Kabanata Kabanata 20 · Chapter XX

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The castle of the Unknown was situated above a narrow and shady valley,

on the summit of a cliff, which, belonging to a rugged chain of

mountains, was nevertheless separated from them by banks, caverns, and

precipices. It was only accessible on the side which overlooked the

valley. This was a declivity rather steep, but equal, and continued

towards the summit: it was occupied as pasture ground, and its lower

borders were cultivated, having habitations scattered here and there.

The bottom was a bed of stones, through which flowed, according to the

season, a small brook, or a large torrent, which served for a boundary

between the two territories. The opposite chain of mountains, which

formed, as it were, the other wall of the valley, was slightly

cultivated towards its base; the rest was composed of precipitous rocks

without verdure, and thrown together irregularly and wildly. The scene

altogether was one of savage grandeur.

From this castle, as the eagle from his eyrie, its lawless owner

overlooked his domain, and heard no human sound above him. He could

embrace at a view all the environs, the declivities, the abyss, the

practicable approaches. To the eyes of one viewing it from above, the

winding path which ascended towards the terrible habitation could be

perceived throughout its whole course, and from the windows and

loopholes, the signor could leisurely count the steps of the person

ascending, and examine him with the closest scrutiny. With the garrison

of bravoes which he kept at the castle he could defy an army, which he

would have crushed in the valley beneath, before an individual could

reach the summit. But none, except such as were friends with the master

of the castle, dared set foot even in the valley. Tragical stories were

related of some who had attempted the dangerous enterprise, but these

stories were already of times long past, and none of the young vassals

could remember to have encountered a human being in this place, except

under his lord’s authority.

Don Roderick arrived in the middle of the valley, at the foot of the

cliff, at the commencement of the rugged and winding path; at this point

was a tavern, which might have been called a guard-house; an old sign,

with a rising sun painted on both sides, was suspended before the door;

but the people gave the place the more appropriate name of _Malanotte_.

At the noise of the approaching cavalcade a young boy, well furnished

with swords and pistols, appeared on the threshold of the door; and

casting a rapid glance at the party, informed three ruffians, who were

playing at cards within the house, of its approach. He who appeared to

be the chief among them arose, and recognising a friend of his master,

saluted him respectfully; Don Roderick returned the salutation with much

politeness, and asked if the signor was at the castle. The man replied

in the affirmative; and he, dismounting, threw his horse’s bridle to

Aimwell, one of his retinue. Then, taking his musket from his shoulder,

he gave it to _Montanarolo_, as if to relieve himself from an useless

encumbrance, but in reality because he knew that on this cliff none were

permitted to bear arms. Drawing from his pocket some _berlinghe_, he

gave them to _Tanabuso_, saying, “Wait here till my return; and in the

mean time amuse yourselves with these honest people.” Then presenting to

the chief of the band some crowns of gold for himself and his

companions, he ascended the path with Griso.

Another bravo belonging to the Unknown, who was on his way to the

castle, bore him company; thus sparing him the trouble of declaring his

name to whomsoever he should meet. When he arrived at the castle (Griso

was left at the gate) he was conducted through a long succession of dark

galleries, and various halls hung with muskets, sabres, and other

weapons of warfare; each of these halls was guarded by a bravo. After

having waited some time, he was admitted to the presence of the Unknown,

who advanced to meet him, replying to his salutation, and at the same

time, as was his custom, even with his oldest friends, eying him from

head to foot. He was tall in stature; and from the baldness of his head,

and the deep furrows of his countenance, appeared to be much older than

sixty, which was his real age; his countenance and movements, the

firmness of his features, and the fire which sparkled from his eyes,

indicated a vigour of body as well as of mind which would have been

remarkable even in a young man.

Don Roderick told him he had come for advice and assistance; that,

having embarked in a difficult enterprise, from which his honour did not

suffer him to withdraw, he had remembered the promises of one who never

promised in vain; and he then related his abominable intrigue. The

Unknown, who had already heard something of it, listened with much

attention to the recital, both because he naturally loved such

relations, and because Friar Christopher, that avowed enemy of tyrants,

was concerned in it. Don Roderick spoke of the difficulty of the

undertaking, the distance of the place, a monastery, the _signora_,—but

the Unknown, as if prompted by the demon in his heart, interrupted him,

saying, that he took the charge of the affair on himself. He wrote down

the name of the poor Lucy, and dismissed Don Roderick, saying, “In a

little while you will receive news from me.”

