The Italians Part 14

Before I relate it, let us adore the goodness of the Blessed Virgin, from whom all good gifts come."

Cavaliere Trenta was on his knees before he had done speaking; again he fervently crossed himself, reciting the "Maria Santissima." Enrica bowed her head, and timidly knelt beside him; Balda.s.sare bent his knees, but, remembering that his trousers were new, and that they might take an adverse crease that could never be ironed out, he did not allow himself to touch the floor; then, with open eyes and ears, he rose and stood waiting for the cavaliere to proceed. Balda.s.sare was uneducated and superst.i.tious. The latter quality recommended him strongly to Trenta. He was always ready to believe every word the cavaliere uttered with unquestioning faith. At the mention of a church legend Count Marescotti turned away with an expression of disgust, and leaned against a pillar, his eyes fixed on Enrica.

The cavaliere, having risen from his knees, and carefully dusted himself with a snowy pocket-handkerchief, took Enrica by the hand, and placed her in such a position that the sunshine, striking through the windows of the nave, fell full upon the monumental stone before them.

"My Enrica," he said, in a subdued voice, "and you, Balda.s.sare"--he motioned to him to approach nearer--"you are both young. Listen to me.

Lay to heart what an old man tells you. Such a miracle as I am about to relate must touch even the count's hard heart."

He glanced round at Marescotti, but it was evident he was chagrined by what he saw. Marescotti neither heard him, nor even affected to do so. Trenta's voice in the great church was weak and piping--indistinct even to those beside him. Finding the count unavailable either for instruction or reproof, the cavaliere shook his head, and his countenance fell. Then he turned his mild blue eyes upon Enrica, leaned upon his stick, and commenced:

"In the sixth century, the flagstones in this portion of the nave were raised for the burial of a distinguished lady, a member of the Manzi family; but oh! stupendous prodigy!"--the cavaliere cast up his eyes to heaven, and clasped his dimpled hands--"no sooner had the coffin been lowered into the vault prepared for it, than the corpse of the lady of the Manzi family sat upright in the open bier, put aside the flowers and wreaths piled upon her, and uttered these memorable and never-to-be-forgotten words: 'Bury me elsewhere; here lies the body of San Frediano.'"

Balda.s.sare, who had grown very pale, now shuddered visibly, and contemplated the cavaliere with awe.

"Stupendous!" he muttered--"prodigious!--Indeed!"

Enrica did not speak; her eyes were fixed on the ground.

"Yes, yes, you may well say prodigious," responded Trenta, bowing his white head; then, looking round triumphantly: "It was prodigious, but a prodigy, remember, vouched for by the chronicles of the Church.

(Chronicles of the Church are much more to be trusted than any thing else, much more than Evangelists, who were not bishops, and therefore had no authority--we all know that.) No sooner, my friends, had the corpse of the lady of the Manzi family spoken, as I have said, than diligent search was made by those a.s.sembled in the church, when lo!--within the open vault the remains of the adorable San Frediano were discovered in excellent preservation. I need not say that, having died in the odor of sanct.i.ty, the most fragrant perfume filled the church, and penetrated even to the adjacent streets. Several sick persons were healed by merely inhaling it. One man, whose arm had been shot off at the shoulder-joint many years before, found his limb come again in an instant, by merely touching the blessed relic." The cavaliere paused to take breath. No one had spoken.--"Have you heard the miracle of the glorious San Frediano?" asked Trenta, a little timidly, raising his voice to its utmost pitch as he addressed Count Marescotti.

"No, I have not, cavaliere; but, if I had, it would not alter my opinion. I do not believe in mediaeval miracles." As he spoke, Count Marescotti turned round from the steps of a side-altar, whither he had wandered to look at a picture. "I did not hear one word you said, my dear cavaliere, but I am acquainted with the supposed miracles of San Frediano. They are entirely without evidence, and in no way shake my conclusions as to the utter worthlessness of such legends. In this I agree with the Protestants," he continued, "rather than with that inspired teacher, Savonarola. The Protestants, spite of so-called 'ecclesiastical authority,' persist in denying them. With the Protestants, I hold that the entire machinery of modern miracles is false and unprofitable. With the Apostles miraculous power ended."

"Marescotti!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the poor cavaliere, aghast at the effect his appeal had produced, "for G.o.d's sake, don't, don't! before Enrica--and in a church, too!"

