“Oh! yes, yes, reverend mother. Your exactitude is very praiseworthy, very just. But you cannot doubt——”
“Oh! imagine, prince, if—but I merely speak by order; besides——”
“True—true, reverend mother.”
After these few words, and a renewal of compliments and thanks, they departed.
Gertrude was silent during their ride; overcome and occupied by conflicting thoughts, ashamed of her own want of resolution, vexed with others as well as herself, she was still meditating some way of escape, but every time she looked at her father, she felt her destiny to be irrevocable. After the various engagements of the day were over,—the dinner, the visits, the drive, theconversazione, the supper,—the prince brought another subject under discussion, which was the choice of a godmother (so they called the lady who is selected as chaperone to the young candidate in the interval between the request for admission, and the putting on of the habit); the duty of this person was to visit, with her charge, the churches, public palaces, theconversazioni, in short, every thing of note in the city and its environs; so as to afford a peep at that world they were about to quit for ever. “We must think of a godmother,” said the prince, “because to-morrow the vicar of the nuns will be here for the examination, and soon after that, Gertrude will be finally accepted. Now the choice shall come from Gertrude herself, although contrary to usage; but she deserves to be made an exception, and we may confidently trust to her judgment in the selection.” And then, turning to her, as if bestowing a singular favour, he continued, “Any one of the ladies who were at theconversazionethis evening, possesses the necessary qualifications for a godmother; any one of them will consider it an honour; make your selection.” Gertrude instantly felt that the choice would be a renewal of consent; but the proposal was made with such an air of condescension, that a refusal would have appeared to spring from contempt or ingratitude. Thus she took another step, and named a lady who had been forward in attentions to her during the whole evening. “A perfectly wise choice,” said the prince, who had expected no less. The affair had all been previously arranged; this lady had been so much with Gertrude at theconversazione, and had displayed such kindness of manner, that it would have been an effort for her to think of another. The attentions, however, of this lady were not without their object: she had also for a long time contemplated making the young prince her son; she, therefore, naturally interested herself in all that concerned the family, and felt the deepest interest in her dear Gertrude.
On the morrow, the imagination of Gertrude was occupied with the expected examination, and with a vague hope of some opportunity to retract. At an early hour she was sent for by the prince, who addressed her in these words:—“Courage, my daughter; you have as yet conducted yourself admirably; to-day you must crown the work. All that has been done, has been done with your consent. If, in the meanwhile, you had any doubts, any misgivings, you should have expressed them; but at the point to which things have now arrived, it will no longer do to play the child. The worthy man who is to come this morning, will put a hundred questions to you, concerning your vocation; such as, whether you go voluntarily, and the why and the wherefore. If you falter in your replies, he will continue to urge you; this will produce pain to yourself, but might become the source of a more serious evil. After all the public demonstrations that we have made, the slightest hesitation on your part might place my honour in danger, by conveying the idea that I had taken a mere youthful whim for a confirmed resolution, and that I had thus acted precipitately; in this case, I should feel myself under the necessity, in order to preserve my character inviolate, to reveal the true motive——” But, seeing the countenance of Gertrude all on flame, and contracting itself like the leaves of a flower in the heat which precedes a tempest, he stopped a moment, and then resumed, “Well, well, all depends on yourself. I know you will not show yourself a child; but recollect, you must reply with freedom, so as not to create suspicion in the mind of this worthy man.” He then suggested the answers to be made to the probable questions that would be put, and concluded with various remarks upon the happiness that awaited Gertrude at the convent. At this moment the servant announced the arrival of the vicar, and the prince was obliged to leave his daughter alone to receive him.
The good man had come with a preconceived opinion that Gertrude went voluntarily to the cloister, because the prince had told him so. It was one of his maxims, however, to preserve himself unprejudiced, and to depend only on the assertions of the candidates themselves. “Signorina,” said he, “I come to play the part of the tempter; I come to suggest doubts where you have affirmed certainties; I come to place before your eyes difficulties, and ascertain if you have well considered them. You will allow me to trouble you with some interrogatories?”
“Say on,” replied Gertrude.
The good priest then began to interrogate her in the form prescribed. “Do you feel in your heart a free spontaneous resolution to become a nun? Have menaces, or allurements, or authority been made use of? Speak without reserve to one whose duty it is to ascertain the true state of your feelings, and to prevent violence being done to them.”
The true reply to such a question presented itself suddenly to the mind of Gertrude, with terrible reality. But to come to an explanation, to say she was threatened, to relate the unfortunate story—from this her spirit shrank, and she brought herself to the resolution of saying, “I become a nun, freely, from inclination.”
“How long have you had this intention?” asked the good priest.
“I have always had it,” said Gertrude, finding it easier after the first step to proceed in falsehood.
“But what is the principal motive which has induced you?”
The interrogator was not aware of the chord he touched; and Gertrude, making a great effort to preserve the tranquillity of her countenance, amid the tumult of her soul, replied. “The motive is, to serve God, and to fly the perils of the world.”
“Has there never been any disgust? any—excuse me—caprice? Often trifling causes make impressions which we deem will be perpetual, but the causes cease——”
“No, no,” replied Gertrude, hastily; “the cause is that which I have said.”
The vicar, in order to execute his duty fully, persisted in his enquiries, but Gertrude was determined to deceive him. She could not for a moment think of rendering the good man acquainted with her weakness; she knew, indeed, that he could prevent her being a nun, but that this would be the extent of his authority and his protection. When he should be gone, she would still be left alone, to endure fresh trials from her father and the family. Finding, therefore, a uniform answer to all his questions, he became somewhat wearied of putting them, and, concluding that all was as it should be, with many prayers for her welfare, he took his leave. As he crossed the hall he met the prince, and congratulated him on the good dispositions of his daughter. This put an end to a very painful state of suspense and anxiety on the part of the prince; who, forgetting his usual gravity, ran to his daughter, and loaded her with praises, caresses, and promises, and with a tenderness of affection in great measure sincere: such is the inconsistency of the human heart.
Then ensued a round of spectacles and diversions, during which we cannot attempt to describe minutely or in order the emotions to which the heart of Gertrude was subjected. The perpetual change of objects, the freedom enjoyed by this change, rendered more odious to her the idea of her prison; still more pungent were the impressions she received in the festivals and assemblies of the city. The pomp of the palaces, the splendour of their furniture, the buzzing and festal clamour of theconversazione, communicated to her such an intoxication, such an eager desire for happiness, that she thought she could encounter all the consequences of a recantation, or even suffer death, rather than return to the cold shades of the cloister. But all such resolutions instantly fled as her eyes rested on the austere countenance of the prince.