The reader may remember the villain Egidio, who lived near the walls of

the monastery into which Lucy had been received; now, he was one of the

most intimate colleagues in crime of the Unknown; and this accounts for

the promptness with which this lord assumed the charge of the

undertaking. However, no sooner was he left alone than he repented of

his precipitation. He had for some time experienced, not remorse, but a

vague uneasiness on account of his crimes; at every new addition to

them, the remembrance of those he had previously committed pressed upon

his memory, if not upon his conscience, and loaded it with an

intolerable weight. An undefinable repugnance to the commission of

crime, such as he had experienced and subdued at the outset of his

career, returned with all its force to overwhelm his spirit. The

thoughts of the future contributed to render the past more painful. “To

grow old! to die! and then?” And the image of death, which he had so

often met undaunted, in face of an enemy, and which seemed to inflame

his courage and double his energy—this same image now, in the midnight

silence of his castle, quelled his spirit, and impressed him with an awe

which he in vain endeavoured to resist. Formerly, the frequent spectacle

of violence and murder, inspiring him with a ferocious emulation, had

served as a kind of authority against his conscience; now the confused

but terrible idea arose in his mind of individual responsibility at the

bar of God. The idea of having risen above the crowd of vulgar

criminals, and of having left them far behind, an idea which once

flattered his pride, now impressed him with a sentiment of fearful

solitude; and experiencing at certain moments of despondence the power

and presence of that God whose existence he had hitherto neither

admitted nor denied, having been wholly immersed in himself, his

accumulated crimes rose up, to justify the sentence which was about to

condemn him to eternal banishment from the divine presence. But this

uneasiness was not suffered to appear, either in his words or his

actions; he carefully concealed it under the appearance of more profound

and intense ferocity. Regretting the time when he was accustomed to

commit iniquity without remorse, without any other solicitude than for

its success, he made every effort to recall these habits and feelings;

to take pleasure in wickedness; and glory in his shame, in order to

convince himself that he was still the same man.

This accounts for the promptitude of his promise to Don Roderick: he

wished to deprive himself of the chance of hesitation; but, scarcely

alone, he felt his resolution fail, and thoughts arose in his mind which

almost tempted him to break his word, and expose his weakness to an

inferior accomplice. But with a violent effort he put an end to the

painful conflict. He sent for Nibbio[30], one of the most skilful and

resolute ministers of his atrocities, and of whom he had made use in his

correspondence with Egidio, and ordered him to mount his horse, to go to

Monza, to inform Egidio of the affair he had undertaken, and to require

his assistance for its accomplishment.

[30] Kite.

The messenger returned sooner than his master expected him with the

reply of Egidio; the enterprise was easy and safe; the Unknown had only

to send a carriage with two or three bravoes, well disguised; Egidio

took charge of the rest. The Unknown, whatever passed in his mind, gave

orders to Nibbio to arrange every thing, and to set out immediately on

the expedition.

If, to perform the horrible service which had been required of him,

Egidio had depended only on his ordinary means, he would not certainly

have sent back so explicit an answer. But in the asylum of the convent,

where every thing appeared as an obstacle, the villain had a means known

to himself alone; and that which would have been an insurmountable

difficulty to others was to him an instrument of success. We have

related how the unhappy signora once lent an ear to his discourse, and

the reader may have surmised that this was not the last time; it was

only the first step in the path of abomination and blood. The same voice

which then addressed her, become imperious through crime, now imposed on

her the sacrifice of the innocent girl who had been intrusted to her

care.

The proposition appeared frightful to Gertrude; to lose Lucy in any

manner would have seemed to her a misfortune, a punishment; and to

deprive herself of her with criminal perfidy, to add to her crimes by

dealing treacherously with the confiding girl, was to take away the only

gleam of virtuous enjoyment which had shone upon her mysterious and

wicked career. She tried every method to avoid obedience; every method,

except the only infallible one, that was in her power. Crime is a severe

and inflexible master, against whom we are strong only when we entirely

rebel. Gertrude could not resolve on that, and obeyed.

The day agreed on came; the hour approached; Gertrude, alone with Lucy,

bestowed on her more caresses than ordinary, which the poor girl

returned with increasing tenderness, as the lamb licks the hand of the

shepherd who entices it without the fold into the murderous power of the

butcher who there awaits it.

“I want you to do me a great favour; many are ready to obey me, but

there is none but yourself whom I can trust. I must speak immediately on

an affair of great importance, which I will relate to you some other

time, to the superior of the capuchins, who brought you hither, my dear

Lucy; but no one must know that I have sent for him. I rely on you to

carry a secret message——”

Lucy was astonished at such a request, and alleged her reasons for

declining to perform it; without her mother! without a companion! in a

solitary road! in a strange country! But Gertrude, instructed in an

infernal school, showed great astonishment and displeasure at her

refusal, after having been loaded with so many benefits; she affected to

treat her excuses as frivolous. “In open day! a short distance! a road

that Lucy had travelled a few days before!” She said so much, that the

poor girl, touched with gratitude and shame, enquired, “What was to be

done?”

“Go to the convent of the capuchins; ask for the superior, tell him to

come here immediately, but to let no one suspect that he comes at my

request.”

