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Chapter IChapter I
Chapter I
That branch of the lake of Como, which extends towards the south, is
enclosed by two unbroken chains of mountains, which, as they advance and
recede, diversify its shores with numerous bays and inlets. Suddenly the lake
contracts itself, and takes the course and form of a river, between a
promontory on the right, and a wide open shore on the opposite side. The
bridge which there joins the two banks seems to render this transformation
more sensible to the eye, and marks the point where the lake ends, and the
Adda again begins - soon to resume the name of the lake, where the banks
receding afresh, allow the water to extend and spread itself in new gulfs and
bays.
The open country, bordering the lake, formed of the alluvial deposits of
three great torrents, reclines upon the roots of two contiguous mountains, one
named San Martino, the other, in the Lombard dialect, Il Resegone, because of
its many peaks seen in profile, which in truth resemble the teeth of a saw so
much so, that no one at first sight, viewing it in front (as, for example,
from the northern bastions of Milan), could fail to distinguish it by this
simple description, from the other mountains of more obscure name and ordinary
form in that long and vast chain. For a considerable distance the country
rises with a gentle and continuous ascent; afterwards it is broken into hill
and dale, terraces and elevated plains, formed by the intertwining of the
roots of the two mountains, and the action of the waters. The shore itself,
intersected by the torrents, consists for the most part of gravel and large
flints; the rest of the plain, of fields and vineyards, interspersed with
towns, villages, and hamlets: other parts are clothed with woods, extending
far up the mountain.
Lecco, the principal of these towns, giving its name to the territory, is
at a short distance from the bridge, and so close upon the shore, that, when
the waters are high, it seems to stand in the lake itself. A large town even
now, it promises soon to become a city. At the time the events happened which
we undertake to recount, this town, already of considerable importance, was
also a place of defence, and for that reason had the honour of lodging a
commander, and the advantage of possessing a fixed garrison of Spanish
soldiers, who taught modesty to the damsels and matrons of the country;
bestowed from time to time marks of their favour on the shoulder of a husband
or a father; and never failed, in autumn, to disperse themselves in the
vineyards, to thin the grapes, and lighten for the peasant the labours of the
vintage.
From one to the other of these towns, from the heights to the lake, from
one height to another, down through the little valleys which lay between,
there ran many narrow lanes or mule - paths, (and they still exist,) one while
abrupt and steep, another level, another pleasantly sloping, in most places
enclosed by walls built of large flints, and clothed here and there with
ancient ivy, which, eating with its roots into the cement, usurps its place,
and binds together the wall it renders verdant. For some distance these lanes
are hidden, and as it were buried between the walls, so that the passenger,
looking upwards, can see nothing but the sky and the peaks of some
neighbouring mountain: in other places they are terraced: sometimes they skirt
the edge of a plain, or project from the face of a declivity, like a long
staircase, upheld by walls which flank the hillsides like bastions, but in the
pathway rise only the height of a parapet - and here the eye of the traveller
can range over varied and most beautiful prospects. On one side he commands
the azure surface of the lake, and the inverted image of the rural banks
reflected in the placid wave; on the other, the Adda, scarcely escaped from
the arches of the bridge, expands itself anew into a little lake, then is
again contracted, and prolongs to the horizon its bright windings; upward, -
the massive piles of the mountains, overhanging the head of the gazer; below,
- the cultivated terrace, the champaign, the bridge; opposite, - the further
bank of the lake, and, rising from it, the mountain boundary.
