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Chapter XXVIChapter XXVI
Chapter XXVI
At such a question, Don Abbondio, who had been studying to find some
reply in the least precise terms possible, stood without uttering a word. And,
to speak the truth, even we, with the manuscript before us, and pen in hand,
having nothing to contend with but words, nor anything to fear but the
criticisms of our readers, even we, I say, feel a kind of repugnance in
proceeding; we feel somewhat strange in this setting forth, with so little
trouble, such admirable precepts of fortitude and charity, of active
solicitude for others, and unlimited sacrifice of self. But remembering that
these things were said by one who also practised them, we will confidently
proceed.
`You give me no answer!` resumed the Cardinal. `Ah, if you had done, on
your part, what charity and duty required of you, however things had turned
out, you would now have something to answer! You see, then, yourself what you
have done. You have obeyed the voice of Iniquity, unmindful of the
requirements of duty. You have obeyed her punctually: she showed herself to
you to signify her desire; but she wished to remain concealed from those who
could have sheltered themselves from her reach, and been on their guard
against her; she did not wish to resort to arms, she desired secrecy, to
mature her designs of treachery and force at leisure; she required of you
transgression and silence. You have transgressed, and kept silence. I ask you,
now, whether you have not done more? - you will tell me whether it be true
that you alleged false pretexts for your refusal, that you might not reveal
the true motive.` And he paused awhile, awaiting a reply.
- The tell - tales have reported this too, - thought Don Abbondio; but as
he gave no token in words of having anything to say, the Cardinal continued:
`If it be true, then, that you told these poor people what was not the case,
to keep them in the ignorance and darkness in which iniquity wished them to be
. . . I must believe it, then; it only remains for me to blush for it with
you, and to hope that you will weep for it with me! See, then, to what this
solicitude (good God! and but just now you adduced it as a justification!)
this solicitude for your temporal life has led you! It has led you . . . repel
freely these words, if you think them unjust; take them as a salutary
humiliation, if they are not . . . it has led you to deceive the weak, to lie
to your own children.`
- Just see now how things go! - thought Don Abbondio again to himself: to
that fiend, - meaning the Unnamed, - his arms round his neck; and to me, for a
half - lie, uttered for the sole purpose of saving my life, all this fuss and
noise. But they are our superiors; they`re always in the right. It`s my ill
star that everybody sets upon me; even saints. - And, speaking aloud, he said:
`I have done wrong; I see that I`ve done wrong; but what could I do in an
extremity of that kind?`
`Do you still ask this? Have not I told you already? Must I tell you
again? You should have loved, my son; loved and prayed. Then you would have
felt that iniquity may, indeed, have threats to employ, blows to bestow, but
not commands to give; you would have united, according to the law of God,
those whom man wished to put asunder; you would have extended towards these
unhappy innocents the ministry they had a right to claim from you: God Himself
would have been surety for the consequences, because you had followed His
will: by following another`s, you have come in as answerable: and for what
consequences! But supposing all human resources failed you, supposing no way
of escape was open, when you looked anxiously around you, thought about it,
sought for it? Then you might have known, that when your poor children were
married, they would themselves have provided for their escape, that they were
ready to flee from the face of their powerful enemy, and had already designed
a place of refuge. But even without this, did you not remember that you had a
superior? How would he have this authority to rebuke you for having been
wanting in the duties of your office, did he not feel himself bound to assist
you in fulfilling them? Why did you not think of acquainting your bishop with
the impediment that infamous violence had placed in the way of the exercise of
your ministry?
- The very advice of Perpetua! - thought Don Abbondio, pettishly, who, in
the midst of this conversation, had most vividly before his eyes the image of
the bravos, and the thought that Don Rodrigo was still alive and well, and
that he would, some day or other, be returning in glory and triumph, and
furious with revenge. And though the presence of so high a dignitary, together
with his countenance and language, filled him with confusion, and inspired him
with fear; yet it was not such fear as completely to subdue him, or expel the
idea of resistance: because this idea was accompanied by the recollection,
that, after all, the Cardinal employed neither musket, nor sword, nor bravoes.
`Why did you not remember,` pursued the bishop, `that if there were no
other retreat open to these betrayed innocents, I at least was ready to
receive them, and put them in safety, had you directed them to me - the
desolate to a bishop, as belonging to him, as a precious part, I don`t say, of
his charge, but of his riches? And as to yourself, I should have become
anxious for you; I should not have slept till I was sure that not a hair of
your head would be injured. Do you think I had not the means of securing your
life? Think you, that he who was so very bold, would have remitted nothing of
his boldness, when he was aware that his plots and contrivances were known
elsewhere, were known to me, that I was watching him, and was resolved to use
all the means within my power in your defence? Didn`t you know that if men too
often promise more than they can perform, so they not unfrequently threaten
more than they would attempt to execute? Didn`t you know that iniquity depends
not only on its own strength, but often also on the fears and credulity of
others?`
`Just Perpetua`s arguments, - again thought Don Abbondio, never
reflecting that this singular concurrence of his servant and Federigo
Borromeo, in deciding on what he might and should have done, would tell very
much against him.
