A True Story.
by the honourable Charles Stuart Savile.
Originally published in Ainsworth's Magazine: A Miscellany of Romance (Chapman and Hall) vol.3 #1 (1843).
The sequel to the following story will fully and satisfactorily account for the manner in which the author became possessed of its appalling details.
The monastery of L'Avernia is situated at the extremity of the Maremma, in the state of Tuscany, on a precipitous height of unquarried rock. In its immediate vicinity may be observed the so-called "Massa della Verna," a mountainous mass, twice the size of a spacious mansion, and singular for the equilibrium with which it is supported at a single point of its immense diameter. The monastery is of ancient date, and remarkable as the prison-like receptacle of priests and monks of the several orders who have been convicted of serious crimes; it has a melancholy and dilapidated air, which corresponds well with the gloomy and criminal character of its inmates. A part of it is excavated from the solid rock, from which dark mosses and ivy hang over the darker building. The "Foresteria," or outer apartments, for the reception of strangers, are separated externally from the rest of the monastery, although each room is connected with it by a secret and subterranean passage. The prisons, of which there are several, all lie beneath in the bosom of the rock, through which they wind and penetrate deep and far.
It was towards evening, during the summer of 1836, that a foreign artist presented himself at the outer gate of the monastery of L' Avernia. He was, he said, desirous of seeing the building, but more particularly of speaking with the Padre Guardiano, or Superior. The porter, after rather a prolonged absence, returned, and bade the stranger follow him to the presence of the Padre Guardiano, who was ready to receive him. As the young foreigner passed through the long corridor which led to the more interior quarters of the monastery, he observed that the several monks who met his eye were buried in profound silence or meditation; and on inquiry he was informed that, as in the case of the Capuchins of Rome, they were never permitted to converse but in the presence and by the permission of the superior. On entering the presence of the Padre Guardiano, the stranger perceived in that monk an appearance calculated in every degree to conciliate and win esteem. Politeness, affability, cheerfulness, and frankness of manner, combined with a fine and reverend exterior to remove all idea of any suspicion of his integrity. An Italian, indeed, or one long resident among that subtle people, might have detected a depth of insincerity under his bland smiles and profuse expressions of regard. He, perhaps, might have deemed the truth too cheap which was communicated so freely, but a more honest and unsuspecting inhabitant of a northern clime had neither the ability nor the wish to penetrate beneath the specious surface of his pleasing manners and obliging words. The Padre rose, together with a monk of the monastery who had been sitting at his side, and listened to the stranger most attentively, while he stated that, during his residence at Bologna, he had become acquainted with a young student, who had since, he understood, from melancholy or some other cause, become an inmate and monk of l'Avernia, under the name of Brother Anselmo, and with whom he particularly desired to renew his friendship. The Abbot replied, that such an individual had indeed formed one of their number, but that, unhappily, he had now been dead for some time.
While the Superior was uttering these words, the stranger's eye was caught by the monk who stood beside him, and who made, by a slight movement of the head, a short but significant sign of negation. It was, however, in vain that the visitor attempted to gain more satisfactory information concerning his friend, the brief explanations given by the Abbot all tended to the same conclusion, "that Brother Anselmo had been dead many months." Baffled in all his efforts, the stranger requested the hospitality of the monastery for the night, trusting that the monk's sign of denial, if it had been understood aright, might prove the prelude to some further disclosure. The request for hospitality was immediately and cordially granted, and the artist was conducted to a small apartment in the Foresteria, the door of which he left partially open, in hopes of some visit being paid him in the course of the night. It was long before the fatigue of his journey could overcome the stranger's recollection of the merry days he had passed with his friend at the university of Bologna, together with his long and everchanging surmises with regard to the motives which could have induced one of so buoyant and sanguine a disposition to enter a monastery; long, too, he pondered over the life or death, alike mysterious, which appeared to have awaited his former comrade within the gloomy walls of L'Avernia. At length, about two hours after midnight, he had just fallen into his first sleep, when he was suddenly aroused by a noise from beneath the pavement of his room; and on gazing with the intensest anxiety, he beheld a figure rise through a trap-door: the visitor proved to be the monk who had given the sign that evening. He had a cowl upon his head and a torch in his hand, the flame of which cast a livid glare over features naturally repulsive and ghastly. Beckoning in silence to the young artist to follow him, he disclosed, under the trap-door through which he had descended, a flight of stone steps, whose base was completely obscured in darkness. After descending flight after flight, they arrived at a level part of the subterranean passage, where the sound of a stream of water was heard rushing over their heads. The monk here paused, and addressing the stranger, said, "Swear by all that is sacred that you will never reveal to mortal being that which you are now about to see and hear!"
"But what if my duty forbid my silence?" asked the visitor.
"Your duty," returned the monk, "can never require the violation of an oath. Listen to me. It is not my own life about which I am solicitous—oh, no! It is true, that if the secret were disclosed, I should immediately fall a victim to the rage or fears of our superior. This would be of little consequence, for a life like mine is hardly worth preserving; but, stranger, I have a mother and sisters, who reside not far from hence, and whom circumstances have placed entirely in the power of the Padre Guardiano. In the most solemn manner has he assured me, that if mortal ever discover the horrid secret with which he has entrusted me, their means—yes, the means of all those most dear to me—will be instantly cut off, and their lives, perhaps, ultimately sacrificed! If you will not swear, we must return."
"I swear, then," said the youth, " never to reveal to mortal being what I am about to behold or hear, excepting in such a manner that no harm can befal either you or yours. Will that suffice?"