Along one of these narrow lanes, in the evening of the 7th of November,
in the year 1628, Don Abbondio . . . curate of one of the towns alluded to
above, was leisurely returning home from a walk, (our author does not mention
the name of the town - two blanks already!) He was quietly repeating his
office, and now and then, between one psalm and another, he would shut the
breviary upon the fore - finger of his right hand, keeping it there for a
mark; then, putting both his hands behind his back, the right (with the closed
book) in the palm of the left, he pursued his way with downcast eyes, kicking,
from time to time, towards the wall the flints which lay as stumbling - blocks
in the path. Thus he gave more undisturbed audience to the idle thoughts which
had come to tempt his spirit, while his lips repeated, of their own accord,
his evening prayers. Escaping from these thoughts, he raised his eyes to the
mountain which rose opposite; and mechanically gazed on the gleaming of the
scarcely set sun, which, making its way through the clefts of the opposite
mountain, was thrown upon the projecting peaks in large unequal masses of rose
- coloured light. The breviary open again, and another portion recited, he
reached a turn, where he always used to raise his eyes and look forward; and
so he did to-day. After the turn, the road ran straight forward about sixty
yards, and then divided into two lanes, Y fashion - the right hand path
ascended towards the mountain, and led to the parsonage: the left branch
descended through the valley to a torrent: and on this side the walls were not
higher than about two feet. The inner walls of the two ways, instead of
meeting so as to form an angle, ended in a little chapel, on which were
depicted certain figures, long, waving, and terminating in a point. These, in
the intention of the artist, and to the eyes of the neighbouring inhabitants,
represented flames. Alternately with the flames were other figures -
indescribable, meant for souls in purgatory, souls and flames of brick -
colour on a grey ground enlivened with patches of the natural wall, where the
plaster was gone. The curate, having turned the corner, and looked forward, as
was his custom, towards the chapel, beheld an unexpected sight, and one he
would not willingly have seen. Two men, one opposite the other, were stationed
at the confluence, so to say, of the two ways: one of them was sitting across
the low wall, with one leg dangling on the outer side, and the other
supporting him in the path: his companion was standing up, leaning against the
wall, with his arms crossed on his breast. Their dress, their carriage, and so
much of their expression as could be distinguished at the distance at which
the curate stood, left no doubt about their condition. Each had a green net on
his head, which fell upon the left shoulder, and ended in a large tassel.
Their long hair, appearing in one large lock upon the forehead: on the upper
lip two long mustachios, curled at the end: their doublets, confined by bright
leathern girdles, from which hung a brace of pistols: a little horn of powder,
dangling round their necks, and falling on their breasts like a necklace: on
the right side of their large and loose pantaloons, a pocket, and from the
pocket the handle of a dagger: a sword hanging on the left, with a large
basket - hilt of brass, carved in cipher, polished and gleaming: - all, at a
glance, discovered them to be individuals of the species bravo.
This order, now quite extinct, was then most flourishing in Lombardy, and
already of considerable antiquity. Has any one no clear idea of it? Here are
some authentic sketches, which may give him a distinct notion of its principal
characteristics, of the means put in force to destroy it, and of its obstinate
vitality.
On the 8th of April, 1583, the most Illustrious and Excellent Signor Don
Carlo d`Aragon, Prince of Castelvetrano, Duke of Terranuova, Marquis of Avola,
Count of Burgeto, grand Admiral, and grand Constable of Sicily, Governor of
Milan, and Captain - General of His Catholic Majesty in Italy, being fully
informed of the intolerable misery in which this city of Milan has lain, and
does lie, by reason of bravoes and vagabonds, publishes a ban against them,
declares and defines all those to be included in this ban, and to be held
bravoes and vagabonds who, whether foreigners or natives, have no occupation,
or having it do not employ themselves in it . . . but without salary, or with,
engage themselves, to any cavalier or gentleman, officer or merchant . . . to
render them aid and service, or rather, as may be presumed, to lay wait
against others . . . all these he commands, that, within the term of six days,
they should evacuate the country, threatens the galleys to the refractory, and
grants to all officials the most strangely ample and indefinite power of
executing the order. But the following year, on the 12th of April, this same
Signor, perceiving that this city is completely full of the said bravoes . . .
returned to live as they had lived before, their customs wholly unchanged, and
their numbers undiminished, issues another hue and cry, more vigorous and
marked, in which, among other ordinances, he prescribes - That whatsoever
person, as well as inhabitant of this city as a foreigner, who by the
testimony of two witnesses, should appear to be held and commonly reputed a
bravo, and to have that name, although he cannot be convicted of having
committed any crime . . . for this reputation of being a bravo alone, without
any other proof, may, by the said judges, and by every individual of them, be
put to the rack and torture, for process of information . . . and although he
confess no crime whatever, notwithstanding, he shall be sent to the galleys
for the said three years, for the sole reputation and name of bravo, as
aforesaid. All this and more which is omitted, because His Excellency is
resolved to be obeyed by every one.
