“Between the acting of a dreadful thingAnd the first motion, all the interim isLike a phantasma, or a hideous dream.”
“Between the acting of a dreadful thing
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream.”
Lucy endured many hours the anguish of such a dream; and Agnes, even Agnes, the author of the plot, was thoughtful and silent. But, in the moment of action, new and various emotions pass swiftly through the mind: at one instant, that which had appeared difficult becomes perfectly easy; at another, obstacles present themselves which were never before thought of, the imagination is filled with alarm, the limbs refuse their office, and the heart fails at the promise it had given with such security. At the gentle knock of Renzo, Lucy was seized with such terror, that, at the moment, she resolved to suffer any thing, to endure a separation from him for ever, rather than execute her resolution; but when, with an assured and encouraging air, he said, “All is ready; let us begone,” she had neither heart nor time to suggest difficulties. Agnes and Renzo placed her between them, and the adventurous company set forward. Slowly and quietly they took the path that led around the village,—it would have been nearer to pass directly through it, to Don Abbondio’s house, but their object was to avoid observation. Upon reaching the house, the lovers remained concealed on one side of it, Agnes a little in advance, so as to be prepared to speak to Perpetua as soon as she should make her appearance. Tony, with Jervase, who did nothing, butwithoutwhom nothing could be done, courageously knocked at the door.
“Who is there, at this hour?” cried a voice from the window, which they recognised to be that of Perpetua. “No one is sick, that I know of. What is the matter?”
“It is I,” replied Tony, “with my brother; we want to speak with the curate.”
“Is this an hour for Christians?” replied Perpetua, briskly. “Come to-morrow.”
“Hear me; I will come, or not, as I choose; I have received I can’t tell how much money, and I have come to balance the small account that you know of. I have here twenty-five fine new pieces; but if he cannot see me,—well—I know how and where to spend them.”
“Wait, wait. I will speak to you in a moment. But why come at this hour?”
“If you can change the hour, I am willing; as for me, I am here, and, if you don’t want me to stay, I’ll go away.”
“No, no, wait a moment; I will give you an answer.” So saying, she closed the window. As soon as she disappeared, Agnes separated herself from the lovers, saying to Lucy, in a low voice, “Courage, it is but a moment.” She then entered into conversation with Tony at the door, that Perpetua, on opening it, might suppose she had been accidentally passing by, and that Tony had detained her.
“Carneades! who was he?” said Don Abbondio to himself, seated in his large chair, with a book open before him. “Carneades! this name I have either heard or read of; he must have been a man of study, a scholar of antiquity; but who the devilwashe?” Now, it should be known, that it was Don Abbondio’s custom to read a little every day, and that a curate, his neighbour, who had a small library, furnished him with books, one after the other, as they came to hand. That with which he was at this moment engaged, was a panegyric on St. Carlos, delivered many years before in the cathedral of Milan. The saint was there compared for his love of study to Archimedes; which comparison the poor curate well understood, inasmuch as this did not require, from the various anecdotes related of him, an erudition very extensive. But the author went on to liken him also to Carneades, and here the poor reader was at fault. At this moment, Perpetua announced the visit of Tony.
“At such an hour?” said Don Abbondio.
“What do you expect? They have no discretion. But if you do not shoot the bird flying——”
“Who knows if I shall ever be able to do it?” continued he. “Let him come in. But are you very sure that it is Tony?”
“The devil!” said Perpetua, as she descended, and, opening the door, demanded, “Where are you?”
Tony appeared, in company with Agnes, who accosted Perpetua by name.
“Good evening, Agnes,” said she; “whence come you at this hour?”
“I come from——,” naming a neighbouring village. “And do you know,” she continued, “that I have been delayed on your account?”
“On my account!” exclaimed she; and turning to the two brothers, said, “Go in, and I will follow you.”
“Because,” resumed Agnes, “a gossiping woman of the company said—would you believe it?—obstinately persisted in saying, that you were never engaged to Beppo Suolavecchia, nor to Anselmo Lunghigna, because they would not have you. I maintained that you had refused them both——”
“Certainly I did. Oh! what a liar! oh! what a great liar! Who was it?”
“Don’t ask me; I don’t wish to make mischief.”
“You must tell me; you must tell me. Oh! what a lie!”
“So it was; but you can’t believe how sorry I felt not to know all the story, that I might have confuted her.”
“It is an infamous lie,” said Perpetua. “As to Beppo, every one knows——”
In front of Don Abbondio’s house, there was a short and narrow lane, between two old cottages, which opened at the farther end into the fields. Agnes drew Perpetua thither, as if for the purpose of talking with her more freely. When they were at a spot, from which they could not see what passed before the curate’s house, Agnes coughed loudly.
This was the concerted signal, which, being heard by Renzo, he, with Lucy on his arm, crept quietly along the wall, approached the door, opened it softly, and entered the passage, where the two brothers were waiting their approach. They all ascended the stairs on tiptoe; the brothers advanced towards the door of the chamber; the lovers remained concealed on the landing.
“Deo gratias,” said Tony, in a clear voice.
“Tony, eh? come in,” replied the voice from within. Tony obeyed, opening the door just enough to admit himself and brother, one at a time. The rays of light, which shone unexpectedly through this opening on the darkness by which Renzo and Lucy were protected, made the latter tremble as if already discovered. The brothers entered, and Tony closed the door; the lovers remained motionless without; the beating of poor Lucy’s heart might be heard in the stillness.
Don Abbondio was, as we have said, seated in his arm chair, wrapped in a morning-gown, with an old cap on his head, in the fashion of a tiara, which formed a sort of cornice around his face, and shaded it from the dim light of a little lamp. Two thick curls which escaped from beneath the cap, two thick eyebrows, two thick mustachios, a dense tuft along his chin, all quite grey, and studding his sun-burnt and wrinkled visage, might be compared to snowy bushes projecting from a rock by moonlight.
“Ah! ah!” was his salutation, as he took off his spectacles and placed them on his book.
“Does the curate think I have come at too late an hour?” said Tony, bowing: Jervase awkwardly followed his example.
“Certainly, it is late; late on all accounts. Do you know that I am ill?”
“Oh! I am sorry.”
“Did you not hear that I was sick, and could not be seen? But why is this boy with you?”
“For company, Signor Curate.”
“Well; let us see.”
“Here are twenty-five new pieces, with the image of St. Ambrose on horseback,” said Tony, drawing forth a little bundle from his pocket.
“Give here,” said Don Abbondio; and taking the bundle, he opened it, counted the money, and found it correct.
“Now, sir, you will give me the necklace of my Teela.”
“Certainly,” replied Don Abbondio; and going to an old press, he drew forth the pledge, and carefully returned it.
“Now,” said Tony, “you will please to put it in black and white?”
“Eh!” said Don Abbondio, “how suspicious the world has become! Do you not trust me?”
