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Chapter IXChapter IX
Chapter IX
The striking of the boat against the shore aroused Lucia, who, after
secretly drying her tears, raised her head as if she were just awaking. Renzo
jumped out first, and gave his hand successively to Agnese and Lucia; and then
they all turned, and sorrowfully thanked the boatman. `Nothing, nothing; we
are place here to help one another,` answered he; and he withdrew his hand,
almost with a movement of horror, as if it had been proposed to him to rob,
when Renzo tried to slip in one or two of the coins he had about him, and
which he had brought in his pocket with the intention of generously requiting
Don Abbondio, when he should, though against his will, have rendered the
desired assistance. The cart stood waiting for them; the driver saluted the
three expected travellers, and bid them get in; and then, with his voice and a
stroke of the whip, he started the animal and set forward.
Our author does not describe this nocturnal journey, and is silent as to
the name of the town to which the little company were directing their steps;
or rather, he expressly says, he will not give the name. In the course of the
story, the reason of all this mystery appears. The adventures of Lucia in this
abode involve a dark intrigue of a person belonging to a family still
powerful, as it appears, at the time our author wrote. To account for the
strange conduct of this person in the particular instance he relates, he has
been obliged chiefly to recount her early life; and there the family makes the
figure which our readers will see. Hence the poor man`s great circumspection.
And yet (how people sometimes forget themselves!) he himself, without being
aware of it, has opened a way of discovering, with certainty, what he had
taken such great pains to keep concealed. In one part of the account, which we
will omit as not being necessary to the integrity of the story, he happens to
say that this place was an ancient and noble borough, which wanted nothing but
the name to be a city; he then inadvertently mentions that the river Lambro
runs through it: and, again, that it was the seat of an arch - presbyter. With
these indications, there is not in all Europe a moderately - learned man, who
will not instantly exclaim, `Monza!` We could also propose some very well -
founded conjectures in the name of the family; but, although the object of our
conjectures has been some time extinct, we consider it better to be silent on
this head, not to run the risk of wronging even the dead, and to leave some
subject of research for the learned.
Our travellers reached Monza shortly after sun - rise; the driver turned
into an inn, and, as if at home in the place and well acquainted with the
landlord, ordered a room for the newly - arrived guests, and accompanied them
thither. After many acknowledgments, Renzo tried to induce him to receive some
reward; but he, like the boatman, had in view another, more distant, but more
abundant recompense; he put his hands behind him, and making his escape went
to look after his horse,
After such a night as we have described, and as every one may imagine,
the greatest part spent in mournful thoughts, with the constant dread of some
unforeseen misfortune, in the melancholy silence of night, in the sharpness of
a more than autumnal air, and amid the frequent jolts of the incommodious
vehicle, which rudely shook the weary frames of our travellers, they soon felt
themselves overpowered with sleep, and availed themselves of a sofa that stood
in an adjoining room to take a little repose. They then partook together of a
frugal meal, such as the poverty of the times would allow, and scanty in
proportion to the contingent wants of an uncertain future, and their own
slender appetite. One after another they remembered the banquet which, two
days before, they had hoped to enjoy; and each in turn heaved a deep sigh.
Renzo would gladly have stayed there, at least for that day, to have seen the
two women provided for, and to have given them his services, but the Father
had recommended them to send him on his way as quickly as possible. They
alleged, therefore, these orders, and a hundred other reasons; - people would
gossip - the longer the separation was delayed, the more painful it would be -
he could come again soon, to give and learn news; - so that, at last, the
youth determined to go. Their plans were then more definitely arranged; Lucia
did not attempt to hide her tears; Renzo could scarcely restrain his; and,
warmly pressing Agnese`s hand, he said, in an almost choked voice, `Farewell,
till we meet again!` and set off.
The women would have found themselves much at a loss, had it not been for
the good driver, who had orders to guide them to the convent, and to give them
any direction and assistance they might stand in need of. With this escort,
then, they took their way to the convent, which, as every one knows, was a
short distance outside the town of Monza. Arrived at the door, their conductor
rang the bell, and asked for the guardian, who quickly made his appearance,
and received the letter.
`Oh brother Cristoforo!` said he, recognizing the handwriting, the tone
of his voice and the expression of his face evidently indicating that he
uttered the name of an intimate friend. It might easily be seen, too, that our
good friar had in this letter warmly recommended the women, and related their
case with much feeling, for the guardian kept making gestures of surprise and
indignation, and raising his eyes from the paper, he would fix them upon the
women with a certain expression of pity and interest. When he had finished
reading it, he stood for a little while thoughtful, and then said to himself,
`There is no one but the Signora - if the Signora would take upon herself this
charge.` He then drew Agnese a few steps aside in the little square before the
convent; asked her a few questions, which she answered satisfactorily, and
then, turning towards Lucia, addressed them both: `My good women, I will try;
and I hope I shall be able to find you a retreat more than secure, more than
honourable, until it shall please God to provide for you in some better way.
