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Chapter XXIIIPart II.
Part II.
The party arrived before the services in the church were over; they
passed through the still assembled crowd, which manifested no less emotion
than on the former occasion, and then separated. The two riders turned aside
into a small square, at the extremity of which stood the Curate`s residence,
while the litter went forward to that of the good woman.
Don Abbondio kept his word: scarcely dismounted, he paid the most
obsequious compliments to the Unnamed, and begged him to make an apology for
him to his Grace, as he must return immediately to his parish on urgent
business. He then went to seek for what he called his horse, that is to say,
his walking - stick, which he had left in a corner of the hall, and set off on
foot. The Unnamed remained to wait till the Cardinal returned from church.
The good woman, having accommodated Lucia with the best seat in the best
place in her kitchen, hastened to prepare a little refreshment for her,
refusing, with a kind of rustic cordiality, her reiterated expressions of
thanks and apology.
Hastily putting some dry sticks under a vessel, which she had replaced
upon the fire, and in which floated a good capon, she quickly made the broth
boil; and then, filling from it a porringer, already furnished with sops of
bread, she was at length able to offer it to Lucia. And on seeing the poor
girl refreshed at every spoonful, she congratulated herself aloud, that all
this had happened on a day when, as she said, the cat was not sitting on the
hearthstone. `Everybody contrives to set out a table to-day,` added she,
`unless it be those poor creatures who can scarcely get bread of vetches, and
a polenta of millet; however, they all hope to beg something to-day, from
such a charitable Signor. We, thank Heaven, are not so badly off: what with my
husband`s business, and a little plot of ground, we can live very well, so
that you needn`t hesitate to eat with a good appetite; the chicken will soon
be done, and you can then refresh yourself with something better.` And,
receiving the little porringer from her hand, she turned to prepare the
dinner, and to set out the table for the family.
Invigorated in body, and gradually revived in heart, Lucia now began to
settle her dress, from an instinctive habit of cleanliness and modesty: she
tied up and arranged afresh her loose and dishevelled tresses, and adjusted
the handkerchief over her bosom, and around her neck. In doing this, her
fingers became entangled in the chaplet she had hung there: her eye rested
upon it; aroused an instantaneous agitation in her heart; the remembrance of
her vow, hitherto suppressed and stifled by the presence of so many other
sensations, suddenly rushed upon her mind, and presented itself clearly and
distinctly to her view. The scarcely recovered powers other soul were again at
once overcome; and had she not been previously prepared by a life of
innocence, resignation, and confiding faith, the consternation she experienced
at that moment would have amounted to desperation. After a tumultuous burst of
such thoughts as were not to be expressed in words, the only ones she could
form in her mind were, - Oh, poor me, whatever have I done! -
But scarcely had she indulged the thought, when she felt a kind of terror
at having done so. She recollected all the circumstances of the vow, her
insupportable anguish, her despair of all human succour, the fervency of her
prayer, the entireness of feeling with which the promise had been made. And
after having obtained her petition, to repent of her promise seemed to her
nothing less than sacrilegious ingratitude and perfidy towards God and the
Virgin; she imagined that such unfaithfulness would draw down upon her new and
more terrible misfortunes, in which she could not find consolation even in
prayer; and she hastened to abjure her momentary regret. Reverently taking the
rosary from her neck, and holding it in her trembling hand, she confirmed and
renewed the vow, imploring, at the same time, with heartrending earnestness,
that strength might be given her to fulfill it; and that she might be spared
such thoughts and occurrences as would be likely, if not to disturb her
resolution, at least to harass her beyond endurance. The distance of Renzo,
without any probability of return, that distance which she had hitherto felt
so painful, now seemed to her a dispensation of Providence, who had made the
two events work together for the same end; and she thought to find in the one
a motive of consolation for the other. And, following up this thought, she
began representing to herself that the same Providence, to complete the work,
would know what means to employ to induce Renzo himself to be resigned, to
think no more . . . But scarcely had such an idea entered her mind, when all
was again overturned. The poor girl, feeling her heart still prone to regret
the vow, again had recourse to prayer, confirmation of the promise, and inward
struggles, from which she arose, if we may be allowed the expression, like the
wearied and wounded victor from his fallen enemy.