“How! Sir. If I trust you! you do me wrong. But since my name is on your book on the side of debtor——”
“Well, well,” interrupted Don Abbondio; and seating himself at the table, he began to write, repeating, with a loud voice, the words as they came from his pen. In the meanwhile, Tony, and, at a sign from him, Jervase, placed themselves before the table, in such a manner as to deprive the writer of a view of the door; and, as if from heedlessness, moved their feet about on the floor, as a signal to those without, and also for the purpose of drowning the noise of their footsteps; of this Don Abbondio, occupied in writing, took no notice. At the grating sounds of the feet Renzo drew Lucy trembling into the room, and stood with her behind the brothers. Don Abbondio, having finished writing, read it over attentively, folded the paper, and reaching it to Tony, said, “Will you be satisfied now?” Tony, on receiving it, retired on one side, Jervase on the other, and, behold, in the midst, Renzo and Lucy! Don Abbondio, affrighted, astonished, and enraged, took an immediate resolution; and while Renzo was uttering the words, “Sir Curate, in the presence of these witnesses, this is my wife,” and the poor Lucy had begun, “And this is——” he had snatched from the table the cloth which covered it, throwing on the ground books, pen, ink, and paper, and in haste letting fall the light, he threw it over and held it wrapped around the face of Lucy, at the same time roaring out, “Perpetua! Perpetua! treachery! help!” The wick, dying in the socket, sent a feeble and flickering light over the figure of Lucy, who, entirely overcome, stood like a statue, making no effort to free herself. The light died away, and left them in darkness; Don Abbondio quitted the poor girl, and felt cautiously along the wall for a door that led to an inner chamber; having found it, he entered, and locked himself in, crying out, “Perpetua! treachery! help! out of the house! out of the house!” All was confusion in the apartment he had quitted; Renzo, groping in the dark to find the curate, had followed the sound of his voice, and was knocking at the door of the room, crying, “Open, open; don’t make such an outcry;” Lucy calling to Renzo, in a supplicating voice, “Let us go, let us go, for the love of God!” Tony, creeping on all fours, and feeling along the floor for his receipt, which had been dropped in the tumult; the poor Jervase, crying and jumping, and endeavouring to find the door on the stairs, so as to escape with whole bones.
In the midst of this turmoil, we cannot stop to make reflections; but Renzo, causing disturbance at night in another person’s house, and holding the master of it besieged in an inner room, has all the appearance of an oppressor; when in fact he was the oppressed. Don Abbondio, assaulted in his own house, while he was tranquilly attending to his affairs, appeared the victim; when, in fact, it was he who had inflicted the injury. Thus goes the world, or rather, thus it went in the seventeenth century.
The besieged, seeing that the enemy gave no signs of retreat, opened a window which looked out upon the churchyard, and cried, “Help, help!” The moon shone brightly—every object could be clearly discerned as in the day; but a deep repose rested over all—there was no indication of a living soul. Contiguous to the church, and on that side of it which fronted the parsonage, was a small habitation in which slept the sexton. Aroused by this strange outcry, he jumped from his bed, opened the small window, with his eyelids glued together all the time, and cried, “What is the matter?”
“Run, Ambrose, run! help! people in the house!” cried Don Abbondio. “I come in a moment,” replied he, drawing in his head; he closed his curtain, and half stupid, and half affrighted, thought of an expedient to bring more help than had been required of him, without risking his own life in the contest, whatever it might be. He hastily took his breeches from the bed, and putting them under his arm, like an opera hat, ran to the belfry and pulled away lustily.
Ton, Ton, Ton; the peasant aroused, sat up in his bed; the boy, sleeping in the hay-loft, listened eagerly, and sprang on his feet; “What is the matter? What is it? Fire! Robbers!” Each woman entreated her husband not to stir, but to leave it to others: such as were cowards obeyed, whilst the inquisitive and courageous took their arms, and ran towards the noise.
Long before this, however, the alarm had been given to other personages of our story; the bravoes in one place; and Agnes and Perpetua in another. It is necessary to relate briefly how the former had been occupied, since we last took leave of them; those at the old house, and those at the inn. The latter, when they ascertained that the inhabitants of the village had retired to rest, and that the road was clear, went to the cottage of Lucy, and found that a perfect stillness reigned within. They then returned to the old house to give in their report to Signor Griso. He immediately put on a slouched hat, with a pilgrim’s habit, and staff, saying, “Let us act as becometh soldiers; cautious, quiet, and attentive to orders.” Then leading the way, he, with his company, arrived at the cottage, by a route different from that taken by our poor cottagers. Griso kept the band a few steps off, went forward alone to explore, and seeing all deserted and quiet on the outside, he beckoned to two of them, ordered them to mount very carefully and quietly the wall which enclosed the court-yard, and to conceal themselves on the other side behind a thick fig-tree, which he had observed in the morning. That being done, he knocked gently at the door, with the intention to call himself a pilgrim, who had wandered from his way, and request shelter until the morning. No answer; he knocked again, louder; not a sound! He then called a third robber, made him also descend into the yard, with orders to unfasten the bolt on the inside, so that they might have free entrance. All was performed with the utmost caution, and the most complete success. Griso then called the rest, and made some of them conceal themselves by the side of those behind the fig-tree; he then opened the door very softly, placed two centinels on the inside of it, and advanced to the lower chamber. He knocked; he waited—and well might wait; he raised the latch; no one from within said, “Who is there?” Nothing could go on better. He then called the robbers from the fig-tree, and with them entered the room where he had in the morning so villanously received the loaf of bread. He drew out his flint, tinder-box, and matches, and striking a light, proceeded to the inner chamber; it was empty! He returned to the stairs, and listened; solitude and silence! He left two to keep watch below, and with the others carefully ascended the stairs, cursing in his heart the creaking of the steps. He reached the summit, pushed softly open the door of the first room, and listened if any one breathed or moved: no one! He advanced, shading his face with the lamp, and perceived a bed; it was made, and perfectly smooth, with the covering arranged in order on the bolster! He shrugged his shoulders, and returning to the company, made a sign to them, that he was going into the other room, and that they should remain quietly behind,—he did so, and had the same success; all deserted and quiet.
“What the devil’s this?” said he aloud; “some traitorous dog has played the spy!” They then searched with less ceremony the rest of the house, putting every thing out of its place. Meanwhile those at the doorway heard a light step approaching in the street,—they kept very quiet, thinking it would pass on; but, behold! it stopped exactly in front of the cottage! It was Menico, who had come in haste from the convent, to warn Agnes and her daughter to escape from the house, and take refugethere, because—thebecauseis already known. He was surprised to find the door unbolted, and entering with a vague sentiment of alarm, found himself seized by two ruffians, who said in a menacing tone, “Hush! be quiet, or you die!” He uttered a cry, at which one struck him a blow on the mouth, the other placed his hand on his sword to inspire him with fear. The boy trembled like a leaf, and did not attempt to stir; but all at once was heard the first sound of the bell, and immediately after, a thundering peel burst forth. “The wicked are always cowards,” says a Milanese proverb; alarmed at the sound, the bravoes let go in haste the arms of Menico, and fled away hastily to the old house, to join the main body of their comrades. Menico, finding himself free, also fled, by the way of the fields, towards the belfry, naturally supposing he would find some one there. As to the other villains above stairs, the terrible sound made the same impression on them; amazed and perplexed, they hit one against the other, in striving to find the nearest way to the door. Nevertheless, they were brave, and accustomed to confront any known danger; but here was something unusual, an undetermined peril, and they became panic-struck. It now required all the superiority of Griso to keep them together, so that there should be a retreat, and not a flight. He succeeded, however, in assembling them in the middle of the court-yard. “Halt, halt,” cried he, “pistols in hand, knives ready, all in order, and then we will march. Cowards! for shame! fall behind me, and keep together.” Reduced to order, they followed him in silence.
We will leave them, in order to give an account of Agnes and Perpetua, whom we left at the end of the little lane, engaged in conversation. Agnes had managed to draw the latter off to some distance, by dint of appearing to give great heed to her story, which she urged on by an occasional “Certainly; now I comprehend; that is plain; and then? and he? and you?” In the midst of an important part of her narrative, the deep silence of the night was broken by the cry of Don Abbondio for “help!” “Mercy! what is the matter?” cried Perpetua, and prepared to run.