Meanwhile, the vicar of the nuns had made the necessary deposition, and liberty was given to hold a chapter for the acceptation of Gertrude. The chapter was held, and she was received! Wearied out with her long conflicts, she requested immediate admittance, which was readily granted. After a noviciate of twelve days, full of resolves and counter-resolves, the moment arrived when she finally pronounced the fatal “yes,” which was to exclude her from the world for ever. But even in the depths of the monastery she found no repose; she had not the wisdom to make a virtue of necessity, but was continually and uselessly recurring to the past. She could not call religion to her aid, for religion had no share in the sacrifice she had made; and heavily and bitterly she bore the yoke of bondage. She hated the nuns, because she remembered their artifices, and regarded them in some measure as the authors of her misfortune; she tyrannised over them with impunity, because they dared not rebel against her authority, and incur the resentment of the powerful lord, her father. Those nuns who were really pious and harmless, she hated for their piety itself, as it seemed to cast a tacit reproach on her weakness; and she suffered no occasion to escape without railing at them as bigots and hypocrites. It might, however, have mitigated her asperity towards them, had she known that the black balls to oppose her entrance had been cast into the urn by their sympathetic generosity. She found, however, one consolation, in the unlimited power she possessed, in being courted and flattered, and in hearing herself called the “signora.” But what a consolation! Her soul felt its insufficiency, but had not the courage nor the virtue to seek happiness from the only source where it could be found. Thus she lived many years, tyrannising over and feared by all around her, till an occasion presented itself for a further developement of her habitual, but secret feelings. Among other privileges which had been accorded to her in the monastery, was that of having her apartments on a side of the building little frequented by the other nuns. Opposite to this quarter of the convent was a house, inhabited by a young man, a villain by profession, one of those who, at this period, by their mutual combinations were enabled to set at nought the public laws. His name was Egidio. From his small window, which overlooked the court-yard, he had often seen Gertrude wandering there from listlessness and melancholy. Allured rather than intimidated by the danger and iniquity of the act, he dared one day to speak to her. The wretched girl replied!
Then was experienced a new but not unmixed satisfaction; into the painful void of her soul was infused a powerful stimulus, a fresh principle of vitality: but this enjoyment resembled the restoring beverage which the ingenious cruelty of the ancients presented to the criminal, in order to strengthen him to sustain his martyrdom. A change came also over her whole deportment; she was regular, tranquil, endearing, and affable; in such a degree, that the sisters congratulated themselves upon the circumstance, little imagining the true motive, and that the alteration was none other than hypocrisy added to her other defects. This outward improvement, however, did not last long; she soon returned to her customary caprices, and, moreover, was heard to utter bitter imprecations against the cloistral prison, in unusual and unbecoming language. The sisters bore these vicissitudes as well as they could, and attributed them to the light and capricious nature of the signora. For some time it did not appear that the suspicions of any one of them were excited; but one day the signora had been speaking with one of the sisters, her attendant, and reviling her beyond measure for some trifling matter: the sister suffered a while, and gnawed the bit in silence; but finally, becoming impatient, declared that she was mistress of a secret, and could advise the signora in her turn. From this time forward her peace was lost. Not many days after, however, this very sister was missing from her accustomed offices; they sought her in her cell, and did not find her; they called, and she answered not; they searched diligently in every place, but without success. And who knows what conjectures might have arisen, if there had not been found a great opening in the wall of the orchard, through which she had probably made her escape. They sent messengers in various directions to pursue, and restore her, but they never heard of her more! Perhaps they would not have been so unfortunate in their search, if they had dug near the garden wall! Finally, the nuns concluded that she must have gone to a great distance, and because one of them happened to say, she has taken refuge in Holland, “O yes,” said they, “she has, without doubt, taken refuge in Holland.” The signora did not believe this, but she had certain reasons for encouraging the opinion, and this she did not fail to do. Thus the minds of the nuns became satisfied; but who can tell the torments of the signora’s soul? Who can tell how many times a day the image of this sister came unbidden into her mind, and fastened itself there with terrible tenacity? Who can tell how many times she desired to behold the real and living person, for the company of this empty, impassible, terrible shade? Who can tell with what delight she would have heard the very words of the threat repeated in her mental ear, rather than this continual and fantastic murmur of those very words, sounding with a pertinacity of which no living voice could have been capable.
It was about a year after this event, that we find Lucy at the monastery, and under the protection of the signora. The reader may remember, that after Agnes and the portress had left the room, the signora and Lucy had entered into conversation alone; the former continued her questions concerning Don Roderick, with a fearlessness which filled the mind of Lucy with astonishment, little supposing that the curiosity of the nuns ever exercised itself upon such subjects. The opinions which were blended with these enquiries, were not less strange; she laughed at the dread which Lucy expressed herself to have of Don Roderick, asking her if he was not handsome; and surmising that Lucy would have liked him very well, if it had not been for her preference of Renzo. When again with her mother, the poor girl expressed her astonishment at such observations from such a source, but Agnes, as more experienced, solved the mystery. “Do not be surprised,” said she; “when you have known the world as I have, you will cease to wonder at any thing. The nobility, some more, some less, some one way, some another, have all a little oddity. We must let them talk, especially when we have need of them; we must appear to listen to them seriously, as if they were talking very wisely. Did you not hear how she interrupted me, as if I had uttered some absurdity? I did not wonder at it; they are all so. Notwithstanding that, Heaven be thanked, she seems to have taken a liking to you, and is willing to protect us; and if we would retain her favour, we must let her say that which it shall please her to say.”
A desire to oblige the superior, the complacency experienced in protecting, the thought of the good opinions which would be the result of a protection thus piously extended, a certain inclination towards Lucy, and also a degree of self-satisfaction in doing good to an innocent creature, in succouring and consoling the oppressed, had really disposed the signora to take to heart the fate of our poor fugitives. The mother and daughter congratulated themselves on their safe and honourable asylum. They would have wished to remain unknown to all; but this, in a convent, was impossible; and one there was, besides, too far interested in obtaining an account of one of the two, stimulated as his passion had been by the opposition he had encountered. We will leave them for the present in their safe retreat, and return to the palace of Don Roderick, at the hour in which he was anxiously expecting the result of his wicked and villanous enterprise.
As a pack of blood-hounds, after having in vain tracked the hare, return desponding towards their master, with their ears down, and tails hanging, so, in this night of confusion, returned the bravoes to the palace of Don Roderick, who was pacing, in the dark, the floor of an upper uninhabited chamber. Full of impatience and uncertainty as to the issue of the expedition, and not without anxiety for the possible consequences, his ear was attentive to every sound, and his eye to every movement on the esplanade. This was the most daring piece of villany he had ever undertaken; but he felt that the precautions he had used would preserve him from suspicion. “And who will dare to come here, and ask if she is not in this palace? Should this young fellow do so, he will be well received, I promise him. Let the friar come! yea, let him come. If the old woman presumes so far, she shall be sent to Bergamo. As for the law, I do fear it not; thepodestàis neither a boy nor a fool! Pshaw! there’s nothing to fear. How will Attilio be surprised to-morrow morning; he will find I am not a mere boaster. But if any difficulty should arise, he’ll assist—the honour of all my relatives will be pledged.” But these anxious thoughts subsided as he reverted to Lucy.—“She will be frightened to find herself alone, surrounded only by these rough visages: by Bacchus, the most human face here is my own, and she will be obliged to have recourse to me—to entreaty.” In the midst of these calculations he heard a trampling of feet, approached the window, and looking out exclaimed, “It is they! But the litter! the devil! where is the litter? Three, five, eight, they are all there; but where is the litter? The devil! Griso shall render me an account of this.” He then advanced to the head of the stairs to meet Griso. “Well,” cried he, “Signor Bully, Signor Captain, Signor ‘Leave it to me!’”
“It is hard,” said Griso,—“it is hard to meet with reproach, when one has hazarded one’s life to perform his duty.”
“How has it happened? Let us hear, let us hear,” said he, as he advanced towards the room, followed by Griso, who related, as clearly as he could, the occurrences of the night.