At this moment she heard approaching footsteps and joyous cries. It was
the little family returning from church. Two little girls and a young boy
bounded into the house, who, stopping a moment to cast an inquisitive glance
at Lucia, ran to their mother, and gathered around her; one inquiring the name
of the unknown guest, and how, and why; another attempting to relate the
wonderful things they had just witnessed; while the good woman replied to each
and all, `Be quiet, be quiet.` With a more sedate step, but with cordial
interest depicted on his countenance, the master of the house then entered. He
was, if we have not yet said so, the tailor of the village and its immediate
neighbourhood; a man who knew how to read, who had, in fact, read more than
once Il Leggendario de, Santi, and I Reali di Francia, and who passed among
his fellow - villagers as a man of talent and learning; a character, however,
which he modestly disclaimed, only saying, that he had mistaken his vocation,
and that, had he applied himself to study, instead of so many others . . . and
so on. With all this, he was the best - tempered creature in the world. Having
been present when his wife was requested by the Curate to undertake her
charitable journey, he had not only given his approbation, but would also have
added his persuasion, had it been necessary. And now that the services, the
pomp, the concourse, and above all, the sermon of the Cardinal, had, as the
saying is, elevated all his best feelings, he returned home with eager
anticipations, and an anxious desire to know how the thing had succeeded, and
to find the innocent young creature safe.
`See, there she is!` said his good wife, as he entered, pointing to
Lucia, who blushed, and rose from her seat, beginning to stammer forth some
apology. But he, advancing towards her, interrupted her excuses,
congratulating her on her safety, and exclaiming, `Welcome, welcome! You are
the blessing of Heaven in this house. How glad I am to see you here! I was
pretty sure you would be brought out safely; for I`ve never found that the
Lord began a miracle without bringing it to a good end; but I`m glad to see
you here. Poor girl! but it is indeed a great thing to have received a
miracle!`
Let it not be thought that he was the only person who thus denominated
this event, because he had read the Legendary; as long as the remembrance of
it lasted, it was spoken of in no other terms in the whole village, and
throughout the neighbourhood. And, to say truth, considering its attendant and
following consequences, no other name is so appropriate.
Then, sidling up to his wife, who was taking the kettle off the hook over
the fire, he whispered, `Did everything go on well?`
`Very well; I`ll tell you afterwards.`
`Yes, yes, at your convenience.`
Dinner now being quickly served up, the mistress of the house went up to
Lucia, and leading her to the table, made her take a seat; then cutting off a
wing of the fowl, she set it before her, and she and her husband sitting down,
they both begged their dispirited and bashful guest to make herself at home,
and take something to eat. Between every mouthful, the tailor began to talk
with great eagerness, in spite of the interruptions of the children, who stood
round the table to their meal, and who, in truth, had seen too many
extraordinary things, to play, for any length of time, the part of mere
listeners. He described the solemn ceremonies, and then passed on to the
miraculous conversion. But that which had made the most impression upon him,
and to which he most frequently returned, was the Cardinal`s sermon.
`To see him there before the altar,` said he, `a gentleman like him, like
a Curate . . .`
`And that gold thing he had on his head . . .` said a little girl.
`Hush. To think, I say, that a gentleman like him, such a learned man,
too, that from what people say, he has read all the books there are in the
world; a thing which nobody else has ever done, not even in Milan - to think
that he knew how to say things in such a way, that every one understood . . .`
`Even I understood very well,` said another little prattler.
