened to stop before the portico of the Santa Maria del Pianto, a church belonging to a very ancient convent of the order of the Black Penitents. The magnificence of this portico, though impaired by time, excited so much admiration, that the travellers were curious to survey the structure to which it belonged, and with this intention they ascended the marble steps that led to it.
Within the shade of the portico, a person with folded arms, and eyes directed towards the ground, was pacing behind the pillars the whole extent of the pavement, and was apparently so engaged by his own thoughts, as not to observe that strangers were approaching. He turned, however, suddenly, as if startled by the sound of steps, and then, without further pausing, glided to a door that opened into the church, and disappeared.
There was something too extraordinary in the figure of this man, and too singular in his conduct, to pass unnoticed by the visitors. He was of a tall thin figure, bending forward from the shoulders; of a sallow complexion, and harsh features, and had an eye, which, as it looked up from the cloak that muffled the lower part of his countenance, seemed expressive of uncommon ferocity.
The travellers, on entering the church, looked round for the stranger, who had passed thither before them, but he was no where to be seen, and, through all the shade of the long aisles, only one other person appeared. This was a friar of the adjoining convent, who sometimes pointed out to strangers the objects in the church, which were most worthy of attention, and who now, with this design, approached the party that had just entered.
The interior of this
edifice had nothing of the showy ornament and general splendor, which distinguish the churches of Italy, and particularly those of Naples; but it exhibited a simplicity and grandeur of design, considerably more interesting to persons of taste, and a solemnity of light and shade much more suitable to promote the sublime elevation of devotion.
When the party had viewed the different shrines and whatever had been judged worthy of observation, and were returning through an obscure aisle towards the portico, they perceived the person who had appeared upon the steps, passing towards a confessional on the left, and, as he entered it, one of the party pointed him out to the friar, and enquired who he was; the friar turning to look after him, did not immediately reply, but, on the question being repeated, he inclined his head, as in a kind of obeisance, and calmly replied, "He is an assassin."
"An assassin!" exclaimed one of the Englishmen; "an assassin and at liberty!"
An Italian gentleman, who was of the party, smiled at the astonishment of his friend.
"He has sought sanctuary here," replied the friar; "within these walls he may not be hurt."
"Do your altars, then, protect the murderer?" said the Englishman.
"He could find shelter no where else," answered the friar meekly.
"This is astonishing!" said the Englishman; "of what avail are your laws, if the most atrocious criminal may thus find shelter from them ? But how does he contrive to exist here! He is, at least, in danger of being starved?"
"Pardon me," replied the friar; "there are always people willing to assist those, who cannot assist themselves; and as the criminal may not leave the church in search of food, they bring it to him here."
"Is this possible!" said the Englishman, turning to his Italian friend.
"Why, the poor wretch must not starve," replied the friend; "which he inevitably would do, if food were not brought to him! But have you never, since your arrival in Italy, happened to see a person in the situation of this man ? It is by no means an uncommon one."
"Never!" answered the Englishman, "and I can scarcely credit what I see now!"
"Why, my friend," observed the Italian, "if we were to show no mercy to such unfortunate persons, assassinations are so frequent, that our cities would be half depopulated."
In notice of this profound remark, the Englishman could only gravely bow.
"But observe yonder confessional," added the Italian, "that beyond the pillars on the left of the aisle, below a painted window. Have you discovered it ? The colours of the glass throw, instead of light, a shade over that part of the church, which, perhaps, prevents your distinguishing what I mean!"
The Englishman looked whither his friend pointed, and observed a confessional of oak, or some very dark wood, adjoining the wall, and remarked also, that it was the same, which the assassin had just entered. It consisted of three compartments, covered with a black canopy. In the central division was the chair of the confessor, elevated by several steps above the pavement of the church; and on either hand was a small closet, or box, with steps leading up to a grated partition, at which the penitent might kneel, and, concealed from observation, pour into the ear of the confessor, the consciousness of crimes that lay heavy on his heart.
"You observe it?" said the Italian.
"I do," replied the Englishman; "it is the same, which the assassin has passed into; and I think it one of the most gloomy spots I ever beheld; the view of it is enough to strike a criminal with despair!"
"We, in Italy, are not so apt to despair," replied the Italian smilingly.
"Well, but what of this confessional?" enquired the Englishman. "The assassin entered it!"
"He has no relation, with what I am about to mention," said the Italian; "but I wish you to mark the place, because some very extraordinary circumstances belong to it."
"What are they?" said the Englishman.
"It is now several years since the confession, which is connected with them, was made at that very confessional," added the Italian; "the view of it, and the sight of this assassin, with your surprize at the liberty which is allowed him, led me to a recollection of the story. When you return to the hotel, I will communicate it to you, if you have no pleasanter way of engaging your time.
"I have a curiosity to hear it," replied the Englishman, "cannot you relate it now ?"
"It is much too long to be related now; that would occupy a week; I have it in writing, and will send you the volume. A young student of Padua, who happened to be at Naples soon after this horrible confession became public --"
"Pardon me," interrupted the Englishman, "that is surely very extraordinary ? I thought confessions were always held sacred by the priest, to whom they were made."