"I believe with Savonarola in other miracles," continued the count, in a louder tone, addressing himself directly to Enrica, on whom he gazed with a tender expression--he was far too much engrossed with her and with the subject to heed Trenta's feeble remonstrance--"I believe in the mystic essence of soul to soul--I believe in the reappearance of the disembodied spirit to its kindred affinity still on earth--still clothed with a fleshly garment. I believe in those magnetic influences that circle like an atmosphere about certain purified and special natures, binding them together in a closely-locked embrace, an embrace that neither time, distance, nor even death itself, can weaken or sever!"

He paused for an instant; a dark fire lit up his eyes, which were still bent on Enrica.

"All this I believe--life would be intolerable to me without such convictions. At the same time, I am ready to grant that all cannot accept my views. These are mysteries to be approached without prejudice--mysteries that must be received absolutely without prejudice of religion, country, or race; received as the aesthetic instinct within us teaches. Who," he added, and as he spoke he stood erect on the steps of the altar, his arms outstretched in the eagerness of argument, his grand face all aglow with enthusiasm--"who can decide? It is faith that convinces--faith that vivifies--faith that transforms--faith that links us to the hierarchy of angels! To believe--to act on our belief, even if that belief be false--that is true religion. A merciful Deity will accept our imperfect sacrifice.

Are we not all believers in Christ? Away with creeds and churches, with formularies and doctrines, with painted walls and golden altars, with stoled priests, infallible popes, and temporal hierarchies! What are these vain distinctions, if we love G.o.d? Let the whole world unite to believe in the Redeemer. Then we shall all be brothers--you, I--all, brothers--joined within the holy circle of one universal family--of one universal worship!"

Count Marescotti ceased speaking, but his impa.s.sioned words still echoed through the empty aisles. His eyes had wandered from Enrica; they were now fixed on high. His countenance glowed with rapture.

Wrapped in the visions his imagination had called forth, he descended from the altar, and slowly approached the silent group gathered beside the monumental stone.

Enrica had eagerly drunk in every word the count had uttered. He seemed to speak the language of her secret musings; to interpret the hidden mysteries of her young heart. She, at least, believed in the affinity of kindred spirits. What but that had linked her to n.o.bili?

Oh, to live in such a union!

Trenta had become very grave.

"You are a visionary," he said, addressing the count, who now stood beside them. "I am sorry for you. Such a consummation as you desire is impossible. Your faith has no foundation. It is a creation of the brain. The Catholic Church stands upon a rock. It permits no change, it accepts no compromise, it admits no errors. The authority given to St. Peter by Jesus Christ himself, with the spiritual keys, can alone open the gates of heaven. All without are d.a.m.ned. Good intentions are nothing. Private interpretation, believe me, is of the devil.

Obedience to the Holy Father, and the intercession of the saints, can alone save your soul. Submit yourself to the teaching of our mother Church, my dear count. Submit yourself--you have my prayers." Trenta watched Marescotti with a fixed gaze of such solemn earnestness, it seemed as though he antic.i.p.ated that the blessed San Frediano himself might appear, and then and there miraculously convert him. "Submit yourself," he repeated, raising his arm and pointing to the altar, "then you will be blessed."

No miraculous interposition, however, was destined to crown the poor cavaliere's strenuous efforts to convert the heretical count; but, long before he had finished, the sound of his voice had recalled Count Marescotti to himself. He remembered that the old chamberlain belonged, in years at least, if not in belief, to the past. He blamed himself for his thoughtlessness in having said a syllable that could give him pain. The mystic disciple of Savonarola became in an instant the polished gentleman.

"A thousand pardons, my dear Trenta," he said, pa.s.sing his hand over his forehead, and putting back the dark, disordered hair that hung upon his brow--"a thousand pardons!--I am quite ashamed of myself. We are here, as I now remember, to examine the tombs of your ancestors in the chapel of the Trenta. I have delayed you too long. Shall we proceed?"

Trenta, glad to escape from the possibility of any further discussion with the count, whose religious views were to him nothing but the ravings of a mischievous maniac, at once turned into the side-aisle, and, with ceremonious politeness, conducted Enrica toward the chapel of the Trenta.

