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Books: Antonina

W >> Wilkie Collins >> Antonina




At the moment when Numerian entered the basilica, a part of the service
had just concluded. The last faint echo from the voices of the choir
still hung upon the incense-laden air, and the vast masses of the
spectators were still grouped in their listening and various attitudes,
as the devoted reformer looked forth upon the church. Even he, stern as
he was, seemed for a moment subdued by the ineffable enchantment of the
scene; but ere long, as if displeased with his own involuntary emotions
of admiration, his brow contracted, and he sighed heavily, as (still
followed by the attentive spies) he sought the comparative seclusion of
the aisles.

During the interval between the divisions of the service, the
congregation occupied themselves in staring at the relics, which were
enclosed in a silver cabinet with crystal doors, and placed on the top
of the high altar. Although it was impossible to obtain a satisfactory
view of these ecclesiastical treasures, they nevertheless employed the
attention of every one until the appearance of a priest in the pulpit
gave signal of the commencement of the sermon, and admonished all those
who had seats to secure them without delay.

Passing through the ranks of the auditors of the sermon--some of whom
were engaged in counting the lights in the chandelier, to be certain
that the bishop had not defrauded them of one out of the two thousand
four hundred lamps; others in holding whispered conversations, and
opening small boxes of sweetmeats--we again conduct the reader to the
outside of the church.

The assemblage here had by this time much diminished; the shadows flung
over the ground by the lofty colonnades had deepened and increased; and
in many of the more remote recesses of the Place hardly a human being
was to be observed. At one of these extremities, where the pillars
terminated in the street and the obscurity was most intense, stood a
solitary old man keeping himself cautiously concealed in the darkness,
and looking out anxiously upon the public way immediately before him.

He had waited but a short time when a handsome chariot, preceded by a
body-guard of gaily-attired slaves, stopped within a few paces of his
lurking-place, and the voice of the person it contained pronounced
audibly the following words:--

'No! no! Drive on--we are later than I thought. If I stay to see this
illumination of the basilica, I shall not be in time to receive my
guests for to-night's banquet. Besides, this inestimable kitten of the
breed most worshipped by the ancient Egyptians has already taken cold,
and I would not for the world expose the susceptible animal any longer
than is necessary to the dampness of the night-air. Drive on, good
Carrio, drive on!'

The old man scarcely waited for the conclusion of this speech before he
ran up to the chariot, where he was immediately confronted by two
heads--one that of Vetranio the senator, the other that of a glossy
black kitten adorned with a collar of rubies, and half enveloped in its
master's ample robes. Before the astonished noble could articulate a
word, the man whispered in hoarse, hurried accents, 'I am Ulpius--
dismiss your servants--I have something important to say!'

'Ha! my worthy Ulpius! You have a most unhappy faculty of delivering a
message with the manner of an assassin! But I must pardon your
unpleasant abruptness in consideration of your diligence. My excellent
Carrio, If you value my approbation, remove your companions and yourself
out of hearing!'


The freedman yielded instant obedience to his master's mandate. The
following conversation then took place, the strange man opening it
thus:--

'You remember your promise?'

'I do.'

'Upon your honour, as a nobleman and a senator, you are prepared to
abide by it whenever it is necessary?'

'I am.'

'Then at the dawn of morning meet me at the private gate of your palace
garden, and I will conduct you to Antonina's bedchamber.'

'The time will suit me. But why at the dawn of morning?'

'Because the Christian dotard will keep a vigil until midnight, which
the girl will most probably attend. I wished to tell you this at your
palace, but I heard there that you had gone to Aricia, and would return
by way of the basilica; so I posted myself to intercept you thus.'

'Industrious Ulpius!'

'Remember your promise!'

Vetranio leaned forward to reply, but Ulpius was gone.

As the senator again commanded his equipage to move on, he looked
anxiously around him, as if once more expecting to see his strange
adherent still lurking near the chariot. He only perceived, however, a
man whom he did not know, followed by two other, walking rapidly past
him. They were Numerian and the spies.