`Hold your tongue; what may you have understood, I wonder?`
`I understood that he was explaining the Gospel, instead of the Signor
Curate.`
`Well, be quiet. I don`t say those who know something, for then one is
obliged to understand; but even the dullest and most ignorant could follow out
the sense. Go now and ask them if they could repeat the words that he spoke:
I`ll engage they could not remember one; but the meaning they will have in
their heads. And without ever mentioning the name of that Signor, how easy it
was to see that he was alluding to him! Besides, to understand that, one had
only to observe him with the tears standing in his eye. And then the whole
church began to weep . . .`
`Yes, indeed, they did,` burst forth the little boy; `but why were they
all crying in that way, like children?`
`Hold your tongue. Surely there are some hard hearts in this country. And
he made us see so well, that though there is a famine here, we ought to thank
God, and be content; do whatever we can, work industriously, help one another,
and then be content, because it is no disgrace to suffer and be poor; the
disgrace is to do evil. And these are not only fine words; for everybody knows
that he lives like a poor man himself, and takes the bread out of his own
mouth to give to the hungry, when he might be enjoying good times better than
any one. Ah! then it gives one satisfaction to hear a man preach: not like so
many others: "Do what I say, and not what I do." And then he showed us that
even those who are not what they call gentlemen, if they have more than they
actually want, are bound to share it with those who are suffering.`
Here he interrupted himself, as if checked by some thought. He hesitated
a moment; then filling a platter from the several dishes on the table, and
adding a loaf of bread, he put it into a cloth, and taking it by the four
corners, said to his eldest girl: `Here, take this.` He then put into her
other hand a little flask of wine, and added: `Go down to the widow Maria,
leave her these things, and tell her it is to make a little feast with her
children. But do it kindly and nicely, you know; that it may not seem as if
you were doing her a charity. And don`t say anything, if you meet any one; and
take care you break nothing.`
Lucia`s eyes glistened, and her heart glowed with tender emotion; as from
the conversation she had already heard, she had received more comfort than an
expressly consolatory sermon could possibly have imparted to her. Her mind,
attracted by these descriptions` these images of pomp, and these emotions of
piety and wonder, and sharing in the very enthusiasm of the narrator, was
detached from the consideration of its own sorrows; and on returning to them,
found itself strengthened to contemplate them. Even the thought of her
tremendous sacrifice, though it had not lost its bitterness, brought with it
something of austere and solemn joy.
Shortly afterwards, the Curate of the village entered, and said that he
was sent by the Cardinal to inquire after Lucia, and to inform her that his
Grace wished to see her some time during the day; and then, in his Lordship`s
name, he returned many thanks to the worthy couple. Surprised and agitated,
the three could scarcely find words to reply to such messages from so great a
personage.
`And your mother hasn`t yet arrived?` said the Curate to Lucia.
`My mother!` exclaimed the poor girl. Then hearing from him how he had
been sent to fetch her by the order and suggestion of the Archbishop, she drew
her apron over her eyes, and gave way to a flood of tears, which continued to
flow for some time after the Curate had taken his leave. When, however, the
tumultuous feelings which had been excited by such an announcement began to
yield to more tranquil thoughts, the poor girl remembered that the now closely
impending happiness of seeing her mother again, a happiness so unhoped - for a
few hours previous, was what she had expressly implored in those very hours,
and almost stipulated as a condition of her vow. Bring me in safety to my
mother, she had said; and these words now presented themselves distinctly to
her memory. She strengthened herself more than ever in the resolution to
maintain her promise, and afresh and more bitterly lamented the struggle and
regret she had for a moment indulged.
Agnese, indeed, while they were talking about her, was but a very little
way off. It may easily be imagined how the poor woman felt at this unexpected
summons, and at the announcement, necessarily defective and confused, of an
escaped but fearful danger, - an obscure event, which the messenger could
neither circumstantiate nor explain, and of which she had not the slightest
ground of explanation in her own previous thoughts. After tearing her hair, -
after frequent exclamations of `Ah, my God! Ah, Madonna!` - after putting
various questions to the messenger which he had not the means of satisfying,
she threw herself impetuously into the vehicle, continuing to utter, on her
way, numberless ejaculations and useless inquiries. But at a certain point she
met Don Abbondio, trudging on, step after step, and before each step, his
walking - stick. After an `oh!` from both parties, he stopped; Agnese also
stopped and dismounted; and drawing him apart into a chestnut - grove on the
roadside, she there learnt from Don Abbondio all that he had been able to
ascertain and observe. The thing was not clear; but at least Agnese was
assured that Lucia was in safety; and she again breathed freely.