“What is the matter? what is the matter?” cried Agnes, holding her by the gown.
“Mercy! did you not hear?” replied she, struggling to get free.
“What is the matter? what is the matter?” repeated Agnes, holding her firmly by the arm.
“Devil of a woman!” exclaimed Perpetua, still struggling. Then was heard at a distance the light scream of Menico.
“Mercy!” cried Agnes also, and they both ran at full speed; the sound of the bell, which now succeeded, spurred them on. Perpetua arrived first, and, behold, at the door, Tony, Jervase, Renzo, and Lucy, who had found the stairs, and, at the terrible sound of the bell, were flying to some place of safety.
“What is the matter? What is the matter?” demanded Perpetua, out of breath, of the brothers. They answered her with a violent push, and fled away. “And you! what are you here for?” said she then to Renzo and Lucy. They made no reply. She then ascended the stairs in haste, to seek her master. The two lovers (still lovers) stood before Agnes, who, alarmed and grieved, said, “Ah! you are here! How has it gone? Why did the bell ring?”
“Home, home!” said Renzo, “before the people gather.” But Menico now appeared running to meet them. He was out of breath, and hardly able to cry out, “Back! back! by the way of the convent. There is the devil at the house,” continued he, panting; “I saw him, I did; he was going to kill me. The Father Christopher says you must come quickly.—I saw him, I did.—I am glad I found you all here,—I will tell you all when we are safe off.”
Renzo, who was the most self-possessed of the party, thought it best to follow his advice. “Let us follow him,” said he, to the females. They silently obeyed, and the little company moved on. They hastily crossed the churchyard, passing through a private street, into the fields. They were not many paces distant, before the people began to collect, each one asking of his neighbour what was the matter, and no one being able to answer the question. The first that arrived ran to the door of the church: it was fastened. They then looked through a little window into the belfry, and demanded the cause of the alarm. When Ambrose heard a known voice, and knew, by the hum, that there was an assemblage of people without, he hastily slipped on that part of his dress which he had carried under his arm, and opened the church door.
“What is all this tumult? What is the matter? Where is it?”
“Where is it? Do you not know? Why, in the curate’s house. Run, run.” They rushed in a crowd thither; looked,—listened. All was quiet. The street door was fastened; not a window open; not a sound within.
“Who is within there? Holla! holla! Signor Curate, Signor Curate!”
Don Abbondio, who, as soon as he was relieved by the flight of the invaders, had retired from the window, and closed it, was now quarrelling with Perpetua for leaving him to bear the brunt of the battle alone. When he heard himself called by name, by the people outside, he repented of the rashness which had produced this undesired result.
“What has happened? Who are they? Where are they? What have they done to you?” cried a hundred voices at a time.
“There is no one here now; I am much obliged to you.—Return to your houses.”
“But whohasbeen here? Where have they gone? What has happened?”
“Bad people, bad people, who wander about in the night; but they have all fled.—Return to your houses. I thank you for your kindness.” So saying, he retired and shut the window. There was a general murmur of disappointment through the crowd. Some laughed, some swore, some shrugged up their shoulders and went home; but at this moment a person came running towards them, panting and breathless. He lived at the house opposite to the cottage of Lucy, and had witnessed from the window the alarm of the bravoes, when Griso endeavoured to collect them in the court-yard. When he recovered breath, he cried, “What do you do here, friends? The devil is not here, he is down at the house of Agnes Mondella. Armed people are in it. It seems they wish to murder a pilgrim; but who knows what the devil it is?”
“What! what! what!” And then began a tumultuous conversation. “Let us go. How many are there? How many are we? Who are they?—The constable! the constable!”
“I am here,” replied the constable, from the midst of the crowd, “I am here, but you must assist me; you must obey.—Quick;—where is the sexton? To the bell, to the bell. Quick; some one run to Lecco to ask for succour.—Come this way.” The tumult was great, and as they were about to depart for the cottage of Agnes, another messenger came flying, and exclaimed, “Run, friends;—robbers who are carrying off a pilgrim. They are already out of the village! On! on! this way.”
In obedience to this command they moved in a mass, without waiting the orders of their leader, towards the cottage of Lucy. While the army advances, many of those at the head of the column, slacken their pace, not unwilling to leave the post of honour to their more adventurous friends in the rear. The confused multitude at length reach the scene of action. The traces of recent invasion were manifest,—the door open, the bolts loosened, but the invaders, where were they? They entered the court, advanced into the house, and called loudly, “Agnes! Lucy! Pilgrim! Where is the pilgrim! Did Stephano dream that he saw him? No, no, Carlandrea saw him also. Hallo! Pilgrim! Agnes! Lucy! No reply! They have killed them! they have killed them!” There was then a proposition to follow the murderers, which would have been acceded to, had not a voice from the crowd cried out, that Agnes and Lucy were in safety in some house. Satisfied with this, they soon dispersed to their homes, to relate to their wives that which had happened. The next day, however, the constable being in his field, and, with his foot resting on his spade, meditating on the mysteries of the past night, was accosted by two men, much resembling, in their appearance, those whom Don Abbondio had encountered a few days before. They very unceremoniously forbade him to make a deposition of the events of the night before the magistrate, and, if questioned by any of the gossips of the villagers, to maintain a perfect silence on pain of death.
Our fugitives for a while continued their flight, rapidly and silently, utterly overwhelmed by the fatigue of their flight, by their late anxiety, by vexation and disappointment at their failure, and a confused apprehension of some future danger. As the sound of the bell died away on the ear, they slackened their pace. Agnes, gathering breath and courage, first broke the silence, by asking Renzo what had been done at the curate’s? He related briefly his melancholy story. “And who,” said she to Menico, “was the devil in the house? What did you mean by that?” The boy narrated that of which he had been an eye-witness, and which imparted a mingled feeling of alarm and gratitude to the minds of his auditors,—alarm at the obstinacy of Don Roderick in pursuing his purpose, and gratitude that they had thus escaped his snares. They caressed affectionately the boy who had been placed in so great danger on their account: Renzo gave him a piece of money in addition to the new coin already promised, and desired him to say nothing of the message given him by Father Christopher. “Now, return home,” said Agnes, “because thy family will be anxious about thee: you have been a good boy; go home, and pray the Lord that we may soon meet again.” The boy obeyed, and our travellers advanced in silence. Lucy kept close to her mother, dexterously but gently declining the arm of her lover. She felt abashed, even in the midst of all this confusion, at having been so long and so familiarly alone with him, while expecting that a few moments longer would have seen her his wife: but this dream had vanished, and she felt most sensitively the apparent indelicacy of their situation. They at length reached the open space before the church of the convent. Renzo advanced towards the door, and pushed it gently. It opened, and they beheld, by the light of the moon, which then fell upon his pallid face and silvery beard, the form of Father Christopher, who was there in anxious expectation of their arrival. “God be thanked!” said he, as they entered. By his side stood a capuchin, whose office was that of sexton to the church, whom he had persuaded to leave the door half open, and to watch with him. He had been very unwilling to submit to this inconvenient and dangerous condescension, which it required all the authority of the holy father to overcome; but, perceiving who the company were, he could endure no longer. Taking the father aside, he whispered, to him, “But Father—Father—at night—in the church—with women—shut—the rules—but Father!——” “Omnia munda mundis,” replied he, turning meekly to Friar Fazio, and forgetting that he did not understand Latin. But this forgetfulness was exactly the most fortunate thing in the world. If the father had produced arguments, Friar Fazio would not have failed to oppose them; but these mysterious words, he concluded, must contain a solution of all his doubts. He acquiesced, saying, “Very well; you know more than I do.”