'At last, my projects are approaching consummation,' exclaimed Vetranio
to himself, as he and his kitten rolled off in the chariot. 'It is well
that I thought of securing possession of Julia's villa to-day, for I
shall now, assuredly, want to use it to-morrow. Jupiter! What a mass
of dangers, contradictions, and mysteries encompass this affair! When I
think that I, who pride myself on my philosophy, have quitted Ravenna,
borrowed a private villa, leagued myself with an uncultivated plebeian,
and all for the sake of a girl who has already deceived my expectations
by gaining me as a music-master without admitting me as a lover, I am
positively astonished at my own weakness! Still it must be owned that
the complexion my adventure has lately assumed renders it of some
interest in itself. The mere pleasure of penetrating the secrets of
this Numerian's household is by no means the least among the numerous
attraction of my design. How has he gained his influence over the girl?
Why does he keep her in such strict seclusion? Who is this old half-
frantic, unceremonious man-monster calling himself Ulpius; refusing all
reward for his villainy; raving about a return to the old religion of
the gods; and exulting in the promise he has extorted from me, as a good
pagan, to support the first restoration of the ancient worship that may
be attempted in Rome? Where does he come from? Why does he outwardly
profess himself a Christian? What sent him into Numerian's service? By
the girdle of Venus! everything connected with the girl is as
incomprehensible as herself! But patience--patience! A few hours more,
and these mysteries will be revealed. In the meantime, let me think of
my banquet, and of its presiding deity, the Nightingale Sauce!'


CHAPTER 5. ANTONINA.


Who that has been at Rome does not remember with delight the attractions
of the Pincian Hill? Who, after toiling through the wonders of the
dark, melancholy city, has not been revived by a visit to its shady
walks, and by breathing its fragrant breezes? Amid the solemn
mournfulness that reigns over declining Rome, this delightful elevation
rises light, airy, and inviting, at once a refreshment to the body and a
solace to the spirit. From its smooth summit the city is seen in its
utmost majesty, and the surrounding country in its brightest aspect.
The crimes and miseries of Rome seem deterred from approaching its
favoured soil; it impresses the mind as a place set apart by common
consent for the presence of the innocent and the joyful--as a scene that
rest and recreation keep sacred from the intrusion of tumult and toil.

Its appearance in modern days is the picture of its character for ages
past. Successive wars might dull its beauties for a time, but peace
invariably restored them in all their pristine loveliness. The old
Romans called it 'The Mount of Gardens'. Throughout the disasters of
the Empire and the convulsions of the Middle Ages, it continued to merit
its ancient appellation, and a 'Mount of Gardens' it still triumphantly
remains to the present day.

At the commencement of the fifth century the magnificence of the Pincian
Hill was at its zenith. Were it consistent with the conduct of our story
to dwell upon the glories of its palaces and its groves, its temples and
its theatres, such a glowing prospect of artificial splendour, aided by
natural beauty, might be spread before the reader as would tax his
credulity, while it excited his astonishment. This task, however, it is
here unnecessary to attempt. It is not for the wonders of ancient
luxury and taste, but for the abode of the zealous and religious
Numerian, that we find it now requisite to arouse interest and engage
attention.

At the back of the Flaminian extremity of the Pincian Hill, and
immediately overlooking the city wall, stood, at the period of which we
write, a small but elegantly built house, surrounded by a little garden
of its own, and protected at the back by the lofty groves and
outbuildings of the palace of Vetranio the senator. This abode had been
at one time a sort of summer-house belonging to the former proprietor of
a neighbouring mansion.

Profligate necessities, however, had obliged the owner to part with this
portion of his possessions, which was purchased by a merchant well known
to Numerian, who received it as a legacy at his friend's death.
Disgusted, as soon as his reforming projects took possession of his
mind, at the bare idea of propinquity to the ennobled libertines of
Rome, the austere Christian determined to abandon his inheritance, and
to sell it to another; but, at the repeated entreaties of his daughter,
he at length consented to change his purpose, and sacrifice his
antipathy to his luxurious neighbours to his child's youthful attachment
to the beauties of Nature as displayed in his legacy on the Pincian
Mount. In this instance only did the natural affection of the father
prevail over the acquired severity of the reformer. Here he
condescended, for the first and the last time, to the sweet trivialities
of youth. Here, indulgent in spite of himself, he fixed his little
household, and permitted to his daughter her sole recreations of tending
the flowers in the garden and luxuriating in the loveliness of the
distant view.