Will you come with me?
The women reverently bowed assent, and the friar continued; `Come with me
to the convent of the Signora. Keep, however, a few steps behind me, because
people delight to speak evil, and no one knows what fine stories they would
make out, if they were to see the Father - guardian walking with a beautiful
young girl . . . with women, I mean to say.`
So saying, he moved forward. Lucia blushed, their guide smiled, and
glanced at Agnese, who betrayed, also, a momentary smile, and when the friar
had gone a few steps, they followed him at about ten yards distance. The women
then asked their guide what they did not dare say to the Father - guardian,
who was the Signora.
`The Signora,` replied he, `is a nun; but she is not like the other nuns.
Not that she is either the Abbess, or the Prioress; for, from what they say,
she is one of the youngest there: but she is from Adam`s rib, and she is of an
ancient and high family in Spain, where some of them now are princes; and
therefore they call her the Signora, to show that she is a great lady: and all
the country call her by this name, for they say there never was her equal in
this monastery before; and even now, down at Milan, her family ranks very
high, and is held in great esteem; and in Monza still more so, because her
father, though he does not live here, is the first man in the country; so that
she can do what she pleases in the convent; and all the country - people bear
her a great respect; and if she undertakes a business she is sure to succeed
in it; so that if this good monk before us is fortunate enough to get you in
to her hands, and she takes you under her protection, I dare venture to say
you will be as safe as at the altar.`
On reaching the gate of the town, flanked at that time by an ancient
ruined tower, and a fragment of a demolished castle, which, perhaps, some few
of my readers may still remember to have seen standing, the guardian stopped,
and looked behind to see if they were following; he then passed through, and
went on to the convent, and when he reached it, stopped again at the doorway,
and waited for the little party. He then begged the guide to come again to the
convent, to take back a reply; he promised to do so, and took his leave of the
women, who loaded him with thanks and messages to Father Cristoforo. The
guardian, bidding them go into the first court of the monastery, ushered them
into the apartments of the portress, to whom he recommended them, and went
forward alone to make his request. After a few moments, he returned, and, with
a joyful manner, told them to come with him; and his reappearance was just a -
propos, for they were beginning to find it difficult to ward off the pressing
interrogations of the portress. While traversing the inner court, the Father
instructed the women how they must behave to the Signora. `She is well -
disposed towards you,` said he, `and may be of much service to you. Be humble
and respectful, reply with frankness to the questions she may please to put;
and when you are not questioned, leave it to me.` They then passed through a
lower room to the parlour of the convent; and before entering, the guardian,
pointing to the door, said to the women in an undertone, `She is there;` as if
to remind them of the lessons he had been giving. Lucia, who had never before
seen a monastery, looked round the room, on entering, for the Signora to whom
she was to make obeisance, and perceiving no one, she stood perplexed; but
seeing the Father advance, and Agnese following, she looked in that direction,
and observed an almost square aperture, like a half - window, grated with two
large thick iron bars, distant from each other about a span, and behind this a
nun was standing. Her countenance, which showed her to be about twenty - five
years old, gave the impression, at a first glance, of beauty, but of beauty
worn, faded, and, one might almost say, spoiled. A black veil, stiffened and
stretched quite flat upon her head, fell on each side and stood out a little
way from her face; under the veil, a very white linen band half covered a
forehead of different but not inferior whiteness; a second band, in folds,
down each side of the face, crossed under the chin, encircled the neck, and
was spread a little over the breast to conceal the opening of a black dress.
But this forehead was wrinkled every now and then, as if by some painful
emotion, accompanied by the rapid movement of two jet - black eyebrows.
Sometimes she would fix two very dark eyes on another`s face with a piercing
look of haughty investigation, and then again would hastily lower them, as if
seeking a hiding - place. One moment, an attentive observer would imagine they
were soliciting affection, intercourse, pity; at another, he would gather
thence a momentary revelation of ancient and smothered hatred - of some
indescribable, fierce disposition; and when they remained immovably fixed
without attention, some might have imagined a proud indifference, while others
would have suspected the labouring of some secret thought, the overpowering
dominion of an idea familiar to her mind, and more engrossing than surrounding
objects. Her pale cheeks were delicately formed, but much altered and shrunk
by a gradual extenuation. Her lips, though scarcely suffused with a faint
tinge of the rose, stood out in contrast with this paleness, and, like her
eyes, their movements were sudden, quick, and full of expression and mystery.