After this Don Abbondio tried to introduce another subject, and give her
minute instructions as to how she ought to behave before the Archbishop, if,
as was likely, he should wish to see her and her daughter; and, above all,
that it would not do to say a word about the wedding . . . But Agnese,
perceiving that he was only speaking for his own interest, cut him short,
without promising, indeed without proposing, anything, for she had something
else to think about; and immediately resumed her journey.
At length the cart arrived, and stopped at the tailor`s house. Lucia
sprang up hastily: Agnese dismounted and rushed impetuously into the cottage,
and, in an instant, they were locked in each other`s arms. The good dame, who
alone was present, tried to encourage and calm them, and shared with them in
their joy; then, with her usual discretion, she left them for a while alone,
saying that she would go and prepare a bed for them, for which, indeed, she
had the means, though, in a any case, both she and her husband would much
rather have slept upon the ground, than suffer them to go in search of shelter
elsewhere for that night.
The first burst of sobs and embraces being over, Agnese longed to hear
Lucia`s adventures, and the latter began, mournfully, to relate them. But, as
the reader is aware, it was a history which no one knew fully; and to Lucia
herself there were some obscure passages, which were, in fact, quite
inextricable: more particularly the fatal coincidence of that terrible
carriage being in the road, just when Lucia was passing on an extraordinary
occasion. On this point, both mother and daughter were lost in conjecture,
without ever hitting the mark, or even approaching the real cause.
As to the principal author of the plot, neither one nor the other could
for a moment doubt but that it was Don Rodrigo.
`Ah, the black villain! ah, the infernal firebrand!` exclaimed Agnese:
`but his hour will come. God will reward him according to his works; and then
he, too, will feel . . .`
`No, no, mother; no!` interrupted Lucia; `don`t predict suffering for
him; don`t predict it to any one! If you knew what it was to suffer! If you
had tried it! No, no! rather let us pray God and the Madonna for him: that God
would touch his heart, as he has done to this other poor Signor, who was worse
than he is, and is now a saint.`
The shuddering horror that Lucia felt in retracing such recent and cruel
scenes, made her more than once pause in the midst; more than once she said
she had not courage to go on; and, after many tears, with difficulty resumed
her account. But a different feeling checked her at a certain point of the
narration, - at the mention of the vow. The fear of being blamed by her mother
as imprudent and precipitate; or that, as in the affair of the wedding, she
should bring forward one of her broad rules of conscience, and try to make it
prevail; or that, poor woman, she should tell it to some one in confidence, if
nothing else, to obtain light and counsel, and thus make it publicly known,
from the bare idea of which Lucia shrank back with insupportable shame;
together with a feeling of present shame, an inexplicable repugnance to speak
on such a subject; - all these things together determined her to maintain
absolute silence on this important circumstance, proposing, in her own mind,
to open herself first to Father Cristoforo. But what did she feel, when, in
inquiring after him, she heard that he was no longer at Pescarenico; that he
had been sent to a town far, far away, to a town bearing such and such a name!
`And Renzo?` said Agnese.
`He`s in safety, isn`t he?` said Lucia, hastily.
`That much is certain, because everybody says so; it is thought, too,
pretty surely, that he`s gone to the territory of Bergamo; but the exact place
nobody knows: and hitherto he has sent no news of himself. Perhaps he hasn`t
yet found a way of doing so.`
`Ah, if he`s in safety, the Lord be praised!` said Lucia; and she was
seeking some other subject of conversation, when they were interrupted by an
unexpected novelty - the appearance of the Cardinal Archbishop.
This holy prelate, having returned from church, where we last left him,
and having heard from the Unnamed of Lucia`s safe arrival, had sat down to
dinner, placing his new friend on his right hand, in the midst of a circle of
priests, who were never weary of casting glances at that countenance, now so
subdued without weakness, so humble without dejection, and of comparing him
with the idea they had so long entertained of this formidable personage.