`But you,` pursued the Cardinal, in conclusion, `saw nothing, and would
see nothing, but your own temporal danger; what wonder that it seemed to you
sufficient to outweigh every other consideration?`
`It was because I myself saw those terrible faces,` escaped from Don
Abbondio in reply; `I myself heard their words. Your illustrious Lordship can
talk very well; but you ought to be in a poor priest`s shoes, and find
yourself brought to the point.`
No sooner, however, had he uttered these words, than he bit his tongue
with vexation; he saw that he had allowed himself to be too much carried away
by petulance, and said to himself, - Now comes the storm! - But raising his
eyes doubtfully, he was utterly astonished to see the countenance of that man,
whom he never could succeed in divining or comprehending, pass from the solemn
air of authority and rebuke, to a sorrowful and pensive gravity.
``Tis too true!` said Federigo; `such is our miserable and terrible
condition. We must rigorously exact from others what God only knows whether we
should be ready to yield: we must judge, correct, reprove; and God knows what
we ourselves should do in the same circumstances, what we actually have done
in similar ones! But woe unto me, had I to take my own weakness as the measure
of other people`s duties, or the rule of my own teaching! Yet I certainly
ought to give a good example, as well as good instruction, to others, and not
be like the Pharisees, who "lade men with burdens grievous to be borne, while
they themselves touch not the burden with one of their fingers." Well then, my
son, my brother; as the errors of those in authority are often better known to
others than to themselves; if you are aware of my having, from pusillanimity,
or from any other motive, failed in any part of my duty, tell me of it
candidly, and help me to amend; so that where example has been wanting,
confession at least may supply its place. Remonstrate freely with me on my
weaknesses; and then my words will acquire more value in my mouth, because you
will feel more vividly that they are not mine, but are the words of Him who
can give both to you and me the necessary strength to do what they prescribe.`
- Oh, what a holy man! but what a tormentor! - thought Don Abbondio; - he
doesn`t even spare himself: that I should examine, interfere with, criticize,
and accuse even himself - He then said aloud: `Oh, my Lord, you are joking
with me! Who does not know the fortitude of mind, the intrepid zeal of your
illustrious Lordship?` And in his heart he added - Even too much so. -
`I did not ask you for praise, which makes me tremble,` said Federigo;
`for God knows my failings, and what I know of them myself is enough to
confound me; but I wished that we should humble ourselves together before Him,
that we might depend upon Him together. I would, for your own sake, that you
should feel how your conduct has been, and your language still is, opposed to
the law you nevertheless preach, and according to which you will be judged.`
`All falls upon me,` said Don Abbondio: `but these people, who have told
you this, didn`t probably, tell you, too, of their having introduced
themselves treacherously into my house, to take me by surprise, and to
contract a marriage contrary to the laws.`
`They did tell me, my son: but it is this that grieves, that depresses
me, to see you still anxious to excuse yourself; still thinking to excuse
yourself by accusing others; still accusing others of what ought to make part
of your own confession. Who placed them, I don`t say under the necessity, but
under the temptation, to do what they have done? Would they have sought this
irregular method, had not the legitimate one been closed against them? Would
they have thought of snaring their pastor, had they been received to his arms,
assisted, advised by him? or of surprising him, had he not concealed himself?
And do you lay the blame upon them? And are you indignant, because, after so
many misfortunes, - what do I say? in the midst of misfortune, - they have
said a word or two, to give vent to their sorrows, to their and your pastor?
That the appeals of the oppressed, and the complaints of the afflicted, are
odious to the world, is only too true; but we! . . . But what advantage would
it have been to you, had they remained silent? Would it turn to your profit
that their cause should be left entirely to the judgment of God? Is it not a
fresh reason why you should love these persons, (and you have many already),
that they have afforded you an opportunity of hearing the sincere voice of
your pastor, that they have given you the means of knowing more clearly, and
in part discharging, the great debt you owe them? Ah! if they have provoked,
offended, annoyed you, I would say to you, (and need I say it?) love them
exactly for that reason. Love them, because they have suffered, because they
still suffer, because they are yours, because they are weak, because you have
need of pardon, to obtain which, think of what efficacy their prayer may be.`
Don Abbondio was silent, but it was no longer an unconvinced and scornful
silence: it was that of one who has more things to think about than to say.
