Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated)

by Ann Radcliffe

  “I remember the circumstance,” said Vivaldi, “because I was struck with his appearance; the evening was far advanced — it was dusk, and he came upon me suddenly. His voice startled me; as he passed he said to himself— “It is for vespers.” At the same time I heard the bell of the Spirito Santo.”

  “Do you know who he is?” said the stranger, solemnly.

  “I know only what he appears to be,” replied Vivaldi.

  “Did you never hear any report of his past life?”

  “Never,” answered Vivaldi.

  “Never any thing extraordinary concerning him,” added the monk.

  Vivaldi paused a moment; for he now recollected the obscure and imperfect story, which Paulo had related while they were confined in the dungeon of Paluzzi, respecting a confession made in the church of the Black Penitents; but he could not presume to affirm, that it concerned Schedoni. He remembered also the monk’s garments, stained with blood, which he had discovered in the vaults of that fort. The conduct of the mysterious being, who now stood before him, with many other particulars of his own adventures there, passed like a vision over his memory. His mind resembled the glass of a magician, on which the apparitions of long-buried events arise, and as they fleet away, point portentously to shapes half-hid in the duskiness of futurity. An unusual dread seized upon him; and a superstition, such as he had never before admitted in an equal degree, usurped his judgment. He looked up to the shadowy countenance of the stranger; and almost believed he beheld an inhabitant of the world of spirits.

  The monk spoke again, repeating in a feverer tone, “Did you never hear any thing extraordinary concerning father Schedoni?”

  “Is it reasonable,” said Vivaldi, recollecting his courage, “that I should answer the questions, the minute questions, of a person who refuses to tell me even his name?”

  “My name is passed away — it is no more remembered,” replied the stranger, turning from Vivaldi,— “I leave you to your fate.”

  “What fate?” asked Vivaldi, “and what is the purpose of this visit? I conjure you, in the tremendous name of the Inquisition, to say!”

  “You will know full soon; have mercy on yourself!”

  “What fate?” repeated Vivaldi.

  “Urge me no further,” said the stranger; “but answer to what I shall demand. Schedoni— “

  “I have told all that I certainly know concerning him,” interrupted Vivaldi, “the rest is only conjecture.”

  “What is that conjecture? Does it relate to a consession made in the church of the Black Penitents of the Santa Maria del Pianto?

  “It does!” replied Vivaldi with surprise.

  “What was that confession?”

  “I know not,” answered Vivaldi.

  “Declare the truth,” said the stranger, sternly.

  “A confession,” replied Vivaldi, “is sacred, and forever buried in the bosom of the priest to whom it is made. How, then, is it to be supposed, that I can be acquainted with the subject of this?”

  “Did you never hear, that father Schedoni had been guilty of some great crimes, which he endeavours to erase from his conscience by the severity of penance?”

  “Never!” said Vivaldi.

  “Did you never hear that he had a wife — a brother?”

  “Never!”

  “Nor the means he used — no hint of — murder, of— “

  The stranger paused, as if he wished Vivaldi to fill up his meaning, Vivaldi was silent and aghast.

  “You know nothing then, of Schedoni,” resumed the monk after a deep pause— “nothing of his past life?

  “Nothing, except what I have mentioned,” replied Vivaldi.

  “Then listen to what I shall unfold!” continued the monk, with solemnity. “Tomorrow night you will be again carried to the place of torture; you will be taken to a chamber beyond that in which you were this night. You will there witness many extraordinary things, of which you have not now any suspicion. Be not dismayed; I shall be there, though, perhaps, not visible.”

  “Not visible!” exclaimed Vivaldi.

  “Interrupt me not, but listen. — When you are asked of father Schedoni, say — that he has lived for fifteen years in the disguise of a monk, a member of the Dominicans of the Spirito Santo, at Naples. When you are asked who he is, reply — Ferando Count di Bruno. You will be asked the motive, for such disguise. In reply to this, refer them to the Black Penitents of the Santa Maria del Pianto, near that city; bid the inquisitors summon before their tribunal one father Ansaldo di Rovalli, the grand penitentiary of the society, and command him to divulge the crimes confessed to him in the year 1752, on the evening of the twenty-fourth of April, which was then the vigil of Santo Marco, in a confessional of the Santa del Pianto.”