Dinner being removed, the two again withdrew together. After a
conversation, which lasted much longer than the first, the Unnamed set off
anew for his Castle, on the same mule which had borne him thither in the
morning; and the Cardinal, calling the priest of the parish, told him that he
wished to be guided to the house where Lucia had found shelter.
`Oh, my Lord!` replied the parish priest, `allow me, and I will send
directly to bid the young girl come here, with her mother, if she has arrived,
and their hosts too, if my Lord wishes - indeed, all that your illustrious
Grace desires to see.`
`I wish to go myself to see them,` replied Federigo.
`There`s no necessity for your illustrious Lordship to give yourself that
trouble; I will send directly to fetch them: it`s very quickly done,` insisted
the persevering spoiler of his plans, (a worthy man on the whole), not
comprehending that the Cardinal wished by this visit to do honour at once to
the unfortunate girl, to innocence, to hospitality, and to his own ministry.
But the superior having again expressed the same desire, the inferior bowed,
and led the way.
When the two companions were seen to enter the street every one
immediately gathered round them; and, in a few moments, people flocked from
every direction, forming two wings at their sides, and a train behind. The
Curate officiously repeated, `Come, come, keep back, keep off; fye! fye!`
Federigo, however, forbade him; `Let them alone, let them alone;` and he
walked on, now raising his hand to bless the people, now lowering it to fondle
the children, who gathered round his feet. In this way they reached the house,
and entered, the crowd hedging round the door outside. In this crowd the
tailor also found himself, having followed behind, like the rest, with eager
eyes and open mouth, not knowing whither they were going. When he saw,
however, this unexpected whither, he forced the throng to make way, it may be
imagined with what bustle, crying over and over again, `Make way for one who
has a right to pass;` and so went into the house.
Agnese and Lucia heard an increasing murmur in the street, and while
wondering what it could be, saw the door thrown open, and admit the purple -
clad prelate, and the priest of the parish.
`Is this she?` demanded Federigo of the Curate; and on receiving a sign
in the affirmative, he advanced towards Lucia, who was holding back with her
mother, both of them motionless, and mute with surprise and bashfulness; but
the tone of his voice, the countenance, the behaviour, and, above all, the
words of Federigo, quickly reanimated them. `Poor girl,` he began `God has
permitted you to be put to a great trial; but He has surely shown you that His
eye was still over you, that He had not forgotten you. He has restored you in
safety, and has made use of you for a great work, to show infinite mercy to
one, and to relieve, at the same time, many others.`
Here the mistress of the house came into the apartment, who, at the
bustle outside, had gone to the window upstairs, and seeing who was entering
the house, hastily ran down, after slightly arranging her dress; and almost at
the same moment the tailor made his appearance at another door. Seeing their
guests engaged in conversation, they quietly withdrew into one corner, and
waited there with profound respect. The Cardinal, having courteously saluted
them, continued to talk to the women, mingling with his words of comfort many
inquiries, thinking he might possibly gather from their replies some way of
doing good to one who had undergone so much suffering.
`It would be well if all priests were like your Lordship, if they would
sometimes take the part of the poor, and not help to put them into
difficulties to get themselves out,` said Agnese, emboldened by the kind and
affable behaviour of Federigo, and annoyed at the thought that the Signor Don
Abbondio, after having sacrificed others on every occasion, should now even
attempt to forbid their giving vent to their feelings, and complaining to one
who was set in authority over him, when, by an unusual chance, the occasion
for doing so presented itself.
`Just say all that you think,` said the Cardinal: `speak freely.`
`I mean to say, that if our Signor Curate had done his duty, things
wouldn`t have gone as they have.`
But the Cardinal renewing his request that she should explain herself
more fully, she began to feel rather perplexed at having to relate a story in
which she, too, had borne a part she did not care to make known, especially to
such a man. However, she contrived to manage it, with the help of a little
curtailing. She related the intended match, and the refusal of Don Abbondio;
nor was she silent on the pretext of the superiors which he had brought
forward (ah, Agnese!); and then she skipped on to Don Rodrigo`s attempt, and
how, having been warned of it, they had been able to make their escape. `But
indeed,` added she, in conclusion, `we only escaped to be again caught in the
snare. If instead, the Signor Curate had honestly told us the whole, and had
immediately married my poor children, we would have gone away all together
directly, privately, and far enough off, to a place where not even the wind
would have known us. But, in this way, time was lost; and now has happened
what has happened.`
`The Signor Curate shall render me an account of this matter,` said the
Cardinal.