The words he had heard were unexpected consequences, novel applications, of a
doctrine he had nevertheless long believed in his heart, without a thought of
disputing it. The misfortunes of others, from the contemplation of which his
fear of personal misfortune had hitherto diverted his mind, now made a new
impression upon him.
And if he did not feel all the contrition which the address was intended
to produce (for this same fear was ever at hand to execute the office of
defensive advocate), yet he felt it in some degree; he experienced
dissatisfaction with himself, a kind of pity for others, - a mixture of
compunction and shame. It was, if we may be allowed the comparison, like the
crushed and humid wick of a candle, which, on being presented to the flame of
a large torch, at first smokes, spirts, crackles, and will not ignite; but it
lights at length, and, well or ill, burns. He would have accused himself
bitterly, he would even have wept, had it not been for the thought of Don
Rodrigo; and, as it was, betrayed sufficient emotion to convince the Cardinal
that his words had not been entirely without effect.
`Now,` pursued he, `the one a fugitive from his home, the other on the
point of abandoning it, both with too good reasons for absenting themselves,
and without a probability of ever meeting again here, even if God purposes to
re - unite them; now, alas! they have too little need of you, now you have no
opportunity of doing them any service; nor can our limited foresight predict
any for the future. But who knows whether a God of mercy may not be preparing
some for you? Ah! suffer them not to escape! Seek them, be on the watch for
them; beseech Him to create them for you.`
`I will not fail, my Lord, I will not fail, I assure you,` replied Don
Abbondio, in a tone that showed it came from the heart.
`Ah yes, my son, yes!` exclaimed Federigo; and with a dignity full of
affection, he concluded, `Heaven knows how I should have wished to hold a
different conversation with you. We have both lived long; Heaven knows if it
has not been painful to me to be obliged thus to grieve your gray hairs with
reprimands; how much more gladly I would have shared with you our common cares
and sorrows, and conversed with you on the blessed hope to which we have so
nearly approached. God grant that the language which I have been compelled to
use, may be of use to us both. You would not wish that He should call me to
account at the last day, for having countenanced you in a course of conduct in
which you have so unhappily fallen short of your duty. Let us redeem the time;
the hour of midnight is at hand; the Bridegroom cannot tarry; let us,
therefore, keep our lamps burning. Let us offer our hearts, miserable and
empty as they are, to God that He may be pleased to fill them with that
charity which amends the past, which is a pledge of the future, which fears
and trusts, weeps and rejoices, with true wisdom; which becomes, in every
instance, the virtue of which we stand in need.`
So saying, he left the room, followed by Don Abbondio.
Here our anonymous author informs us, that this was not the only
interview between these two persons, nor Lucia the only subject of these
interviews; but that he has confined himself to the mention of this one, that
he might not digress too far from the principal object of his narrative. And,
for the same reason, he does not make mention of other notable things, said
and done by Federigo, throughout the whole course of his visitation; or of his
liberality, or of the dissensions composed, and the ancient feuds between
individuals, families, and entire towns, extinguished, or (which was, alas!
far more frequent) suppressed; or of sundry ruffians, and petty tyrants, tamed
either for life, or for some time; - all of them things which occurred more or
less in every part of the diocese where this excellent man made any stay.
He then goes on to say how, next morning, Donna Prassede came, according
to agreement, to fetch Lucia, and to pay her respects to the Cardinal, who
spoke in high terms of the young girl, and recommended her warmly to the
Signora. Lucia parted from her mother, it may be imagined with what tears,
left her cottage, and a second time said farewell to her native village, with
that sense of doubly bitter sorrow, which is felt on leaving a spot which was
once dearly loved, and can never be so again. But this parting from her mother
was not the last; for Donna Prassede had announced that she should still
reside some time at their country house, which was not very far off; and
Agnese had promised her daughter to go thither, to give and receive a more
mournful adieu.