******

The night has advanced an hour since the occurrence mentioned in the
preceding chapter. The clear and brilliant moonlight of Italy now
pervades every district of the glorious city, and bathes in its pure
effulgence the groves and palaces on the Pincian Mount. From the garden
of Numerian the irregular buildings of the great suburbs of Rome, the
rich undulating country beyond, and the long ranges of mountains in the
distance, are now all visible in the soft and luxurious light. Near the
spot which commands this view, not a living creature is to be seen on a
first examination; but on a more industrious and patient observation,
you are subsequently able to detect at one of the windows of Numerian's
house, half hidden by a curtain, the figure of a young girl.


Soon this solitary form approaches nearer to the eye. The moonbeams,
that have hitherto shone only upon the window, now illuminate other
objects. First they display a small, white arm; then a light, simple
robe; then a fair, graceful neck; and finally a bright, youthful,
innocent face, directed steadfastly towards the wide moon-brightened
prospect of the distant mountains.

For some time the girl remains in contemplation at her window. Then she
leaves her post, and almost immediately reappears at a door leading into
the garden. Her figure, as she advances towards the lawn before her, is
light and small--a natural grace and propriety appear in her movements--
she holds pressed to her bosom and half concealed by her robe, a gilt
lute. When she reaches a turf bank commanding the same view as the
window, she arranges her instrument upon her knees, and with something
of restraint in her manner gently touches the chords. Then, as if
alarmed at the sound she has produced, she glances anxiously around her,
apparently fearful of being overheard. Her large, dark, lustrous eyes
have in them an expression of apprehension; her delicate lips are half
parted; a sudden flush rises in her soft, olive complexion as she
examines every corner of the garden. Having completed her survey
without discovering any cause for the suspicions she seems to entertain,
she again employs herself over her instrument. Once more she strikes
the chords, and now with a bolder hand. The notes she produces resolve
themselves into a wild, plaintive, irregular melody, alternately rising
and sinking, as if swayed by the fickle influence of a summer wind.
These sounds are soon harmoniously augmented by the young minstrel's
voice, which is calm, still, and mellow, and adapts itself with
exquisite ingenuity to every arbitrary variation in the tone of the
accompaniment. The song that she has chosen is one of the fanciful odes
of the day. Its chief merit to her lies in its alliance to the strange
Eastern air which she heard at her first interview with the senator who
presented her with the lute. Paraphrased in English, the words of the
composition would run thus:--

THE ORIGIN OF MUSIC

I. Spirit, whose dominion reigns Over Music's thrilling strains, Whence
may be thy distant birth? Say what tempted thee to earth?

Mortal, listen: I was born In Creation's early years, Singing, 'mid the
stars of morn, `To the music of the spheres.

Once as, within the realms of space, I view'd this mortal planet roll, A
yearning towards they hapless race, Unbidden, filled my seraph soul!

Angels, who had watched my birth, Heard me sigh to sing to earth; 'Twas
transgression ne'er forgiv'n To forget my native heav'n; So they sternly
bade me go--Banish'd to the world below.

II. Exil'd here, I knew no fears; For, though darkness round me clung,
Though none heard me in the spheres, Earth had listeners while I sung.

Young spirits of the Spring sweet breeze Came thronging round me, soft
and coy, Light wood-nymphs sported in the trees, And laughing Echo leapt
for joy!

Brooding Woe and writhing Pain Soften'd at my gentle strain; Bounding
Joy, with footstep fleet, Ran to nestle at my feet; While, arous'd,
delighted Love Softly kiss'd me from above!

III. Since those years of early time, Faithful still to earth I've
sung; Flying through each distant clime, Ever welcome, ever young!

Still pleas'd, my solace I impart Where brightest hopes are scattered
dead; 'Tis mine--sweet gift!--to charm the heart, Though all its other
joys have fled!

Time, that withers all beside, Harmless past me loves to glide; Change,
that mortals must obey, Ne'er shall shake my gentle sway; Still 'tis
mine all hearts to move In eternity of love.