Father Christopher then turned to our little company, who were standing in suspense, by the light of a lamp which was flickering before the altar. “Children,” said he, “thank the Lord, who has preserved you from great peril. Perhaps at this moment——” and he entered into an explanation of the reasons which had induced him to send for them to the convent, little suspecting that they knew more than he did, and supposing that Menico had found them tranquil at their home, before the arrival of the robbers. No one undeceived him, not even Lucy, although suffering the keenest anguish at practising dissimulation with such a man; but it was a night of confusion and duplicity.
“Now,” continued he, “you perceive, my children, that this country is no longer safe for you. It is your country, I know; you were born here; you have wronged no one: but such is the will of God! It is a trial, children, support it with patience, with faith, without murmuring; and be assured, there will come a day, in which you will see the wisdom of all that now befalls you. I have procured you a refuge for a season, and I hope you will soon be able to return safely to your home; at all events, God will provide, and I his minister will faithfully exert myself to serve you, my poor persecuted children. You,” continued he, turning to the females, “can remain at ——. There you will be beyond danger, and yet not far from home; go to our convent in that place, ask for the superior, give him this letter, he will be to you another Friar Christopher. And thou, my Renzo, thou must place thyself in safety from the impetuosity of others, and your own. Carry this letter to Father Bonaventura, of Lodi, in our convent at the eastern gate of Milan; he will be to you a father, will advise you, and find you work, until you can return to live here tranquilly. Now, go to the border of the lake, near the mouth of the Bione” (a stream a short distance from the convent); “you will see there a small boat fastened; you must say, ‘A boat;’ you will be asked for whom, answer, ‘Saint Francis.’ The boatman will receive you, will take you to the other side, where you will find a carriage, which will conduct you to ——. If any one should ask how Father Christopher came to have at his disposal such means of transport by land and by water, he would show little knowledge of the power possessed by a capuchin who held the reputation of a saint.”
The charge of the houses remained to be thought of; the father received the keys of them; Agnes, on consigning hers, thought with a sigh, that there was no need of keys, the house was open, the devil had been there, and it was doubtful if there remained any thing to be cared for.
“Before you go,” said the father, “let us pray together to the Lord, that he may be with you in this journey, and always, and above all, that he may give you strength to submit cheerfully to that which he has ordained.” So saying, he knelt down; all did the same. Having prayed a few moments in silence, he pronounced with a low but distinct voice the following words: “We pray thee also for the wretched man who has brought us to this state. We should be unworthy of thy mercy if we did not earnestly solicit it for him: he has most need of it. We, in our sorrow, have the consolation of trusting in thee; we can still offer thee our supplications, with thankfulness. But he—he is an enemy to thee! Oh wretched man! He dares to strive against thee: have pity on him, O Lord! touch his heart, soften his rebellious will, and bestow on him all the good we would desire for ourselves.”
Rising hastily, he then said, “Away, my children, there is no time to lose; God will go with you, his angel protect you: away.” They kept silence from emotion, and as they departed, the father added, “My heart tells me we shall soon meet again.”Without waiting for a reply, he retired; the travellers pursued their way to the appointed spot, found the boat, gave and received the watchword, and entered into it. The boatmen made silently for the opposite shore: there was not a breath of wind; the lake lay polished and smooth in the moonlight, agitated only by the dipping of the oars, which quivered in its gleam. The waves breaking on the sands of the shore, were heard deadly and slowly at a distance, mingled with the rippling of the waters between the pillars of the bridge.
The silent passengers cast a melancholy look behind at the mountains and the landscape, illumined by the moon, and varied by multitudes of shadows. They discerned villages, houses, cottages; the palace of Don Roderick, raised above the huts that crowded the base of the promontory, like a savage prowling in the dark over his slumbering prey. Lucy beheld it, and shuddered; then cast a glance beyond the declivity, towards her own little home, and beheld the top of the fig-tree which towered in the court-yard; moved at the sight, she buried her face in her hands, and wept in silence.
Farewell, ye mountains, source of waters! farewell to your varied summits, familiar as the faces of friends! ye torrents, whose voices have been heard from infancy! Farewell! how melancholy the destiny of one, who, bred up amid your scenes, bids you farewell! If voluntarily departing with the hope of future gain at this moment, the dream of wealth loses its attraction, his resolution falters, and he would fain remain with you, were it not for the hope of benefiting you by his prosperity. The more he advances into the level country, the more his view becomes wearied with its uniform extent; the air appears heavy and lifeless: he proceeds sorrowfully and thoughtfully into the tumultuous city; houses crowded against houses, street uniting with street, appears to deprive him of the power to breathe; and in front of edifices admired by strangers, he stops to recall, with restless desire, the image of the field and the cottage which had long been the object of his wishes, and which, on his return to his mountains, he will make his own, should he acquire the wealth of which he is in pursuit.
But how much more sorrowful the moment of separation to him, who, having never sent a transient wish beyond the mountains, feels that they comprise the limit of his earthly hopes, and yet is driven from them by an adverse fate; who is compelled to quit them to go into a foreign land, with scarcely a hope of return! Then he breaks forth into mournful exclamations. “Farewell native cottage! where, many a time and oft, I have listened with eager ear, to distinguish, amidst the rumour of footsteps, the well-known sound of those long expected and anxiously desired. Farewell, ye scenes, where I had hoped to pass, tranquil and content, the remnant of my days! Farewell, thou sanctuary of God, where my soul has been filled with admiring thoughts of him, and my voice has united with others to sing his praise! Farewell! He, whom I worshipped within your walls, is not confined to temples made with hands; heaven is his dwelling place, and the earth his footstool; he watches over his children, and, if he chastises them, it is in love, to prepare them for higher and holier enjoyments.”
Of such a nature, if not precisely the same, were the reflections of Lucy and her companions, as the bark carried them to the right bank of the Adda.
The shock which the boat received, as it struck against the shore, aroused Lucy from her reverie; they quitted the bark, and Renzo turned to thank and reward the boatman. “I will take nothing—nothing,” said he: “we are placed on earth to aid one another.” The carriage was ready, the driver seated; its expected occupants took their places, and the horses moved briskly on. Our travellers arrived then at Monza, which we believe to have been the name of the place to which Father Christopher had directed Renzo, a little after sunrise. The driver turned to an inn, where he appeared to be well acquainted, and demanded for them a separate room. He, as well as the boatman, refused the offered recompence of Renzo; like the boatman, he had in view a reward, more distant indeed, but more abundant; he withdrew his hand, and hastened to look after his beast.
After an evening such as we have described, and a night passed in painful thoughts both in regard to recent events and future anticipations—disturbed, indeed, by the frequent joltings of their incommodious vehicle,—our travellers felt a little rest in their retired apartment at the inn highly necessary. They partook of a small meal together, not more in proportion to the prevailing want, than to their own slender appetites; and recurred with a sigh to the delightful festivities, which, two days before, were to have accompanied their happy union. Renzo would willingly have remained with his companions all the day, to secure their lodging and perform other little offices. But they strongly alleged the injunctions of Father Christopher, together with the gossiping to which their continuing together would give rise, so that he at length acquiesced. Lucy could not conceal her tears; Renzo with difficulty restrained his; and, warmly pressing the hand of Agnes, he pronounced with a voice almost choked, “Till we meet again.”