“But what shall I say to the portress, who has never seen me go out, and

will ask me where I am going?”

“Endeavour to pass without being seen; and if you cannot, say you are

going to some church to perform your orisons.”

A new difficulty for Lucy! to tell a falsehood! but the signora was so

offended at her refusal, and so ridiculed her for preferring a vain

scruple to her gratitude, that the unhappy girl, alarmed rather than

convinced, replied, “Well, I will go; may God be my guide and

protector.”

Gertrude, from her grated window, followed her with anxious looks, and

when she saw her about to cross the threshold, overcome by irresistible

emotion, she cried, “Stop, Lucy.”

Lucy returned to the window; but another idea, the one accustomed to

predominate, had resumed its sway over the mind of the unhappy Gertrude.

She affected dissatisfaction at the directions she had given; described

the road again to Lucy, and dismissed her: “Do exactly as I have told

you, and return quickly.”

Lucy passed the door of the cloister unobserved, and proceeding on her

way with downcast eyes, found, with the aid of the directions given, and

her own recollections, the gate of the suburb; timid and trembling, she

continued on the high road, until she arrived at that which led to the

convent. This road was buried, like the bed of a river, between two high

banks, bordered with trees, whose branches united to form an arch above

it. On finding it entirely deserted, she felt her fears revive; she

hurried on, but gained courage from the sight of a travelling carriage

which had stopped a short distance before her; before the door of it,

which was open, there stood two travellers looking about, as if

uncertain of their way. As she approached, she heard one of them say,

“Here is a good girl, who will tell us the way.” As she came on a line

with the carriage, this same man addressed her: “My good girl, can you

tell us the way to Monza?”

“You are going in the wrong direction,” replied the poor girl; “Monza

lies there.” As she turned to point it out, his companion (it was

Nibbio) seized her by the waist, and lifted her from the ground. Lucy

screamed from surprise and terror; the ruffian threw her into the

carriage; a third, who was seated in the bottom of it, seized her, and

compelled her to sit down before him; another put a handkerchief over

her mouth, and stifled her cries. Nibbio then entered the carriage, the

door was closed, and the horses set off on a gallop. He who had asked

her the perfidious question remained behind; he was an emissary of

Egidio, who had watched Lucy when she quitted the convent, and had

hastened by a shorter road to inform his colleagues, and wait for her at

the place agreed on.

But who can describe the terror and anguish of the unfortunate girl? Who

can tell what passed in her heart? Cruelly anxious to ascertain her

horrible situation, she wildly opened her eyes, but closed them again at

the sight of those frightful faces. She struggled in vain. The men held

her down in the bottom of the carriage: if she attempted to cry, they

drew the handkerchief tightly over her mouth. In the mean while, three

gruff voices, endeavouring to assume a tone of humanity, said to her,

“Be quiet, be quiet: do not be afraid; we do not wish to harm you.”

After a while her struggles ceased, she languidly opened her eyes, and

the horrible faces before her appeared to blend themselves into one

monstrous image; her colour fled, and she fell lifeless into their arms.

“Courage, courage,” said Nibbio; but Lucy was now beyond the reach of

his horrible voice.

“The devil! she appears to be dead,” said one of them. “If she should

really be dead!”

“Poh!” said the other, “these fainting fits are common to women; they

don’t die in this way.”

“Hush,” said Nibbio, “be attentive to your duty, and do not meddle with

other affairs. Keep your muskets ready, because this wood we are

entering is a nest for robbers. Don’t keep them in your hands—the

devil! put them behind you. Do you not see that this girl is a tender

chicken, who faints at nothing? If she sees that you have arms, she may

die in reality. When she comes to her senses, be careful not to frighten

her. Touch her not, unless I tell you to do so. I can hold her. Keep

quiet, and let me talk to her.”

Meanwhile the carriage entered the wood. Poor Lucy awoke as from a

profound and painful slumber. She opened her eyes, and her horrible

situation rushed with full force upon her mind. She struggled again in

vain, she attempted to scream, but Nibbio said to her, holding up the

handkerchief, “Be tranquil; it is the best thing you can do. We do not

wish to harm you; but if you do not keep silence, we must make you.”

“Let me go. Who are you? Where are you taking me? Why am I here? Let me

go, let me go.”

“I tell you, don’t be frightened. You are not a child, and you ought to

know that we will not harm you. We might have murdered you before this,

if such had been our intention. Be quiet, then.”

“No, no, let me go; I know you not.”

“We know you well enough, however.”

“Oh, holy Virgin! Let me go, for charity’s sake. Who are you? Why have

you brought me here?”

“Because we have been ordered to do so.”

“Who? who? who ordered you to do it?”

“Hush!” said Nibbio, in a severe tone. “Such questions must not be

answered.”

