Shine from a sister valley;—and afar
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves
The Latian coast where sprang the Epic1 war,
‘Arms and the Man,’ whose re-ascending2 star
Rose o’er an empire; but beneath thy right
Tully reposed4 from Rome; and where yon bar
Of girdling mountains intercepts6 the sight
The Sabine farm was till’d, the weary bard’s delight.”
It was to see this beautiful lake that I made my last excursion before quitting Rome. The spring had nearly grown into summer, the trees were all in full but fresh green foliage7, the vine-dresser was singing, perched among them, training his vines: the cicada had not yet begun her song, the heats therefore had not commenced; but at evening the fire-flies gleamed among the hills, and the cooing aziola assured us of what in that country needs no assurance—fine weather for the morrow. We set out early in the morning to avoid the heats, breakfasted at Albano, and till ten o’clock passed our time in visiting the Mosaic8, the villa9 of Cicero, and other curiosities of the place. We reposed during the middle of the day in a tent elevated for us at the hill-top, whence we looked on the hill-embosomed lake, and the distant eminence11 crowned by a town with its church. Other villages and cottages were scattered12 among the foldings of mountains, and beyond we saw the deep blue sea of the southern poets, which received the swift and immortal13 Tiber, rocking it to repose5 among its devouring14 waves. The Coliseum falls and the Pantheon decays,—the very hills of Rome are perishing,—but the Tiber lives for ever, flows for ever, and for ever feeds the land-encircled Mediterranean15 with fresh waters.
Our summer and pleasure-seeking party consisted of many: to me the most interesting person was the Countess Atanasia D——, who was as beautiful as an imagination of Raphael, and good as the ideal of a poet. Two of her children accompanied her, with animated16 looks and gentle manners, quiet, yet enjoying. I sat near her, watching the changing shadows of the landscape before us. As the sun descended17, it poured a tide of light into the valley of the lake, deluging19 the deep bank formed by the mountain with liquid gold. The domes20 and turrets21 of the far town flashed and gleamed, the trees were dyed in splendour; two or three slight clouds, which had drunk the radiance till it became their essence, floated golden islets in the lustrous22 empyrean. The waters, reflecting the brilliancy of the sky and the fire-tinted banks, beamed a second heaven, a second irradiated earth, at our feet. The Mediterranean, gazing on the sun,—as the eyes of a mortal bride fail and are dimmed when reflecting her lover’s glance,—was lost, mixed in his light, till it had become one with him.—Long (our souls, like the sea, the hills, and lake, drinking in the supreme23 loveliness) we gazed, till the too full cup overflowed24, and we turned away with a sigh.
At our feet there was a knoll25 of ground, that formed the foreground of our picture; two trees lay basking26 against the sky, glittering with the golden light, which like dew seemed to hang amid their branches; a rock closed the prospect27 on the other side, twined round by creepers, and redolent with blooming myrtle; a brook28, crossed by huge stones, gushed29 through the turf, and on the fragments of rock that lay about, sat two or three persons, peasants, who attracted our attention. One was a hunter, as his gun, lying on a bank not far off, demonstrated, yet he was a tiller of the soil; his rough straw hat, and his picturesque30 but coarse dress, belonged to that class. The other was some contadina, in the costume of her country, returning, her basket on her arm, from the village to her cottage home. They were regarding the stores of a pedlar, who with doffed31 hat stood near: some of these consisted of pictures and prints—views of the country, and portraits of the Madonna. Our peasants regarded these with pleased attention.
“One might easily make out a story for that pair,” I said: “his gun is a help to the imagination, and we may fancy him a bandit with his contadina love, the terror of all the neighbourhood, except of her, the most defenceless being in it.”