  “It is probable he may have forgotten such confession, at this distance of time,” observed Vivaldi.

  “Fear not but he will remember,” replied the stranger.

  “But will his conscience suffer him to betray the secrets of a confession?” said Vivaldi.

  “The tribunal command, and his conscience is absolved,” answered the monk, “He may not refuse to obey! You are further to direct your examiners to summon father Schedoni, to answer for the crimes which Ansaldo shall reveal.” The monk paused, and seemed waiting the reply of Vivaldi, who, after a momentary consideration, said,

  “How can I do all this, and upon the instigation of a stranger! Neither conscience nor prudence will suffer me to assert what I cannot prove. It is true that I have reason to believe Schedoni is my bitter enemy, but I will not be unjust even to him. I have no proof that he is the Count di Bruno, nor that he is the perpetrator of the crimes you allude to, whatever those may be; and I will not be made an instrument to summon any man before a tribunal, where innocence is no protection from ignominy, and where suspicion alone may inflict death.”

  “You doubt, then, the truth of what I assert?” said the monk, in a haughty tone.

  “Can I believe that of which I have no proof?” replied Vivaldi.

  “Yes, there are cases which do not admit of proof; under your peculiar circumstances, this is one of them; you can act only upon assertion. I attest,” continued the monk, raising his hollow voice to a tone of singular solemnity, “I attest the powers which are beyond this earth, to witness to the truth of what I have delivered!”

  As the stranger uttered this adjuration, Vivaldi observed, with emotion, the extraordinary expression of his eyes; Vivaldi’s presence of mind, however, did not forsake him, and, in the next moment, he said, “But who is he that thus attests? It is upon the assertion of a stranger that I am to rely, in defect of proof! It is a stranger who calls upon me to bring solemn charges against a man, of whose guilt I know nothing!”

  “You are not required to bring charges, you are only to summon him who will.”

  “I should still assist in bringing forward accusations, which may be founded in error,” replied Vivaldi. “If you are convinced of their truth, why do not you summon Ansaldo yourself!”

  “I shall do more,” said the monk.

  “But why not summon also?” urged Vivaldi.

  “I shall appear,” said the stranger, with emphasis.

  Vivaldi, though somewhat awed by the manner, which accompanied these words, still urged his inquiries, “As a witness?” said he.

  “Aye, as a dreadful witness!” replied the monk.

  “But may not a witness summon others before the tribunal of the inquisition?” continued Vivaldi, faulteringly.

  “He may,” said the stranger.

  “Why then,” observed Vivaldi, “am I, a stranger to you, called upon to do that which you could perform yourself?”

  “Ask no further,” said the monk, “but answer, whether you will deliver the summons?”

  “The charges, which must follow,” replied Vivaldi, “appear to be of a nature too solemn to justify my promoting them. I resign the task to you.”

  “When I summon,” said the stranger, “you shall
obey!”

  Vivaldi, again awed by his manner, again justified his refusal, and concluded with repeating his surprize, that he should be required to assist in this mysterious affair, “Since I neither know you, father,” he added, “nor the Penitentiary Ansaldo, whom you bid me admonish to appear.”

  “You shall know me hereafter,” said the stranger, frowningly; and he drew from beneath his garment a dagger!

  Vivaldi remembered his dream.

  “Mark those spots,” said the monk.

  Vivaldi looked, and beheld blood!

  “This blood, added the stranger, pointing to the blade, “would have saved your’s! Here is some print of truth! Tomorrow night you will meet me in the chambers of death!”

  As he spoke, he turned away; and, before Vivaldi had recovered from his consternation, the light disappeared. Vivaldi knew that the stranger had quitted the prison, only by the silence which prevailed there.