The well - formed tallness of her figure disappeared in the habitual stoop of
her carriage, or was disfigured by certain quick and irregular starts, which
betrayed too resolute an air for a woman, still more for a nun. In her very
dress, there was a display of either particularity or negligence, which
betokened a nun of singular character; her head - dress was arranged with a
kind of worldly carefulness, and from under the band around her head the end
of a curl of glossy black hair appeared upon her temple, betraying either
forgetfulness, or contempt of the rule which required them always to keep the
hair closely shaven. It was cut off first at the solemn ceremony of their
admission.
These things made no impression on the minds of the two women;
inexperienced in distinguishing nun from nun; and the Father - guardian had so
frequently seen the Signora before, that he was already accustomed, like many
others, to the singularities in manner and dress which she displayed.
She was standing, as we have said, near the grated window, languidly
leaning on it with one hand, twining her delicately - white fingers in the
interstices, and with her head slightly bent downwards, surveying the
advancing party. `Reverend mother and most illustrious Signora,` said the
guardian, bowing his head, and laying his right hand upon his breast, `this is
the poor young girl to whom you have encouraged me to hope you will extend
your valuable protection; and this is her mother.`
Agnese and Lucia reverently curtseyed: the Signora beckoning to them with
her hand that she was satisfied, said, turning to the Father, `It is fortunate
for me that I have it in my power to serve our good friends the Capuchin
Fathers in any matter. But,` continued she, `will you tell me a little more
particularly the case of this young girl, so that I may know better what I
ought to do for her?`
Lucia blushed, and held down her head.
`You must know, reverend mother . . .` began Agnese; but the guardian
silenced her with a glance, and replied, `This young girl, most illustrious
lady, has been recommended to me, as I told you, by a brother friar. She has
been compelled secretly to leave her country to avoid great dangers, and wants
an asylum for some time where she may live retired, and where no one will dare
molest her, even when . . .`
`What dangers?` interrupted the Signora. `Be good enough, Father, not to
tell me the case so enigmatically. You know that we nuns like to hear stories
minutely.`
`They are dangers,` replied the guardian, `which scarcely ought to be
mentioned ever so delicately in the pure ears of the reverend mother . . .`
`Oh, certainly!` replied the Signora, hastily, and slightly colouring.
Was it modesty? One who would have observed the momentary expression of
vexation which accompanied this blush might have entertained some doubt of it,
especially if he had compared it with that which diffused itself from time to
time on the cheeks of Lucia.
`It is enough,` resumed the guardian, `that a powerful nobleman . . . not
all of the great people of the world use the gifts of God to his glory and for
the good of their neighbours, as you illustrious ladyship has done . . . a
powerful cavalier, after having for some time persecuted this poor girl with
base flatteries, seeing that they were useless, had the heart openly to
persecute her by force, so that the poor thing has been obliged to fly from
her home.`
`Come near, young girl,` said the Signora to Lucia, beckoning to her with
her hand. `I know that the Father - guardian is truth itself; but no one can
be better informed in this business than yourself. It rests with you to say
whether this cavalier was an odious persecutor.`
As to approaching, Lucia instantly obeyed, but to answer, was another
matter. An inquiry on this subject even when proposed by an equal, would have
put her into confusion; but made by the Signora, and with a certain air of
malicious doubt, it deprived her of courage to reply. `Signora . . . mother
. . . reverend . . .` stammered she, but she seemed to have nothing more to
say. Agnese, therefore, as being certainly the best informed after her, here
thought herself authorized to come to her succour. `Most illustrious Signora,`
said she, `I can bear full testimony that my daughter hated this cavalier, as
the devil hates holy water. I should say, he is the devil himself; but you
will excuse me if I speak improperly, for we are poor folk, as God made us.
The case is this: that my poor girl was betrothed to a youth in her own
station, a steady man, and one who fears God; and if the Signor - Curato had
been what he ought to be . . . I know I am speaking of a religious man, but
Father Cristoforo, a friend here of the Father - guardian, is a religious man
as well as he; and that`s the man that`s full of kindness; and if he were here
he could attest . . .`
`You are very ready to speak without being spoken to,` interrupted the
Signora, with a haughty and angry look, which made her seem almost hideous.
`Hold your tongue! I know well enough that parents are always ready with an
answer in the name of their children!`
Agnese drew back, mortified, giving Lucia a look which meant to say, See
what I get by your not knowing how to speak. The guardian then signified to
her, with a glance and a movement of his head, that now was the moment to
arouse her courage, and not to leave her poor mother in such a plight.