“Thou hast done well,” said Don Roderick; “thou hast done all that thou couldst—but to think that this roof harbours a spy! If I discover him I will settle matters for him; and I tell thee, Griso, I suspect the information was given the day of the dinner.”
“I have had the same suspicion,” said Griso; “and if my master discovers the scoundrel, he has only to trust him to me. He has made me pass a troublesome night, and I wish to pay him for it. But there must be, I think, some other cause, which we cannot at present fathom; to-morrow, Signor, to-morrow we will see clear water.”
“Have you been recognised by any one?”
Griso thought not; and after having given him many orders for the morrow, and wishing to make amends for the impetuosity with which he had at first greeted him, Don Roderick said, “Go to rest, poor Griso! you must indeed require it. Labouring all day, and half the night, and then to be received in this manner! Go to rest now; for we may yet be obliged to put your friendship to a severer test. Good night.”
The next morning Don Roderick sought the Count Attilio, who, receiving him with a laugh, said, “San Martin!”
“I will pay the wager,” said Don Roderick. “I thought indeed to have surprised you this morning, and therefore have kept from you some circumstances. I will now tell you all.”
“The friar’s hand is in this business,” said his cousin, after having heard him through: “this friar, with his playing at bo-peep, and giving advice; I know him for a busybody and a rascal! And you did not confide in me, and tell me what brought him here the other day to trifle with you. If I had been in your place he should not have gone out as he came in, of that be assured.”
“What! would you wish me to incur the resentment of all the capuchins in Italy?”
“In such a moment,” said the count, “I should have forgotten there was any other capuchin in the world than this daring rascal; but the means are not wanting, within the pale of prudence, to take satisfaction even of a capuchin. It is well for him that he has escaped the punishment best suited to him; but I take him henceforth under my protection, and will teach him how to speak to his superiors.”
“Do not make matters worse.”
“Trust me for once; I will serve you as a relation and a friend.”
“What do you mean to do?”
“I don’t know yet; but I will certainly pay the friar. Let me see—the count my uncle, who is one of the secret council, will do the service; dear uncle! How pleased I am when I can make him work for me, a politician of his stamp! The day after to-morrow I will be at Milan, and in some way or other the friar shall have his due.”
Meanwhile breakfast was brought in, which however did not interrupt the important discussion. Count Attilio interested himself in the cause from his friendship for his cousin, and the honour of the name, according to his notions of friendship and honour; yet he could hardly help laughing every now and then at the ridiculous issue of the adventure. But Don Roderick, who had calculated upon making a master-stroke, was vexed at his signal failure, and agitated by various passions. “Fine stories will be circulated,” said he, “of last night’s affair, but no matter; as to justice, I defy it: it does not exist; and if it did, I should equally defy it. Apropos, I have sent word this morning to the constable, to make no deposition respecting the affair, and he will be sure to follow my advice; but tattling always annoys me,—it is enough thatyouhave it in your power to laugh at me.”
“It is well you have given the constable his message,” said the count; “this great empty-headed, obstinate proser of apodestàis however a man who knows his duty, and we must be careful not to place him in difficulty. If a fellow of a constable makes a deposition, thepodestà, however well intentioned, is obliged to——”
“But you,” interrupted Don Roderick, with a little warmth,—“you spoil my affairs, by contradicting him, and laughing at him on every occasion. Why the devil can’t you suffer a magistrate to be an obstinate beast, while in other things that suit our convenience he is an honest man?”
“Do you know, cousin,” said the count, regarding him with an expression of affected surprise, “do you know that I begin to think you capable of fear? You take thepodestàand myself to be in earnest.”
“Well, well, have not you yourself said that we should be careful?”
“Certainly; and when the question is serious, I will show you I am not a boy. Shall I tell you what I will do for you? I will go in person to make thepodestàa visit; do you not think he will be pleased with the honour? And I will let him talk by the half hour of the count duke, and the Spanish keeper of the castle, and then I will throw in some remarks about the signor count of the secret council, my uncle; you know what effect this will have. Finally, he has more need of our protection, than you have of his condescension. He knows this well enough, and I shall leave him better disposed than I find him, that you may depend upon.” So saying, he took his departure, leaving Don Roderick alone to wait the return of Griso, who had been, in obedience to his orders, reconnoitring the ground, and ascertaining the state of the public mind with regard to the events of the preceding night. He came at last, at the hour of dinner, to give in his relation. The tumult of this night had been so loud, and the disappearance of three persons from the village so mysterious, that strict and indefatigable search would naturally be made for them; and on the other hand, those who were possessed of partial information on the subject were too numerous to preserve an entire silence. Perpetua was assailed every where to tell what had caused her master such a fright, and she, perceiving how she had been deceived by Agnes, and feeling exasperated at her perfidy, had need of a little self-restraint; not that she complained of the deception practised on herself, of that she did not breathe a syllable; but the injury done to her poor master could not pass in silence, and that such an injury should have been attempted by such worthy people! Don Abbondio could command and entreat her to be silent, and she could reply that there was no necessity for inculcating a thing so obvious and proper, but certain it is that the secret remained in the heart of the poor woman as new wine in an old cask, which ferments and bubbles, and if it does not send the bung into the air, works out in foam between the staves, and drops here and there, so that one can drink it, and tell what sort of wine it is. Jervase, who could scarcely believe that for once he knew a little more than others, and who felt himself a man, since he had been an accomplice in a criminal affair, was dying to communicate it. And Tony, however alarmed at the thoughts of further enquiries and investigation, was bursting, in spite of all his prudence, till he had told the whole secret to his wife, who was not dumb. The one who spoke least was Menico, because his parents, alarmed at his coming into collision with Don Roderick, had kept him in the house for several days; they themselves, however, without wishing to appear to know more than others, insinuated that the fugitives had taken refuge at Pescarenico. This report, then, became current among the villagers. But no one could account for the attack of the bravoes: all agreed in suspecting Don Roderick; but the rest was total obscurity. The presence of the three bravoes at the inn was discussed, and the landlord was interrogated; but his memory was, on this point, as defective as ever. His inn, he concluded as usual, was just like a sea-port. Who was this pilgrim, seen by Stefano and Carlandrea, and whom the robbers wished to murder, and had carried off? For what purpose had he been at the cottage? Some said it was a good spirit, come to the assistance of the inmates; others, that it was the spirit of a wicked pilgrim, who came at night to join such companions, and perform such deeds, as he had been accustomed to while living; others, again, went so far as to conjecture that it was one of these very robbers, clothed like a pilgrim; so that Griso, with all his experience, would have been at a loss to discover who it was, if he had expected to acquire this information from others. But, as the reader knows, that which was perplexity to them, was perfect clearness to Griso. He was enabled, therefore, from these various sources, to obtain a sufficiently distinct account for the ear of Don Roderick. He related the attempt upon Don Abbondio, which accounted for the desertion of the cottage, without the necessity of imagining a spy in the palace: he told of their flight, which might be accounted for by the fear of the discovery of their trick upon Don Abbondio, or by the intelligence that their cottage had been broken into, and that they had probably gone together to Pescarenico. “Fled together!” cried Don Roderick, hoarse with rage: “together! and this rascal friar! this friar shall answer it! Griso, this night I must know where they are. I shall have no peace; ascertain if they are at Pescarenico; quick; fly; four crowns immediately, and my protection for ever! this rascal! this friar!”