The chapel, divided by gates of gilt bronze from the line of the other altars bordering the aisles, forms a deep recess near the high altar. The walls are inlaid by what had once been brilliantly-colored marbles, in squares of red, green, and yellow; but time and damp had dulled them into a sombre hue. Above, a heavy circular cornice joins a dome-shaped roof, clothed with frescoes, through which the light descends through a central lantern. Painted figures of prophets stand erect within the four spandrils, and beneath, breaking the marble walls, four snow-white statues of the Evangelists fill lofty niches of gray-tinted stone. Opposite the gilded gates of entrance which Trenta had unlocked, a black sarcophagus projects from the wall. This sarcophagus is surmounted by a carved head. Many other monuments break the marble walls; some very ancient, others of more recent shape and construction. The floor, too, is almost entirely overlaid by tombstones, but, like those in the nave, they are greatly defaced, and the inscriptions are for the most part illegible. Over the altar a blackened painting represents "San Riccardo of the Trenta" battling with the infidels before Jerusalem.

"Here," said the cavaliere, standing in the centre under the dome, "is the chapel of the Trenta. Here I, Cesare Trenta, fourteenth in succession from Gaultiero Trenta--who commanded a regiment at the battle of Marignano against the French under Francis I.--hope to lay my bones. The altar, as you see, is sanctified by the possession of an ancestral picture, deemed miraculous." He bowed to the earth as he spoke, in which example he was followed by Enrica and Balda.s.sare. "San Riccardo was the companion-in-arms of G.o.dfrey de Bouillon. His bones lie under the altar. Upon his return from the crusades he died in our palace. We still show the very room. His body is quite entire within that tomb. I have seen it myself when a boy."

Even the count did not venture to raise any doubt as to the authenticity of the patron saint of the Trenta family. The cavaliere himself was on his knees; rosary in hand, he was devoutly offering up his innocent prayers to the ashes of an imaginary saint. After many crossings, bowings, and touchings of the tomb (always kissing the fingers that had been in contact with the sanctified stone), he arose, smiling.

"And now," said the count, turning toward Enrica, "I will ask leave to show you another tomb, which may, possibly, interest you more than the sepulchre of the respected Trenta." As he spoke he led her to the opposite aisle, toward a sarcophagus of black marble placed under an arch, on which was inscribed, in gilt letters, the name "Castruccio Castracani degli Antimelli," and the date "1328." "Had our Castruccio moved in a larger sphere," said the count, addressing the little group that had now gathered about him, "he would have won a name as great as that of Alexander of Macedon. Like Alexander, he died in the flower of his age, in the height of his fame. Had he lived, he would have been King of Italy, and Lucca would have become the capital of the peninsula. Chaste, sober, and merciful--brave without rashness, and prudent without fear--Castruccio won all hearts. Lucca at least appreciated her hero. Proud alike of his personal qualities, and of those warlike exploits with which Italy already rang, she unanimously elected him dictator. When this signal honor was conferred upon him,"

continued the count, addressing himself again specially to Enrica, who listened, her large dreamy eyes fixed upon him, "Castruccio was absent, engaged in one of those perpetual campaigns against Florence which occupied so large a portion of his short life. At that very moment he was encamped on the heights of San Miniato, preparing to besiege the hated rival of our city--broken and reduced by the recent victory he had gained over her at Altopa.s.so. At Altopa.s.so he had defeated and humiliated Florence. Now he had planted our flag under her very walls. Upon the arrival of the amba.s.sadors sent by the Lucchese Republic--one of whom was a Guinigi--"

"There was a Trenta, too, among them; Antonio Trenta, a knight of St.

John," put in the cavaliere, gently, unwilling to interrupt the count, but finding it impossible to resist the temptation of identifying his family with his country's triumphs. The count acknowledged the omission with a courteous bow.

"Upon the arrival of the amba.s.sadors," he resumed, "announcing the honor conferred upon him, Castruccio instantly left his camp, and returned with all haste to Lucca. The dignity accorded to Castruccio exalted him above all external demonstration, but he understood that his native city longed to behold, and to surround with personal applause, the person of her idol. In the piazza without this church, the very centre of Lucca, the heart, as it were, whence all the veins and arteries of our munic.i.p.al body flow, Castruccio was received with all the pomp of a Roman triumph. Ah! cavaliere"--and the count's l.u.s.trous eyes rested on Trenta, who was devouring every word he uttered with silent delight--"those were proud days for Lucca!"

"Recall them--recall them, O Count!" cried Trenta. "It does me good to listen."

"Thirty thousand Florentine prisoners followed Castruccio to Lucca.