`Reverend lady,` said Lucia, `what my mother has told you is exactly the
truth. The youth who paid his addresses to me` (and here she coloured crimson)
`I chose with my own good will. Forgive me, if I speak too boldly, but it is
that you may not think ill of my mother. And as to this Signor, (God forgive
him!) I would rather die than fall into his hands. And if you do us the
kindness to put us in safety, since we are reduced to the necessity of asking
a place of refuge, and of inconveniencing worthy people, (but God`s will be
done!) be assured, lady, that no one will pray for you more earnestly and
heartily than we poor women.`
`I believe you,` said the Signora, in a softened tone. `But I should like
to talk to you alone. Not that I require further information, nor any other
motives to attend to the wishes of the Father - guardian,` added she, hastily,
and turning towards him with studied politeness. `Indeed,` continued she, `I
have already thought about it; and this is the best plan I can think of for
the present. The portress of the convent has, a few days ago, settled her last
daughter in the world. These women can occupy the room she has left at
liberty, and supply her place in the trifling services she performed in the
monastery. In truth . . .` and here she beckoned to the guardian to approach
the grated window, and continued, in an under - voice: `In truth, on account
of the scarcity of the times, it was not intended to substitute any one in the
place of that young woman; but I will speak to the Lady Abbess; and at a word
from me . . . at the request of the Father - guardian . . . in short, I give
the place as a settled thing.`
The guardian began to return thanks, but the Signora interr,pted him:
`There is no need of ceremony: in a case of necessity I should not hesitate to
apply for the assistance of the Capuchin Fathers. In fact,` continued she,
with a smile, in which appeared an indescribable air of mockery and
bitterness; `in fact, are we not brothers and sisters?`
So saying, she called a lay - sister, (two of whom were, by a singular
distinction, assigned to her private service,) and desired her to inform the
Abbess of the circumstance; then sending for the portress to the door of the
cloister, she concerted with her and Agnese the necessary arrangements.
Dismissing her, she bade farewell to the guardian, and detained Lucia. The
guardian accompanied Agnese to the door, giving her new instructions by the
way, and went to write his letter of report to his friend Cristoforo. `An
extraordinary character, that Signora!` thought he, as he walked home: `Very
curious! But one who knows the right way to go to work, can make her do
whatever he pleases. My good friend Cristoforo certainly does not expect that
I can serve him so quickly and so well. That noble fellow! There is no help
for it: he must always have something in hand. But he is doing good. It is
well for him this time, that he has found a friend who has brought the affair
to a good conclusion in a twinkling, without so much noise, so much
preparation, so much ado. This good Cristoforo will surely be satisfied, and
see that even we here are good for something.`
The Signora, who, in the presence of a Capuchin of advanced age, had
studied her actions and words, now, when left tete - a - tete with an
inexperienced country girl, no longer attempted to restrain herself; and her
conversation became by degrees so strange, that, instead of relating it, we
think it better briefly to narrate the previous history of this unhappy
person: so much, that is, as will suffice to account for the unusual and
mysterious conduct we have witnessed in her, and to explain the motives of her
behaviour in the facts which we shall be obliged to relate.
She was the youngest daughter of the Prince * * *, a Milanese nobleman,
who was esteemed one of the richest men of the city. But the unbounded idea he
entertained of his title made his property appear scarcely sufficient, nay,
even too limited to maintain a proper appearance; and all his attention was
turned towards keeping it, at least, such as it was, in one line, so far as it
depended upon himself. How many children he had does not appear from history:
it merely records that he had designed all the younger branches of both sexes
for the cloister that he might leave his property entire to the eldest son,
destined to perpetuate the family: that is, bring up children that he might
torment himself in tormenting them after his father`s example. Our unhappy
Signora was yet unborn when her condition was irrevocably determined upon. It
only remained to decide whether she should be a monk or a nun, a decision, for
which, not her assent, but her presence, was required. When she was born, the
Prince, her father, wishing to give her a name that would always immediately
suggest the idea of a cloister and which had been borne by a saint of high
family, called her Gertrude. Dolls dressed like nuns were the first playthings
put into her hands; then images in nuns` habits, accompanying the gift with
admonitions to prize them highly, as very precious things, and with that
affirmative interrogation, `Beautiful, eh?` When the Prince, or the Princess,
or the young prince, the only one of the sons brought up at home, would
represent the happy prospects of the child, it seemed as if they could find no
other way of expressing their ideas than by the words, `What a lady - abbess!`
No one, however, directly said to her, `You must become a nun.` It was an
intention understood and touched upon incidentally in every conversation
relating to her future destiny. If at any time the little Gertrude indulged in
rebellious or imperious behaviour, to which her natural disposition easily
inclined her, `You are a naughty little girl,` they would say to her: `this
behaviour is very unbecoming. When you are a lady - abbess, you shall then
command with the rod: you can then do as you please.` On another occasion, the
Prince reproving her for her too free and familiar manners, into which she
easily fell: `Hey! hey!` he cried; `they are not becoming to one of your rank.