Griso was once more in the field; and on the evening of this very day reported to his worthy master the desired intelligence, and by the following means. The good man by whom the little party had been conducted to Monza, returning with his carriage to Pescarenico at the hour of vespers, chanced to meet, before he reached his home, a particular friend, to whom he related, in great confidence, the good work he had accomplished; so that Griso could, two hours after, inform Don Roderick that Lucy and her mother had taken refuge in a convent of Monza, and that Renzo had proceeded on his way to Milan. Don Roderick felt his hopes revive at this separation; and having, during great part of the night, revolved in his mind the measures for effecting his wicked purpose, he aroused Griso early in the morning, and gave him the orders he had premeditated.
“Signor?” said Griso, hesitating.
“Well, have I have not spoken clearly?”
“If you would send some other——”
“How?”
“Most illustrious signor, I am ready to sacrifice my life for my master, and it is my duty to do so; but you, you would not desire me to place it in peril?”
“Well?”
“Your illustrious lordship knows well these few murders that are laid to my account, and——Here I am under the protection of your lordship, and in Milan the livery of your lordship is known, but in MonzaIam known. And, your lordship knows, I do not say it boastingly, he who should deliver me up to justice would be well rewarded, a hundred good crowns, and permission to liberate two banditti.”
“What, the devil!” said Don Roderick, “you are like a vile cur, who has scarce courage to rush at the legs of such as pass by the door; and, not daring to leave the house, keeps himself within the protection of his master.”
“I think I have given proof, signor,” said Griso.
“Well?”
“Well,” resumed Griso, boldly, thus put on his mettle, “your lordship must forget my hesitation; heart of a lion, legs of a hare, I am ready to go.”
“But you shall not go alone; take with you two of the best;Cut-faceandAim-well, and go boldly, and show yourself to be still Griso. The devil! people will be well content to let such faces as yours pass without molestation! And as to the bailiffs of Monza, they must have become weary of life to place it in such danger, for the chance of a hundred crowns! But I do not believe that I am so far unknown there, that the stamp of my service should pass for nothing.”
Griso, having received ample and minute instructions, took his departure, accompanied by the two bravoes; cursing in his heart the whims of his master.
It now became the design of Don Roderick to contrive some way, by which Renzo, separated as he was from Lucy, should be prevented from attempting to return. He thought that the most certain means would be to have him sent out of the state, but this required the sanction of the law; he could, for example, give a colouring to the attempt at the curate’s house, and represent it as a seditious act, and through Doctor Azzecca Garbugli give thepodestàto understand that it was his duty to apprehend Renzo. But while he thought of the doctor as the man the most suitable for this service, Renzo himself put an end to much further deliberation on the subject by withdrawing himself.
Like the boy who drives his little Indian pigs to the fold, whose obstinacy impels them divers ways, and thus obliges him first to apply to one and then to another till he can succeed in penning them all, so are we obliged to play the same game with the personages of our story. Having secured Lucy, we ran to Don Roderick. Him we now quit to give an account of Renzo.
After the mournful parting which we have related, he set out, discouraged and disheartened, on his way to Milan. To bid farewell to his home and his country, and what was more, to Lucy! to find himself among strangers, not knowing where to rest his head, and all on account of this villain! When these thoughts presented themselves to the mind of Renzo, he was, for the moment, absorbed by rage and the desire of revenge; but when he recollected the prayer that he had uttered with the good friar in the convent of Pescarenico, his better feelings prevailed, and he was enabled to acquire some degree of resignation to the chastisements of which he stood so much in need. The road lay between two high banks; it was muddy, stony, and furrowed by deep wheel tracks, which, after a rain, became rivulets, overflowing the road, and rendering it nearly impassable. In such places small raised footpaths indicated that others had found a way by the fields. Renzo ascended one of these paths to the high ground, whence he beheld, as if rising from a desert, and not in the midst of a city, the noble structure of the cathedral, and he forgot all his misfortunes in contemplating, even at a distance, this eighth wonder of the world, of which he had heard so much from his infancy. But looking back, he saw in the horizon the notched ridge of mountains, and distinctly perceiving, among them, his ownResegone, he gazed at it mournfully a while, and then with a beating heart went on his way; steeples, towers, cupolas, and roofs soon appeared: he descended into the road, and when he perceived that he was very near the city, he accosted a traveller, with the civility which was natural to him, “Will you be so good, sir——”
“What do you want, my good young man?”
“Will you be so good as to direct me by the shortest way to the convent of the capuchins, where Father Bonaventura resides?”
He replied, very affably, “My good lad, there is more than one convent; you must tell me more clearly what and whom you seek.”
Renzo then took from his bosom the letter of Father Christopher, and presented it to the gentleman, who, after having read it, returned it, saying, “The eastern gate; you are fortunate, young man—the convent you seek is but a short distance from this. Take this path to the left; it is a by-way, and in a little while you will find yourself by the side of a long and low building; that is thelazaretto; keep along the ditch that encircles it, and you will soon be at the eastern gate. Enter, and a few steps further on you will see before you an open square with fine elm trees; the convent is there—you cannot mistake it. God be with you!” And accompanying his last words with a kind wave of his hand, he proceeded on his way. Renzo was astonished at the good manners of the citizens to countrymen, not knowing that it was an extraordinary day, a day in which cloaks humbled themselves to doublets. He followed the path which had been pointed out to him, and arrived at the eastern entrance, which consisted of two pilasters, with a roofing above to secure the gates, and on one side was a small house for the toll-gatherer. The openings of the rampart descended irregularly, and their surface was filled with rubbish. The street of the suburb which led from this gate was not unlike the one which now opens from the Tosa gate. A small ditch ran in the midst of it, until within a few steps of the gate, and divided it into two small crooked streets, covered with dust or mud, according to the season. At the place where was, and is still, the collection of houses called the Borghetto, the ditch empties itself into a common sewer, and thence into another ditch which runs along the walls. At this point was a column with a cross on it, dedicated toSan Dionigi; to the right and left were gardens enclosed by hedges, and at intervals, small houses inhabited for the most part by washerwomen. Renzo passed through the gate, without being stopped by the toll-gatherer, which appeared to him very remarkable, as he had heard those few of his townsmen, who could boast of having been at Milan, relate wonderful stories of the strict search and close enquiries to which those were subjected who entered its gates. The street was deserted, and if he had not heard the humming of a crowd at a distance, he might have thought he was entering a city which had been abandoned by its inhabitants. As he advanced, he saw on the pavement something scattered here and there, which was as white as snow, but snow at this season it could not be; he touched it, and found that it was flour. “There must be a great plenty in Milan,” said he, “if they thus throw away the gifts of God. They give out that famine is every where; this they do to keep poor people abroad quiet.” But in a few moments he arrived in front of the column, and saw on the steps of the pedestal certain things scattered, which were not assuredly stones, and which, if they had been on a baker’s counter, he would not have hesitated to call loaves of bread. But Renzo dared not so easily trust his eyes, because truly this was not a place for bread. “Let us see what this is,” said he, and approaching the column, he took one in his hand; it was, indeed, a very white loaf of bread, such as Renzo was accustomed to eat only on festival days. “It is really bread!” said he, in wonder. “Do they scatter it thus here? And in a year like this? And do they suffer it to lie here, and not take the trouble to gather it? This must be a fine place to live in!” After ten miles of travel, in the fresh air of the morning, the sight of the bread awaked his appetite. “Shall I take it?” said he again. “Poh! they have left it to the dogs; surely, a Christian may take advantage of it; and if the owner should come, I can pay him at any rate.” So saying, he put in one pocket that which he had in his hand, took a second, and put it in the other, and a third, which he began to eat, and resumed his way, full of wonder at the strangeness of the incident. As he moved on he saw people approaching from the interior of the city; and his attention was drawn to those who appeared first; a man, a woman, and a boy, each with a load which seemed beyond their strength, and exhibiting each a grotesque appearance. Their clothes, or rather their rags, powdered with meal, their faces the same, and excessively heated; they walked, not only as if overcome by the weight, but as if their limbs had been beaten and bruised. The man supported with difficulty a great bag of flour, which having holes here and there, scattered its contents at every unequal movement. But the figure of the woman was still more remarkable: she had her petticoat turned up, filled with as much flour as it could hold, and a little more; so that from time to time it flew over the pavement. She was, indeed, a grotesque picture, with her arms stretched out to encompass her burden, and staggering under its weight, her bare legs were seen beneath it. The boy held with both hands a basket full of bread on his head, but he was detained behind his parents to pick up the loaves which were constantly falling from it.