At hearing such brave and confident words of so great a Signor,
accompanied too with many penalties, one feels much inclined to suppose that,
at the echo of their rumblings, all the bravoes had disappeared for ever. But
the testimony of a Signor not less authoritative, nor less endowed with names,
obliges us to believe quite the contrary. The most Illustrious and most
Excellent Signor Juan Fernandez de Velasco, Constable of Castile, Grand
Chamberlain of his Majesty, Duke of the city of Frias, Count of Haro and
Castelnovo, Lord of the House of Velasco, and that of the Seven Infantas of
Lara, Governor of the State of Milan, &c., on the 5th of June, 1593, he also,
fully informed of how much loss and destruction . . . bravoes and vagabonds
are the cause, and of the mischief such sort of people effects against the
public weal, in despite of justice, warns them anew, that within the term of
six days, they are to evacuate the country, repeating almost word for word,
the threats and penalties of his predecessor. On the 23rd of May, in a
subsequent year, 1598, being informed, with no little displeasure of mind,
that . . . every day, in this city and state, the number of these people
(bravoes and vagabonds) is on the increase, and day and night nothing is heard
of them but murder, homicide, robbery, and crimes of every kind, for which
there is greater facility, because these bravoes are confident of being
supported by their great employers . . . he prescribes anew the same remedies,
increasing the dose, as men do in obstinate maladies. Let every one, then, he
concludes, be wholly on his guard against contravening in the least the
present proclamation; for, instead of experiencing the clemency of His
Excellency, he will experience the rigour of his anger . . . he being resolved
and determined that this shall be the last and peremptory admonition.
Not, however, of this opinion was the most Illustrious and most Excellent
Signor, Il Signor Don Pietro Enriquez de Acevedo, Count of Fuentes, Captain
and Governor of the State of Milan; not of this opinion was he, and for good
reasons. Being fully informed of the misery in which this city and state lies
by reason of the great number of bravoes which abound in it . . . and being
resolved wholly to extirpate a plant so pernicious, he issues, on the 5th of
December, 1600, a new admonition, full of severe penalties, with a firm
purpose, that, with all rigour, and without any hope of remission, they shall
be fully carried out.
We must believe, however, that he did not apply himself to this matter
with that hearty good will which he knew how to employ in contriving cabals
and exciting enemies against his great enemy, Henry IV. History informs us
that he succeeded in arming against that king the Duke of Savoy, and caused
him to lose a city. He succeeded also in engaging the Duke of Biron on his
behalf, and caused him to lose his head; but as to this pernicious plant of
bravoes, certain it is that it continued to blossom till the 22nd of
September, 1612. On that day the most Illustrious Signor Don Giovanni de
Mendosa, Marquis of Hynojosa, Gentleman, &c., Governor, &c., had serious
thoughts of extirpating it. To this end he sent the usual proclamation,
corrected and enlarged, to Pandolfo and Marco Tullio Molatesti, associated
printers to His Majesty, with orders to print it to the destruction of the
bravoes. Yet they lived to receive on the 24th of December, 1618, similar and
more vigorous blows from the most Illustrious and most Excellent Signor, the
Signor Don Gomez Suarez di Figueroa, Duke of Feria, &c., Governor, &c.
Moreover, they not being hereby done to death, the most Illustrious and most
Excellent Signor, the Signor Gonzala Fernandez di Cordova, (under whose
government these events happened to Don Abbondio,) had found himself obliged
to recorrect and republish the usual proclamation against the bravoes, on the
5th day of October, 1627; i.e. one year one month and two days before this
memorable event.
Nor was this the last publication. We do not feel bound, however, to make
mention of those which ensued, as they are beyond the period of our story. We
will notice only one of the 13th of February, 1632, in which the most
Illustrious and most Excellent Signor the Duke of Feria, a second time
governor, signifies to us that the greatest outrages are caused by those
denominated bravoes.