“You speak lightly of such a combination,” said the lovely countess at my side, “as if it must not in its nature be the cause of dreadful tragedies. The mingling34 of love with crime is a dread32 conjunction, and lawless pursuits are never followed without bringing on the criminal, and all allied35 to him, ineffable36 misery37. I speak with emotion, for your observation reminds me of an unfortunate girl, now one of the Sisters of Charity in the convent of Santa Chiara at Rome, whose unhappy passion for a man, such as you mention, spread destruction and sorrow widely around her.”
I entreated39 my lovely friend to relate the history of the nun40. For a long time she resisted my entreaties41, as not willing to depress the spirit of a party of pleasure by a tale of sorrow. But I urged her, and she yielded. Her sweet Italian phraseology now rings in my ears, and her beautiful countenance42 is before me. As she spoke43, the sun set, and the moon bent44 her silver horn in the ebbing45 tide of glory he had left. The lake changed from purple to silver, and the trees, before so splendid, now in dark masses, just reflected from their tops the mild moonlight. The fire-flies flashed among the rocks; the bats circled round us: meanwhile thus commenced the Countess Atanasia:—
The nun of whom I speak had a sister older than herself; I can remember them when as children they brought eggs and fruit to my father’s villa. Maria and Anina were constantly together. With their large straw hats to shield them from the scorching46 sun, they were at work in their father’s podere all day, and in the evening, when Maria, who was the elder by four years, went to the fountain for water, Anina ran at her side. Their cot—the folding of the hill conceals47 it—is at the lake-side opposite; and about a quarter of a mile up the hill is the rustic49 fountain of which I speak. Maria was serious, gentle, and considerate; Anina was a laughing, merry little creature, with the face of a cherub50. When Maria was fifteen, their mother fell ill, and was nursed at the convent of Santa Chiara at Rome. Maria attended her, never leaving her bedside day or night. The nuns51 thought her an angel, she deemed them saints: her mother died, and they persuaded her to make one of them; her father could not but acquiesce52 in her holy intention, and she became one of the Sisters of Charity, the nun-nurses of Santa Chiara. Once or twice a year she visited her home, gave sage53 and kind advice to Anina, and sometimes wept to part from her; but her piety54 and her active employments for the sick reconciled her to her fate. Anina was more sorry to lose her sister’s society. The other girls of the village did not please her: she was a good child, and worked hard for her father, and her sweetest recompense was the report he made of her to Maria, and the fond praises and caresses55 the latter bestowed56 on her when they met.
It was not until she was fifteen that Anina showed any diminution57 of affection for her sister. Yet I cannot call it diminution, for she loved her perhaps more than ever, though her holy calling and sage lectures prevented her from reposing58 confidence, and made her tremble lest the nun, devoted59 to heaven and good works, should read in her eyes, and disapprove60 of the earthly passion that occupied her. Perhaps a part of her reluctance61 arose from the reports that were current against her lover’s character, and certainly from the disapprobation and even hatred62 of him that her father frequently expressed. Ill-fated Anina! I know not if in the north your peasants love as ours; but the passion of Anina was entwined with the roots of her being, it was herself: she could die, but not cease to love. The dislike of her father for Domenico made their intercourse63 clandestine64. He was always at the fountain to fill her pitcher65, and lift it on her head. He attended the same mass; and when her father went to Albano, Velletri, or Rome, he seemed to learn by instinct the exact moment of his departure, and joined her in the podere, labouring with her and for her, till the old man was seen descending66 the mountain-path on his return. He said he worked for a contadino near Nemi. Anina sometimes wondered that he could spare so much time for her; but his excuses were plausible67, and the result too delightful68 not to blind the innocent girl to its obvious cause.
Poor Domenico! the reports spread against him were too well founded: his sole excuse was that his father had been a robber before him, and he had spent his early years among these lawless men. He had better things in his nature, and yearned69 for the peace of the guiltless. Yet he could hardly be called guilty, for no dread crime stained him. Nevertheless, he was an outlaw70 and a bandit; and now that he loved Anina, these names were the stings of an adder71 to pierce his soul. He would have fled from his comrades to a far country, but Anina dwelt amid their very haunts. At this period also the police established by the French Government, which then possessed72 Rome, made these bands more alive to the conduct of their members; and rumours73 of active measures to be taken against those who occupied the hills near Albano, Nemi, and Velletri, caused them to draw together in tighter bonds. Domenico would not, if he could, desert his friends in the hour of danger.