Lucy attempted to throw herself from the door of the carriage, but

finding the effort vain, she had recourse again to entreaties, and with

her cheeks bathed in tears, and her voice broken by sobs, she continued,

“Oh, for the love of heaven, and the holy Virgin, let me go! What harm

have I done you? I am a poor creature, who have never injured you; I

forgive you all that you have done, and will pray to God for you. If you

have a daughter, a wife, or a mother, think what they would suffer in my

situation. Remember that we must all die, and that one day you will

hope that God will show mercy to you. Let me go, let me go; the Lord

will guide me on my way.”

“We cannot.”

“You cannot? Great God! why can you not? Where are you taking me?”

“We cannot; your supplications are useless. Do not be frightened; we

will not harm you. Be quiet; no one shall harm you.”

More than ever alarmed to perceive that her words produced no effect,

Lucy turned to Him who holds in his powerful hand the hearts of men, and

can, if he sees fit, soften the most ferocious. She crossed her arms on

her breast, and prayed from the depth of her heart, fervently; then

again vainly implored to be set free: but we have not the heart to

relate more at length this painful journey, which lasted four hours, and

which was to be succeeded by many hours of still deeper anguish.

At the castle, the Unknown was waiting her arrival with extraordinary

solicitude and agitation of mind. Strange, that he who had coldly and

calmly disposed of so many lives, and had regarded as nothing the

torments he inflicted, should now feel an impression of remorse, almost

of terror, at the tyranny he exercised over an unknown girl, an humble

peasant! From a high window of his castle, he had for some time looked

down upon the valley beneath; at last he saw the carriage approaching

slowly at a distance, as if the horses were wearied with their rapid

journey. He perceived it, and felt his heart beat violently.

“Is she there?” thought he. “What trouble this girl gives me! I must

free myself from it.” And he prepared himself to send one of his

ruffians to meet the carriage, and tell Nibbio to conduct the girl

immediately to the castle of Don Roderick; but an imperious _No_, which

made itself heard by his conscience, caused him to relinquish his

design. Tormented, however, by the necessity of ordering something to be

done, and insupportably weary of waiting the slow approach of the

carriage, he sent for an old woman who was attached to his service.

This woman had been born in the castle, and had passed her life in it.

She had been impressed from infancy with an opinion of the unlimited

power of its masters; and her principal maxim was implicit obedience

towards them. To the ideas of duty were united sentiments of respect,

fear, and servile devotion. When the Unknown became lord of the castle,

and began to make such horrible use of his power, she experienced a

degree of pain, and at the same time a more profound sentiment of

subjection. In time she became habituated to what was daily acting

before her: the powerful and unbridled will of such a lord she viewed as

an exercise of fated justice. When somewhat advanced in years, she had

espoused a servant of the house, who being sent on a hazardous

expedition, left his body on the high road, and his wife a widow in the

castle. The revenge that her lord took for his death imparted to her a

savage consolation, and increased her pride at being under his

protection. From that day she rarely set foot beyond the castle walls,

and by degrees there remained to her no other idea of human beings, than

that of those by whom she was daily surrounded. She was not employed in

any particular service, but each one gave her something to do as it

pleased him. She had sometimes clothes to mend, food to prepare, and

wounds to dress. Commands, reproaches, and thanks were equally mingled

with abusive raillery: she went by the appellation of the _old woman_,

and the tone with which the name was uttered varied according to the

circumstances and humour of the speaker. Disturbed in her idleness and

irritated in her self-love, which were her two ruling passions, she

returned these compliments with language in which Satan might have

recognised more of his own genius than in that of her persecutors.

“You see that carriage below there,” said the Unknown.

“I do,” said she.

“Have a litter prepared immediately, and let it carry you to

_Malanotte_. Quick, quick; you must arrive before the carriage; it

approaches with the slow step of death. In this carriage there is—there

ought to be—a young girl. If she is there, tell Nibbio from me, that he

must place her in the litter, and that he must come at once to me. You

will get into the litter with her; and when you arrive here, you must

take her to your room. If she asks you where you are leading her, whose

is this castle, be careful——”

“Oh, do not doubt me,” said the old woman.

“But,” pursued the Unknown, “comfort her, encourage her.”

“What can I say to her?”

“What can you say to her? Comfort her, I tell you. Have you arrived at

this age, and know not how to administer consolation to the afflicted?

Have you never had any sorrow? Have you never been visited by fear? Do

you not know the language that consoles in such moments? Speak this

language to _her_ then; find it in the remembrance of your own

misfortunes. Go directly.”

When she was gone, he remained some time at the window, gazing at the

approaching carriage; he then looked at the setting sun, and the

glorious display of clouds about the horizon. He soon withdrew, closed

the window, and kept pacing the apartment in a state of uneasy

excitement.