This suffices to make it pretty certain, that at the time of which we
treat, there was as yet no lack of bravoes.
That the two described above were on the lookout for some one, was but
too evident; but what more alarmed Don Abbondio was, that he was assured by
certain signs that he was the person expected; for, the moment he appeared,
they exchanged glances, raising their heads with a movement which plainly
expressed that both at once had exclaimed, `Here`s our man!` He who bestrode
the wall got up, and brought his other leg into the path: his companion left
leaning on the wall, and both began to walk towards him. Don Abbondio, keeping
the breviary open before him, as if reading, directed his glance forward to
watch their movements. He saw them advancing straight towards him: multitudes
of thoughts, all at once, crowded upon him; with quick anxiety he asked
himself, whether any pathway to the right or left lay between him and the
bravoes; and quickly came the answer, - no. He made a hasty examination, to
discover whether he had offended some great man, some vindictive neighbour;
but even in this moment of alarm, the consoling testimony of conscience
somewhat reassured him. Meanwhile the bravoes drew near, eyeing him fixedly.
He put the fore finger and middle finger of his left hand up to his collar, as
if to settle it, and running the two fingers round his neck he turned his head
backwards at the same time, twisting his mouth in the same direction, and
looked out of the corner of his eyes as far as he could, to see whether any
one was coming; but he saw no one. He cast a glance over the low wall into the
fields - no one; another, more subdued, along the path forward - no one but
the bravoes. What is to be done? turn back? It is too late. Run? It was the
same as to say, follow me, or worse. Since he could not escape the danger, he
went to meet it. These moments of uncertainty were already so painful, he
desired only to shorten them. He quickened his pace, recited a verse in a
louder tone, composed his face to a tranquil and careless expression, as well
as he could, used every effort to have a smile ready; and when he found
himself in the presence of the two good men, exclaiming mentally, `here we
are!` he stood still. `Signor Curato!` said one, staring in his face.
`Who commands me?` quickly answered Don Abbondio, raising his eyes from
the book, and holding it open in both hands.
`You intend,` continued the other, with the threatening angry brow of one
who has caught an inferior committing some grievous fault, `you intend, to -
morrow, to marry Renzo Tramaglino and Lucia Mondella!`
`That is . . .` replied Don Abbondio, with a quivering voice, - `That is
. . . You, gentlemen, are men of the world, and know well how these things go.
A poor curate has nothing to do with them. They patch up their little treaties
between themselves, and then . . . then, they come to us, as one goes to the
bank to make a demand; and we . . . we are servants of the community.`
`Mark well,` said the bravo, in a lower voice but with a solemn tone of
command, `this marriage is not to be performed, not to - morrow, nor ever.`
`But, gentlemen,` replied Don Abbondio, with the soothing, mild tone of
one who would persuade an impatient man, `be so kind as put yourselves in my
place. If the thing depended on me . . . you see plainly that it is no
advantage to me . . .`
`Come, come,` interrupted the bravo; `if the thing were to be decided by
prating, you might soon put our heads in a poke. We know nothing about it, and
we don`t want to know more. A warned man . . . you understand.`
`But gentlemen like you are too just, too reasonable . . .`
`But,` (this time the other companion broke in, who had not hitherto
spoken) - `but the marriage is not to be performed, or . . .` here a great
oath - `or he who performs it will never repent, because he shall have no time
for it . . .` another oath.
`Silence, silence,` replied the first orator: `the Signor Curato knows
the way of the world, and we are good sort of men, who don`t wish to do him
any harm, if he will act like a wise man. Signor Curato, the Illustrious
Signor Don Rodrigo, our master, sends his kind respects.`
To the mind of Don Abbondio this name was like the lightning flash in a
storm at night, which, illuminating for a moment and confusing all objects,
increases the terror. As by instinct he made a low bow, and said, "If you
could suggest . . .`
`Oh! suggest is for you who know Latin,` again interrupted the bravo,
with a smile between awkwardness and ferocity; "it is all very well for you.