The Cardinal was himself just starting for another parish, when the
Curate of that in which the castle of the Unnamed was situated, arrived, and
requested to speak to him. On being admitted, he presented a packet and a
letter from that nobleman, wherein he besought Federigo to prevail upon
Lucia`s mother to accept a hundred scudi of gold, which were contained in the
parcel, to serve either as a dowry for the young girl, or for any other use
which the two women might deem more suitable; requesting him at the same time
to tell them, that if ever, on any occasion, they thought he could render them
any service, the poor girl knew too well where he lived; and that, for him,
this would be one of the most desirable events that could happen. The Cardinal
immediately sent for Agnese, who listened with equal pleasure and amazement to
the courteous message, and suffered the packet to be put into her hand without
much scrupulous ceremony. `May God reward this Signor for it,` said she; `and
will your illustrious Lordship thank him very kindly? And don`t say a word
about it to anybody, because this is a kind of country . . . Excuse me, Sir; I
know very well that a gentleman like you won`t chatter about these things; but
. . . you understand me.`
Home she went as quickly as possible; shut herself up in her room,
unwrapped the parcel, and, however prepared by anticipation, beheld with
astonishment so many of those coins all together, and all her own, of which
she had, perhaps, never seen more than one at once before, and that but
seldom; she counted them over, and then had some trouble in putting them
together again, and making the whole hundred stand up upon their edges; for
every now and then, they would jut out, and slide from under her inexpert
fingers; at length, however, she succeeded in rolling them up, after a
fashion, put them in a handkerchief, so as to make quite a large parcel, and
wrapping a piece of cord several times round it, went and tucked it into a
corner of her straw mattress. The rest of the day was spent in castle -
building, devising plans for the future, and longing for the morrow. After
going to bed, she lay for a long time awake, with the thought of the hundred
scudi she had beneath her to keep her company; and when asleep she saw them in
her dreams. By break of day she arose, and set off in good time towards the
villa where her daughter was residing.
Though Lucia`s extreme reluctance to speak of her vow was in no degree
diminished, she had, on her part, resolved to force herself to open her mind
to her mother in this interview, as it would be the last they should have for
a long time.
Scarcely were they left alone, when Agnese, with a look full of
animation, and, at the same time, in a suppressed tone of voice, as if there
were some one present who she was afraid would hear, began: `I`ve a grand
thing to tell you;` and proceeded to relate her unexpected good fortune.
`God bless this Signor,` said Lucia: `now you have enough to be well off
yourself, and you can also do good to others.`
`Why!` replied Agnese, `don`t you see how many things we may do with so
much money? Listen; I have nobody but you - but you two, I may say; for, from
the time that he began to address you, I`ve always considered Renzo as my son.
The whole depends upon whether any misfortune has happened to him, seeing he
gives no sign of being alive: but oh! surely all won`t go ill with us? We`ll
hope not, we`ll hope not. For me, I should have liked to lay my bones in my
native country; but now that you can`t be there, thanks to that villain! and
when I remember that he is near, even my country has become hateful to me; and
with you two I can be happy anywhere. I was always inclined to go with you
both to the very end of the world, and have ever been in readiness; but how
could we do it without money? Do you understand, now? The little sum that the
poor fellow had been scarcely able to lay by, with all his frugality, justice
came, and cleared it away; but the Lord has sent us a fortune to make up for
it. Well, when he has found a way of letting us know that he`s alive, where he
is, and what are his intentions, I`ll come to Milan and fetch you; ay, I`ll
come myself. Once upon a time, I should have thought twice about such a thing,
but misfortunes make one experienced and independent; I`ve gone as far as
Monza, and know what it is to travel. I`ll bring with me a proper companion, -
a relation, as I may say, - Alessio, of Maggianico; for, to say the truth, a
fit person isn`t to be found in the country at all. I`ll come with him; we
will pay the expense, and . . . do you understand?`
But perceiving that, instead of cheering up, Lucia became more and more
dejected, and only exhibited emotion unmixed with pleasure, she stopped
abruptly in the midst of her speech, and said, `But what`s the matter with
you? Don`t you see it?`
`Poor mamma!` exclaimed Lucia, throwing her arm round her neck, and
burying her weeping face in her bosom.
`What is the matter?` again asked her mother, anxiously.
`I ought to have told you at first,` said Lucia, raising her head, and
composing herself, `but I never had the heart to do it: pity me.`
`But tell me then, now.`
`I can no longer be that poor fellow`s wife!`
`How? how?`
With head hung down, a beating heart, and tears rolling down her cheeks,
like one who relates something which, though a misfortune, is unalterable,
Lucia disclosed her vow; and, at the same time, clasping her hands, again
besought her mother`s forgiveness for having hitherto concealed it from her;
she implored her not to speak of such a thing to any living being, and to give
her help, and facilitate the fulfilment of what she had promised.