On a festa at this time—it was towards the end of October—Anina strolled with her father among the villagers, who all over Italy make holiday by congregating74 and walking in one place. Their talk was entirely75 of the ladri and the French, and many terrible stories were related of the extirpation76 of banditti in the kingdom of Naples, and the mode by which the French succeeded in their undertaking77 was minutely described. The troops scoured78 the country, visiting one haunt of the robbers after the other, and dislodging them, tracked them as in those countries they hunt the wild beasts of the forest, till, drawing the circle narrower, they enclosed them in one spot. They then drew a cordon79 round the place, which they guarded with the utmost vigilance, forbidding any to enter it with provisions, on pain of instant death. And as this menace was rigorously executed, in a short time the besieged80 bandits were starved into a surrender. The French troops were now daily expected, for they had been seen at Velletri and Nemi; at the same time it was affirmed that several outlaws81 had taken up their abode82 at Rocca Giovane, a deserted83 village on the summit of one of these hills, and it was supposed that they would make that place the scene of their final retreat.
The next day, as Anina worked in the podere, a party of French horse passed by along the road that separated her garden from the lake. Curiosity made her look at them; and her beauty was too great not to attract. Their observations and address soon drove her away; for a woman in love consecrates84 herself to her lover, and deems the admiration85 of others to be profanation86. She spoke to her father of the impertinence of these men; and he answered by rejoicing at their arrival, and the destruction of the lawless bands that would ensue. When in the evening Anina went to the fountain, she looked timidly around, and hoped that Domenico would be at his accustomed post, for the arrival of the French destroyed her feeling of security. She went rather later than usual, and a cloudy evening made it seem already dark; the wind roared among the trees, bending hither and thither87 even the stately cypresses88; the waters of the lake were agitated89 into high waves, and dark masses of thundercloud lowered over the hill-tops, giving a lurid90 tinge91 to the landscape. Anina passed quickly up the mountain-path. When she came in sight of the fountain, which was rudely hewn in the living rock, she saw Domenico leaning against a projection92 of the hill, his hat drawn93 over his eyes, his tabaro fallen from his shoulders, his arms folded in an attitude of dejection. He started when he saw her; his voice and phrases were broken and unconnected; yet he never gazed on her with such ardent94 love, nor solicited95 her to delay her departure with such impassioned tenderness.
“How glad I am to find you here!” she said; “I was fearful of meeting one of the French soldiers: I dread them even more than the banditti.”
Domenico cast a look of eager inquiry96 on her, and then turned away, saying, “Sorry am I that I shall not be here to protect you. I am obliged to go to Rome for a week or two. You will be faithful, Anina mia; you will love me, though I never see you more?”
The interview, under these circumstances, was longer than usual. He led her down the path till they nearly came in sight of her cottage; still they lingered. A low whistle was heard among the myrtle underwood at the lake-side; he started; it was repeated; and he answered it by a similar note. Anina, terrified, was about to ask what this meant, when, for the first time, he pressed her to his heart, kissed her roseate lips, and, with a muttered “Carissima addio,” left her, springing down the bank; and as she gazed in wonder, she thought she saw a boat cross a line of light made by the opening of a cloud. She stood long absorbed in reverie, wondering and remembering with thrilling pleasure the quick embrace and impassioned farewell of her lover. She delayed so long that her father came to seek her.