If you wish some day to engage the respect that is due to you, learn from
henceforth to be more reserved: remember you ought to be in everything the
first in the monastery, because you carry your rank wherever you go.`
Such language imbued the mind of the little girl with the implicit idea
that she was to be a nun; but her father`s words had more effect upon her than
all the others put together. The manners of the Prince were habitually those
of an austere master, but when treating of the future prospects of his
children, there shone forth in every word and tone an immovability of
resolution which inspired the idea of a fatal necessity.
At six years of age, Gertrude was placed for education, and still more as
a preparatory step towards the vocation imposed upon her, in the monastery
where we have seen her; and the selection of the place was not without design.
The worthy guide of the two women has said that the father of the Signora was
the first man in Monza; and, comparing this testimony, whatever it may be
worth, with some other indications which our anonymous author unintentionally
suffers to escape here and there, we may very easily assert that he was the
feudal head of that country. However it may be, he enjoyed here very great
authority, and thought that here, better than elsewhere, his daughter would be
treated with that distinction and deference which might induce her to choose
this monastery as her perpetual abode. Nor was he deceived: the then abbess
and several intriguing nuns, who had the management of affairs, finding
themselves entangled in some disputes with another monastery, and with a noble
family of the country, were very glad of the acquisition of such a support,
received with much gratitude the honour bestowed upon them, and fully entered
into the intentions of the Prince concerning the permanent settlement of his
daughter; intentions on every account entirely consonant with their interests.
Immediately on Gertrude`s entering the monastery, she was called by
Antonomasia, the Signorina.^1 A separate place was assigned her at table, and
a private sleeping apartment; her conduct was proposed as an example to
others; indulgences and caresses were bestowed upon her without end,
accompanied with that respectful familiarity so attractive to children when
observed in those whom they see treating other children with an habitual air
of superiority. Not that all the nuns had conspired to draw the poor child
into the snare; many there were of simple and undesigning minds, who would
have shrunk with horror from the thought of sacrificing a child to interested
views; but all of them being intent on their several individual occupations,
some did not notice all these manoeuvres, others did not discern how dishonest
they were; some abstained from looking into the matter, and others were silent
rather than give useless offence. There was one, too, who, remembering how she
had been induced by similar arts to do what she afterwards repented of, felt a
deep comparison for the poor little innocent, and showed that compassion by
bestowing on her tender and melancholy caresses, which she was far from
suspecting were tending towards the same result; and thus the affair
proceeded. Perhaps it might have gone on thus to the end, if Gertrude had been
the only little girl in the monastery; but among her school - fellows, there
were some who knew they were designed for marriage. The little Gertrude,
brought up with high ideas of her superiority, talked very magnificently of
her future destiny as abbess and principal of the monastery; she wished to be
an object of envy to the others on every account, and saw with astonishment
and vexation that some of them paid no attention to all her boasting. To the
majestic, but circumscribed and cold, images the headship of a monastery could
furnish, they opposed the varied and bright pictures of a husband, guests,
routs, towns, tournaments, retinues, dress, and equipages. Such glittering
visions roused in Gertrude`s mind that excitement and ardour which a large
basket - full of freshly gathered flowers would produce if placed before a bee
- hive. Her parents and teachers had cultivated and increased her natural
vanity, to reconcile her to the cloisters; but when this passion was excited
by ideas so much calculated to stimulate it, she quickly entered into them
with a more lively and spontaneous ardour. That she might not be below her
companions, and influenced at the same time by her new turn of mind, she
replied that, at the time of the decision, no one could compel her to take the
veil without her consent; that she too, could marry, live in palace, enjoy the
world, and that better than any of them; that she could if she wished it, that
she would if she wished it; and that, in fact, she did wish it. The idea of
the necessity of her consent, which hitherto had been, as it were, unnoticed,
and hidden in a corner of her mind, now unfolded and displayed itself in all
its importance. On every occasion she called it to her aid, that she might
enjoy in tranquillity the images of a self - chosen future. Together with this
idea, however, there invariably appeared another; that the refusal of this
consent involved rebellion against her father, who already believed it, or
pretended to believe it, a decided thing; and at this remembrance, the child`s
mind was very far from feeling the confidence which her words proclaimed. She
would then compare herself with her companions, whose confidence was of a far
different kind, and experienced lamentably that envy of their condition which,
at first, she endeavoured to awaken in them. From envy she changed to hatred;
which she displayed in contempt, rudeness, and sarcastic speeches; while,
sometimes, the conformity of her inclinations and hopes with theirs,
suppressed her spite, and created in her an apparent and transient friendship.