"Your observation is reasonable," rejoined the Italian; "the faith of the priest is never broken, except by an especial command from an higher power; and the circumstances must even then be very extraordinary to justify such a departure from the law. But, when you read the narrative, your surprise on this head will cease. I was going to tell you, that it was written by a student of Padua, who, happening to be here soon after the affair became public, was so much struck with the facts, that, partly as an exercise, and partly in return for some trifling services I had rendered him, he committed them to paper for me. You will perceive from the work, that this student was very young, as to the arts of composition, but the facts are what you require, and from these he has not deviated. But come, let us leave the church."
"After I have taken another view of this solemn edifice," replied the Englishman, "and particularly of the confessional you have pointed to my notice!"
While the Englishman glanced his eye over the high roofs, and along the solemn perspectives of the Santa del Pianto, he perceived the figure of the assassin stealing from the confessional across the choir, and, shocked on again beholding him, he turned his eyes, and hastily quitted the church.
The friends then separated, and the Englishman, soon after returning to his hotel, received the volume. He read as follows:
CHAPTER I
"What is this secret sin; this untold tale,
That art cannot extract, nor penance cleanse?"
-MYSTERIOUS MOTHER
It was in the church of San Lorenzo at Naples, in the year 1758, that Vincentio di Vivaldi first saw Ellena Rosalba. The sweetness and fine expression of her voice attracted his attention to her figure, which had a distinguished air of delicacy and grace; but her face was concealed in her veil. So much indeed was he fascinated by the voice, that a most painful curiosity was excited as to her countenance, which he fancied must express all the sensibility of character that the modulation of her tones indicated. He listened to their exquisite expression with a rapt attention, and hardly withdrew his eyes from her person till the matin service had concluded; when he observed her leave the church with an aged lady, who leaned upon her arm, and who appeared to be her mother.
Vivaldi immediately followed their steps, determined to obtain, if possible, a view of Ellena's face, and to discover the home to which she should retire. They walked quickly, looking neither to the right or left, and as they turned into the Strada di Toledo he had nearly lost them; but quickening his pace, and relinquishing the cautious distance he had hitherto kept, he overtook them as they entered on the Terrazzo Nuovo, which runs along the bay of Naples, and leads towards the Gran Corso. He overtook them; but the fair unknown still held her veil close, and he knew not how to introduce himself to her notice, or to obtain a view of the features, which excited his curiosity. He was embarrassed by a respectful timidity, that mingled with his admiration, and which kept him silent, notwithstanding his wish to speak.
In descending the last steps of the Terrazzo, however, the foot of the elder lady faltered, and, while Vivaldi hastened to assist her, the breeze from the water caught the veil, which Ellena had no longer a hand sufficiently disengaged to confine, and, wafting it partially aside, disclosed to him a countenance more touchingly beautiful than he had dared to image. Her features were of t
he Grecian outline, and, though they expressed the tranquillity of an elegant mind, her dark blue eyes sparkled with intelligence. She was assisting her companion so anxiously, that she did not immediately observe the admiration she had inspired; but the moment her eyes met those of Vivaldi, she became conscious of their effect, and she hastily drew her veil.
The old lady was not materially hurt by her fall, but, as she walked difficultly, Vivaldi seized the opportunity thus offered, and insisted that she should accept his arm. She refused this with many acknowledgments; but he pressed the offer so repeatedly and respectfully, that, at length, she accepted it, and they walked towards her residence together.
On the way thither, he attempted to converse with Ellena, but her replies were concise, and he arrived at the end of the walk while he was yet considering what he could say, that might interest and withdraw her from this severe reserve. From the style of their residence, he imagined that they were persons of honourable, but moderate independence. The house was small, but exhibited an air of comfort, and even of taste. It stood on an eminence, surrounded by a garden and vineyards, which commanded the city and bay of Naples, an ever-moving picture, and was canopied by a thick grove of pines and majestic date-trees; and, though the little portico and collonade in front were of common marble, the style of architecture was elegant. While they afforded a shelter from the sun, they admitted the cooling breezes that rose from the bay below, and a prospect of the whole scope of its enchanting shores.
Vivaldi stopped at the little gate, which led into the garden, where the elder lady repeated her acknowledgments for his care, but did not invite him to enter; and he, trembling with anxiety and sinking with disappointment, remained for a moment gazing upon Ellena, unable to take leave, yet irresolute what to say that might prolong the interview, till the old lady again bade him good-day. He then summoned courage enough to request he might be allowed to enquire after her health, and, having obtained her permission, his eyes bade adieu to Ellena, who, as they were parting, ventured to thank him for the care he had taken of her aunt. The sound of her voice, and this acknowledgment of obligation, made him less willing to go than before, but at length he tore himself away. The beauty of her countenance haunting his imagination, and the touching accents of her voice still vibrating on his heart, he descended to the shore below her residence, pleasing himself with the consciousness of being near her, though he could no longer behold her; and sometimes hoping that he might again see her, however distantly, in a balcony of the house, where the silk awning seemed to invite the breeze from the sea. He lingered hour after hour, stretched beneath the umbrageous pines that waved over the shore, or traversing, regardless of the heat, the base of the cliffs that crowned it; recalling to his fancy the enchantment of her smile, and seeming still to listen to the sweetness of her accents.
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