University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
AN ALPINE VALLEY—HUT OF MONNA BARBARA.

DUSK was deepening
over the Alpine
summits, and huge
shadows stalked
slowly downward,
broadening gloomily
through the valleys.
All nature
was sinking into the
sealed quiet of a
winter's night, only
to be broken, during
the long hours,
by the rumbling
thunders of shifting
fields of snow in the passes and declivities of
the mountains, or perchance the sudden rushing
crash of an avalanchine slide of gathered ice,
bearing terror and destruction to the slumbering
villages below.

Near the base of a steep precipice, the rocky
side of which served for one of its walls, was
a rude hut, constructed of roughly cemented
stones, with a roof partly-thatched with coarse
flag grass, partly sheltered from the weather by
the gnarled convolutions of thick vine, running
rankly up the sides of the precipice, and spreading
in an almost impervious mass over the top
and caves of the building. From the single
small and unglazed window of this hut, streamed
a light, as of a glowing fire.

Other lights were scattered along the line of
the sheltered valley, glimmering from the casements
of peasants' cottages, wherein at this hour
the humble but contented denizens of the hamlet
were busied in the preparation or hearty enjoyment
of their evening meal; and one light,
brighter than any of the rest (and nearer to the
mountain pass which formed the southern outlet
to the vale) gleamed from the dwelling of old
Nicolo, a famous hunter-guide, well-known
throughout the Alpine districts. This light was,
in truth, something more than an ordinary beacon;
for it could be distinguished from afar,
upon the peaks, and was, moreover, nightly
trimmed and tended by the hands of Nicolo's
fair grand-child Bianca, allowed by common
consent to be the rustic queen of all the valley
maidens.

But we have immediately to do with the hut
first mentioned, built under the steep precipice,
and half-covered with tangled vines, which was

situated only a few hundred yards from the more
capacious and comfortable cottage of Nicolo. It
was occupied by three persons, an aged woman,
who bore not the best of reputations among the
villagers (being reputed as a witch, or at least,
as being more familiar with the many imps and
sprites of the mountains than good Catholics were
allowed to be), and her two reputed sons, Berthold
and Valentine. That the old mother was ill-favored
and weird-looking enough to entitle her
to some claims on the score of witchcraft, was
not to be doubted; but it was very evident that
whatever necromantic power she might possess,
did not suffice to elevate her worldly condition,
since both she and her sons had dwelt for many
years in the vine-roofed hovel, the latter laboring
in the summer season as dressers in the vine-yards
of the valley, and officiating in the winter
as guides, or essaying their fortune as hunters in
the mountains; while the crone herself busied
her aged hands in collecting every sort of herb
from the hills, which, after carefully cleansing
and drying, she made into small bundles, and
sold at the summer fairs and festivals. Perhaps
it was the poor dame's habits of clambering up
the rocks, and hobbling over the valleys, in search
of her herbal treasures, duly plucking them at
their full time of juiciness, whether such occurred
at noon or midnight, that first inspired the superstitious
peasants with an impression of her supernatural
connections. Besides, it is a well-known
fact, that when poverty is united with extreme
ungainliness in the person of an old female, the
young and thoughtless have ever been willing to
add to the poor creature's afflictions the stigma
of dealing with the evil one; whereas, it will
generally be found, on inquiry, that a great deal
more ground exists for suspicions of the sort,
when the object of them is quite young and handsome,
since there is surely more danger to be
apprehended from the attractions of youth and
beauty than from the absence of both.