“If you let another fall, you ugly little dog——” said the mother, in a rage.
“I don’t let them fall; they fall of themselves. How can I help it?” replied he.
“Eh! it’s well for thee that my hands are full,” resumed the woman.
“Come, come,” said the man, “now that we have a little plenty, let us enjoy it in peace.”
Meanwhile there had arrived a company of strangers, and one of them addressed the woman, “Where are we to go for bread?”—“On, on,” replied she, and added, muttering, “These rascal countrymen will sweep all the shops and warehouses, and leave none for us.”
“There is a share for every one, chatterer,” said her husband; “plenty, plenty.”
From all that Renzo saw and heard, he gathered that there was an insurrection in the city, and that each one provided for himself, in proportion to his will and strength. Although we would desire to make our poor mountaineer appear to the most advantage, historical truth obliges us to say that his first sentiment was that of complacency. He had so little to rejoice at, in the ordinary course of affairs, that he congratulated himself on a change, of whatever nature it might be. And for the rest, he, who was not a man superior to the age in which he lived, held the common opinion that the scarcity of bread had been caused by the speculators and bakers, and that any method would be justifiable, of wresting from them the aliment which they cruelly denied to the people. However, he determined to keep away from the tumult, and congratulated himself on the good fortune of having for his friend a capuchin, who would afford him shelter and good advice. Occupied with such reflections, and noticing from time to time as more people came up loaded with plunder, he proceeded to the convent.
The church and convent of the capuchins was situated in the centre of a small square, shaded by elm trees; Renzo placed in his bosom his remaining half loaf, and with his letter in his hand, approached the gate and rung the bell. At a small grated window appeared the face of a friar, porter to the convent, to ask “who was there?”
“One from the country, who brings a letter to Father Bonaventura, from Father Christopher.”
“Give here,” said the friar, thrusting his hand through the grate.
“No, no,” said Renzo, “I must give it into his own hands.”
“He is not in the convent.”
“Suffer me to enter and wait for him,” replied Renzo.
“You had best wait in the church,” said the friar; “perhaps that may be of service to you. Into the convent you do not enter at present.” So saying, he hastily closed the window, leaving Renzo to receive the repulse with the best grace he could. He was about to follow the advice of the porter, when he was seized with the desire to give a glance at the tumult. He crossed the square, and advanced towards the middle of the city, where the disturbance was greatest. Whilst he is proceeding thither, we will relate, as briefly as possible, the causes of this commotion.
This was the second year of the scarcity; in the preceding one, the provisions, remaining from past years, had supplied in some measure the deficiency, and we find the population neither altogether satisfied, nor yet starved; but certainly unprovided for in the year 1628, the period of our story. Now this harvest, so anxiously desired, was still more deficient than that of the past year, partly from the character of the season itself (and that not only in the Milanese but also in the surrounding country), and partly from the instrumentality of men. The havoc of the war, of which we have before made mention, had so devastated the state, that a greater number of farms than ordinary remained uncultivated and deserted by the peasants, who, instead of providing, by their labour, bread for their families, were obliged to beg it from door to door. We say a greater number of farms than ordinary, because the insupportable taxes, levied with a cupidity and folly unequalled; the habitual conduct, even in time of peace, of the standing troops (conduct which the mournful documents of the age compare to that of an invading army), and other causes which we cannot enumerate, had for some time slowly operated to produce these sad effects in all the Milanese,—the particular circumstances of which we now speak were, therefore, like the unexpected exasperation of a chronic disease. Hardly had this harvest been gathered, when the supplies for the army, and the waste which always accompanies them, caused an excessive scarcity, and with it its painful but profitable concomitant, a high price upon provisions; but this, attaining a certain point, always creates in the mind of the multitude a suspicion that scarcity is not in reality the cause of it. They forget that they had both feared and predicted it: they imagine all at once that there must be grain sufficient, and that the evil lies in an unwillingness to sell it for consumption. Preposterous as these suppositions were, they were governed by them, so that the speculators in grain, real or imaginary, the farmers, the bakers, became the object of their universal dislike. They could tell certainly where there were magazines overflowing with grain, and could even enumerate the number of sacks: they spoke with assurance of the immense quantity of corn which had been despatched to other places, where probably the people were deluded with a similar story, and made to believe that the grain raised amongthemhad been sent to Milan! They implored from the magistrate those precautions, which always appear equitable and simple to the populace. The magistrates complied, and fixed the price on each commodity, threatening punishment to such as should refuse to sell; notwithstanding this, the evil continued to increase. This the people attributed to the feebleness of the remedies, and loudly called for some of a more decided character; unhappily they found a man that was willing to grant them all they should ask.
In the absence of the Governor Don Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova, who was encamped beyond Casale, in Montferrat, the High Chancellor Antonio Ferrer, also a Spaniard, supplied his place in Milan. He considered the low price of bread to be in itself desirable, and vainly imagined that an order from him would be sufficient to accomplish it. He fixed the limit, therefore, at the price the bread would have had when corn was thirty-three livres the bushel; whereas it was now as high as eighty.
Over the execution of these laws the people themselves watched, and were determined to receive the benefit of them quickly. They assembled in crowds before the bakers’ houses to demand bread at the price fixed; there was no remedy; the bakers were employed night and day in supplying their wants, inasmuch as the people, having a confused idea that the privilege would be transient, ceased not to besiege their houses, in order to enjoy to the utmost their temporary good fortune. The magistrates threatened punishment—the multitude murmured at every delay of the bakers in furnishing them. These remonstrated incessantly against the iniquitous and insupportable weight of the burden imposed on them; but Antonio Ferrer replied, that they had possessed great advantages in times past, and now owed the public some reparation. Finally, the council of ten (a municipal magistracy composed of nobles, which lasted until the ninety-seventh year of the century just elapsed,) informed the governor of the state in which things were, hoping that he would find some remedy. Don Gonzalo, immersed in the business of war, named a council, upon whom he conferred authority to fix a reasonable price upon bread, so that both parties should be satisfied. The deputies assembled, and after much deliberation felt themselves compelled to augment the price of it: the bakers breathed, but the people became furious.