But, above all, let not a word be whispered about this notice that we have
given you for your good, or . . . Ehem! . . . it will be the same as marrying
them. - Well, what will your Reverence that we say for you to the Illustrious
Signor Don Rodrigo?`
`My respects.`
`Be clear, Signor Curato.`
`. . . Disposed . . . always disposed to obedience.` And having said
these words, he did not himself well know whether he had given a promise, or
whether he had only sent an ordinary compliment. The bravoes took it, and
showed that they took it, in the more serious meaning.
`Very well - good evening, Signor Curato,` said one of them, leading his
companion away.
Don Abbondio, who a few moments before would have given one of his eyes
to have got rid of them, now wished to prolong the conversation and modify the
treaty; - in vain they would not listen, but took the path along which he had
come, and were soon out of sight, singing a ballad, which I do not choose to
transcribe. Poor Don Abbondio stood for a moment with his mouth open, as if
enchanted: and then he too departed, taking that path which led to his house,
and hardly dragging one leg after the other, with a sensation of walking on
crab - claws, and in a frame of mind which the reader will better understand,
after having learnt somewhat more of the character of this personage, and of
the sort of times in which his lot was cast.
Don Abbondio - the reader may have discovered it already - was not born
with the heart of a lion. Besides this, from his earliest years, he had had
occasion to learn, that the most embarrassing of all conditions in those
times, was that of an animal, without claws, and without teeth, which yet,
nevertheless, had no inclination to be devoured.
The arm of the law by no means protected the quiet inoffensive man, who
had no other means of inspiring fear. Not, indeed, that there was any want of
laws and penalties against private violence. Laws came down like hail; crimes
were recounted and particularized with minute prolixity; penalties were
absurdly exorbitant; and if that were not enough, capable of augmentation in
almost every case, at the will of the legislator himself and of a hundred
executives; the forms of procedure studied only how to liberate the judge from
every impediment in the way of passing a sentence of condemnation; the
sketches we have given of the proclamations against the bravoes are a feeble
but true index of this. Notwithstanding, or rather in great measure for this
reason, these proclamations, republished and reenforced by one government
after another, served only to attest most magniloquently the impotence of
their authors; or if they produced any immediate effect, it was for the most
part to add new vexations to those already suffered by the peaceable and
helpless at the hands of the turbulent, and to increase the violence and
cunning of the latter. Impunity was organized and implanted so deeply that its
roots were untouched, or at least unmoved, by these proclamations. Such were
the asylums, such were the privileges of certain classes, privileges partly
recognized by law, partly borne with envious silence, or decried with vain
protests, but kept up in fact, and guarded by these classes, and by almost
every individual in them, with interested activity and punctilious jealousy.
Now, impunity of this kind, threatened and insulted, but not destroyed by the
proclamations, was naturally obliged, on every new threat and insult, to put
in force new powers and new schemes to preserve its own existence. So it fell
out in fact; and on the appearance of a proclamation for the restraint of the
violent, these sought in their power new means more apt in effecting that
which the proclamations forbade. The proclamations, indeed, could accomplish
at every step the molestation of a good sort of men, who had neither power
themselves nor protection from others; because, in order to have every person
under their hands, to prevent or punish every crime, they subjected every
movement of private life to the arbitrary will of a thousand magistrates and
executives. But whoever, before committing a crime, had taken measures to
secure his escape in time to a convent or a palace, where the birri^1 had
never dared to enter; whoever (without any other measures) bore a livery which
called to his defence the vanity and interest of a powerful family or order,
such an one was free to do as he pleased, and could set at nought the clamour
of the proclamations. Of those very persons to whom the enforcing of them was
committed, some belonged by birth to the privileged class, some were dependent
on it, as clients; both one and the other by education, interest, habit, and
imitation, had embraced its maxims, and would have taken good care not to
offend it for the sake of a piece of paper pasted on the corners of the
streets. The men entrusted with the immediate execution of the decrees, had
they been enterprising as heroes, obedient as monks, and devoted as martyrs,
could not have had the upper hand, inferior as they were in number to those
with whom they would have been engaged in battle, with the probability of
being frequently abandoned, or even sacrificed, by those who abstractedly, or
(so to say) in theory, set them to work. But besides this, these men were,
generally, chosen from the lowest and most rascally classes of those times:
their office was held base even by those who stood most in fear of it, and
their title a reproach. It was therefore but natural that they, instead of
risking, or rather throwing away, their lives in an impracticable undertaking,
should take pay for inaction, or even connivance at the powerful, and reserve
the exercise of their execrated authority and diminished power for those
occasions, where they could oppress, without danger, i.e. by annoying pacific
and defenceless persons.
