Daughter of Silence

by Morris West

  ‘I know and you know that you will never be able to give justice to my client. You cannot bring back her dead mother. You cannot draw back the veil and hide from her young eyes the horror of rape and murder. You cannot restore to her the years which she has spent in the syncope of obsession. You cannot bring back the husband who has withdrawn himself from her, nor the capacity to enter even the elementary relationship of marriage. All you can do is lay new burdens upon her, of guilt, punishment and reparation.

  ‘You are in dilemma in this matter, gentlemen. We are all in dilemma. We are obliged to that which we cannot perform. We believe that which we cannot affirm in this court, because the vocabulary of the codex lacks words to define it. We are committed to that which we condemn in the accused – the lex talionis, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!

  ‘You will, because you must, find Anna Albertini guilty, de facto, of an act of homicide. Yet you know and I know that had the act been committed in another time – though in the same context of shock and provocation – you would have praised it as an act of virtue. You know that this act might never have been committed, had not a guardian of the law conspired many years ago to deny to Anna Albertini a legal redress. But when you retire to reach your decision, you will not be able to take effective cognizance of that fact. You will consider, and I believe you will decide favourably on, the defence plea of mitigation on the grounds of partial mental infirmity. You will reject out of hand the prosecution’s case for premeditation, understanding that the evidence of trauma and obsession puts it completely out of court.

  ‘But the tragedy, gentlemen, the bitter tragedy of your situation is that you will fail to dispense justice; not for want of knowledge or good will, but because our law has never adequately defined the nature of moral responsibility, because its evolution has not kept pace with the findings of modern psychiatry on the intricate ills of the human mind.

  ‘What can you do, being dedicated to truth and to justice but knowing them beyond your noblest reach? I submit that you must define this act in the most lenient terms sanctioned by the law. You must mete out a minimum penalty, not only in terms of duration, but also in terms of place and condition. If you must confine this girl, who is still only a child, let it not be in a house of correction, but in a place where she may find love and care and a hope of cure for the infirmities which have been laid upon her….’

  For the first time, he faltered. His shoulders shook and he stood with head bowed, fighting to recover himself. Then he straightened up and flung out his arms in a final impassioned plea: ‘What more can I say, gentlemen? How else can I show you how to conform the cold unreason of legality with the truth and the justice to which the human instinct points with unerring finger? Like you, I am a servant of the law, and, like you, I am this moment ashamed of my servitude. God help us all!’

  Without another word, he turned away, walked to his table and sat down, burying his face in his hands.

  It was a magnificent moment, an instant of vision such as great preachers sometimes impose on their audience. The paradox of the human estate was suddenly laid bare, the pathos of it and the pity and the massive terror that attend the most banal imperfection. In the court a woman sobbed brokenly. Ninette dabbed at her eyes and old Ascolini blew his nose in a great trumpet blast. The white-haired President wiped his spectacles and his assistants tried vainly to mask the emotions that this youthful advocate had stirred in them. Only Anna Albertini sat, wraith-like and withdrawn, oblivious of the high climax of the scene.

  The President bent forward in his chair. ‘Mr Rienzi…’

  Rienzi looked up, vaguely, and all saw that his face was wet with tears. ‘I – I beg your pardon, Mr President.’

  The President nodded sympathetically. ‘The court understands that Counsel is under a great strain, but it is customary after the pleas of both prosecution and defence to give the accused the opportunity of making a personal statement.’

  Rienzi glanced across at Anna Albertini and then shook his head. ‘We waive the privilege, Mr President. There is nothing to add to our defence.’

  ‘Then the court is adjourned while my colleagues and I consider our decision.’

  He was hardly on his feet before a woman’s hysterical voice shouted from the back of the court: ‘Let her go! Hasn’t she had enough? Free her!’

  A couple of officials rushed towards the woman, but before they reached her the whole audience had taken up the cry, stamping and shouting: ‘Free her! Free her!’ in a fury of shame and pity and frustration.