The evening preceding the day on which Renzo arrived at Milan, the streets swarmed with people, who, governed by one common feeling, strangers or friends, had intuitively united themselves in companies throughout the city. Every observation tended to increase their rage and their resentment; various opinions were given, and many exclamations uttered; here, one declaimed aloud to a circle of bystanders, who applauded vehemently; there, another more cautious, but not less dangerous, was whispering in the ear of a neighbour or two, that something must and would be done: in short, there was an incessant and discordant din from the medley of men, women, and children, which composed the various assemblages. There was now only required an impetus to set the machine in motion, and reduce words to deeds; and an opportunity soon presented itself. At the break of day little boys were seen issuing from the bakers’ shops with baskets on their heads, loaded with bread, which they were about to carry to their usual customers. The appearance of one of these unlucky boys in an assembly of people was like a squib thrown into a gunpowder mill. “Here is bread!” cried a hundred voices at once. “Yes, for our tyrants, who swim in abundance, and wish to make us die in hunger,” said one, who drew near the boy, and seizing the basket, cried out, “Let us see.” The boy coloured, grew pale, trembled, and would have entreated them to let him pass on, but the words died on his lips; he then endeavoured to free himself from the basket. “Down with the basket” was heard on all sides; it was seized by many hands, and placed on the earth: they raised the napkin which covered it, and a tepid fragrance diffused itself around. “We are Christians also,” said one; “and have a right to eat bread as well as other people:” so saying, he took a loaf and bit it; the rest followed his example; and it is unnecessary to add, that in a few moments the contents of the basket had disappeared. Those who had not been able to secure any for themselves were irritated at the sight of their neighbours’ gains, and animated by the facility of the enterprise, went in search of other boys with baskets; as many, therefore, as they met were stopped and plundered. Still the number who remained unsatisfied was beyond comparison the greatest, and even the gainers were only stimulated by their success to ampler enterprises; so that simultaneously there was a shout from the crowd of “To the bake-house! to the bake-house!”
In the street called theCorsia de’ Servithere was, and is still, a bakery of the same name,—a name that signifies in Tuscan theShop of the Crutches, and in Milanese is composed of such barbarous words, that it is impossible to discover their sound from any rule of the language.[4]To this place the throng approached: the shopkeepers were listening to the sad relation of the boys, who had but just escaped with their lives, when they heard a distant murmur, and beheld the crowd advancing.
“Shut, shut! quick, quick!” some ran to ask aid from the sheriff; others in haste closed the shop, and barricadoed and secured the doors from within. The throng thickened in front, and cries of “Bread, bread! open, open!” were heard from every quarter. The sheriff arrived with a troop of halberdiers. “Make way, make way, friends! home, home! make way for the sheriff,” cried they. The people gave way a little, so that they could draw themselves up in front of the door of the shop. “But, friends,” cried the sheriff from this place, “what do you do here? Home, home! have you no fear of God? What will our lord the king say? We do not wish you harm; but go home. There is no good to be gained here for soul or body. Home, home!” The crowd, regardless of his expostulations, pressed forward, themselves being urged on by increasing multitudes behind. “Make them draw back, that I may recover breath,” continued he to the halberdiers, “but harm no one—we will endeavour to get into the shop—make them keep back, and knock at the door.”—“Back, back,” cried the halberdiers, presenting the but-ends of their arms; the throng retreated a little; the sheriff knocked, crying to those within to open; they obeyed, and he and his guard contrived to intrench themselves within the house; then, appearing at a window above, “Friends,” cried he, “go home. A general pardon to whoever shall return immediately to their houses.”
“Bread, bread! open, open!” vociferated the crowd in reply.
“You shall have justice, friends; but return to your houses. You shall have bread; but this is not the way to obtain it. Eh! what are you doing below there? At the door of the house! hah! hah! Take care; it is a criminal act. Eh! away with those tools! take down those hands! hah! hah! You Milanese, who are famous throughout the world for your benevolence, who have always been accounted good citi—— Ah! rascals!”
This rapid change of style was occasioned by a stone thrown by one of these good citizens at the sheriff’s head. “Rascals! rascals!” continued he, closing the window in a rage. The confusion below increased; stones were thrown at the doors and windows, and they had nearly opened a way into the shop. Meanwhile the master and boys of the shop, who were at the windows of the story above, with a supply of stones (obtained probably from the court-yard), threatened to throw them upon the crowd if they did not disperse. Perceiving their threats to be of no avail, they commenced putting them in execution.
“Ah! villains! ah! rogues! Is this the bread you give to the poor?” was screamed from below. Many were wounded, two were killed; the fury of the multitude increased; the doors were broken open, and the torrent rushed through all the passages. At this, those within took refuge under the shop floor; the sheriff and the halberdiers hid themselves beneath the tiles; others escaped by the skylights, and wandered upon the roofs like cats.
The sight of their prey made the conquerors forget their designs of sanguinary vengeance; some rushed to the chests, and plundered them of bread; others hastened to force the locks of the counter, and took from thence handfulls of money, which they pocketed, and then returned to take more bread, if there should remain any. Others, again, entered the interior magazines, and, throwing out part of the flour, reduced the bags to a portable size; some attacked a kneading trough, and made a booty of the dough; a few had made a prize of a bolting cloth, which they raised in the air as in triumph, and, in addition to all, men, women, and children were covered with a cloud of white powder.
While this shop was so ransacked, none of the others in the city remained quiet, or free from danger. But at none had the people assembled in such numbers as to be very daring; in some, the owners had provided auxiliaries, and were on the defensive; in others, the owners less strong in numbers, and more affrighted, endeavoured to compromise matters; they distributed bread to those who crowded around their shops, and thus got rid of them. And these did not depart so much because they were content with the acquisition, as from fear of the halberdiers and officers of justice, who were now scattered throughout the city, in companies sufficient to keep these little bands of mutineers in subjection. In the mean time the tumult and the crowd increased in front of the unfortunate bakery, as the strength of the populace had here the advantage. Things were in this situation, when Renzo, coming from the eastern gate, approached, without knowing it, the scene of tumult. Hurried along by the crowd, he endeavoured to extract from the confused shouting of the throng some more positive information of the real state of affairs.
“Now the infamous imposition of these rascals is discovered,” said one; “they said there was neither bread, flour, nor corn. Now we know things just as they are, and they can no longer deceive us.”
“I tell you that all this answers no purpose,” said another; “it will do no good unless justice be done to us. Bread will be cheap enough, ’tis true, but they will put poison in it to make the poor die like flies. They have already said we are too numerous, I know they have; I heard it from one of my acquaintances, who is a friend of a relation of a scullion of one of the lords.”
“Make way, make way, gentlemen, I beseech you; make way for a poor father of a family who is carrying bread to five children!” This was said by one who came staggering under the weight of a bag of flour.
“I,” said another, in an under tone, to one of his companions, “I am going away. I am a man of the world, and I know how these things go. These clowns, who now make so much noise, will prove themselves cowards to-morrow. I have already perceived some among the crowd who are taking note of those who are present, and when all is over, they will make up the account, and the guilty will pay the penalty.”
“He who protects the bakers,” cried a sonorous voice, which attracted the attention of Renzo, “is the superintendent of provisions.”
“They are all rogues,” said a neighbour.
“Yes, but he is the chief,” replied the one who had first spoken.