[Footnote 1: i.e., the armed police.]
The man who is ready to give and expecting to receive offence every
moment, naturally seeks allies and companions. Hence the tendency of
individuals to unite into classes was in these times carried to the greatest
excess; new societies were formed, and each man strove to increase the power
of his own party to the greatest degree. The clergy were on the watch to
defend and extend their immunities; the nobility their privileges, the
military their exemptions. Tradespeople and artisans were enrolled in
subordinate confraternities, lawyers constituted a league, and even doctors a
corporation. Each of these little oligarchies had its own peculiar power; in
each the individual found it an advantage to avail himself, in proportion to
their authority and vigour, of the united force of the many. Honest men
availed themselves of this advantage for defence; the evil - disposed and
sharp - witted made use of it to accomplish deeds of violence, for which their
personal means were insufficient, and to ensure themselves impunity. The
power, however, of these various combinations was very unequal; and especially
in the country, a rich and violent nobility, having a band of bravoes, and
surrounded by a peasantry accustomed by immemorial tradition, and compelled by
interest or force, to look upon themselves as soldiers of their lords,
exercised a power against which no other league could have maintained
effectual resistance.
Our Abbondio, not noble, not rich, not courageous, was therefore
accustomed from his very infancy to look upon himself as a vessel of fragile
earthenware, obliged to journey in company with many vessels of iron. Hence he
had very easily acquiesced in his parents` wish to make him a priest. To say
the truth, he had not reflected much on the obligations and noble ends of the
ministry to which he was dedicating himself: to ensure something to live upon
with comfort, and to place himself in a class revered and powerful, seemed to
him two sufficient reasons for his choice. But no class whatever provides for
an individual, or secures him, beyond a certain point: and none dispenses him
from forming his own particular system.
Don Abbondio, continually absorbed in thoughts about his own security,
cared not at all for those advantages which risked a little to secure a great
deal. His system was to escape all opposition, and to yield where he could not
escape. In all the frequent contests carried on around him between the clergy
and laity, in the perpetual collision between officials and the nobility,
between the nobility and magistrates, between bravoes and soldiers, down to
the pitched battle between two rustics, arising from a word, and decided with
fists or poniards, an unarmed neutrality was his chosen position. If he were
absolutely obliged to take a part, he favoured the stronger, always, however,
with a reserve, and an endeavour to show the other that he was not willingly
his enemy. It seemed as if he would say, `Why did you not manage to be
stronger? I would have taken your side then.` Keeping a respectful distance
from the powerful; silently bearing their scorn, when capriciously shown in
passing instances; answering with submission when it assumed a more serious
and decided form; obliging, by his profound bows and respectful salutations,
the most surly and haughty to return him a smile, when he met them by the way;
the poor man had performed the voyage of sixty years without experiencing any
very violent tempests.
It was not that he had not too his own little portion of gall in his
disposition: and this continual exercise of endurance, this ceaseless giving
reasons to others, these many bitter mouthfuls gulped down in silence, had so
far exasperated it, that had he not an opportunity sometimes of giving it a
little of its own way, his health would certainly have suffered. But since
there were in the world, close around him, some few persons whom he knew well
to be incapable of hurting, upon them he was able now and then to let out the
bad humour so long pent up, and take upon himself (even he) the right to be a
little fantastic, and to scold unreasonably. Besides, he was a rigid censor of
those who did not guide themselves by his rules; that is, when the censure
could be passed without any, the most distant, danger. Was any one beaten? he
was at least imprudent; - any one murdered? he had always been a turbulent
meddler. If any one, having tried to maintain his right against some powerful
noble, came off with a broken head, Don Abbondio always knew how to discover
some fault; a thing not difficult, since right and wrong are never divided
with so clean a cut, that one party has the whole of either. Above all, he
declaimed against any of his brethren, who, at their own risk, took the part
of the weak and oppressed against the powerful oppressor. This he called
paying for quarrels, and giving one`s legs to the dogs: he even pronounced
with severity upon it, as a mixing in profane things, to the loss of dignity
to the sacred ministry. Against such men he dicoursed (always, however, with
his eyes about him, or in a retired corner) with greater vehemence in
proportion as he knew them to be strangers to anxiety about their personal
safety. He had, finally, a favourite sentence, with which he always wound up
discourses on these matters, that a respectable man who looked to himself, and
minded his own business, could always keep clear of mischievous quarrels.