This was, at least, the reasoning of the good
friar Ambrose, the spiritual director of the valley,
on an occasion when the zealous peasants
were disposed to amuse themselves, and estalish
their orthodoxy, by resorting to stringent
measures in order to test the genuineness of
Monna Barbara's faith in the church; for not
only had the offence of devil-dealing been imputed
to the unfortunate old woman, but she
was likewise charged with being a Lutheran—a
character which, in the eyes of the worthy peasantry
was little less to be dreaded than the
veritable enemy of souls himself. Nevertheless,
in spite of many cattle having died with the murrain,
and two or three blights visiting the vines
since Monna Barbara first brought her young
children from across the German mountains, and
took up with them her abode in the pleasant
Val d'Orazio (which was the name of the little
district shut in by lofty hills, where she had continued
to dwell to the present time); in spite of
these things, we say, the old woman was acknowledged
to be of great service among the
inhabitants; and indeed, it was conceded that to
her skill, in the preparation of herbal remedies,
many a poor villager, wounded by accident, or
stricken with fever, had owed his recovery from
near the very gate of death. So, on the whole,
though some extravagant fellows, after drinking
wine and walking in procession to church, were
accustomed to denounce Monna Barbara as a
witch and heretic, none of the better class of
people ever thought of molesting the peaceable
and inoffensive crone And for her defence
against the ignorant common people, it was well-known
that the lads Berthold and Valentine,
now grown into stalwort youths, were quite able
to guard their humble domicile against violence.
Therefore, Monna Barbara pursued her business
of gathering simples without much fear of the
church, or its too-zealous adherents.

Berthold was the eldest of the two sons of
Monna Barbara. He was a young man of stout
frame, thick-set in person, with broad shoulders
and endued with a strength which made him
equal to great feats of labor during the vine-gathering
season, and of course, rendered his
services in much demand among the neighboring
husbandmen. He was likewise skilful as a
hunter, and accustomed to exertion and exposure
during the inclement winters, making light
of many hardships that deterred youths of less
vigor and boldness from the pursuits of the chase,
or the vocation of guide to travellers wishing to
pass the dangerous portions of the mountainous
chains that extended far beyond this valley to
the frontiers of France, Switzerland and Germany.
Berthold, sometimes alone, sometimes
in company with his brother, had often traversed
the entire route, and by this means, together
with their summer labors, the youths had always
kept themselves above the reach of want. Yet,
though his capabilities and courage were allowed
to be great throughout the valleys, Berthold
was no favorite among the villagers, and many
evil things were conjectured about him, which

often, as in the case of his mother, were quite
ill-founded. His general demeanor, indeed, was
not prepossessing, and his features contributed
little to produce a favorable impression on acquaintance.
He had small, piercing eyes, constantly
roving in wandering glances, and seeming
to scan the thoughts of those who encountered
their regards. His complexion was swarthy, and
the expression of his face scornful and repulsive.
Indeed his looks appeared to convey a consciousness
of his unpopularity, and to intimate at the
same time that he defied and despised those who
were inimical to him.

Valentine was very unlike Berthold. The
eyes of this young man were dark and bright,
but they were likewise large, and looked out from
beneath his forehead with a clear and earnest
expression. Like Berthold he was strongly
built, and taller in frame than he, with a more
graceful and easy carriage. But his smile was
free and open, while the other's was covert and
scornful, as though mirth were a weakness he
despised. Berthold was habitually haughty
and unmoved, while Valentine's temper was
impetuous, and his actions sudden and often
violent. But the young men of the valley, opposed
as they were to intimacy with the elder,
were ever favorably disposed to the younger of
these two sons of Monna Barbara; and so, consequently,
Valentine, from his childhood, had
been accustomed to mingle in the sports and
feasts of the youthful villagers, while Berthold
withdrew himself at all times from the merry
meetings of the valley, as if conscious of the
aversion with which he was regarded.

The brothers now sat together before a blazing
fire in the single apartment of their humble
dwelling, whilst, to and fro, preparing the evening
meal, the old Monna Barbara hobbled on her
aged limbs. In the light of the burning fagots
this woman's face appeared very ancient and
ghastly. In truth, she was at this time full threescore
years of age. Nevertheless, her small
black eyes were still quite sparkling, and though
her hair was white as snow, her teeth were neither
discolored nor decayed. Altogether, Monna
Barbara was a singular-looking old personage,
with her thin silver locks, sharply-bright eyes,
and brilliant teeth; and perhaps it is not to be
marvelled at that the credulous villagers gave
her credit for a charmed existence, though her
old hut and bundles of simples were all the infernal
machinery that was ever visible to their
scrutiny.