The superintendent of provisions, elected every year by the governor from a list of seven nobles formed from the council of ten, was the president of the court of provision, which, composed of twelve nobles, had, with other duties, that of superintending the corn for the citizens. Persons in such a station would naturally, in times of starvation and ignorance, be considered as the authors of all the evil.
“Cheats!” exclaimed another; “can they do worse? They have had the audacity to say that the high chancellor is a childish old man, and they wish to take the government into their own hands. We ought to make a great coop, and put them in, to feed upon dry peas and cockleweed, as they would fain have us do.”
While listening to such observations as the above, Renzo continued to make his way through the crowd, and at last arrived in front of the bakery. On viewing its dilapidated and ruinous state, after the assault just sustained, “This cannot be a good deed,” thought he: “if they treat all the bake-houses in this manner, where will they make bread?”
From time to time, some were seen issuing from the house, loaded with pieces of chests, or troughs, or a bench, basket, or some other relic of the poor building, and crying, “Make way, make way!” passed through the crowd. These were all carried in the same direction, and it appeared to a place agreed upon. Renzo’s curiosity being excited, he followed one who carried a bundle of pieces of board and chips on his shoulder, and found that he took the direction of the cathedral. On passing it, the mountaineer could not avoid stopping a moment to gaze with admiring eyes on the magnificent structure. He then quickened his steps to rejoin him whom he had taken as a guide, and, keeping behind him, they drew near the middle of the square. The crowd was here more dense, but they opened a way for the carrier, and Renzo, skilfully introducing himself in the void left by him, arrived with him in the very midst of the multitude. Here there was an open space, in the centre of which was a bonfire, a heap of embers, the remains of the tools mentioned above; surrounding it was heard a clapping of hands and stamping of feet, the tumult of a thousand cries of triumph and imprecation.
He of the boards threw them on the embers, and some, with pieces of half-burnt shovel, stirred them until the flame ascended, upon which their shouts were renewed louder than before. The flame sank again, and the company, for want of more combustibles, began to be weary, when a report spread, that at the Cordusio (a square or cross-way not far from there) they were besieging a bakery: then was heard on all sides, “Let us go, let us go;” and the crowd moved on. Renzo was drawn along with the current, but in the mean while held counsel with himself, whether he had not best withdraw from the fray, and return to the convent in search of Father Bonaventura; but curiosity again prevailed, and he suffered himself to be carried forward, with the determination, however, of remaining a mere spectator of the scene.
The multitude passed through the short and narrow street of Pescheria, and thence by the crooked arch to the square de’ Mercanti. Here there were very few, who, in passing before the niche that divides towards the centre the terrace of the edifice then called the College of Doctors, did not give a slight glance at the great statue contained in it of Philip II., who even from the marble imposed respect, and who, with his arm extended, appeared to be menacing the populace for their rebellion.
This niche is now empty, and from a singular circumstance. About one hundred and sixty years after the events we are now relating, the head of the statue was changed, the sceptre taken from its hand, and a dagger substituted in its place, and beneath it was writtenMarcus Brutus. Thus inserted it remained perhaps a couple of years, until one day, some persons, who had no sympathies with Marcus Brutus, but rather an aversion to him, threw a rope around the statue, pulled it down, and, reducing it to a shapeless mass, dragged it, with many insulting gestures, beyond the walls of the city. Who would have foretold this to Andrea Biffi when he sculptured it?
From the square de’ Mercanti, the clamorous troop at length arrived at the Cordusio. Each one immediately looked towards the shop; but, instead of the crowd of friends which they expected to find engaged on its demolition, there were but a few, at a distance from the shop, which was shut, and defended from the windows by armed people. They fell back, and there was a murmur through the crowd of unwillingness to risk the hazard of proceeding, when a voice was heard to cry aloud, “Near by is the house of the superintendent of provision; let us do justice, and plunder it.” There was a universal acceptance of the proposal, and “To the superintendent’s! to the superintendent’s!” was the only sound that could be heard. The crowd moved with unanimous fury towards the street where the house, named in such an evil moment, was situated.
The unfortunate superintendent was at this moment painfully digesting his miserable dinner, whilst awaiting anxiously the termination of this hurricane; he was, however, far from suspecting that its greatest fury was to be spent on himself. Some benevolent persons hastened forward to inform him of his urgent peril. The servants, drawn to the door by the uproar, beheld, in affright, the dense mass advancing. While they listened to the friendly notice, the vanguard appeared; one hastily informed his master; and while he, for a moment, deliberated upon flight, another came to say there was no longer time for it; in hurry and confusion they closed and barricadoed the windows and the doors. The howling without increased; each corner of the house resounded with it; and in the midst of the vast and mingled noise was heard, fearfully and distinctly, the blows of stones upon the door. “The tyrant! the tyrant! the causer of famine! we must have him, living or dead!”
The poor man wandered from room to room in a state of insupportable alarm, commending himself to God, and beseeching his servants to be firm, and to find for him some way of escape! He ascended to the highest floor, and, from an opening between the garret and the roof, he looked anxiously out upon the street, and beheld it filled with the enraged populace; more appalled than ever, he withdrew to seek the most secure and secret hiding-place. Here, concealed, he listened intently to ascertain if at any time the importunate transport of passion should weaken, if the tumult should in any degree subside; but his heart died within him to hear the uproar continue with aggravated and savage ferocity.
Renzo at this time found himself in the thickest of the confusion, not now carried there by the press, but by his own inclination. At the first proposal of blood-shedding, he felt his own curdle in his veins; as to the plundering, he was not quite certain whether it was right or wrong; but the idea of murder caused him unmixed horror. And although he was greatly persuaded that the vicar was the primary cause of the famine, the grand criminal, still, having, at the first movement of the crowd, heard, by chance, some expressions which indicated a willingness to make any effort to save him, he had suddenly determined to aid such a work, and had therefore pressed near the door, which was assailed in a thousand ways. Some were pounding the lock to break it in pieces; others assisted with stakes, and chisels, and hammers; others, again, tore away the plastering, and beat in pieces the wall, in order to effect a breach. The rest, who were unable to get near the house, encouraged by their shouts those who were at the work of destruction; though, fortunately, through the eagerness with which they pressed forward, they impeded its progress.
The magistrates, who were the first to have notice of the fray, despatched a messenger to ask military aid of the commander of the castle, which was then called, from the gate, Giovia; and he forthwith detached a troop, which arrived when the house was encompassed with the throng, and undergoing its tremendous assault; and was therefore obliged to halt at a distance from it, and at the extremity of the crowd. The officer who commanded it did not know what course to pursue; at the order to disperse and make way, the people replied by a deep and continued murmur, but no one moved. To fire on the crowd appeared not only savage, but perilous, inasmuch as the most harmless might be injured, and the most ferocious only irritated, and prepared for further mischief; and moreover his instructions did not authorise it. To break the crowd, and go forward with his band to the house, would have been the best, if success could have been certain; but who could tell if the soldiers could proceed united and in order? The irresolution of the commander seemed to proceed from fear: the populace were unmoved by the appearance of the soldiers, and continued their attacks on the house. At a little distance there stood an ill-looking, half-starved old man, who, contracting an angry countenance to a smile of diabolical complacency, brandished above his hoary head a hammer, with which he said he meant to nail the vicar to the posts of his door, alive as he was.
“Oh, shame! shame!” exclaimed Renzo. “Shame! would you take the hangman’s business out of his hand? to assassinate a Christian? How can you expect God will give us bread, if we commit such iniquity? He will send us his thunders, and not bread!”