  He remained sunk in thought, till, at the dawn of day, the man, on watch, unfastened the door of his cell, and brought, as usual, a jug of water, and some bread. Vivaldi inquired the name of the stranger who had visited him in the night. The centinel looked surpized, and Vivaldi repeated the question before he could obtain an answer.

  “I have been on guard since the first hour,” said the man, and no person, in that time, has passed through this door!”

  Vivaldi regarded the centinel with attention, while he made this assertion, and did not perceive in his manner any consciousness of falshood; yet he knew not how to believe what he had affirmed. “Did you hear no noise, either?” said Vivaldi. “Has all been silent during the night?”

  “I have heard only the bell of San Dominico strike upon the hour,” replied the man, “and the watch word of the centinels.”

  “This is incomprehensible!” exclaimed Vivaldi, “What! no footsteps, no voice?”

  The man smiled contemptuously. “None, but of the centinels,” he replied.

  “How can you be certain you heard only the centinel’s, friend?” added Vivaldi.

  “They speak only to pass the watch word, and the clash of their arms is heard at the same time.”

  “But their footsteps! — how are they distinguished from those of other persons?”

  “By the heaviness of their tread; our sandals are braced with iron. But why these questions, Signor?”

  “You have kept guard at the door of this chamber?” said Vivaldi.

  “Yes, Signor.”

  “And you have not once heard, during the whole night, a voice from within it?”

  “None, Signor.”

  “Fear nothing from discovery, friend; confess that you have slumbered.”

  “I had a comrade,” replied the centinel, angrily, “has he, too, slumbered! and if he had, how could admittance be obtained without our keys?”

  “And those might easily have been procured, friend, if you were overcome with sleep. You may rely upon my promise of secrecy.”

  “What!” said the man, “have I kept guard for three years in the Inquisition, to be suspected, by a heretic, of neglecting my duty?”

  “If you were suspected by an heretic,” replied Vivaldi, “you ought to console yourself by recollecting that his opinions are considered to be erroneous.”

  “We were watchful every minute of the night,” said the centinel, going.

  “This is incomprehensible!” said Vivaldi, “By what means could the stranger have entered my prison?”

  “Signor, you still dream!” replied the centinel, pausing, “No person has been here.”

  “Still dream!” repeated Vivaldi, “how do you know that I have dreamt at all?” His mind deeply affected by the extraordinary circumstances of the dream, and the yet more extraordinary incident that had followed, Vivaldi gave a meaning to the words of the centinel, which did not belong to them.

  “When people sleep, they are apt to dream,” replied the man, dryly. “I supposed you had slept, Signor.”

  “A person, habited like a monk, came to me in the night, “resumed Vivaldi, and he described the appearance of the stranger. The centinel, while he listened, became grave and thoughtful.

  “Do you know any person resembling the one I have mentioned,” said Vivaldi.

  “No!” replied the guard.

  “Though you have not seen him enter my prison,” continued Vivaldi, “you may, perhaps, recollect such a person, as an inhabitant of the Inquisition.”

  “San Dominico forbid!”

  Vivaldi, surprized at this exclamation, inquired the reason for it.

  “I know him not,” replied the centinel, changing countenance, and he abruptly left the prison. Whatever consideration might occasion this sudden departure, his assertion that he had been for three years a guard of the Inquisition could scarcely be credited, since he had held so long a dialogue with a prisoner, and was, apparently, insensible of the danger he incurred by so doing.

  Chapter 26

  — “Is it not dead midnight?

  Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.

  What do I fear?”

  Shakespeare.

  At about the same hour, as on the preceding night, Vivaldi heard persons approaching his prison, and, the door unfolding, his former conductors appeared. They threw over him the same mantle as before, and, in addition, a black veil, that completely muffled his eyes; after which, they led him from the chamber. Vivaldi heard the door shut, on his departure, and the centinels followed his steps, as if their duty was finished, and he was to return thither no more. At this moment, he remembered the words of the stranger when he had displayed the poniard, and Vivaldi apprehended the worst, from having thwarted the designs of a person apparently so malignant; but he exulted in the rectitude, which had preserved him from debasement, and, with the magnanimous enthusiasm of virtue, he almost welcomed sufferings, which would prove the firmness of his justice towards an enemy; for he determined to brave every thing, rather than impute to Schedoni circumstances, the truth of which he possessed no means of ascertaining.