  In the disorder that followed, the judges made a hurried exit, Anna was whisked back to the cells and Ascolini hurried Valeria, Ninette and Landon into the enclosure of the court, where the four of them stood with Rienzi and his colleagues watching with slack amazement as the policemen herded the people like sheep through the ante-room and into the street, and the cries went up more loudly and fiercely, ‘Free her! Let her go!’

  The doors slammed shut and they were left with their own private drama of confusion and wonder. For a moment, no one said a word, then old Ascolini threw his arms round Carlo and embraced him in the ardent fashion of the South. ‘Wonderful, my boy, wonderful! I’m proud of you! You will do great things, but you may never have another moment like this for twenty years! Look at him, Valeria I Look at the man you married I Aren’t you proud of him?’

  ‘Very proud, Father.’ With the practised charm of an actress, she put her arm round Carlo and pressed her cool lips to his cheek. Landon was standing near enough to catch her words: ‘You win, Carlo! I won’t fight you any more. I promise that.’

  There was an infinite weariness in his whispered reply: ‘Did it need so much, Valeria? Did it need all this?’

  Then he kissed her lightly on the cheek and came forward with a tired smile to receive their congratulations. The Prosecutor gathered up his papers and strolled across with casual professional friendliness. ‘My compliments, Rienzi! The best handling of a bad brief I’ve seen in many a long day!’ He turned to smile at Ascolini. ‘A star pupil, eh, dottore? We old dogs will have to learn new tricks to match this one!’

  Rienzi flushed and murmured vaguely: ‘Kind of you to say so!’

  ‘Not at all, my dear fellow, you deserve it. And you’ll do very well out of the case. The press will give you a very good run. The President’s not a man to throw compliments round either. Give it a week or two and you’ll have more briefs than you can handle!’

  Rienzi grinned ruefully. ‘We still haven’t got the decision.’

  ‘Nonsense, my dear fellow!’ The Prosecutor smiled and patted him genially on the shoulder. ‘The decision is unimportant. It’s your performance that counts, and you made a startling début.’

  As he drifted away, Ascolini snorted irritably: ‘The fellow’s a fool! Take no notice of him.’

  Rienzi shrugged abstractedly. ‘He meant to be kind. Tell me, dottore, how do you think it will go?’

  Ascolini pursed his thin lips and then said, carefully: ‘I think you have a good chance. Medical evidence works strongly in your favour. You did well to underline in your plea the judicial dilemma. This always disposes to sympathy for the accused. On the other hand, the judiciary is always concerned with legal precedent. It cannot lend itself, or appear to lend itself, to condonation of the vendetta. I should not like to be in their shoes at this moment. But you, my boy, you have done as well as any man.’ He smiled a little self-consciously and said: ‘If you haven’t pawned the watch, I’d like to have it back.’

  ‘You make me very happy, dottore,’ said Carlo gravely. ‘But in fact I did sell the watch.’ He grinned boyishly. ‘This has been an expensive venture for me.’

  ‘It will pay you back a hundred times over,’ said Ascolini warmly, ‘and then you will buy me another watch.’

  Rienzi turned to Ninette and Landon. ‘I owe you a great deal, Peter – and Ninette also. You’ve been more patient than I – than any of us – deserve.’

  Landon flushed a
nd said in a low voice: ‘Let’s keep that part of it for later, Carlo. I have things to say, too.’

  There was a small, embarrassed pause, but before anyone found words to bridge it, Professor Galuzzi came in from the remand cell and walked across to join them. Rienzi asked him anxiously: ‘How is Anna, Professor?’

  ‘Better than I expected. I’ve given her a light sedative and a tranquillizer. We’ll get her through the rest of the day without any trouble. I’d like you to join me in her cell in a few moments. You made a remarkable plea, young man. I found myself deeply moved by it.’

  ‘Did you agree with it, Professor?’

  ‘In the main, yes. The definition of criminal responsibility is one of our great problems in forensic medicine. Your examination of Mr Landon here brought it in very clear focus. With your permission, I should like to quote from it in a paper which I am preparing for the Medical Record,’

  ‘That’s a great compliment, Professor.’

  ‘Not at all. You have done us all a service.’