`Oh, no, Signor, no!` replied Agnese: `I didn`t speak on that account:
don`t scold him; for what is done, is done; and, besides, it will do no good;
it is his nature; and on another occasion he would do just the same.`
But Lucia, dissatisfied with this way of relating the story, added: `We
have also done wrong: it shows it was not the Lord`s will that the plan should
succeed.`
`What can you have done wrong, my poor girl?` asked Federigo.
And, in spite of the threatening glances which her mother tried to give
her secretly, Lucia, in her turn, related the history of their attempt in Don
Abbondio`s house; and concluded by saying, `We have done wrong, and God has
punished us for it.`
`Take, as from His hand, the sufferings you have undergone, and be of
good courage,` said Federigo; `for who have reason to rejoice and be hopeful,
but those who have suffered, and are ready to accuse themselves?
He then asked where was the Betrothed; and hearing from Agnese (Lucia
stood silent, with her head bent, and downcast eyes) how he had been outlawed,
he felt and expressed surprise and dissatisfaction, and asked why it was.
Agnese stammered out what little she knew of Renzo`s history.
`I have heard speak of this youth,` said the Cardinal; `but how happens
it that a man involved in affairs of this sort is in treaty of marriage with
this young girl?
`He was a worthy youth,` said Lucia, blushing, but in a firm voice.
`He was even too quiet a lad,` added Agnese; `and you may ask this of
anybody you like, even of the Signor Curate. Who knows what confusion they may
have made down there, what intrigues? It takes little to make poor people seem
rogues.`
`Indeed, it`s too true,` said the Cardinal; `I`ll certainly make
inquiries about him;` and learning the name and residence of the youth, he
made a memorandum of them on his tablets. He added, that he expected to be at
their village in a few days, that then Lucia might go thither without fear,
and that, in the mean while, he would think about providing her some secure
retreat, till everything was arranged for the best.
Then, turning to the master and mistress of the house, who immediately
came forward, he renewed the acknowledgment which he had already conveyed
through the priest of the parish, and asked them whether they were willing to
receive, for a few days, the guests which God had sent them.
`Oh yes, sir!" replied the woman, in a tone of voice and with a look
which meant much more than the bare words seemed to express. But her husband,
quite excited by the presence of such an interrogator, and by the wish to do
him honour on so important an occasion, anxiously sought for some fine reply.
He wrinkled his forehead, strained and squinted with his eyes, compressed his
lips, stretched his intellect to its utmost extent, strove, fumbled about in
his mind, and there found an overwhelming medley of unfinished ideas and half
- formed words: but time pressed; the Cardinal signified that he had already
interpreted his silence; the poor man opened his mouth and pronounced the
words, `You may imagine!` At this point not another word would occur to him.
This failure not only disheartened and vexed him at the moment, but the
tormenting remembrance ever after spoiled his complacency in the great honour
he had received. And how often, in the thinking it over, and fancying himself
again in the same circumstances, did numberless words crowd upon his mind, as
it were, out of spite, any of which would have been better than that silly,
You may imagine! But are not the very ditches full of wisdom - too late!
The Cardinal took his leave, saying, `The blessing of God be upon this
house.`
The same evening he asked the Curate in what way he could best compensate
to the tailor, who certainly could not be rich, for the expenses he must have
incurred, especially in these times, by his hospitality. The Curate replied,
that, in truth, neither the profits of his business nor the produce of some
small fields which the good tailor owned, would be enough this year to allow
of his being liberal to others; but that, having laid by a little in the
preceding years, he was among the most easy in circumstances in the
neighbourhood, and could afford to do a kindness without inconvenience, as he
certainly would with all his heart; and that, under any circumstances, he
would deem it an insult to be offered money in compensation.