My five - and - twenty readers may imagine what impression such an
encounter as has been related above would make on the mind of this pitiable
being. The fearful aspect of those faces; the great words; the threats of a
Signor known for never threatening in vain; a system of living in quiet, the
patient study of so many years, upset in a moment; and, in prospect, a path
narrow and rugged, from which no exit could be seen, - all these thoughts
buzzed about tumultuously in the downcast head of Don Abbondio. `If Renzo
could be dismissed in peace with a mere no, it is all plain; but he would want
reasons; and what am I to say to him? and - and - and he is a lamb, quiet as a
lamb if no one touches him, but if he were contradicted . . . whew! and then -
out of his senses about this Lucia, in love over head and . . . These young
men, who fall in love for want of something to do, will be married, and think
nothing about other people, they do not care anything for the trouble they
bring upon a poor curate. Unfortunate me! What possible business had these two
frightful figures to put themselves in my path, and interfere with me? Is it I
who want to be married? Why did they not rather go and talk with . . . Let me
see: what a great misfortune it is that the right plan never comes into my
head till it is too late! If I had but thought of suggesting to them to carry
their message to . . .` But at thi
point it occurred to him that to repent of
not having been aider and abettor in iniquity, was itself iniquitous; and he
turned his angry thoughts upon the man who had come, in this manner, to rob
him of his peace. He knew Don Rodrigo only by sight and by report; nor had he
had to do with him further than to make a lowly reverence when he had chanced
to meet him. It had fallen to him several times to defend this Signor against
those who, with subdued voice and looks of fear, wished ill to some of his
enterprises. He had said a hundred times that he was a respectable cavalier;
but at this moment he bestowed upon him all those epithets which he had never
heard applied by others without an exclamation of disapprobation. Amid the
tumult of these thoughts he reached his own door - hastily applied the key
which he held in his hand, opened, entered, carefully closed it behind him,
and anxious to find himself in trust - worthy company, called quickly,
`Perpetua, Perpetua!` as he went towards the dining - room, where he was sure
to find Perpetua laying the cloth for supper.
Perpetua, as every one already knows, was Don Abbondio`s servant, a
servant affectionate and faithful, who knew how to obey and command in turn as
occasion required - to bear, in season, the grumblings and fancies of her
master, and to make him bear the like when her turn came; which day by day
recurred more frequently, since she had passed the sinodal age of forty,
remaining single, because, as she said herself, she had refused all offers, or
because she had never found any one goose enough to have her, as her friends
said.
`I am coming,` replied Perpetua, putting down in its usual place a little
flask of Don Abbondio`s favourite wine, and moving leisurely. But before she
reached the door of the dining - room, he entered, with a step so unsteady,
with an expression so overcast, with features so disturbed, that there had
been no need of Perpetua`s experienced eye to discover at a glance that
something very extraordinary had happened.
`Mercy! what has happened to you, master?`
`Nothing, nothing,` replied Don Abbondio, sinking down breathless on his
arm - chair.
`How nothing! Would you make me believe this, so disordered as you are?
Some great misfortune has happened.`
`Oh, for Heaven`s sake! When I say nothing, either it is nothing, or it
is something I cannot tell.`
`Not tell, even to me? Who will take care of your safety, sir? who will
advise you?`
`Oh, dear! hold your tongue, and say no more; give me a glass of my
wine.`
`And you will persist, sir, that it is nothing!` said Perpetua, filling
the glass; and then holding it in her hand, as if she would give it in payment
for the confidence he kept her waiting for so long.