“Ah! dog! ah! traitor to the country!” cried one who had heard these words, turning to Renzo with the countenance of a demon. “It is a servant of the vicar’s disguised like a countryman; it is a spy!” A hundred voices were heard exclaiming, “Who is it? where is he?”—“A servant of the vicar’s—a spy—the vicar himself, escaping in the disguise of a peasant!”—“Where is he? where is he?”
Renzo would have shrunk into nothingness,—some of the more benevolent contrived to help him to disappear through the crowd; but that which preserved him most effectually was a cry of “Make way, here comes our help, make way!” which attracted the attention of the throng.
This was a long scaling ladder, supported by a few persons who were endeavouring to penetrate the living mass, and by which they meant to gain entrance to the house. But, happily, this was not easy of execution; the length of the machine precluded the possibility of its being carried easily through such a multitude; it came, however, just in time for Renzo, who profited by the confusion, and escaped to a distance, with the intention of making his way, as soon as he could, to the convent, in search of Father Bonaventura.
Suddenly a new movement began at one extremity, and diffused itself through the crowd:—“Ferrer, Ferrer!” resounded from every side. Some were surprised, some rejoiced, some were exasperated, some applauded, some affirmed, some denied, some blessed, some cursed!
“Is he here? It is not true; it is not true. Yes, yes, long live Ferrer, he who makes bread cheap.—No, no! He is here—here in a carriage! Why does he come?—we don’t want him.—Ferrer! long live Ferrer! the friend of the poor! he comes to take the vicar prisoner.—No, no, we would revengeourselves, we would fight our own battles; back, back.—Yes, yes, Ferrer! Let him come! to prison with the vicar!”
At the extremity of the crowd, on the side opposite to that where the soldiers were, Antonio Ferrer, the high chancellor, was approaching in his carriage, who, probably condemning himself as the cause of this commotion, had come to avert at least its most terrific and irreparable effects, to spend worthily a popularity unworthily acquired.
In popular tumults there are always some who, from heated passion, or fanaticism, or wicked design, do what they can to push things to the worst; proposing and promoting the most barbarous counsels, and assisting to stir the fire whenever it appears to slacken. But, on the other hand, there are always those who, perhaps with equal ardour, and equal perseverance, employ their efforts for the production of contrary effects; some led by friendship or partiality for the persons in danger, others without other impulse than that of horror of bloodshed and atrocity. The mass, then, is ever composed of a mixed assemblage, who, by indefinite gradations, hold to one or the other extreme; prompt to rage or compassion, to adoration or execration, according as the occasion presents itself for the developement of either of these sentiments:lifeanddeathare the words involuntarily uttered, and with equal facility; and he who succeeds in persuading them that such an one does not deserve to be quartered, has but little more to do, to convince them that he ought to be carried in triumph.
While these various interests were contending for superiority in the mob, before the house of the vicar, the appearance of Antonio Ferrer gave instantly a great advantage to the humane, who were manifestly yielding to the greater strength of the ferocious and blood-thirsty. The man himself was acceptable to the multitude, from his having previously favoured their cause, and from his heroic resistance to any arguments against it. Those already favourably inclined towards him were now much more affected by the courageous confidence of an old man, who, without guards or retinue, came thus to confront an angry and stormy multitude. The announcement that his purpose was to take the vicar prisoner, produced at once a wonderful effect; and the fury against that unhappy person, which would have been aggravated by any attempt at defiance, or refusal of concession, now, with the promise of satisfaction, and, to speak in the Milanese fashion, with this bone in the mouth, became in a degree appeased, and gave place to other opposite sentiments, which began to prevail over their minds.
The partisans of peace, having recovered breath, aided Ferrer in various ways; those who were near him, while endeavouring by their own to perpetuate the general applause, sought at the same time to keep off the crowd, so as to open a passage for the carriage; others applauded and repeated his words, or such as appeared appropriate to his undertaking and his peril; imposed silence on the obstinately furious, or contrived to turn againstthemthe anger of the fickle assembly. “Who is it that will not say, Long live Ferrer? You don’t wish bread to be cheap, then, eh? They are rogues who are not willing to receive justice at the hands of a Christian, and there are some among them who cry louder than the rest, to allow the vicar to escape. To prison with the superintendent! Long live Ferrer! Make way for Ferrer!” The numbers of those who spoke in this manner increasing continually, the numbers of the opposite party diminished in proportion; so that the former, from admonishing, had recourse to blows, in order to silence those who were still disposed to pursue the work of destruction. The menaces and threatenings of the weaker party were of no longer avail; the cause of blood had ceased to predominate, and in its place were heard only the cries of “Prison, justice, Ferrer!” The rebellious spirits were finally silenced: the remainder took possession of the door, in order to defend it from fresh attacks, and also to prepare a passage for Ferrer; and some among them called to those within (openings were not wanting) that succour had arrived, and that the vicar must get ready “to go quickly—to prison—hem! do you hear?”
“Is this the Ferrer who helps in making the proclamations?” asked our Renzo of one of his new neighbours, remembering thevidit Ferrerathat the doctor had shown him appended to the famous proclamation, and which he had reiterated in his ears with so great a degree of pertinacity.
“The same, the high chancellor,” replied he.
“He is a worthy man, is he not?”
“He is more than worthy; it is he who has lowered the price of bread, against the wishes of others in power, and now he comes to carry the vicar to prison, because he has not acted justly.”
It is unnecessary to say, that Renzo’s feelings were immediately enlisted on the side of Ferrer. He was desirous to approach near him, but the undertaking was no easy one; however, with the decision and strength of a mountaineer, he continued to elbow himself through the crowd, and finally reached the side of the carriage.
The carriage had already penetrated into the midst of the crowd, but was here suddenly stopped by one of those obstructions, the unavoidable consequence of a journey like this. The aged Ferrer presented, now at one window of his carriage, now at the other, a countenance full of humility, of sweetness, and benevolence; a countenance which he had always kept in reserve for the day in which he should appear before Don Philip IV.; but he was constrained to make use of it on this occasion. He spoke; but the noise and buzzing of so many voices, and the shouts of applause which they bestowed on him, allowed but little of his discourse to be heard. He had recourse also to gestures; now placing his fingers on his lips, to take from thence a kiss, which his enclosed hands distributed to right and left, as if to render thanks for the favour with which the public regarded him; then he extended them, waving them slowly beyond the window as if to entreat a little space; and now again lowering them politely, as if to request a little silence. When he had succeeded in obtaining, in some measure, his last request, those who were nearest to him heard and repeated his words:—“Bread, abundance. I come to do justice; a little space, if you please.” Then, as if stifled and suffocated with the press, and the continual buzzing of so many voices, he threw himself back in the carriage, and with difficulty drawing a long breath, said to himself, “Por mi vida, que de gente.”[5]
“Long live Ferrer; there is no occasion for fear; you are a brave man. Bread! bread!”
“Yes, bread, bread,” replied Ferrer, “in abundance!Ipromise you, I do,” placing his hand on his heart. “Clear a passage for me,” added he, then, in the loudest voice he could command; “I come to carry him to prison, to inflict on him a just punishment;” and he added, in a very low tone, “Si esta culpable.”[6]Then leaning forward to the coachman, he said hastily, “Adelante, Pedro, si puedes.”[7]