`He will, probably,` said the Cardinal, `have demands on people unable to
pay.`
`You may judge yourself, my most illustrious Lord: these poor people pay
from the overplus of the harvest. Last year there was no overplus; and this
one, everybody falls short of absolute necessaries.`
`Very well,` replied Federigo, `I will take all these debts upon myself;
and you will do me the pleasure of getting from him a list of the sums, and
discharging them for me.`
`It will be a tolerable sum.`
`So much the better: and you will have, I dare say, many more wretched,
and almost destitute of clothing, who have no debts, because they can get no
credit.`
`Alas! too many! One does what one can; but how can we supply all in
times like these?`
`Tell him to clothe them at my expense, and pay him well. Really, this
year, all that does not go for bread seems a kind of robbery; but this is a
particular case.`
We cannot close the history of this day, without briefly relating how the
Unnamed concluded it.
This time the report of his conversion had preceded him in the valley,
and quickly spreading throughout it, had excited among all the inhabitants
consternation, anxiety, and angry whisperings. To the first bravoes or
servants (it mattered not which) whom he met, he made signs that they should
follow him; and so on, on either hand. All fell behind with unusual perplexity
of mind, but with their accustomed submission; so that, with a continually
increasing train, he at length reached the Castle. He beckoned to those who
were loitering about the gate to follow him with the others; entered the first
court, went towards the middle, and here, seated all the while on his saddle,
uttered one of his thundering calls: it was the accustomed signal at which all
his dependents, who were within hearing, immediately flocked towards him. In a
moment, all those who were scattered throughout the Castle attended to the
summons, and mingled with the already assembled party, gazing eagerly at their
master.
`Go, and wait for me in the great hall,` said he; and, from his higher
station on horseback, he watched them all move off. He then dismounted, led
the animal to the stables himself, and repaired to the room where he was
expected. On his appearance, a loud whispering was instantly hushed, and
retiring to one side, they left a large space in the hall quite clear for him:
there may have been, perhaps, about thirty.
The Unnamed raised his hand, as if to preserve the silence his presence
had already created, raised his head, which towered above all those of the
assemblage, and said: `Listen, all of you, and let no one speak unless I bid
him. My friends! the path we have hitherto followed leads to the depths of
hell. I do not mean to upbraid you, I, who have been foremost of you all, the
worst of all; but listen to what I have to say. The merciful God has called me
to change my life; and I will change it, I have already changed it: so may He
do with you all! Know, then, and hold it for certain, that I am resolved
rather to die than to do anything more against His holy laws. I revoke all the
wicked commands you may any of you have received from me; you understand me;
indeed, I command you not to do anything I have before commanded. And hold it
equally certain, that on one, from this time forward, shall do evil with my
sanction, in my service. He who will remain with me under these conditions
shall be to me as a son; and I shall fell happy at the close of that day in
which I shall not have eaten, that I may supply the last of you with the last
loaf I have left in the house. He who does not wish to remain, shall receive
what is due of his salary, and an additional gift: he may go away, but must
never again set foot here, unless it be to change his life; for this purpose
he shall always be received with open arms. Think about it to - night: to -
morrow morning I will ask you one by one for your reply, and will then give
you new orders. For the present retire, every one to his post. And God, who
has exercised such mercy towards me, incline you to good resolutions!`
Here he ceased, and all continued silent. How various and tumultuous
soever might be the thoughts at work in their hardened minds, they gave no
outward demonstration of emotion. They were accustomed to receive the voice of
their master as the declaration of a will from which there was no appeal: and
that voice, announcing that the will was changed, in no wise denoted that it
was enfeebled. It never crossed the mind of one of them that, because he was
converted, they might therefore assume over him, and reply to him as to
another man. They beheld in him a saint, but one of those saints who are
depicted with a lofty brow, and a sword in their hands. Besides the fear he
inspired, they also entertained for him (especially those born in his service,
and they were a large proportion) the affection of subjects; they had all,
besides, a kindly feeling of admiration for him, and experienced in his
presence a species of, I will even say, modest humility, such as the rudest
and most wanton spirits feel before an authority which they have once
recognized. Again, the things they had just heard from his lips were doubtless
odious to their ears, but neither false, nor entirely alien to their
understandings: if they had a thousand times ridiculed them, it was not
because they disbelieved them; but to obviate, by ridicule, the fear which any
serious consideration of them would have awakened. And now, on seeing the
effect of this fear on a mind like that of their master, there was not one who
did not either more or less sympathize with him, at least for a little while.