  While Vivaldi was conducted, as on the preceding night, through many passages, he endeavoured to discover, by their length, and the abruptness of their turnings, whether they were the same he had traversed before. Suddenly, one of his conductors cried “Steps!” It was the first word Vivaldi had ever heard him utter. He immediately perceived that the ground sunk, and he began to descend; as he did which, he tried to count the number of the steps, that he might form some judgment whether this was the flight he had passed before. When he had reached the bottom, he inclined to believe that it was not so; and the care which had been observed in blinding him, seemed to indicate that he was going to some new place.

  He passed through several avenues, and then ascended; soon after which, he again descended a very long staircase, such as he had not any remembrance of, and they passed over a considerable extent of level ground. By the hollow sounds which his steps returned, he judged that he was walking over vaults. The footsteps of the centinels who had followed from the cell were no longer heard, and he seemed to be left with his conductors only. A second flight appeared to lead him into subterraneous vaults, for he perceived the air change, and felt a damp vapour wrap round him. The menace of the monk, that he should meet him in the chambers of death, frequently occurred to Vivaldi.

  His conductors stopped in this vault, and seemed to hold a consultation, but they spoke in such low accents, that their words were not distinguishable, except a few unconnected ones, that hinted of more than Vivaldi could comprehend. He was, at length, again led forward; and soon after, he heard the heavy grating of hinges, and perceived that he was passing through several doors, by the situation of which Vivaldi judged they were the same he had entered the night before, and concluded, that he was going to the hall of the tribunal.

  His conductors stopped again, and Vivaldi heard the iron rod strike three times upon a door; immediately a strange voice spoke from within, and the door was unclosed. Vivaldi passed on, and imag
ined that he was admitted into a spacious vault; for the air was freer, and his steps sounded to a distance.

  Presently, a voice, as on the preceding night, summoned him to come forward, and Vivaldi understood that he was again before the tribunal. It was the voice of the inquisitor who had been his chief examiner.

  “You, Vincentio di Vivaldi,” it said, “answer to your name, and to the questions which shall be put to you, without equivocation, on pain of the torture.”

  As the monk had predicted, Vivaldi was asked what he knew of father Schedoni, and, when he replied, as he had formerly done to his mysterious visitor, he was told that he knew more than he acknowledged.

  “I know no more,” replied Vivaldi.

  “You equivocate,” said the inquisitor. “Declare what you have heard, and remember that you formerly took an oath to that prupose.”

  Vivaldi was silent, till a tremendous voice from the tribunal commanded him to respect his oath.

  “I do respect it,” said Vivaldi; “and I conjure you to believe that I also respect truth, when I declare, that what I am going to relate, is a report to which I give no confidence, and concerning even the probability of which I cannot produce the smallest proof.”

  “Respect truth!” said another voice from the tribunal, and Vivaldi fancied he distinguished the tones of the monk. He paused a moment, and the exhortation was repeated. Vivaldi then related what the stranger had said concerning the family of Schedoni, and the disguise which the father had assumed in the convent of the Spirito Santo; but forbore even to name the penitentiary Ansaldo, and any circumstance connected with the extraordinary confession. Vivaldi concluded, with again declaring, that he had not sufficient authority to justify a belief in those reports.

  “On what authority do you repeat them?” said the vicar-general.

  Vivaldi was silent.

  “On what authority?” inquired the inquisitor, sternly.

  Vivaldi, after a momentary hesitation, said, “What I am about to declare, holy fathers, is so extraordinary— “

  “Tremble!” said a voice close to his ear, which he instantly knew to be the monk’s, and the suddenness of which electrified him. He was unable to conclude the sentence.