His soldiers were laden with booty. They drove before them innumerable herds of cattle; strings of wagons, filled with the spoils of a victorious campaign, blocked the causeways. Last of all appeared, rumbling on its ancient wheels, the carroccio, or state-car of the Florentine Republic, bearing their captured flags lowered, and trailing in the dust. Castruccio--whose sole representatives are the Marchesa Guinigi and yourself, signorina--Castruccio followed. He was seated in a triumphal chariot, drawn by eight milk-white horses.

Banners fluttered around him. A golden crown of victory was suspended above his head. He was arrayed in a flowing mantle of purple, over a suit of burnished armor. His brows were bound by a wreath of golden laurel. In his right hand he carried a jeweled sceptre. Upon his knees lay his victorious sword unsheathed. Never was manly beauty more transcendent. His lofty stature and majestic bearing fulfilled the expectation of a hero. How can I describe his features? They are known to all of you by that famous picture (the only likeness of him extant) belonging to the Marchesa Guinigi, placed in the presence-chamber of her palace."

"Yes, yes," burst forth Trenta, no longer able to control his enthusiasm. "Old as I am, when I think of those days, it makes me young again. Alas! what a change! Now we have lost not only our independence, but our very ident.i.ty. Our sovereign is gone--banished--our state broken up. We are but the slaves of a monster called the kingdom of Italy, ruled by Piedmontese barbarians!"

"Hush!--hush!" whispered the irrepressible Balda.s.sare. "Pray do not interrupt the count." Even the stolid Adonis was moved.

"The daughters of the n.o.blest houses of Lucca," continued Marescotti, "strewed flowers in Castruccio's path. The magistrates and n.o.bles received him on their knees. Young as he was, with one voice they saluted him 'Father of his Country!'"

The count paused. He bowed his head toward the sarcophagus before which they were gathered, in a mute tribute of reverence. After a few minutes of rapt silence he resumed:

"When the mult.i.tude heard that name, ten thousand thousand voices echoed it. 'Father of his Country!' resounded to the summits of the surrounding Apennines. The mountain-tops tossed it to and fro--the caves thundered it--the very heavens bore it aloft to distant hemispheres! Our great soldier, overcome by such overwhelming marks of affection, expressed in every look and gesture how deeply he was moved. Before leaving the piazza, Castruccio was joined by his relative, young Paolo Guinigi!--after his decease to become dictator, and Lord of Lucca. Amid the clash of arms, the braying of trumpets, and the applause of thousands, they cordially embraced. They were fast friends as well as cousins. Our Castruccio was of a type incapable of jealousy. Paolo was a patriot--that was enough. Together they proceeded to the cathedral of San Martino. At the porch Castruccio was received by the archbishop and the a.s.sembled clergy. He was placed in a chair of carved ivory, and carried in triumph up the nave to the chapel of the Holy Countenance. Here he descended, and, while he prostrated himself before the miraculous image, hymns and songs of praise burst from the choir."

"Such, Signorina Enrica," said the count, turning toward her, "is a brief outline of the scene that pa.s.sed within this city of Lucca, before that tomb held the ill.u.s.trious dust it now contains."

"Bravo, bravo, count!" exclaimed the mercurial Trenta, in a delighted tone. (He was ready to forgive all the count's transgressions, in the fervor of the moment.) "That is how I love to hear you talk. Now you do yourself justice. Gesu mio! how seldom it is given to a man to be so eloquent! How can he bring himself to employ such gifts against the infallible Church?" This last remark was addressed to Enrica in a tone too low to be overheard.

"And now," said the old chamberlain, always on the lookout to marshal every one as he had marshaled every one at court--"now we will leave the church, and proceed to the Guinigi Tower."

CHAPTER III.

THE GUINIGI TOWER.

Count Marescotti, by reason of too much imagination, and Balda.s.sare, by reason of too little, were both oblivious; consequently the key and the porter were neither of them forthcoming when the party arrived at the door of the tower, which opened from a side-street behind and apart from the palace. Both the count and Balda.s.sare ran off to find the man, leaving Trenta alone with Enrica.

"Ahi!" exclaimed the cavaliere, looking after them with a comical smile, "this youth of New Italy! They have no more brains than a pin.

When I was young, and every city had its own ruler and its own court, I should not have escorted a lady and kept her waiting outside in the sun. Bah! those were not the manners of my day. At the court of the Duke of Lucca ladies were treated like divinities, but now the young men don't know how to kiss a woman's hand."

Receiving no answer, Trenta looked hard at Enrica. He was struck by her absent expression. There was a far-away look on her face he had never noticed on it before.