At times, longing to enjoy something real and present, she would feel a
complacency in the distinctions accorded to her, and make others sensible of
this superiority; and then, again, unable to tolerate the solitude of her
fears and desires, she would go in search of her companions, her haughtiness
appeased, almost, indeed, imploring of them kindness, counsel, and
encouragement. In the midst of such pitiable warfare with herself and others,
she passed her childhood, and entered upon that critical age at which an
almost mysterious power seems to take possession of the soul, arousing,
refreshing, invigorating all the inclinations and ideas, and sometimes
transforming them, or turning them into some unlooked - for channel. That
which, until now, Gertrude had most distinctly figured in these dreams of the
future, was external splendour and pomp; a something soothing and kindly,
which, from the first, was lightly, and, as it were, mistily, diffused over
her mind, now began to spread itself and predominate in her imagination. I
took possession of the most secret recesses of her heart, as of a gorgeous
retreat; hither she retired from present objects; here she entertained various
personages strangely compounded of the confused remembrances of childhood, the
little she had seen of the external world, and what she had gathered in
conversations with her companions; she entertained herself with them, talked
to them, and replied in their name; here she gave commands, and here she
received homage of every kind. At times, the thoughts of religion would come
to disturb these brilliant and toilsome revels. But religion, such as it had
been taught to this poor girl, and such as she had received it, did not
prohibit pride, but rather sanctified it, and proposed it as a means of
obtaining earthly felicity. Robbed thus of its essence, it was no longer
religion, but a phantom like the rest. In the intervals in which this phantom
occupied the first place, and ruled in Gertrude`s fancy, the unhappy girl,
oppressed by confused terrors, and urged by an indefinite idea of duty
imagined that her repugnance to the cloister, and her resistance to the wishes
of her superiors in the choice of her state of life, was a fault; and she
resolved in her heart to expiate it, by voluntarily taking the veil.
[Footnote 1: The young lady.]
It was a rule, that, before a young person could be received as a nun,
she should be examined by an ecclesiastic, called the vicar of the nuns, or by
some one deputed by him; that it might be seen whether the lot were her
deliberate choice or not; and this examination could not take place for a year
after she had, by a written request, signified her desire to the vicar. Those
nuns who had taken upon themselves the sad office of inducing Gertrude to bind
herself for ever with the least possible consciousness of what she was doing,
seized one of the moments we have described to persuade her to write and sign
a memorial. And, in order the more easily to persuade her to such a course,
they failed not to affirm and impress upon her, what, indeed, was quite true,
that, after all, it was a mere formality, which could have no effect, without
other and posterior steps, depending entirely upon her own will. Nevertheless
the memorial had scarcely reached its destination, before Gertrude repented
having written it. The she repented of these repentances; and thus days and
months were spent in an incessant alternation of wishes and regrets. For a
long while she concealed this act from her companions; sometimes from fear of
exposing her good resolution to opposition and contradiction, at others from
shame at revealing her error; but, at last, the desire of unburdening her
mind, and of seeking advice and encouragement, conquered.
Another rule was this: that a young girl was not to be admitted to this
examination upon the course of life she had chosen, until she had resided for
at least a month out of the convent where she had been educated. A year had
almost passed since the presentation of this memorial; and it had been
signified to Gertrude that she would shortly be taken from the monastery, and
sent to her father`s house, for this one month, there to take all the
necessary steps towards the completion of the work she had really begun. The
Prince, and the rest of the family, considered it an assured thing, as if it
had already taken place. Not so, however, his daughter; instead of taking
fresh steps, she was engaged in considering how she could withdraw the first.
In her perplexity, she resolved to open her mind to one of her companions, the
most sincere and always the readiest to give spirited advice. She advised
Gertrude to inform her father, by letter, that she had changed her mind, since
she had not the courage to pronounce to his face, at the proper time, a bold I
will not. And as gratuitous advice in this world is very rare, the counsellor
made Gertrude pay for this by abundance of raillery upon her want of spirit.