Each evening after this, Anina visited the fountain at the Ave Maria; he was not there: each day seemed an age; and incomprehensible fears occupied her heart. About a fortnight after, letters arrived from Maria. They came to say that she had been ill of the malaria97 fever, that she was now convalescent, but that change of air was necessary for her recovery, and that she had obtained leave to spend a month at home at Albano. She asked her father to come the next day to fetch her. These were pleasant tidings for Anina; she resolved to disclose everything to her sister, and during her long visit she doubted not but that she would contrive98 her happiness. Old Andrea departed the following morning, and the whole day was spent by the sweet girl in dreams of future bliss99. In the evening Maria arrived, weak and wan100, with all the marks of that dread illness about her, yet, as she assured her sister, feeling quite well.
As they sat at their frugal101 supper, several villagers came in to inquire for Maria; but all their talk was of the French soldiers and the robbers, of whom a band of at least twenty was collected in Rocca Giovane, strictly102 watched by the military.
“We may be grateful to the French,” said Andrea, “for this good deed; the country will be rid of these ruffians.”
“True, friend,” said another; “but it is horrible to think what these men suffer: they have, it appears, exhausted103 all the food they brought with them to the village, and are literally104 starving. They have not an ounce of maccaroni among them; and a poor fellow who was taken and executed yesterday was a mere105 anatomy106: you could tell every bone in his skin.”
“There was a sad story the other day,” said another, “of an old man from Nemi, whose son, they say, is among them at Rocca Giovane: he was found within the lines with some baccallà under his pastrano, and shot on the spot.”
“There is not a more desperate gang,” observed the first speaker, “in the states and the regno put together. They have sworn never to yield but upon good terms. To secure these, their plan is to waylay107 passengers and make prisoners, whom they keep as hostages for mild treatment from the Government. But the French are merciless; they are better pleased that the bandits wreak108 their vengeance109 on these poor creatures than spare one of their lives.”
“They have captured two persons already,” said another; “and there is old Betta Tossi half frantic110, for she is sure her son is taken: he has not been at home these ten days.”
“I should rather guess,” said an old man, “that he went there with good-will: the young scapegrace kept company with Domenico Baldi of Nemi.”
“No worse company could he have kept in the whole country,” said Andrea; “Domenico is the bad son of a bad race. Is he in the village with the rest?”
“My own eyes assured me of that,” replied the other.
“When I was up the hill with eggs and fowls111 to the piquette there, I saw the branches of an ilex move; the poor fellow was weak perhaps, and could not keep his hold; presently he dropped to the ground; every musket112 was levelled at him, but he started up and was away like a hare among the rocks. Once he turned, and then I saw Domenico as plainly, though thinner, poor lad, by much than he was,—as plainly as I now see—Santa Virgine! what is the matter with Nina?”
She had fainted. The company broke up, and she was left to her sister’s care. When the poor child came to herself she was fully114 aware of her situation, and said nothing, except expressing a wish to retire to rest. Maria was in high spirits at the prospect of her long holiday at home; but the illness of her sister made her refrain from talking that night, and blessing115 her, as she said good-night, she soon slept. Domenico starving!—Domenico trying to escape and dying through hunger, was the vision of horror that wholly possessed poor Anina. At another time, the discovery that her lover was a robber might have inflicted116 pangs117 as keen as those which she now felt; but this at present made a faint impression, obscured by worse wretchedness. Maria was in a deep and tranquil118 sleep. Anina rose, dressed herself silently, and crept downstairs. She stored her market-basket with what food there was in the house, and, unlatching the cottage-door, issued forth119, resolved to reach Rocca Giovane, and to administer to her lover’s dreadful wants. The night was dark, but this was favourable120, for she knew every path and turn of the hills, every bush and knoll of ground between her home and the deserted village which occupies the summit of that hill. You may see the dark outline of some of its houses about two hours’ walk from her cottage. The night was dark, but still; the libeccio brought the clouds below the mountain-tops, and veiled the horizon in mist; not a leaf stirred; her footsteps sounded loud in her ears, but resolution overcame fear. She had entered yon ilex grove121, her spirits rose with her success, when suddenly she was challenged by a sentinel; no time for escape; fear chilled her blood; her basket dropped from her arm; its contents rolled out on the ground; the soldier fired his gun, and brought several others round him; she was made prisoner.