The mother and daughter would have been in great perplexity, had it not been for the kind driver, who had orders to conduct them to the convent, which was at a little distance from the village. Upon their arrival there, the guide requested the porter to call the superior: he appeared, and the letter of Father Christopher was delivered to him. “Oh, from Father Christopher!” said he, recognising the handwriting. His voice and manner told evidently that he uttered the name of one whom he regarded as a particular friend. During the perusal of the letter, he manifested much surprise and indignation, and, raising his eyes, fixed them on Lucy and her mother with an expression of pity and interest. When he had finished reading, he remained for a moment thoughtful, and then exclaimed, “There is no one but the signora; if the signora would take upon herself this obligation——” and then addressing them, “My friends,” said he, “I will make the effort, and I hope to find you a shelter, more than secure, more than honourable; so that God has provided for you in the best manner. Will you come with me?”
The females bowed reverently in assent; the friar continued, “Come with me, then, to the monastery of the signora. But keep yourselves a few steps distant, because there are people who delight to speak evil of others, and God knows how many fine stories might be told, if the superior of the convent was seen walking with a beautiful young woman—with women, I mean.”
So saying, he went on before: Lucy blushed; the guide looked at Agnes, who could not conceal a momentary smile; and they all three obeyed the command of the friar, and followed him at a distance. “Who is the signora?” said Agnes, addressing their conductor.
“The signora,” replied he, “is not a nun; that is, not a nun like the others. She is not the abbess, nor the prioress; for they say thatsheis one of the youngest of them; but she is from Adam’s rib, and her ancestors were great people, who came from Spain; and they call her thesignora, to signify that she is a great lady,—every one calls her so, because they say that in this monastery they have never had so noble a person; and her relations down at Milan are very powerful, and in Monza still more so; because her father is the first lord in the country; for which reason she can do as she pleases in the convent,—and moreover people abroad bear her a great respect, and if she undertakes a thing, she makes it succeed; and if this good father induces her to take you under her protection, you will be as safe as at the foot of the altar.”
When the superior arrived at the gate of the town, which was defended at that time by an old tower, and part of a dismantled castle, he stopped and looked back to see if they followed him—then advanced towards the monastery, and, remaining on the threshold, awaited their approach. The guide then took his leave, not without many thanks from Agnes and her daughter for his kindness and faithfulness. The superior led them to the portress’s chamber, and went alone to make the request of the signora. After a few moments he re-appeared, and with a joyful countenance told them that she would grant them an interview: on their way, he gave them much advice concerning their deportment in her presence. “She is well disposed towards you,” said he, “and has the power to protect you. Be humble, and respectful; reply with frankness to the questions she will ask you, and when not questioned, be silent.”
They passed through a lower chamber, and advanced towards the parlour. Lucy, who had never been in a monastery before, looked around as she entered it for the signora; but there was no one there; in a few moments, however, she observed the friar approach a small window or grating, behind which she beheld a nun standing. She appeared about twenty-five years of age; her countenance at first sight produced an impression of beauty, but of beauty prematurely faded. A black veil hung in folds on either side of her face; below the veil a band of white linen encircled a forehead of different, but not inferior whiteness; another plaited band encompassed the face, and terminated under the chin in a neck handkerchief, or cape, which, extending over the shoulders, covered to the waist the folds of her black robe. But her forehead was contracted from time to time, as if by some painful emotion; now, her large black eye was fixed steadfastly on your face with an expression of haughty curiosity, then hastily bent down as if to discover some hidden thought; in certain moments an attentive observer would have deemed that they solicited affection, sympathy, and pity; at others, he would have received a transient revelation of hatred, matured by a cruel disposition; when motionless and inattentive, some would have imagined them to express haughty aversion, others would have suspected the labouring of concealed thought, the effort to overcome some secret feeling of her soul, which had more power over it than all surrounding objects. Her cheeks were delicately formed, but extremely pale and thin; her lips, hardly suffused with a feeble tinge of the rose, seemed to soften into the pallid hue of the cheeks; their movements, like those of her eyes, were sudden, animated, and full of expression and mystery. Her loftiness of stature was not apparent, owing to an habitual stoop; as well as to her rapid and irregular movements, little becoming a nun, or even a lady. In her dress itself there was an appearance of studied neglect, which announced a singular character; and from the band around her temples was suffered to escape, through forgetfulness or contempt of the rules which prohibited it, a curl of glossy black hair.
These things made no impression on the minds of Agnes and Lucy, unaccustomed as they were to the sight of a nun; and to the superior it was no novelty—he, as well as many others, had become familiarised to her habit and manners.
She was, as we have said, standing near the grate, against which she leaned languidly, to observe those who were approaching. “Reverend mother, and most illustrious lady,” said the superior, bending low, “this is the poor young woman for whom I have solicited your protection, and this is her mother.”
Both mother and daughter bowed reverently. “It is fortunate that I have it in my power,” said she, turning to the father, “to do some little service to our good friends the capuchin fathers. But tell me a little more particularly, the situation of this young woman, that I may be better prepared to act for her advantage.”
Lucy blushed, and held down her head. “You must know, reverend mother,” said Agnes—but the father interrupted her;—“This young person, most illustrious lady,” continued he, “has been recommended to me, as I have told you, by one of my brethren. She has been obliged to depart secretly from her native place, in order to escape heavy perils; and she has need for some time of an asylum, where she can remain unknown, and where no one will dare to molest her.”
“What perils?” demanded the lady. “Pray, father, do not talk so enigmatically: you know, we nuns like to hear stories minutely.”
“They are perils,” replied the father, “that should not be told to the pure ears of the reverend mother.”—“Oh, certainly,” said the lady, hastily, and slightly blushing. Was this the blush of modesty? He would have doubted it, who should have observed the rapid expression of disdain which accompanied it, or have compared it with that which from time to time diffused itself over the cheek of Lucy.
“It is sufficient to say,” resumed the friar, “that a powerful lord—it is not all the rich and noble who make use of the gifts of God for the promotion of his glory, as you do, most illustrious lady—a powerful lord, after having persecuted for a long time this innocent creature with wicked allurements, finding them unavailing, has had recourse to open force, so that she has been obliged to fly from her home.”
“Approach, young woman,” said the signora. “I know that the father is truth itself; but no one can be better informed than you with regard to this affair. To you it belongs to tell us if this lord was an odious persecutor.” Lucy obeyed the first command, and approached the grating; but the second, accompanied as it was with a certain malicious air of doubt, brought a blush over her countenance, and a sense of painful embarrassment, which she found it impossible to overcome. “Lady——mother——reverend——” stammered she. Agnes now felt herself authorised to come to her assistance. “Most illustrious lady,” said she, “I can bear testimony that my daughter hates this lord as the devil hates holy water. I would call him the devil, were it not for your reverend presence. The case is this: this poor maiden was promised to a good and industrious youth; and if the curate had done his duty——”
“You are very ready to speak without being interrogated,” interrupted the lady, with an expression of anger on her countenance, which changed it almost to deformity. “Silence; I have not to be informed that parents have always an answer prepared in the name of their children.”