As the last sounds of her voice and her lute died softly away upon the
still night air, an indescribable elevation appeared in the girl's
countenance. She looked up rapturously into the far, star-bright sky;
her lip quivered, her dark eyes filled with tears, and her bosom heaved
with the excess of the emotions that the music and the scene inspired.
Then she gazed slowly around her, dwelling tenderly upon the fragrant
flower-beds that were the work of her own hands, and looking forth with
an expression half reverential, half ecstatic over the long, smooth,
shining plains, and the still, glorious mountains, that had so long been
the inspiration of her most cherished thoughts, and that now glowed
before her eyes, soft and beautiful as her dreams on her virgin couch.
Then, overpowered by the artless thoughts and innocent recollections
which on the magic wings of Nature and Night came wafted over her mind,
she bent down her head upon her lute, pressed her round, dimpled cheek
against its smooth frame, and drawing her fingers mechanically over its
strings, abandoned herself unreservedly to the reveries of maidenhood
and youth.

Such was the being devoted by her father's fatal ambition to a lifelong
banishment from all that is attractive in human art and beautiful in
human intellect! Such was the daughter whose existence was to be one
long acquaintance with mortal woe, one unvaried refusal of mortal
pleasure, whose thoughts were to be only of sermons and fasts, whose
action were to be confined to the binding up of strangers' wounds and
the drying of strangers' tears; whose life, in brief, was doomed to be
the embodiment of her father's austere ideal of the austere virgins of
the ancient Church!

Deprived of her mother, exiled from the companionship of others of her
age, permitted no familiarity with any living being, no sympathies with
any other heart, commanded but never indulged, rebuked but never
applauded, she must have sunk beneath the severities imposed on her by
her father, but for the venial disobedience committed in the pursuit of
the solitary pleasure procured for her by her lute. Vainly, in her
hours of study, did she read the fierce anathemas against love, liberty,
and pleasure, poetry, painting, and music, gold, silver, and precious
stones, which the ancient fathers had composed for the benefit of the
submissive congregations of former days; vainly did she imagine, during
those long hours of theological instruction, that her heart's forbidden
longings were banished and destroyed--that her patient and childlike
disposition was bowed in complete subserviency to the most rigorous of
her father's commands. No sooner were her interviews with Numerian
concluded than the promptings of that nature within us, which artifice
may warp but can never destroy, lured her into a forgetfulness of all
that she had heard and a longing for much that was forbidden. We live,
in this existence, but by the companionship of some sympathy,
aspiration, or pursuit, which serves us as our habitual refuge from the
tribulations we inherit from the outer world. The same feeling which led
Antonina in her childhood to beg for a flower-garden, in her girlhood
induced her to gain possession of a lute.

The passion for music which prompted her visit to Vetranio, which alone
saved her affections from pining in the solitude imposed on them, and
which occupied her leisure hours in the manner we have already
described, was an inheritance of her birth.


Her Spanish mother had sung to her, hour after hour, in her cradle, for
the short time during which she was permitted to watch over her child.
The impression thus made on the dawning faculties of the infant, nothing
ever effaced. Though her earliest perception were greeted only by the
sight of her father's misery; though the form which his despairing
penitence soon assumed doomed her to a life of seclusion and an
education of admonition, the passionate attachment to the melody of
sound, inspired by her mother's voice--almost imbibed at her mother's
breast--lived through all neglect, and survived all opposition. It
found its nourishment in childish recollections, in snatches of street
minstrelsy heard through her window, in the passage of the night winds
of winter through the groves on the Pincian Mount, and received its
rapturous gratification in the first audible sounds from the Roman
senator's lute. How her possession of an instrument, and her skill in
playing, were subsequently gained, the reader already knows from
Vetranio's narrative at Ravenna. Could the frivolous senator have
discovered the real intensity of the emotions his art was raising in his
pupil's bosom while he taught her; could he have imagined how
incessantly, during their lessons, her sense of duty struggled with her
love for music--how completely she was absorbed, one moment by an agony
of doubt and fear, another by an ecstasy of enjoyment and hope--he would
have felt little of that astonishment at her coldness towards himself
which he so warmly expressed at his interview with Julia in the gardens
of the Court. In truth, nothing could be more complete than Antonina's
childish unconsciousness of the feelings with which Vetranio regarded
her. In entering his presence, whatever remnant of her affections
remained unwithered by her fears was solely attracted and engrossed by
the beloved and beautiful lute. In receiving the instrument, she almost
forgot the giver in the triumph of possession; or, if she thought of him
at all, it was to be grateful for having escaped uninjured from a member
of that class, for whom her father's reiterated admonitions had inspired
her with a vague feeling of dread and distrust, and to determine that,
now she had acknowledged his kindness and departed from his domains,
nothing should ever induce her to risk discovery by her father and peril
to herself by ever entering them again.