  Rienzi hesitated a moment and then put the blunt question: ‘You will naturally be asked to make a report on this case and recommendations for treatment of my client. Would it be an indiscretion to ask how you will frame it?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Galuzzi, amiably. ‘I shall suggest minimum confinement, preferably in one of our more modem psychiatric institutions where patients have a large degree of freedom, comfort and constructive activity. In addition to this, I shall recommend regular observation, analysis and therapy.’

  ‘You will recommend this, even if we lose our plea?’

  ‘Certainly. I must point out, of course, that the final decision rests with the court.’

  ‘I understand that. I’m sure you will understand that I have a personal interest in the girl’s future.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to keep you in touch with her progress. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m likely to be called at any moment to consult with the magistrates.’

  He made a little formal bow and left them. Rienzi looked after him with anxious eyes. Valeria watched her husband shrewdly but said nothing. Ascolini said gently: ‘Each to his own profession, my boy. Your client will be in good hands.’

  ‘I know,’ said Carlo moodily. ‘I know.’

  Valeria’s voice, tinged faintly with irritation, cut across the talk: ‘How long will the judges be out? We can’t just stand around here all the morning.’

  They’ll be some time, I think,’ said Carlo. ‘Why don’t you all go out and get some coffee? If I know where you are, I’ll send a clerk round to call you when they’re ready.’

  ‘Why not come with us, Carlo?’

  ‘No, my dear. I’ll wait around here. I want to talk with Anna. There may be very little time – afterwards.’

  ‘Send word to the Caffè Angelo,’ said Ascolini briskly. ‘It’s the nearest place. We’ll be there. Relax, my boy, it will soon be over.’

  When they were leaving the court, Valeria said, with a curious touch of pity: ‘He’ll be lonely without his little virgin.’

  ‘He’s been lonely so long,’ said Ascolini harshly, ‘he’s probably accustomed to it. You’re a fool, Valeria. He’s survived his crisis. Yours is still to come.’

  Ninette said tactfully: ‘It’s a nervous time, dottore. We all need to be patient with each other. Why don’t you two men take a stroll and meet Valeria and myself later at Angelo’s?’

  It was Landon’s cue and he took it gratefully. ‘Let’s do that, dottore. I could use something stronger than coffee.’

  The two girls left them and they began to stroll in leisurely fashion round the sunlit perimeter of the Campo. Ascolini seemed tired. He leant heavily on Landon’s arm and talked in halting, meditative fashion as if all his trenchant confidence had deserted him.

  ‘Valeria is beginning to be jealous, which is a good thing. But it is not enough. She will need to be generous as well. When this is over, Carlo will be spent and lonely; he will need gentleness and consideration.’

  ‘Will Valeria be able to give them?’

  ‘I hope so. But they need practice and – and a certain humility. She, like me, is deficient in both. I am troubled, Landon. I am old enough to see the magnitude of my mistakes, too old to avert their consequences. I have lived a long time without belief. Now…I begin to be afraid of death and judgment. Strange!’

  ‘Valeria’s afraid too, isn’t she?’

  ‘Of other things. Of losing me. Of being forced to submit herself to other standards than mine. Of losing the easy absolution which she has had from me.’

  ‘Of losing Carlo?’

  ‘Of having him reject her – which is not quite the same thing.’

  ‘Reject her for what? A mistress?’

  ‘No. This would not trouble her too much, I think. It would justify her own follies. His guilt would preserve her power over him. And Carlo is not a man to find happiness in a backstairs liaison. The danger for both of them is more subtle – that Carlo will borrow dignity and satisfaction from apparently noble aims, while Valeria is left with no dignity and diversions already stale.’

  ‘You’re thinking of Anna Albertini?’

  ‘This is the beginning of it, though not necessarily the end. It is a worthy enterprise, you see: a lost one to be rescued and guided to safe harbour; innocence to be protected; the unloved to be cherished back to normal growth. There will be others, more and more as he gets older: cheats, murderers, violent husbands, unhappy wives, with all of whom he will become involved in greater or less degree. I can understand it.’ He chuckled grimly. ‘I have played the merry lecher with too many women; yet there have been one or two for whom I have been the white and gallant knight, who took them home to mama instead of taking them to bed. This is how we justify ourselves, Landon. You know it as well as I.’