Agnes drew back mortified, and the father guardian signified to Lucy by a look, as well as by a movement of the head, that now was the time to rouse her courage, and not leave her poor mother in the dilemma. “Reverend lady,” said she, “what my mother has told you is the truth. I willingly engaged myself to the poor youth (and here she became covered with blushes)—— Pardon me this boldness; but I would not have you think ill of my mother. And as to this lord (God forgive him!) I would rather die than fall into his hands. And if you do this deed of charity, be certain, signora, none will pray for you more heartily than those whom you have thus sheltered.”
“I believe you,” said the lady, with a softened voice; “but we will see you alone. Not that I need farther explanation, nor other motives to accede to the wishes of the father superior,” added she, turning to him with studied politeness. “Nay,” continued she, “I have been thinking, and this is what has occurred to me. The portress of the monastery has bestowed in marriage, a few days since, her last daughter; these females can occupy her room, and supply her place in the little services which it was her office to perform.”
The father would have expressed his thanks, but the lady interrupted him. “There is no need of ceremony; in case of need, I would not hesitate to ask assistance of the capuchin fathers. In short,” continued she, with a smile, in which appeared a degree of bitter irony, “are we not brothers and sisters?”
So saying, she called a nun, her attendant (by a singular distinction she had two assigned for her private service), and sent her to inform the abbess; she then called the portress, and made with her and Agnes the necessary arrangements. Then taking leave of the superior, she dismissed Agnes to her room, but retained Lucy. The signora, who, in presence of a capuchin, had studied her actions and her words, thought no longer of putting a restraint on them before an inexperienced country girl. Her discourse became by degrees so strange, that, in order to account for it, we will relate the previous history of this unhappy and misguided person.
She was the youngest daughter of the Prince ***, a great Milanese nobleman, who was among the wealthiest of the city. The magnificent ideas he entertained of his rank, made him suppose his wealth hardly sufficient to support it properly; he therefore determined to preserve his riches with the greatest care. How many children he had does not clearly appear; it is only known that he had destined to the cloister all the youngest of both sexes, in order to preserve his fortune for the eldest son. The condition of the unhappy signora had been settled even before her birth; it remained only to be decided whether she were to be a monk or a nun. At her birth, the prince her father, wishing to give her a name which could recall at every moment the idea of a cloister, and which had been borne by a saint of a noble family, called her Gertrude. Dolls, clothed like nuns, were the first toys that were put into her hands; then pictures of nuns; and these gifts were accompanied with many injunctions to be careful of them, for they were precious things. When the prince or princess, or the young prince, who was the only one of the children brought up at home, wished to praise the beauty of the infant, they found no way of expressing their ideas, except in exclamations of this sort, “What a mother abbess!” But no one ever said directly to her, “Thou must be a nun;” such an intention, however, was understood, and included in every conversation regarding her future destiny. If, sometimes, the little Gertrude betrayed perversity and impetuosity of temper, they would say to her, “Thou art but a child, and these manners are not becoming: wait till thou art the mother abbess, and then thou shalt command with a rod; thou shalt do whatever pleases thee.” At other times, reprehending her for the freedom and familiarity of her manners, the prince would say, “Such should not be the deportment of one like you; if you wish at some future day to have the respect of all around you, learn now to have more gravity; remember that you will be the first in the monastery, because noble blood bears sway every where.”
By such conversations as these the implicit idea was produced in the mind of the child, that she was to be a nun. The manners of the prince were habitually austere and repulsive; and, with respect to the destination of the child, his resolution appeared fixed as fate. At six years of age she was placed for her education in the monastery where we find her: her father, being the most powerful noble in Monza, enjoyed there great authority; and his daughter, consequently, would receive those distinctions, with those allurements, which might lead her to select it for her perpetual abode. The abbess and nuns, rejoicing at the acquisition of such powerful friendship, received with great gratitude the honour conferred in preference on them, and entered with avidity into the views of the prince; Gertrude experienced all sorts of favours and indulgences, and, child as she was, the respectful attention of the nuns towards her was exercised with the same deference as if she had been the abbess herself! Not that they were all pledged to draw the poor child into the snare; many acted with simplicity, and through tenderness, merely following the example of those around them; if the suspicions of others were excited, they kept silence, so as not to cause useless disturbance; some, indeed, more discriminating and compassionate, pitied the poor child as being the object of artifices, to the like of which they themselves had been the victims.
Things would have proceeded agreeably to the wishes of all concerned, had Gertrude been the only child in the monastery; but this was not the case; and there were some among her school companions who were destined for the matrimonial state. The little Gertrude, filled with the idea of her superiority, spoke proudly of her future destiny, expecting thereby to excite their envy at her peculiar honours: with scorn and wonder she perceived that their estimation of them was very different. To the majestic but circumscribed and cold images of the power of an abbess, they opposed the varied and bright pictures of husband, guests, cities, tournaments, courts, dress, and equipage. New and strange emotions arose in the mind of Gertrude: her vanity had been cultivated in order to make the cloister desirable to her; and now, easily assimilating itself with the ideas thus presented, she entered into them with all the ardour of her soul. She replied, that no one could oblige her to take the veil, without her own consent; that she could also marry, inhabit a palace, and enjoy the world; that she could if she wished it; that shewouldwish it, anddidwish it. The necessity of her own consent, hitherto little considered, became henceforth the ruling thought of her mind; she called it to her aid, at all times, when she desired to luxuriate in the pleasing images of future felicity.
But her fancied enjoyment was impaired by the reflection, which at such moments intruded itself, that her father had irrevocably decided her destiny; and she shuddered at the recollection of his austere manners, which impressed upon all around him the sentiments of a fatal necessity as being necessarily conjoined with whatever he should command. Then would she compare her condition to that of her more fortunate companions; and envy soon grew into hatred. This would manifest itself by a display of present superiority, and sometimes of ill-nature, sarcasm, and spite; at other times her more amiable and gentle qualities would obtain a transitory ascendency. Thus she passed the period allotted for her education, in dreams of future bliss, mingled with the dread of future misery. That which she anticipated most distinctly, was external pomp and splendour; and her fancy would often luxuriate in imaginary scenes of grandeur, constructed out of such materials as her memory could faintly and confusedly furnish forth, and the descriptions of her companions supply. There were moments when these brilliant imaginings were disturbed by the idea of religion; but the religion which had been inculcated to the poor girl did not proscribe pride, but, on the contrary, sanctified it, and proposed it as a means of obtaining terrestrial felicity. Thus despoiled of its essence, it was no longer religion, but a phantom, which, assuming at times a power over her mind, the unhappy girl was tormented with superstitious dread, and, filled with a confused idea of duties, imagined her repugnance to the cloister to be a crime, which could only be expiated by her voluntary dedication.
There was a law, that no young person could be accepted for the monastic life, without being examined by an ecclesiastic, called the vicar of the nuns, so that it should be made manifest that it was the result of her free election; and this examination could not take place until a year after she had presented her petition for admission, in writing, to the vicar. The nuns, therefore, who were aware of the projects of her father, undertook to draw from her such a petition; encountering her in one of those moments, when she was assailed by her superstitious fears, they suggested to her the propriety of such a course, and assured her, nevertheless, that it was a mere formality (which was true), and would be without efficacy, unless sanctioned by some after-act of her own. The petition, however, had scarcely been sent to its destination, when Gertrude repented of having written it; she then repented of this repentance, passing months in incessant vicissitude of feeling. There was another law, that, at this examination, a young person should not be received, without having remained at least a month at her paternal home. A year had nearly passed since the petition had been sent, and Gertrude had been warned that she would soon be removed from the monastery, and conducted to her father’s house, to take the final steps towards the consummation of that which they held certain. Not so the poor girl; her mind was busied with plans of escape: in her perplexity, she unbosomed herself to one of her companions, who counselled her to inform her father by letter of the change in her views. The letter was written and sent; Gertrude remained in great anxiety, expecting a reply, which never came. A few days after, the abbess took her aside, and, with a mixed expression of contempt and compassion, hinted to her the anger of the prince, and the error she had committed; but that, if she conducted herself well for the future, all would be forgotten. The poor girl heard, and dared not ask farther explanation.