Monna Barbara's white straggling hair was
parted over her forehead, and tied behind with a
piece of faded ribbon. Her bird-like eyes glistened
beneath their shaggy brows, glancing furtively
from one to the other of the two youths,
who, sitting on wooden stools near the fire, plied
their short hunter's knives, the one carving an
ice-pole, the other shaping snow-shoes from hard
wood.

Suddenly Berthold raised his eyes, and looked
sharply at the old woman, saying in an impatient
tone of voice:

“Why do you not make haste?”

Monna Barbara returned his glance with one
as sharp, but went on with her preparations, replying
nothing.

“Why do you not answer me, woman?” muttered
the son, morosely.

“Nay, Berthold,” interposed Valentine.
“Speak not thus harshly to our mother.”

“You interfere—do you?” cried Berthold,
fiercely turning on the young man. “Mind you
your work, boy, or belike I shall have a word or
two with you!”

“Certainly I shall not sit by, and see our
mother abused by her eldest son, though he is
well-known to have little natural feeling,” rejoined
Valentine.

“Ha, ha!” ejaculated the gloomy Berthold,
with his customary contemptuous laugh.

“You think to provoke me,” said the younger
brother. “You have a mind to quarrel with
both of us, were I to heed your brutality. Nevertheless,
brother of mine, hark ye—our mother
shall not be treated with disrespect.”

“Who taught you all this fine language, my
valiant stripling? Are you indebted to old
Nicolo for the lesson?”

Valentine remained silent, but he bit his lips,
nervously, to keep down his rising passion.

“Or, maybe, his pretty grand-daughter was
so good as to teach her handsome young neighbor?”
continued Berthold, with a sneer. Valentine
still made no reply.

`Faith! the boy has lost his tongue. Without
doubt, it has followed his heart, and the
pretty Bianca is now—”

“Have a care what you say concerning her,”
exclaimed Valentine, suddenly losing his temper,
and speaking in a loud key.

“Doubtless I shall say whatever I like, without
asking permission of Valentine,” retorted the
provoking Berthold.

“Then your bull-head shall feel this goad,”

exclaimed the younger brother, lifting his arm,
and brandishing the ice-pole which he had been
sharpening, and to the end of which he had affixed
the ferule of pointed iron, with which such
sticks are shod.

Berthold started from his stool, clutching the
knife which he had been using, and seemed about
to rush at once upon his brother. But the old
dame hobbled forward, and grasped his arm,
screaming:

“Take care of yourself, Valentine.”!

“Away with you, beldam!” muttered Berthold,
fiercely. But Monna Barbara saw the
knife glittering in the firelight, and she clung
with closer grasp to his arm.

“Take that, then, for your interference,” cried
the ruffian son, and he struck with his left hand
a backward blow at the crone, so that she staggered
and fell against the wall.

But Valentine, by this time, had grappled with
his infuriated brother, and now, with dexterous
twist he wrenched the knife from his hand, just
as the aged mother was dashed to the side of the
room.

At this moment, the door of the hut was opened
from without, and two figures appeared upon
the threshold. Valentine released his hold, for
he recognized in the foremost old Nicolo, the
hunter, grand-father of Bianca, whose innocent
name had been the cause of the sudden collision.

“Ho! what is all this, young man?” exclaimed
Nicolo, as he paused in astonishment on the
door-sill, and surveyed the attitude and threatening
demeanor of Valentine, who had just
plucked away his antagonist's weapon. “Your
hand at your own brother's throat, and your
knife bare, too! For shame! for shame, lad!
I thought not the like of you!”