  Landon knew it only too well, but he did not know what he could do about it. Marriage was an uneasy bargain at the best of times, and stiff-necked virtue could often destroy it more quickly than amiable sin. Mutual dependence was a habit, mutual care was a grace of rare cultivation, but both must begin from a moment of common need, and Rienzi and his wife seemed to have missed it by a long, long way. He said as much to Ascolini, and he nodded, gravely: ‘The need is there, Landon, but Carlo has grown tired of telling and Valeria has never learnt the words. I tried last night to teach them to her, but I’m not sure that she understood. Perhaps Ninette will do better.

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘The trouble is, there’s not much time. Carlo’s career was begun today. Soon it will begin to roll like a railway train. After that, there will be no leisure for lovers’ games.’

  After which melancholy summary, there was little to be said, so they turned into a bar and drank a glass of brandy together. Then they walked back slowly to the Caffè Angelo to meet the womenfolk.

  To Landon’s relief, they found them talking companionably over the coffee-cups. Valeria was pale and subdued and it seemed that she had been crying, but she smiled wanly and said: ‘Ninette has been kind to me, Peter. I’ve treated you both very badly but I hope we may be friends from now on.’

  ‘We won’t talk about it any more,’ said Ninette firmly. ‘It’s finished – done! And tonight there will be a celebration.’

  ‘A celebration?’ Ascolini cocked a shrewd eye at his daughter. ‘Where?’

  ‘At the villa,’ Valeria told him quietly. ‘A homecoming for Carlo. There will be Peter and Ninette, and you, Father, will bring Professor Galuzzi and anyone else you think Carlo might like. I’ve telephoned and Sabina has everything in hand. We need something like this, Father.’

  Ascolini chuckled happily. ‘Child, we shall make a festa to end all festas. Leave the guest-list to me. Are you sure they’ll be ready for us at home?’

  ‘I’m sure of it, Father.’

  ‘Good. Now, let’s write down the names. Then I’ll borrow Angelo’s telephone and we’ll be organized.’

  Ten minutes later, he was perched like a
cheerful gnome on a high stool summoning the worthies of Siena to attend him at the family triumph.

  In the white conventual cell, Anna Albertini lay tranquil in a drugged sleep while Carlo Rienzi kept vigil beside her. Her face was waxen but relaxed in a strange, empty beauty. Her hands, outflung on the grey blanket, were slack and undemanding as those of a sleeping baby. Her hair, tumbled on the pillow, was like a dark halo around her ivory brow. Her small, virginal breast rose and lapsed in the languid rhythm of repose. Passion and guilt and terror were strangers at such a sleeping, and Carlo Rienzi, at this penultimate moment of the battle, felt himself floating like a straw in the backwater calm of the narrow room.

  All that he could do had been done. All that he had promised had been fulfilled. The outcome lay now in the lap of the Blind Goddess. For himself, he felt spent, empty and parched as a summer brook; but as he looked down at the pale, innocent face, he felt the first grateful runnel of tenderness break out inside him like a spring bursting out of dry sand. It was a kind of refreshment after the arid discipline he had imposed upon himself and, moved by a sudden impulse, he stretched out a tentative hand to brush away a trailing hair from the girl’s forehead.

  He drew it back with a guilty start when he heard the rattle of bolts, the creak of the opening door, as Professor Galuzzi was admitted into the cell.

  Galuzzi surveyed him for a moment with a shrewd, scholarly eye, and asked: ‘How is she, Mr Rienzi?’

  ‘Sleeping quietly.’ Rienzi stood up and moved away from the bed. Galuzzi picked up one slack hand, took a short pulse-count and then laid the hand back on the blanket. ‘Good. We can let her sleep a while. I think the judges will be out some time. You’ve given them a great deal to think about, Rienzi.’

  ‘Have you consulted with them yet?’

  ‘I have. I’ve given them my opinion in the same terms as I gave it to you.’