In the morning, when Maria awoke she missed her sister from her side. I have overslept myself, she thought, and Nina would not disturb me. But when she came downstairs and met her father, and Anina did not appear, they began to wonder. She was not in the podere; two hours passed, and then Andrea went to seek her. Entering the near village, he saw the contadini crowding together, and a stifled122 exclamation123 of “Ecco il padre!” told him that some evil had betided. His first impression was that his daughter was drowned; but the truth, that she had been taken by the French carrying provisions within the forbidden line, was still more terrible. He returned in frantic desperation to his cottage, first to acquaint Maria with what had happened, and then to ascend3 the hill to save his child from her impending124 fate. Maria heard his tale with horror; but an hospital is a school in which to learn self-possession and presence of mind. “Do you remain, my father,” she said; “I will go. My holy character will awe125 these men, my tears move them: trust me; I swear that I will save my sister.” Andrea yielded to her superior courage and energy.
The nuns of Santa Chiara when out of their convent do not usually wear their monastic habit, but dress simply in a black gown. Maria, however, had brought her nun’s habiliments with her, and, thinking thus to impress the soldiers with respect, she now put them on. She received her father’s benediction126, and, asking that of the Virgin113 and the saints, she departed on her expedition. Ascending the hill, she was soon stopped by the sentinels. She asked to see their commanding officer, and being conducted to him, she announced herself as the sister of the unfortunate girl who had been captured the night before. The officer, who had received her with carelessness, now changed countenance: his serious look frightened Maria, who clasped her hands, exclaiming, “You have not injured the child! she is safe!”
“She is safe—now,” he replied with hesitation127; “but there is no hope of pardon.”
“Holy Virgin, have mercy on her! What will be done to her?”
“I have received strict orders: in two hours she dies.”
“No! no!” exclaimed Maria impetuously, “that cannot be! You cannot be so wicked as to murder a child like her.”
“She is old enough, madame,” said the officer, “to know that she ought not to disobey orders; mine are so strict, that were she but nine years old, she dies.”
These terrible words stung Maria to fresh resolution: she entreated for mercy; she knelt; she vowed128 that she would not depart without her sister; she appealed to Heaven and the saints. The officer, though cold-hearted, was good-natured and courteous129, and he assured her with the utmost gentleness that her supplications were of no avail; that were the criminal his own daughter he must enforce his orders. As a sole concession130, he permitted her to see her sister. Despair inspired the nun with energy; she almost ran up the hill, out-speeding her guide: they crossed a folding of the hills to a little sheep-cot, where sentinels paraded before the door. There was no glass to the windows, so the shutters131 were shut; and when Maria first went in from the bright daylight she hardly saw the slight figure of her sister leaning against the wall, her dark hair fallen below her waist, her head sunk on her bosom10, over which her arms were folded. She started wildly as the door opened, saw her sister, and sprang with a piercing shriek132 into her arms.
They were left alone together: Anina uttered a thousand frantic exclamations133, beseeching134 her sister to save her, and shuddering136 at the near approach of her fate. Maria had felt herself, since their mother’s death, the natural protectress and support of her sister, and she never deemed herself so called on to fulfil this character as now that the trembling girl clasped her neck,—her tears falling on her cheeks, and her choked voice entreating137 her to save her. The thought—O could I suffer instead of you! was in her heart, and she was about to express it, when it suggested another idea, on which she was resolved to act. First she soothed138 Anina by her promises, then glanced round the cot; they were quite alone: she went to the window, and through a crevice139 saw the soldiers conversing140 at some distance. “Yes, dearest sister,” she cried, “I will—I can save you—quick—we must change dresses—there is no time to be lost I—you must escape in my habit.”
“And you remain to die?”
“They dare not murder the innocent, a nun! Fear not for me—I am safe.”