In addition to all this, those among them who had first heard the grand news
beyond the valley, had at the same time witnessed and related the joy, the
exultation of the people, the new favour with which the Unnamed was regarded,
and the veneration so suddenly exchanged for their former hatred - their
former terror. So that in the man whom they had always regarded, so to say, as
a superior being, even while they, in a great measure, themselves constituted
his strength, they now beheld the wonder, the idol of a multitude; they beheld
him exalted above others, in a different, but not less real, manner; ever
above the common throng, ever at the head. They stood now confounded,
uncertain one of another, and each one of himself. Some murmured; some began
to plan whither they could go to find shelter and employment; some questioned
with themselves whether they could make up their minds to become honest men;
some even, moved by his words, felt a sort of inclination to do so; others,
without resolving upon anything, proposed to promise everything readily, to
remain in the mean while where they could share the loaf so willingly offered,
and in those days so scarce, and thus gain time for decision: no one, however,
uttered a syllable. And when, at the close of his speech, the Unnamed again
raised his authoritative hand, and beckoned to them to disperse, they all
moved off in the direction of the door as quietly as a flock of sheep. He
followed them out, and placing himself in the middle of the courtyard, stood
to watch them by the dim evening light, as they separated from each other, and
repaired to their several posts. Then, returning to fetch a lantern, he again
traversed the courts, corridors, and halls, visited every entrance, and after
seeing that all was quiet, at length retired to sleep. Yes, to sleep, because
he was sleepy.
Never, though he had always industriously courted them, had he, in any
conjuncture, been so overburdened with intricate, and at the same time urgent,
affairs, as at the present moment: yet he was sleepy. The remorse, which had
robbed him of rest the night before, was not only unsubdued, but even spoke
more loudly, more sternly, more absolutely: yet he was sleepy. The order, the
kind of government established by him in that Castle for so many years, with
so much care, and such a singular union of rashness and perseverance, he had
now himself overturned by a few words; the unlimited devotion of his
dependents, their readiness for any undertaking, their ruffian - like
fidelity, on which he had long been accustomed to depend, - these he had
himself shaken; his various engagements had become a tissue of perplexities;
he had brought confusion and uncertainty into his household: yet he was
sleepy.
He went, therefore, into his chamber, approached that bed, which, the
night before, he had found such a thorny couch, and knelt down at its side
with the intention of praying. He found, in fact, in a deep and hidden corner
of his mind, the prayers he had been taught to repeat as a child; he began to
recite them, and the words so long wrapped up, as it were, together, flowed
one after another, as if emerging once more to light. He experienced in this
act a mixture of undefined feelings; a kind of soothing pleasure, in this
actual return to the habits of innocent childhood; a doubly bitter contrition
at the thought of the gulf that he had placed between those former days and
the present; an ardent desire to attain, by works of expiation, a clearer
conscience, a state more nearly resembling that of innocence, to which he
could never return; together with a feeling of deep gratitude, and of
confidence in that mercy which could lead him towards it, and had already
given so many tokens of willingness to do so. Then, rising from his knees, he
lay down, and was quickly wrapt in sleep.
Thus ended a day still so much celebrated when our anonymous author
wrote: a day of which, had he not written, nothing would have been known, at
least nothing of the particulars; for Ripamonti and Rivola, whom we have
quoted above, merely record that, after an interview with Federigo, this
remarkable tyrant wonderfully changed his course of life, and for ever. And
how few are there who have read the works of these authors! Fewer still are
there who will read this of ours. And who knows whether in the valley itself,
if any one had the inclination to seek, and the ability to find it, there now
remains the smallest trace, the most confused tradition, of such an event? So
many things have taken place since that time!
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