Saying these words, the old guide advanced
into the hovel, followed by the stranger who had
appeared with him upon the threshold. This
latter was a man of tall stature, and goodly mien.
He was enveloped in a mantle of rich sable, fastened
with clasps of massy silver, wrought in
the form of lion claws. This gentleman surveyed
the countenance of Valentine, with the same
fixed attention that had been bestowed by Nicolo,
and evidently with similar surprise; for the face
of the young man had now lost its defiant expression,
and being of naturally prepossessing
cast, as we have before said, presented a strong
contrast to the threatening appearance it had
worn so lately. Valentine discovered instantly
the false light in which he now stood with his
friend Nicolo, and hastened at once to explain
the circumstances. But Berthold, assuming a
very calm voice and manner, anticipated his
brother's intention.

“It is always thus,” said the crafty fellow,
with an appealing look towards the old guide.
“The unhappy temper of this brother of mine,
whose violent outbreaks are too well-known,
puts us in continual fear for our lives!” Saying
this, Berthold turned about, and scowled ominously
at Monna Barbara, in order to frighten her, so
that she would not venture to contradict his
assertion.

“It is bad—it is bad!” said old Nicolo, gravely.
“When brothers quarrel, and that, too, in
the presence of a feeble mother, it bodes no good
to either.”

“But, hear me!” exclaimed Valentine, who
had been so startled at his brother's cool effrontery,
that for a moment it deprived him of speech.
“Listen to me, while I declare that what this
crafty brother of mine has said is falsehood!”

“There—do you not perceive, his violent
temper cannot be restrained!” interrupted Berthold,
calling the notice of Nicolo and the stranger
to the features of Valentine, which had again
become inflamed, whilst the youth's whole body
trembled with passion.

“It is sufficient! Do I not see the knife in
his hand?” cried Nicolo. Then addressing
Valentine, he continued: “Do not add a false
accusation of your brother, to the sin of which
you have been guilty.”

Valentine at this speech was almost tempted
to fly at his cunning brother, and finish the quarrel
at once by some desperate action. But his
better nature restrained him, and gulping down
his anger with a violent effort, he turned towards
Monna Barbara, who had shrunk into a corner,
dreading the scowling looks of Berthold.

At this moment the stranger who, until now
had stood in the middle of the hut, wrapped
closely in his mantle, commenced speaking, in a
full, manly voice, that immediately riveted the
young man's attention. He ventured, at the
same time, to glance at the speaker, and was
surprised to encounter the other's clear eye fixed
calmly upon his own, as if it were capable of
penetrating to his inmost thoughts. Valentine
experienced an unaccountable emotion at this,
as if the stranger's glance were recalling to his
memory some strange and forgotten passages of
a former life, familiar yet indistinct, like the dim
shadowings of a twilight dream.

Who has not felt it? that mysterious emotion,
like the memory of a face once half-disclosed in
a morning-dream? What is it? Why will the
tones of a voice which all outward circumstances
convince us we have never heard before, awaken
within our hearts a thrill as if a long-lost friend
had whispered to us? Why will a flower, a
bush, a landscape, that we suddenly encounter
in wandering where our feet have never trod
before, bring at once before our mental vision a
scene which we know was never beheld by our
sensuous faculties in this life, yet rises clear and
distinct as a memory of yesterday? Is it to be
imagined that our spirits, long, long since, at a
period in eternity's grand march, of which our
finite comprehension can define no conception,
performed their parts even as now—experienced
hopes and fears, joys and sorrows, and doubts,
even as in the present? And may we believe
that the apparent recognitions of things and
localities, which dawn so inexplicably at times
upon our minds, reveal to us glimpses of an antepast
which should assure us of immortality?
reveal to us the spots which some joy, experienced
far back in pre-existence, has redeemed,
through its perfectness, from the general oblivion,
reveal to us tones of some voice to which in the
illimitable past our souls have listened with immortal
gladness?

“What thought, indeed, what speculation,
shall compass the revolving life of universal matter—where
it beginneth, where becometh multiform,
where it is resolved again into formless
chaos, or elemental nothing?