Anina easily yielded to her sister, but her fingers trembled; every string she touched she entangled141. Maria was perfectly142 self-possessed, pale, but calm. She tied up her sister’s long hair, and adjusted her veil over it so as to conceal48 it; she unlaced her bodice, and arranged the folds of her own habit on her with the greatest care—then more hastily she assumed the dress of her sister, putting on, after a lapse143 of many years, her native contadina costume. Anina stood by, weeping and helpless, hardly hearing her sister’s injunctions to return speedily to their father, and under his guidance to seek sanctuary144. The guard now opened the door. Anina clung to her sister in terror, while she, in soothing145 tones, entreated her to calm herself.
The soldier said they must delay no longer, for the priest had arrived to confess the prisoner.
To Anina the idea of confession146 associated with death was terrible; to Maria it brought hope. She whispered, in a smothered147 voice, “The priest will protect me—fear not—hasten to our father!”
Anina almost mechanically obeyed: weeping, with her handkerchief placed unaffectedly before her face, she passed the soldiers; they closed the door on the prisoner, who hastened to the window, and saw her sister descend18 the hill with tottering148 steps, till she was lost behind some rising ground. The nun fell on her knees—cold dew bathed her brow, instinctively149 she feared: the French had shown small respect for the monastic character; they destroyed the convents and desecrated150 the churches. Would they be merciful to her, and spare the innocent? Alas151! was not Anina innocent also? Her sole crime had been disobeying an arbitrary command, and she had done the same.
“Courage!” cried Maria; “perhaps I am fitter to die than my sister is. Gesu, pardon me my sins, but I do not believe that I shall out live this day!”
In the meantime, Anina descended the hill slowly and trembling. She feared discovery,—she feared for her sister,—and above all, at the present moment, she feared the reproaches and anger of her father. By dwelling152 on this last idea, it became exaggerated into excessive terror, and she determined153, instead of returning to her home, to make a circuit among the hills, to find her way by herself to Albano, where she trusted to find protection from her pastor154 and confessor. She avoided the open paths, and following rather the direction she wished to pursue than any beaten road, she passed along nearer to Rocca Giovane than she anticipated. She looked up at its ruined houses and bell-less steeple, straining her eyes to catch a glimpse of him, the author of all her ills. A low but distinct whistle reached her ear, not far off; she started,—she remembered that on the night when she last saw Domenico a note like that had called him from her side; the sound was echoed and re-echoed from other quarters; she stood aghast, her bosom heaving, her hands clasped. First she saw a dark and ragged155 head of hair, shadowing two fiercely gleaming eyes, rise from beneath a bush. She screamed, but before she could repeat her scream three men leapt from behind a rock, secured her arms, threw a cloth over her face, and hurried her up the acclivity. Their talk, as she went along, informed her of the horror and danger of her situation.
Pity, they said, that the holy father and some of his red stockings did not command the troops: with a nun in their hands, they might obtain any terms. Coarse jests passed as they dragged their victim towards their ruined village. The paving of the street told her when they arrived at Rocca Giovane, and the change of atmosphere that they entered a house. They unbandaged her eyes: the scene was squalid and miserable156, the walls ragged and black with smoke, the floor strewn with offals and dirt; a rude table and broken bench was all the furniture; and the leaves of Indian corn, heaped high in one corner, served, it seemed, for a bed, for a man lay on it, his head buried in his folded arms. Anina looked round on her savage157 hosts: their countenances158 expressed every variety of brutal159 ferocity, now rendered more dreadful from gaunt famine and suffering.
“Oh, there is none who will save me!” she cried. The voice startled the man who was lying on the floor; he lept up—it was Domenico: Domenico, so changed, with sunk cheeks and eyes, matted hair, and looks whose wildness and desperation differed little from the dark countenances around him. Could this be her lover?
