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Title: The Italian Vol. 1 of 3
Date of first publication: 1797
Author: Ann Radcliffe (1764-1823)
Date first posted: Feb. 18, 2021
Date last updated: Feb. 18, 2021
Faded Page eBook #20210275
This eBook was produced by: Delphine Lettau
& the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net
This file was produced from images generously made available by Internet Archive/European Libraries.
THE _ITALIAN_,
OR
THE CONFESSIONAL of the BLACK PENITENTS.
_A ROMANCE._
BY
ANN RADCLIFFE,
AUTHOR OF THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO, &c. &c.
He, wrapt in clouds of mystery and silence,
Broods o’er his passions, bodies them in deeds,
And sends them forth on wings of Fate to others:
Like the invisible Will, that guides us,
Unheard, unknown, unsearchable!
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
Printed for T. CADELL Jun. and W. DAVIES
(successors to Mr. CADELL) in the STRAND.
1797.
_THE ITALIAN_,
OR
THE CONFESSIONAL of the BLACK PENITENTS.
About the year 1764, some English travellers in Italy, during one of
their excursions in the environs of Naples, happened to stop before the
portico of the _Santa Maria del Pianto_, a church belonging to a very
ancient convent of the order of the _Black Penitents_. The magnificence
of this portico, though impaired by time, excited so much admiration,
that the travellers were curious to survey the structure to which it
belonged, and with this intention they ascended the marble steps that
led to it.
Within the shade of the portico, a person with folded arms, and eyes
directed towards the ground, was pacing behind the pillars the whole
extent of the pavement, and was apparently so engaged by his own
thoughts, as not to observe that strangers were approaching. He turned,
however, suddenly, as if startled by the sound of steps, and then,
without further pausing, glided to a door that opened into the church
and disappeared.
There was something too extraordinary in the figure of this man, and
too singular in his conduct, to pass unnoticed by the visitors. He was
of a tall thin figure, bending forward from the shoulders; of a sallow
complexion, and harsh features, and had an eye, which, as it looked up
from the cloke that muffled the lower part of his countenance, seemed
expressive of uncommon ferocity.
The travellers, on entering the church, looked round for the stranger,
who had passed thither before them, but he was no where to be seen,
and, through all the shade of the long aisles, only one other person
appeared. This was a friar of the adjoining convent, who sometimes
pointed out to strangers the objects in the church, which were most
worthy of attention, and who now, with this design, approached the
party that had just entered.
The interior of this edifice had nothing of the shewy ornament and
general splendor, which distinguish the churches of Italy, and
particularly those of Naples; but it exhibited a simplicity and
grandeur of design, considerably more interesting to persons of taste,
and a solemnity of light and shade much more suitable to promote the
sublime elevation of devotion.
When the party had viewed the different shrines and whatever had been
judged worthy of observation, and were returning through an obscure
aisle towards the portico, they perceived the person who had appeared
upon the steps, passing towards a confessional on the left, and, as he
entered it, one of the party pointed him out to the friar, and enquired
who he was; the friar turning to look after him, did not immediately
reply, but, on the question being repeated, he inclined his head, as in
a kind of obeisance, and calmly replied, “He is an assassin.”
“An assassin!” exclaimed one of the Englishmen; “an assassin and at
liberty!”
An Italian gentleman, who was of the party, smiled at the astonishment
of his friend.
“He has sought sanctuary here,” replied the friar; “within these walls
he may not be hurt.”
“Do your altars, then, protect the murderer?” said the Englishman.
“He could find shelter no where else,” answered the friar meekly.
“This is astonishing!” said the Englishman; “of what avail are your
laws, if the most atrocious criminal may thus find shelter from them?
But how does he contrive to exist here! He is, at least, in danger of
being starved?”
“Pardon me,” replied the friar; “there are always people willing to
assist those, who cannot assist themselves; and as the criminal may not
leave the church in search of food, they bring it to him here.”
“Is this possible!” said the Englishman, turning to his Italian friend.
“Why, the poor wretch must not starve,” replied the friend; “which he
inevitably would do, if food were not brought to him! But have you
never, since your arrival in Italy, happened to see a person in the
situation of this man? It is by no means an uncommon one.”
“Never!” answered the Englishman, “and I can scarcely credit what I see
now!”
“Why, my friend,” observed the Italian, “if we were to shew no mercy
to such unfortunate persons, assassinations are so frequent, that our
cities would be half depopulated.”
In notice of this profound remark, the Englishman could only gravely
bow.
“But observe yonder confessional,” added the Italian, “that beyond
the pillars on the left of the aisle, below a painted window. Have
you discovered it? The colours of the glass throw, instead of light,
a shade over that part of the church, which, perhaps, prevents your
distinguishing what I mean!”
The Englishman looked whither his friend pointed, and observed a
confessional of oak, or some very dark wood, adjoining the wall, and
remarked also, that it was the same, which the assassin had just
entered. It consisted of three compartments, covered with a black
canopy. In the central division was the chair of the confessor,
elevated by several steps above the pavement of the church; and on
either hand was a small closet, or box, with steps leading up to a
grated partition, at which the penitent might kneel, and, concealed
from observation, pour into the ear of the confessor, the consciousness
of crimes that lay heavy on his heart.
“You observe it?” said the Italian.
“I do,” replied the Englishman; “it is the same, which the assassin has
passed into; and I think it one of the most gloomy spots I ever beheld;
the view of it is enough to strike a criminal with despair!”
“We, in Italy, are not so apt to despair,” replied the Italian
smilingly.
“Well, but what of this confessional?” enquired the Englishman. “The
assassin entered it!”
“He has no relation, with what I am about to mention,” said the
Italian; “but I wish you to mark the place, because some very
extraordinary circumstances belong to it.”
“What are they?” said the Englishman.
“It is now several years since the confession, which is connected with
them, was made at that very confessional,” added the Italian; “the
view of it, and the sight of this assassin, with your surprize at the
liberty which is allowed him, led me to a recollection of the story.
When you return to the hotel, I will communicate it to you, if you have
no pleasanter way of engaging your time.”
“I have a curiosity to hear it,” replied the Englishman, “cannot you
relate it now?”
“It is much too long to be related now; that would occupy a week; I
have it in writing, and will send you the volume. A young student of
Padua, who happened to be at Naples soon after this horrible confession
became public”—-
“Pardon me,” interrupted the Englishman, “that is surely very
extraordinary? I thought confessions were always held sacred by the
priest, to whom they were made.”
“Your observation is reasonable,” rejoined the Italian; “the faith
of the priest is never broken, except by an especial command from
an higher power; and the circumstances must even then be very
extraordinary to justify such a departure from the law. But, when you
read the narrative, your surprise on this head will cease. I was going
to tell you, that it was written by a student of Padua, who, happening
to be here soon after the affair became public, was so much struck with
the facts, that, partly as an exercise, and partly in return for some
trifling services I had rendered him, he committed them to paper for
me. You will perceive from the work, that this student was very young,
as to the arts of composition, but the facts are what you require, and
from these he has not deviated. But come, let us leave the church.”
“After I have taken another view of this solemn edifice,” replied the
Englishman, “and particularly of the confessional you have pointed to
my notice!”
While the Englishman glanced his eye over the high roofs, and along the
solemn perspectives of the Santa del Pianto, he perceived the figure
of the assassin stealing from the confessional across the choir, and,
shocked on again beholding him, he turned his eyes and hastily quitted
the church.
The friends then separated, and the Englishman, soon after returning to
his hotel, received the volume. He read as follows:
THE _ITALIAN_.
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