The letter was agreed upon with three or four confidantes, written in private,
and despatched by means of many deeply - studied artifices. Gertrude waited
with great anxiety for a reply; but none came; excepting that, a few days
afterwards, the Abbess, taking her aside, with an air of mystery, displeasure,
and compassion, let fall some obscure hints about the great anger of her
father, and a wrong step she must have been taking; leaving her to understand,
however, that if she behaved well, she might still hope that all would be
forgotten. The poor young girl understood it, and dared not venture to ask any
further explanation.
At last, the day so much dreaded, and so ardently wished for, arrived.
Although Gertrude knew well enough that she was going to a great struggle, yet
to leave the monastery, to pass the bounds of those walls in which she had
been for eight years immured, to traverse the open country in a carriage, to
see once more the city and her home, filled her with sensations of tumultuous
joy. As to the struggle with the direction of her confidantes, she had already
taken her measures, and concerted her plans. Either they will force me,
thought she, and then I will be immovable - I will be humble and respectful,
but will refuse; the chief point is not to pronounce another `Yes,` and I will
not pronounce it. Or they will catch me with good words; and I will be better
than they; I will weep, I will implore, I will move them to pity; at last will
only entreat that I may not be sacrificed. But, as it often happens in similar
cases of foresight, neither one nor the other supposition was realized. Days
passed, and neither her father, nor any one else, spoke to her about the
petition, or the recantation; and no proposal was made to her, with either
coaxing or threatening. Her parents were serious, sad, and morose, towards
her, without ever giving a reason for such behaviour. It was only to be
understood that they regarded her as faulty and unworthy; a mysterious
anathema seemed to hang over her, and divide her form the rest of her family,
merely suffering so much intercourse as was necessary to make her feel her
subjection. Seldom, and only at certain fixed hours, was she admitted to the
company of her parents and elder brother. In the conversations of these three
there appeared to reign a great confidence, which rendered the exclusion of
Gertrude doubly sensible and painful. No one addressed her; and if she
ventured timidly to make a remark, unless very evidently called for, her words
were either unnoticed, or were responded to by a careless, contemptuous, or
severe look. If unable any longer to endure so bitter and humiliating a
distinction, she sought and endeavoured to mingle with the family, and
implored a little affection; she soon heard some indirect but clear hint
thrown out about her choice of a monastic life, and was given to understand
that there was one way of regaining the affection of the family; and since she
would not accept of it on these conditions, she was obliged to draw back, to
refuse the first advances towards the kindness she so much desired, and to
continue in her state of excommunication; continue in it, too, with a certain
appearance of being to blame.
Such impressions from surrounding objects painfully contradicted the
bright visions with which Gertrude had been so much occupied, and which she
still secretly indulged in her heart. She had hoped that, in her splendid and
much - frequented home, she should have enjoyed at least some real taste of
the pleasures she had so long imagined; but she found herself woefully
deceived. The confinement was as strict and close at home as in the convent;
to walk out for recreation was never even spoken of; and a gallery that led
from the house to an adjoining church, obviated the sole necessity there might
have been to go into the street. The company was more uninteresting, more
scarce, and less varied than in the monastery. At every announcement of a
visitor, Gertrude was obliged to go upstairs, and remain with some old woman
in the service of the family; and here she dined whenever there was company.
The domestic servants concurred in behaviour and language with the example and
intentions of their master; and Gertrude, who by inclination would have
treated them with lady - like unaffected familiarity; and who, in the rank in
which she was placed, would have esteemed it a favour if they had shown her
any little mark of kindness as an equal, and even have stooped to ask it, was
now humbled and annoyed at being treated with a manifest indifference,
although accompanied by a slight obsequiousness of formality. She could not,
however, but observe, that one of these servants, a page, appeared to bear her
a respect very different to the others, and to feel a peculiar kind of
compassion for her. The behaviour of this youth approached more nearly than
anything she had yet seen to the state of things that Gertrude had pictured to
her imagination, and more resembled the doings of her ideal characters. By
degrees, a strange transformation was discernible in the manners of the young
girl; there appeared a new tranquillity, and at the same time a restlessness,
differing from her usual disquietude; her conduct was that of one who had
found a treasure which oppresses him, which he incessantly watches, and hides
from the view of others. Gertrude kept her eyes on this page more closely than
ever; and, however it came to pass, she was surprised one unlucky morning by a
chamber - maid, while secretly folding up a letter, in which it would have
been better had she written nothing. After a brief altercation, the maid got
possession of the letter, and carried it to her master. The terror of Gertrude
at the sound of his footsteps, may be more easily imagined than described. It
was her father; he was irritated, and she felt herself guilty. But when he
stood before her with that frowning brow, and the ill - fated letter in his
hand, she would gladly have been a hundred feet under ground, not to say in a
cloister. His words were few, but terrible; the punishment named at the time
was only to be confined in her own room under the charge of the maid who had
made the discovery; but this was merely a foretaste, a temporary provision; he
threatened, and left a vague promise of some other obscure, undefined, and
therefore more dreadful punishment.