His recognition and surprise at her dress led to an explanation. When the robbers first heard that their prey160 was no prize, they were mortified161 and angry; but when she related the danger she had incurred162 by endeavouring to bring them food, they swore with horrid163 oaths that no harm should befall her, but that if she liked she might make one of them in all honour and equality. The innocent girl shuddered164. “Let me go,” she cried; “let me only escape and hide myself in a convent for ever!”
Domenico looked at her in agony. “Yes, poor child,” he said; “go save yourself: God grant no evil befall you; the ruin is too wide already.” Then turning eagerly to his comrades, he continued: “You hear her story. She was to have been shot for bringing food to us: her sister has substituted herself in her place. We know the French; one victim is to them as good as another: Maria dies in their hands. Let us save her. Our time is up; we must fall like men, or starve like dogs: we have still ammunition165, still some strength left. To arms! let us rush on the poltroons, free their prisoner, and escape or die!”
There needed but an impulse like this to urge the outlaws to desperate resolves. They prepared their arms with looks of ferocious166 determination. Domenico, meanwhile, led Anina out of the house, to the verge167 of the hill, inquiring whether she intended to go. On her saying to Albano, he observed, “That were hardly safe; be guided by me, I entreat38 you: take these piastres, hire the first conveyance168 you find, hasten to Rome, to the convent of Santa Chiara: for pity’s sake, do not linger in this neighbourhood.”
“I will obey your injunctions, Domenico,” she replied, “but I cannot take your money; it has cost you too dear: fear not, I shall arrive safely at Rome without that ill-fated silver.”
Domenico’s comrades now called loudly to him: he had no time to urge his request; he threw the despised dollars at her feet.
“Nina, adieu for ever,” he said: “may you love again more happily!”
“Never!” she replied. “God has saved me in this dress; it were sacrilege to change it: I shall never quit Santa Chiara.”
Domenico had led her a part of the way down the rock; his comrades appeared at the top, calling to him.
“Gesu save you!” cried he: “reach the convent—Maria shall join you there before night. Farewell!” He hastily kissed her hand, and sprang up the acclivity to rejoin his impatient friends.
The unfortunate Andrea had waited long for the return of his children. The leafless trees and bright clear atmosphere permitted every object to be visible, but he saw no trace of them on the hill-side; the shadows of the dial showed noon to be passed, when, with uncontrollable impatience169, he began to climb the hill, towards the spot where Anina had been taken. The path he pursued was in part the same that this unhappy girl had taken on her way to Rome. The father and daughter met: the old man saw the nun’s dress, and saw her unaccompanied: she covered her face with her hands in a transport of fear and shame; but when, mistaking her for Maria, he asked in a tone of anguish170 for his youngest darling, her arms fell—she dared not raise her eyes, which streamed with tears.
“Unhappy girl!” exclaimed Andrea, “where is your sister?”
She pointed171 to the cottage prison, now discernible near the summit of a steep acclivity. “She is safe,” she replied: “she saved me; but they dare not murder her.”
“Heaven bless her for this good deed!” exclaimed the old man fervently172; “but you hasten on your way, and I will go in search of her.”
Each proceeded on an opposite path. The old man wound up the hill, now in view, and now losing sight of the hut where his child was captive: he was aged33, and the way was steep. Once, when the closing of the hill hid the point towards which he for ever strained his eyes, a single shot was fired in that direction: his staff fell from his hands, his knees trembled and failed him; several minutes of dead silence elapsed before he recovered himself sufficiently173 to proceed: full of fears he went on, and at the next turn saw the cot again. A party of soldiers were on the open space before it, drawn up in a line as if expecting an attack. In a few moments from above them shots were fired, which they returned, and the whole was enveloped174 and veiled in smoke. Still Andrea climbed the hill, eager to discover what had become of his child: the firing continued quick and hot. Now and then, in the pauses of musketry and the answering echoes of the mountains, he heard a funeral chant; presently, before he was aware, at a turning of the hill, he met a company of priests and contadini, carrying a large cross and a bier. The miserable father rushed forward with frantic impatience; the awe-struck peasants set down their load—the face was uncovered, and the wretched man fell helpless on the corpse175 of his murdered child.