`Give it here, give it here,` said Don Abbondio, taking the glass from
her with no very steady hand, and emptying it hastily, as if it were a draught
of medicine.
`Do you wish me, then, sir, to be obliged to ask here and there, what has
happened to my master?` said Perpetua, right opposite him, with her arms
akimbo, looking steadily at him, as if she would gather the truth from his
eyes.
`For Heaven`s sake! let us have no brawling - let us have no noise: it is
. . . it is my life!`
`Your life!`
`My life.`
`You know, sir, that whenever you have told me any thing sincerely in
confidence, I have never . . .`
`Well done! for instance, when . . .`
Perpetua saw she had touched a wrong chord; wherefore, suddenly changing
her tone, `Signor, master,` she said, with a softened and affecting voice, `I
have always been an affectionate servant to you, sir; and if I wish to know
this, it is because of my care for you, because I wish to be able to help you,
to give you good advice, and to comfort you.`
The fact was, Don Abbondio was, perhaps, just as anxious to get rid of
his burdensome secret, as Perpetua was to know it. In consequence, after
having rebutted, always more feebly, her reiterated and more vigorous
assaults, after having made her vow more than once not to breathe the subject,
with many sighs and many doleful exclamations, he related at last the
miserable event. When he came to the terrible name, it was necessary for
Perpetua to make new and more solemn vows of silence; and Don Abbondio, having
pronounced this name, sank back on the chair, lifting up his hands in act at
once of command and entreaty - exclaiming, `For heaven`s sake!`
`Mercy!` exclaimed Perpetua, `Oh, what a wretch! Oh, what a tyrant! Oh,
what a godless man!`
`Will you hold your tongue? or do you wish to ruin me altogether?`
`Why, we`re all alone: no one can hear us. But what will you do, sir? Oh,
my poor master!`
`You see now, you see,` said Don Abbondio, in an angry tone, `what good
advice this woman can give me! She comes and asks me what shall I do, what
shall I do, as if she were in a quandary, and it were my place to help her
out.`
`But I could even give my poor opinion; but then . . .`
`But then, let us hear.`
`My advice would be, since, as everybody says, our Archbishop is a saint,
a bold - hearted man, and one who is not afraid of an ugly face, and one who
glories in upholding a poor curate against these tyrants, when he has an
opportunity, - I should say, and I do say, that you should write a nice letter
to inform him how that . . .`
`Will you hold your tongue? will you be silent? Is this fit advice to
give a poor man? When a bullet was lodged in my back, (Heaven defend me!)
would the Archbishop dislodge it?`
`Why! bullets don`t fly in showers like comfits.^2 Woe to us if these
dogs could bite whenever they bark. And I have always taken notice that
whoever knows how to show his teeth, and makes use of them, is treated with
respect; and just because master will never give his reasons, we are come to
that pass, that every one comes to us, if I may say it to . . .`
[Footnote 2: It is a custom in Italy, during the carnival, for friends to
salute each other with showers of comfits, as they pass in the streets.]
`Will you hold your tongue?`
`I will directly; but it is, however, certain, that when all the world
sees a man always, in every encounter, ready to yield the . . .`
`Will you hold your tongue? Is this a time for such nonsensical words?`
`Very well: you can think about it to - night; but now, don`t be doing
any mischief to yourself; don`t be making yourself ill - take a mouthful to
eat.`
`Think about it, shall I?` grumbled Don Abbondio, `to be sure I shall
think about it. I`ve got it to think about;` and he got up, going on; `I will
take nothing, nothing: I have something else to do. I know, too, what I ought
to think about it. But, that this should have come on my head!`
`Swallow at least this other little drop,` said Perpetua, pouring it out;
`you know, sir, this always strengthens your stomach.`
`Ah, we want another strengthener - another - another -`
So saying, he took the candle, and constantly grumbling, `A nice little
business to a man like me! and to-morrow, what is to be done?` with other
like lamentations, went to his chamber, to lie down. When he had reached the
door, he paused a moment, turned round and laid his finger on his lips,
pronouncing slowly and solemnly, `For Heaven`s sake!` and disappeared.
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