The page was, of course, immediately dismissed, and was menaced with
something terrible, if ever he should breathe a syllable about the past. In
giving him this intimation, the Prince seconded it with two solemn blows, to
associate in his mind with this adventure a remembrance that would effectually
remove every temptation to make a boast of it. Some kind of pretext to account
for the dismissal of a page was not difficult to find; as to the young lady,
it was reported that she was ill.
She was now left to her fears, her shame, her remorse, and her dread of
the future; with the sole company of this woman, whom she hated as the witness
of her guilt, and the cause of her disgrace. She, in her turn, hated Gertrude,
by whom she was reduced, she knew not for how long, to the wearisome life of a
jailer, and had become for ever the guardian of a dangerous secret.
The first confused tumult of these feelings subsided by degrees; but each
remembrance recurring by turns to her mind, was nourished there, and remained
to torment her more distinctly, and at leisure. Whatever could the punishment
be, so mysteriously threatened? Many, various, and strange, were the ideas
that suggested themselves to the ardent and inexperienced imagination of
Gertrude. The prospect that appeared most probable was, that she would be
taken back to the monastery at Monza, no longer to appear as the Signorina,
but as a guilty person, to be shut up there - who knew how long! who knew with
what kind of treatment! Among the many annoyances of such a course, perhaps
the most annoying was the dread of the shame she should feel. The expressions,
the words, the very commas of the unfortunate letter, were turned over and
over in her memory: she fancied them noticed and weighed by a reader so
unexpected, so different from the one to whom they were destined in reply; she
imagined that they might have come under the view of her mother, her brother,
or indeed any one else; and by comparison, all the rest seemed to her a mere
nothing. The image of him who had been the primary cause of all this offence
failed not also frequently to beset the poor recluse; and it is impossible to
describe the strange contrast this phantasm presented to those around her; so
dissimilar, so serious, reserved, and threatening. But, since she could not
separate his image from theirs, nor turn for a moment to those transient
gratifications, without her present sorrows, as the consequence of them,
suggesting themselves to her mind, she began, by degrees to recall them less
frequently, to repel the remembrance of them, and wean herself from such
thoughts. She no longer willingly indulged in the bright and splendid fancies
of her earlier days; they were too much opposed to her real circumstances, and
to every probability for the future. The only castle in which Gertrude could
conceive a tranquil and honourable retreat, which was not in the air, was the
monastery, if she could make up her mind to enter it for ever. Such a
resolution, she could not doubt, would have repaired everything, atoned for
every fault, and changed her condition in a moment. Opposed to this proposal,
it is true, rose up the plans and hopes of her whole childhood; but times were
changed; and in the depths to which Gertrude had fallen, and in comparison of
what, at times, she so much dreaded, the condition of a nun, respected,
revered and obeyed, appeared to her a bright prospect. Two sentiments of very
different character, indeed, contributed at intervals, to overcome her former
aversion: sometimes remorse for a fault, and a capricious sensibility of
devotion; and at other times, her pride embittered and irritated by the
manners of her jailer, who (often, it must be confessed, provoked to it)
revenged herself now by terrifying her with the prospect of the threatened
punishment, or taunting her with the disgrace of her fault. When, however, she
chose to be benign, she would assume a tone of protection, still more odious
than insult. On these different occasions, the wish that Gertrude felt to
escape from her clutches, and to raise herself to a condition above either her
anger or pity, became so vivid and urgent, that it made everything which could
lead to such an end appear pleasant and agreeable.
At the end of four or five long days of confinement, Gertrude, disgusted
and exasperated beyond measure by one of these sallies of her guardian, went
and sat down in a corner of the room, and covering her face with her hands,
remained for some time secretly indulging her rage. She then felt an
overbearing longing to see some other faces, to hear some other words, to be
treated differently. She thought of her father, of her family; and the idea
made her shrink back in horror. But she remembered that it only depended upon
her to make them her friends; and this remembrance awakened a momentary joy.
Then there followed a confused and unusual sorrow for her fault, and an equal
desire to expiate it. Not that her will was already determined upon such a
resolution, but she had never before approached it so near. She rose from her
seat, went to the table, took up the fatal pen, and wrote a letter to her
father, full of enthusiasm and humiliation, of affliction and hope, imploring
his pardon, and showing herself indefinitely ready to do anything that would
please him who alone could grant it.
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