"It needs must, young man," returned the monk; "yours is an honest countenance, and I will trust you; but remember, sir, that not only my fate, but that of my mother and sisters, will depend upon your discretion. Follow me!"
Having proceeded some distance farther, the dim torchlight of the "frate" fell upon a small door in the rock, which he opened with a key taken from beneath his robe, and after they had entered, in a stooping posture, a most hideous, heart-rending spectacle, presented itself to the student's affrighted eye.
In a small, dark, stony room, or rather dungeon, on a bed of musty straw, lay a figure, scarcely human—an animated skeleton—a foul mockery of life—in the dull but ghastly features of which the artist recognised the countenance of his acquaintance at the university! but, alas! every effort to elicit a sign of recognition from the miserable being was in vain—not a word even could be extracted from his lips. He lay, indeed, in a state of hebetude more frightful than death. Reason, as it appeared, had long departed, and it was evident that the small remnant of life that still flickered in the socket would soon be extinct. Overcome with melancholy, the stranger quitted the dungeon, and conjured the frate to give him some account of the circumstances which had caused his friend so cruel a fate. In answer to his inquiries, he was informed, that an enmity, of which no one could divine the cause, had sprung up between the youth and the Padre Guardiano. So deadly was the Padre's hatred of this wretched victim, that he had resolved on making away with him; but in the breast of this villanous ecclesiastic, as in that of many others whom revenge, lust, hatred, or avarice, have induced to become murderers, enough of conscience, however irrational and inconsistent, remained to prevent his putting a speedy period to the existence of a life which he destined to destruction by the force of circumstances, of which he was the sole and diabolical author. In conformity with this accursed design, and by the aid of two monks, whom, by terror, or still more guilty means, he retained within his power, and had enslaved to his purposes, he caused it to be generally believed in the monastery that the Brother Anselmo had died of a fever. Mass was said over a vacant coffin; the rapidity of pretended putrefaction was an excuse for concealing the face of the unhappy being who was supposed to be buried, while he himself was removed to the loathsome dungeon in the heart of the rock, there to rot out a miserable existence—to learn to despair, to madden, and to die! "Three years," continued the monk, "have nearly elapsed since first your friend was introduced into this horrid abode. During that period, the two confidants of the Padre Guardiano are dead, and by the force of threats, which he is too able to execute, the fiend has compelled me to take their place, to bring food to this miserable wretch, and to confess him, as long as reason remained. My mind is in some measure relieved by this disclosure; but remember your solemn oath! If you reveal this mystery, save in the manner you have promised, you will in no degree benefit your friend, whose glimmering spark of life must soon be extinguished, and whose mind and body are alike insensible to misery and pain—while, at the same time, you will infallibly cause the ruin, if not the death, of three innocent beings, to say nothing of my own unhappy life. Be wary, therefore, my son—be temperate, and may the Holy Virgin protect and bless you!"
The stranger departed early on the following morning, without making any remarks or inquiries which might excite suspicion. Proceeding at once to Florence, he requested an audience of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, on a matter, he said, of serious importance. Thinking it might be some disclosure relative to a projected revolt, the Prince consented to see the stranger, who, in the private cabinet of the Duke, communicated to him all the particulars which have just been detailed. "I must," he observed, "entreat of your royal highness this act of justice and policy, that you send me with an escort of soldiers to take possession of the monastery, and seize the person of the Padre Guardiano."
The Grand Duke, after some reflections, consented. The soldiers were sent in different directions in companies of two or three; for it is the policy of the Tuscan government to conduct all its movements with the greatest secrecy and with the least possible display of actual force. Having assembled in the neighbourhood of the monastery, their first act was to lock all the monks in their cells, and then to seize the superior, who was told that he must render an account of his conduct to his sovereign. The monk by whom the disclosure had been made, was assured by the stranger of perfect safety, and directed to conduct him, together with the lieutenant commanding the company, to the dungeon of the prisoner.
It was indeed too late to produce any alteration in the fate of the unhappy youth who had thus, at the age of twenty-eight years, fallen a victim to the vengeance or hatred of an Italian priest. He was conveyed to Florence, and placed in the hospital of Santa Maria Nuova, where every attempt to restore him to speech or reason failed. Buffalini, the celebrated physician, by whom he was attended, declared that it was a miracle he had existed so long.
The individual from whom the author has derived the whole of the preceding details was, at that period, one of the students of the hospital, and engaged in his turn, in attending the extraordinary patient, and he asserted most solemnly, that his information was received from the officer who commanded the soldiers sent to take possession of the monastery. The unhappy youth expired in about three months. His parentage and former residence were unknown; nor could the artist succeed in recalling the family name which he had borne at the university—a circumstance which will not appear strange to those who are aware with what facility acquaintances, and even friendships, are formed in that part of the world. From the superior of the monastery of L'Avernia, who was examined in the presence of the Grand Duke, not a syllable could ever be elicited as to the cause which had led to the inhuman act. The wretch was confined in the Masteo, a tower of Volterra, whence, as it is by some asserted, he was claimed by the Pope, to receive punishment or protection at his hands.
Every mouth, at the time in question, was full of this mysterious event. The reports, however, concerning it, were vague and contradictory; while, as no account of it was permitted to appear in the public prints, curiosity gradually cooled, and the enormity was forgotten. At that day, which will disclose the secrets of all hearts and homes, neither the haunts of plunder, the palaces of tyranny, nor the dungeons of the oppressor, will plead guilty to one half the number of crimes which will be charged upon those monasteries, where vice has for ages fixed her deepest lair, and hypocrisy her firmest throne.