Innocent in her isolation, almost infantine in her natural simplicity, a
single enjoyment was sufficient to satisfy all the passions of her age.
Father, mother, lover, and companion; liberties, amusements, and
adornments--they were all summed up for her in that simple lute. The
archness, the liveliness, and the gentleness of her disposition; the
poetry of her nature, and the affection of her heart; the happy bloom of
youth, which seclusion could not all wither nor distorted precept taint,
were now entirely nourished, expanded, and freshened--such is the
creative power of human emotion--by that inestimable possession. She
could speak to it, smile on it, caress it, and believe, in the ecstasy
of her delight, in the carelessness of her self-delusion, that it
sympathised with her joy. During her long solitudes, when she was
silently watched in her father's absence by the brooding, melancholy
stranger whom he had set over her, it became a companion dearer than the
flower-garden, dearer even that the plains and mountains which formed
her favourite view. When her father returned, and she was led forth to
sit in a dark place among strange, silent people, and to listen to
interminable declamations, it was a solace to think of the instrument as
it lay hidden securely in her chamber, and to ponder delightedly on what
new music of her own she could play upon it next. And then, when
evening arrived, and she was left alone in her garden--then came the
hour of moonlight and song; the moment of rapture and melody that drew
her out of herself, elevated her she felt not how, and transported her
she knew not whither.

But, while we thus linger over reflection on motives and examinations
into character, we are called back to the outer world of passing
interests and events by the appearances of another figure on the scene.
We left Antonina in the garden thinking over her lute. She still
remains in her meditative position, but she is now no longer alone.

From the same steps by which she had descended, a man now advances into
the garden, and walks towards the place she occupies. His gait is
limping, his stature crooked, his proportions distorted. His large,
angular features stand out in gaunt contrast to his shrivelled cheeks.
His dry, matted hair has been burnt by the sun into a strange tawny
brown. His expression is one of fixed, stern, mournful thought. As he
steps stealthily along, advancing towards Antonina, he mutters to
himself, and clutches mechanically at his garments with his lank,
shapeless fingers. The radiant moonlight, falling fully upon his
countenance, invests it with a livid, mysterious, spectral appearance:
seen by a stranger at the present moment, he would have been almost
awful to look upon.

This was the man who had intercepted Vetranio on his journey home, and
who had now hurried back so as to regain his accustomed post before his
master's return, for he was the same individual mentioned by Numerian as
his aged convert, Ulpius, in his interview with the landholder at the
Basilica of St. Peter.

When Ulpius had arrived within a few paces of the girl he stopped,
saying in a hoarse, thick voice--

'Hide your toy--Numerian is at the gates!'


Antonina started violently as she listened to those repulsive accents.
The blood rushed into her cheeks; she hastily covered the lute with her
robe; paused an instant, as if intending to speak to the man, then
shuddered violently, and hurried towards the house.

As she mounted the steps Numerian met her in the hall. There was now no
chance of hiding the lute in its accustomed place.

'You stay too late in the garden,' said the father, looking proudly, in
spite of all his austerity, upon his beautiful daughter as she stood by
his side. 'But what affects you?' he added, noticing her confusion.
'You tremble; your colour comes and goes; your lips quiver. Give me
your hand!'

As Antonina obeyed him, a fold of the treacherous robe slipped aside,
and discovered a part of the frame of the lute. Numerian's quick eye
discovered it immediately. He snatched the instrument from her feeble
grasp. His astonishment on beholding it was too great for words, and
for an instant he confronted the poor girl, whose pale face looked rigid
with terror, in ominous and expressive silence.

'This thing,' said he at length, 'this invention of libertines in my
house--in my daughter's possession!' and he dashed the lute into
fragments on the floor.

For one moment Antonina looked incredulously on the ruins of the beloved
companion, which was the centre of all her happiest expectations for
future days. Then, as she began to estimate the reality of her
deprivation, her eyes lost all their heaven-born brightness, and filled
to overflowing with the tears of earth.