The Countess Atanasia paused, overcome by the emotions inspired by the history she related. A long pause ensued: at length one of the party observed, “Maria, then, was the sacrifice to her goodness.”
“The French,” said the countess, “did not venerate176 her holy vocation177; one peasant girl to them was the same as another. The immolation178 of any victim suited their purpose of awe-striking the peasantry. Scarcely, however, had the shot entered her heart, and her blameless spirit been received by the saints in Paradise, when Domenico and his followers179 rushed down the hill to avenge180 her and themselves. The contest was furious and bloody181; twenty French soldiers fell, and not one of the banditti escaped,—Domenico, the foremost of the assailants, being the first to fall.”
I asked, “And where are now Anina and her father?”
“You may see them, if you will,” said the countess, “on your return to Rome. She is a nun of Santa Chiara. Constant acts of benevolence182 and piety have inspired her with calm and resignation. Her prayers are daily put up for Domenico’s soul, and she hopes, through the intercession of the Virgin, to rejoin him in the other world.
“Andrea is very old; he has outlived the memory of his sufferings; but he derives183 comfort from the filial attentions of his surviving daughter. But when I look at his cottage on this lake, and remember the happy laughing face of Anina among the vines, I shudder135 at the recollection of the passion that has made her cheeks pale, her thoughts for ever conversant184 with death, her only wish to find repose in the grave.”
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1
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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4
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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intercepts
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| （数学）截距( intercept的名词复数 ) | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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deluging
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| v.使淹没( deluge的现在分词 )；淹没；被洪水般涌来的事物所淹没；穷于应付 | |
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domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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22
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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37
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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38
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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41
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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42
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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43
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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44
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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45
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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46
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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47
conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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48
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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49
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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50
cherub
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| n.小天使，胖娃娃 | |
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51
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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52
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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53
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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54
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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55
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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56
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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58
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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59
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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60
disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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61
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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62
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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63
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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64
clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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65
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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66
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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67
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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68
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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69
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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71
adder
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| n.蝰蛇；小毒蛇 | |
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72
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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73
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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congregating
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的现在分词 ) | |
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75
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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76
extirpation
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| n.消灭，根除，毁灭；摘除 | |
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77
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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78
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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79
cordon
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| n.警戒线，哨兵线 | |
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80
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
outlaws
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| 歹徒，亡命之徒( outlaw的名词复数 )； 逃犯 | |
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82
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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83
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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84
consecrates
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| n.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的名词复数 )；奉献v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的第三人称单数 )；奉献 | |
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85
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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86
profanation
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| n.亵渎 | |
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87
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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88
cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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91
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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92
projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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93
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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95
solicited
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| v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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96
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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97
malaria
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| n.疟疾 | |
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98
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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99
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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100
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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101
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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102
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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103
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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104
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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105
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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107
waylay
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| v.埋伏，伏击 | |
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108
wreak
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| v.发泄；报复 | |
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109
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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110
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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111
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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112
musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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113
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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114
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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115
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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116
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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118
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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119
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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120
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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121
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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122
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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123
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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124
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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125
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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126
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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127
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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128
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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129
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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130
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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131
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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132
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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133
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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134
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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135
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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136
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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137
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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138
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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139
crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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141
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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143
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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144
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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145
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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146
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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147
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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148
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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desecrated
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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152
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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153
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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154
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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155
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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158
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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161
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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164
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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165
ammunition
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| n.军火，弹药 | |
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166
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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167
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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168
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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169
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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170
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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171
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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172
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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173
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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174
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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176
venerate
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| v.尊敬，崇敬，崇拜 | |
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177
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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178
immolation
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| n.牺牲品 | |
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179
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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180
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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181
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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182
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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183
derives
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| v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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184
conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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