The Piccinino, Volume 2 (of 2); The last of Aldinis

by George Sand

"This time the prince was frightened; he turned to the steward, whose knees were knocking against each other. But, determined to struggle on against these warnings from the supernatural world, he suddenly confronted a third portrait, that of the old magistrate, whom you see beside the abbess. He put his hand on the frame, not daring to look too long at the ermine cloak which is hardly distinguishable from the long white beard; but he tried to shake him, saying: 'And you?'

"'Nor am I,' replied the magistrate, in the crushing tone of a judge pronouncing sentence of death.

"Castro-Reale dropped his candle, they say, and, unconscious of what he did, stumbling at every step, went on to the end of the gallery, while the poor majordomo, frozen with fear, stood dumb and motionless at the door by which they had entered, daring neither to follow him nor to abandon him. He heard his master stumbling along in the darkness, at an uneven, hurried gait, colliding with the furniture and muttering curses; and he also heard each portrait apostrophize him as he passed with the terrible, monotonous words: 'Nor am I!—Nor am I!—Nor am I!'—The voices grew fainter as they receded along the gallery; but all repeated the fatal sentence distinctly, and Castro-Reale was unable to escape that long series of maledictions, which not one of his ancestors spared him. It took him a long while, it seems, to reach the door at the other end. When he had passed through it and closed it violently behind him, as if he thought that he was pursued by spectres, silence reigned once more; and, so far as my knowledge goes, these portraits have never recovered the power of speech from that day to this."

"Tell the rest, tell the rest, your excellency!" cried Fra Angelo, who had listened to this narrative with gleaming eyes and parted lips; for despite his intelligence and the education he had received, the ex-brigand of Ætna was too much of a monk and too much of a Sicilian not to believe it to a certain extent; "tell him that after that moment neither the steward of the palace of Castro-Reale, nor any inhabitant of the province of Palermo ever saw the Prince of Castro-Reale again. There was, at the end of the gallery, a drawbridge which they heard him cross, and as his plumed hat was found floating on the water, they concluded that he was drowned, although they searched in vain for his body."

"But the lesson had a more salutary effect," added the marquis. "He fled into the mountains, organized a band of partisans, and fought there ten years, to rescue, or, at all events, to avenge his country. False or true, the story was current for a long while, and the new owner of Castro-Reale believed it in so far that he preferred not to keep these terrible family portraits, and sent them to me at once."

"I do not know whether the story is authentic," said Fra Angelo. "I never dared ask the prince; but it is perfectly certain that his determination to become a partisan came to him in the manor-house of his ancestors the last time that he visited it. It is certain, too, that he experienced some violent emotion there, and that he did not like to have anybody mention his ancestors to him. It is certain, too, that his mind was never sound after that night, and that I have often heard him say, in his days of depression: 'Ah! I ought to have blown out my brains when I crossed the drawbridge of my palace the last time!'"

"Surely that is all the truth there is in this fanciful tale," said Michel. "But no matter! Although there is not the slightest connection between these illustrious individuals and my humble self, and although I am not aware that I have any reason to reproach myself with respect to them, I should be a little disturbed, it seems to me, if I had to pass the night alone in this gallery."

"For my part," said Pier-Angelo, "I am not ashamed to say that I don't believe a word of this story; and yet, if the signor marquis would give me his fortune and his palace to boot, I wouldn't take them on the condition of having to remain here alone an hour, after sunset, with the lady abbess, the magistrate, and all these illustrious monks and soldiers. The servants have tried more than once to lock me in here for their own amusement; but I have never let them catch me, I would jump out of window first."

"And what are we to conclude from all this, with respect to the nobility?" said Michel to the marquis.

"We conclude, my child," replied the Marquis della Serra, "that privileged nobility is an injustice, but that family traditions and memories have much force, usefulness and beauty. In France they obeyed a noble impulse when they invited the nobles to burn their letters patent, and the nobles performed a duty imposed by tact and good taste by consummating the holocaust; but afterward they broke open tombs, exhumed dead bodies, and even insulted the image of Christ, as if the resting-place of the dead were not sacred, and as if the Son of Mary were the patron of the great nobles only and not of the poor and lowly. I forgive all the frenzies of that revolution, and I understand them better, perhaps, than those persons who have discoursed of them to you, my young friend; but I also know that the philosophy which guided it was not very complete or very deep, and that, with respect to the idea of nobility, as with respect to all other ideas, it was much more successful in destroying than in building up, in uprooting than in sowing. Let me say another word to you on this subject, and then we will go and have some ices out of doors, for I am afraid that all these dead men and women bore and depress you."