The day, so ardently desired and so greatly feared, came at last. The anticipation of the trials that awaited her was forgotten in her tumultuous joy at the sight of the open country, the city, and the houses. She might well feel thus, after having been for eight years enclosed within the walls of the monastery! She had previously arranged with her new confidant the part she was to act. Oh! they will try to force me, thought she: but I will persist, humbly and respectfully; the point is, not to sayYes; and I willnotsay it. Or, perhaps they will endeavour to shake my purpose by kindness: but I will weep, I will implore, I will excite their compassion, I will beseech them not to sacrifice me. But none of her anticipations were verified: her parents and family, with the usual artful policy in such cases, maintained a perfect silence with regard to the subject of her meditations; they regarded her with looks of contemptuous pity, and appeared to avoid all conversation with her, as if she had rendered herself unworthy of it. A mysterious anathema appeared to hang over her, and to keep at a distance every member of the household. If, wearied with this proscription, she endeavoured to enter into conversation, they made her understand indirectly, that by obedience alone could she regain the affections of the family. But this was precisely the condition to which she could not assent: she therefore continued in her state of excommunication, which unhappily appeared to be, at least partially, the consequence of her own conduct.
Such a state of things formed a sad contrast to the radiant visions which had occupied her imagination. Her confinement was as strict at home as it had been in the monastery; and she, who had fancied she should enjoy, at least for this brief period, the pleasures of the world, found herself an exile from all society. At every announcement of a visiter, she was compelled to retire with the elderly persons of the family; and always dined apart whenever a guest was present. Even the servants of the family appeared to concur with the designs of their master, and to treat her with carelessness, ill concealed by an awkward attempt at formality. There was one among them, however, who seemed to feel towards her respect and compassion. This was a handsome page, who equalled, in her imagination, the ideal images of loveliness she had so often fondly cherished. There was soon apparent a change in her manner, a love of reverie and abstraction, and she no longer appeared to covet the favour of her family; some engrossing thought had taken possession of her mind. To be brief, she was detected one day in folding a letter, which it had been better she had not written, and which she was obliged to relinquish to her female attendant, who carried it to the prince, her father. He came immediately to her apartment with the letter in his hand, and in few but terrible words told her, that for the present she should be confined to her chamber, with the society only of the woman who had made the discovery; and intimated for the future still darker punishments. The page was dismissed, with an imperative command of silence, and solemn threatenings of punishment should he presume to violate it. Gertrude was then left alone, with her shame, her remorse, and her terror; and the sole company of this woman, whom she hated, as the witness of her fault, and the cause of her disgrace. The hatred was cordially returned, inasmuch as the attendant found herself reduced to the annoying duty of a jailer, and was made the guardian of a perilous secret for life. The first confused tumult of her feelings having in some measure subsided, she recalled to mind the dark intimations of her father with regard to some future punishment: what could this be? It most probably was a return to the monastery at Monza, not as the signorina, but as a guilty wretch, who, loaded with shame, was to be inclosed within its walls for ever! Now, indeed, her fancy no longer dwelt on the bright visions with which it had been so often busied; they were too much opposed to the sad reality of her present condition. Such an act would repair all her errors, and change (could she doubt it) in an instant her condition. The only castle in which Gertrude could imagine a tranquil and honourable asylum, and which was not in theair, was the monastery, in which she now resolved to place herself for ever! Opposed to this resolution rose up the contemplations of many years past: but times were changed, and to the depth in which Gertrude had fallen, the condition of a nun, revered, obeyed, and feared, formed a bright contrast. She was perpetually tormented also by her jailer, who, to revenge herself for the confinement imposed on her, failed not to taunt her for her misdemeanor, and to repeat the menaces of her father; or whenever she seemed disposed to relent, and to show something like pity, her tone of protection was still more intolerable. The predominant desire of Gertrude was to escape from her clutches, and to raise herself to a condition above her anger or her pity. At the end of four or five long days, with her patience exhausted by the bitter railings of her keeper, she sat herself down in a corner of the chamber, and covering her face with her hands, wept in bitterness of soul. She experienced an absolute craving for other faces and other sounds than those of her tormentor; and a sudden joy imparted itself to her mind, from the reflection, that it depended only on herself to be restored to the good-will and attentions of the family. Mingled with this joy, came repentance for her fault, and a desire to expiate it. She arose, went to a small table, and taking a pen, wrote to her father, expressing her penitence and her hope, imploring his pardon, and promising to do all that might be required of her.
There are moments in which the mind, particularly of the young, is so disposed, that a little importunity suffices to obtain from it any thing that has the appearance of virtuous sacrifice; as a flower scarcely budded abandons itself on its fragile stem, ready to yield its sweets to the first breeze which plays around it. These moments, which ought to be regarded by others with timid respect, are exactly those of which interested cunning makes use, to insnare the unguarded will.
On the perusal of this letter, the prince saw the way opened to the furtherance of his views. He sent for Gertrude; she obeyed the command, and, in his presence, threw herself at his feet, and had scarcely power to exclaim, “Pardon!” He made a sign to her to rise, and in a grave voice answered, that it was not enough merely to confess her fault, and ask forgiveness, but that it was necessary to merit it. Gertrude asked submissively, “what he would have her do?” To this the prince did not reply directly, but spoke at length of the fault of Gertrude: the poor girl shuddered as at the touch of a hand on a severe wound. He continued, that even if he had entertained the project of settling her in the world, she had herself placed an insuperable obstacle to it; since he could never, as a gentleman of honour, permit her to marry, after having given such a specimen of herself. The miserable listener was completely humbled!
The prince, then, by degrees softened his voice and manner to say, that for all faults there was a remedy, and that the remedy for hers was clearly indicated; that she might perceive, in this fatal accident, a warning that the world was too full of dangers for her——
“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Gertrude, overwhelmed with shame and remorse.
“Ah, you perceive it yourself!” resumed the prince. “Well, we will speak no more of the past; all is forgotten. You have taken the only honourable way that remains for you; and because youhavetaken it voluntarily, it rests with me to make it turn to your advantage, and to make the merit of the sacrifice all your own.” So saying, he rang the bell, and said to the servant who appeared, “The princess and the prince immediately.” He continued to Gertrude, “I wish to make them the sharers of my joy; I wish that they should begin at once to treat you as you deserve. You have hitherto found me a severe judge; you shall now prove that I am a loving father.”
At these words Gertrude remained stupified; she thought of the “yes” she had so precipitately suffered to escape from her lips, and would have recalled it; but she did not dare; the satisfaction of the prince appeared so entire, his condescension so conditional, that she could not presume to utter a word to disturb it.
The princess and prince came into the room. On seeing Gertrude there, they appeared full of doubt and surprise; but the prince, with a joyful countenance, said to them, “Behold here the lost sheep! and let these be the last words that shall recall painful recollections. Behold the consolation of the family! Gertrude has no longer need of advice; she has voluntarily chosen her own good. She has resolved, she has signified to me that she has resolved——” She raised to him a look of supplication, but he continued more plainly, “that she has resolved to take the veil.”
“Well done, well done,” exclaimed they both, overwhelming her with embraces, which Gertrude received with tears, which they chose to interpret as tears of joy. Then the prince enlarged on the splendid destiny of his daughter, on the distinction she would enjoy in the monastery and in the country, as the representative of the family. Her mother and her brother renewed their congratulations and praises. Gertrude stood as if possessed by a dream.
It was then necessary to fix the day for the journey to Monza, for the purpose of making the request of the abbess. “How rejoiced she will be!” said the prince; “I am sure all the nuns will appreciate the honour Gertrude does them. But why not go there to-day? Gertrude will willingly take the air.”
“Let us go, then,” said the princess.
“I will order the carriage,” said the young prince.
“But——” said Gertrude submissively.
“Softly, softly,” said the prince, “let her decide; perhaps she does not feel disposed to go to-day, and would rather wait until to-morrow. Say, do you wish to go to-day or to-morrow?”
“To-morrow,” said Gertrude, in a feeble voice, glad of a short reprieve.
“To-morrow,” said the prince, solemnly; “she has decided to go to-morrow. Meanwhile I will see the vicar of the nuns, to have him to appoint a day for the examination.” He did so, and the vicar named the day after the next. In the interval Gertrude was not left a moment to herself. She would have desired some repose for her mind after so many contending emotions; to have reflected on the step she had already taken, and what remained to be done—but the machine once in motion at her direction, it was no longer in her power to arrest its progress; occupations succeeded each other without interruption. The princess herself assisted at her toilette, which was completed by her own maid. This effected, dinner was announced, and poor Gertrude was made to pass through the crowd of servants, who nodded their congratulations to each other. She found at the table a few relations of the family, who had been invited in haste to participate in the general joy. The young bride—thus they called young persons about to enter the monastic life—the young bride had enough to do to reply to the compliments which were paid to her; she felt that each reply was a confirmation of her destiny; but how act differently? After dinner came the hour of riding, and Gertrude was placed in a carriage with her mother and two uncles, who had been among the guests. They entered the street Marina, which then crossed the space now occupied by the public gardens, and was the public promenade, where the nobility refreshed themselves after the fatigues of the day. The uncles conversed much with Gertrude, and one of them in particular, who appeared to know every body, every carriage, and every livery, had something to tell of signor such an one, and signora such an one; but checking himself, he said to his niece, “Ah! you little rogue! you turn your back upon all these follies; you are the righteous person; you leave us worldlings far behind; you are going to lead a happy life, and take yourself to paradise in a coach.”
They returned home in the dusk of the evening, and the servants, appearing with torches, announced to them that numerous visiters had arrived. The report had spread, and a multitude of relations and friends had come to offer their congratulations. The young bride was the idol, the amusement, the victim of the evening. Finally, Gertrude was left alone with the family. “At last,” said the prince, “I have had the consolation of seeing my daughter in society becoming her rank and station. She has conducted herself admirably, and has evinced that there will be no preventive to her obtaining the highest honours, and supporting the dignity of the family.” They supped hastily, so as to be ready early in the morning.
At the request of Gertrude, her attendant, of whose insolence she bitterly complained to her father, was removed, and another placed in her stead. This was an old woman, who had been nurse to the young prince, in whom was centred all her hopes and her pride. She was overjoyed at the decision of Gertrude, who, as a climax to her trials, was obliged to listen to her congratulations and praises. She talked of her numerous aunts and relatives, who were so happy as nuns; of the many visits she would doubtless receive. She further spoke of the young prince, and the lady who was to be his wife, and the visit which they would doubtless pay to Gertrude at the monastery, until, wearied out with the conflicts of the day, the poor girl fell asleep. She was aroused in the morning by the harsh voice of the old woman, “Up, up, signora, young bride! it is day; the princess is up, and waiting for you. The young prince is impatient. He is as brisk as a hare, the young devil; he was so from an infant. But when he is ready, you must not make him wait; he is the best temper in the world, but that always makes him impatient and noisy. Poor fellow, we must pity him, it is the effect of temperament; in such moments he has respect to no one but the head of the household; however, one day he will be the head; may that day be far off! Quick, quick, signorina! You should have been out of your nest before this.”
The idea of the young prince, risen and impatient, recalled the scattered thoughts of Gertrude, and hastily she suffered herself to be dressed, and descended to the saloon, where her parents and brother were assembled. A cup of chocolate was brought her, and the carriage was announced. Before their departure, the prince took his daughter aside, and said to her, “Courage, Gertrude; yesterday you did well, to-day you must excel yourself; the point is now to make a suitable appearance in the country and in the monastery, where you are destined to hold the first station. They expect you, and all eyes will be on you. Dignity and ease. The abbess will ask you what is your request; it is a mere form, but you must reply that you wish to be admitted to take the veil in this monastery, where you have been educated, and treated so kindly; which is the truth. Speak these words with a free unembarrassed air, so as not to give occasion for scandal. These good mothers know nothing of the unhappy occurrence; that must remain buried with the family. However, an anxious countenance might excite suspicion; show whose is the blood in your veins; be polite and modest; but remember also, that in this country, out of the family, there is none your superior.”
During their ride, the troubles and the trials of the world, and the blessed life of the cloister, were the principal subjects of conversation. As they approached the monastery, the crowd collected from all parts; as the carriage stopped before the walls, the heart of Gertrude beat more rapidly: they alighted amidst the concourse; all eyes were fastened on her, and compelled her to study the movements of her countenance; and, above all, those of her father, upon whom she could not help fixing her regards, notwithstanding the fear he inspired. They crossed the first court, entered the second, and here appeared the interior cloister, wide open, and occupied by nuns. In front was the abbess, surrounded by the most aged of the sisterhood; behind these the others, raised promiscuously on tiptoe, and farther back the lay sisters, standing on benches and overlooking the scene; whilst here and there were seen, peeping between the cowls, some youthful faces, which Gertrude recognised as those of her school companions. As she stood fronting the abbess, the latter demanded, with grave solemnity, “What she desired to have in this place, where nothing could be denied her?”
“I am here,” began Gertrude; but, about to utter the words which were to decide her destiny irrevocably, she felt her heart fail, and hesitating, she fixed her eyes on the crowd before her. She beheld there the well-known face of one of her companions, who regarded her with looks of compassion and malice, as if to say, “They have caught the brave one.” This sight required all her courage, and she was about to give a reply very different from that which was expected from her, when, glancing at her father, she caught from his eye such an anxious and threatening expression, that, overcome by terror, she proceeded, “I am here to ask admittance into this monastery, where I have been instructed so kindly.” The abbess immediately expressed her regret, that the regulations were such as to prohibit an immediate answer, which must be given by the common suffrage of the sisterhood; but that Gertrude knew well the sentiments they entertained towards her; and might judge what that answer would be. In the mean time nothing prevented them from manifesting their joy at her request. There was then heard a confused murmur of congratulations and rejoicing.
Whilst the nuns were surrounding their new companion, and offering their congratulations to all the party, the abbess expressed her wish to address a few words to the prince at the parlour grating.
“Signor,” said she, “in obedience to our rules—to fulfil a necessary form—I must inform you—that whenever a young person desires to assume—the superior, which I am, though unworthily, is obliged to make known to the parents that if—they have forced the will of their daughter, they will incur the pains of excommunication. You will excuse——”