Agnese remained stupefied with consternation. She would have been angry
with her for her silence to her mother, but the more serious thoughts the case
itself aroused stifled this personal vexation; she would have reproached her
for the act, but it seemed to her that that would be a murmuring against
Heaven; the more so, as Lucia began to depict, more vividly than ever, the
horrors of that night, the absolute desolation, and the unhoped - for
deliverance, between which the promise had been so expressly, so solemnly
made. And all the while, example after example rose to the recollection of the
listener, which she had often heard repeated, and had repeated herself to her
daughter, of strange and terrible punishments following upon the violation of
a vow. After a few moments of astonishment, she said, `And what will you do
now?`
`Now,` replied Lucia, `it is the Lord who must think for us; the Lord,
and the Madonna. I have placed myself in their hands; they have not forsaken
me hitherto; they will not forsake me now, that . . . The mercy I ask for
myself of the Lord, the only mercy, after the salvation of my soul, is, that
He will let me rejoin you; and He will grant it me - yes, I feel sure He will.
That day . . . in that carriage . . . Ah, most holy Virgin! . . . those men!
. . . who would have told me that they were bringing me to this, that they
would bring me to join my mother the next day?`
`But not to tell your mother of it at once!` said Agnese, with a kind of
anger, subdued by affection and pity.
`Oh, pity me! I had not the heart . . . and what use would it have been
to grieve you so long ago?`
`And Renzo?` said Agnese, shaking her head.
`Ah!` exclaimed Lucia, with a sudden start, `I must think nothing more of
that poor fellow. Long ago God had not destined . . . See how it appears that
it was His will we should be kept asunder. And who knows? . . . but no, no;
the Lord will have preserved him from danger, and will make him even happier
without me.`
`But now, you see,` replied Agnese, `if it were not that you are bound
for ever, for all the rest, if no misfortune has happened to Renzo, I might
have found a remedy with so much money.`
`But should we have got this money,` replied Lucia, `if I had not passed
through such a night? . . . It is the Lord who has ordered everything as it
is; His will be done.` And here her voice was choked with tears.
At this unexpected argument, Agnese remained silent and thoughtful. In a
few moments, however, Lucia, suppressing her sobs, resumed: `Now that the deed
is done, we must submit to it with cheerfulness; and you, my poor mother, you
can help me, first, by praying to the Lord for your unhappy daughter, and then
. . . that poor fellow must be told of it, you know. Will you see to this, and
do me also this kindness; for you can think about it. When you can find out
where he is, get some one to write to him; find a man . . . Oh, your cousin,
Alessio, is just the man, a prudent and kind person, who has always wished us
well, and won`t gossip and tell tales; get him to write the thing just as it
is, where I have been, how I have suffered, and that God has willed it should
be thus; and that he must set his heart at rest, and that I can never, never
be anybody`s wife! And tell him of it in a kind and clever way; explain to him
that I have promised, that I have really made a vow . . . When he knows that I
have promised the Madonna . . . he has always been good and religious . . .
And you, the moment you have any news of him, get somebody to write to me; let
me know that he is well, and then . . . let me never hear anything more.`
Agnese, with much feeling, assured her daughter that everything should be
done as she desired.
`There`s one thing more I have to say,` resumed Lucia; `this poor fellow
. . . if he hadn`t had the misfortune to think of me, all that has happened to
him never would have happened. He`s a wanderer in the wide world; they`ve
ruined him on setting out in life; they`ve carried away all he had, all those
little savings he had made, poor fellow; you know why . . . And we have so
much money! Oh, mother! as the Lord has sent us so much wealth, and you look
upon this poor fellow, true enough, as belonging to you . . . yes, as your
son, oh! divide it between you; for, most assuredly, God won`t let us want.
Look out for the opportunity of a safe bearer, and send it him; for Heaven
knows how much he wants it!`
`Well, what do you think?` replied Agnese: `I`ll do it, indeed. Poor
youth! Why do you think I was so glad of this money? But! . . . I certainly
came here very glad, so I did. Well, I`ll send it him; poor youth! But he, too
. . . I know what I would say; certainly, money gives pleasure to those who
want it; but it isn`t this that will make him rich.`
Lucia thanked her mother for her ready and liberal assent, with such deep
gratitude and affection, as would have convinced an observer that her heart
still secretly clung to Renzo, more, perhaps, than she herself believed.
`And what shall I, a poor solitary woman, do without you?` said Agnese,
weeping in her turn.
`And I without you, my poor mother! and in a stranger`s house! and down
there in Milan! . . . But the Lord will be with us both, and afterwards will
bring us together again. Between eight and nine months hence, we shall see
each other once more here; and by that time, or even before it, I hope, He
will have disposed matters to our comfort. Leave it to Him. I will ever, ever
beseech the Madonna for this mercy. If I had anything else to offer her, I
would do it; but she is so merciful, that she will obtain it for me as a
gift.`
With these, and other similar and oft - repeated words of lamentation and
comfort, of opposition and resignation, of interrogation and confident
assurance, with many tears, and after long and renewed embraces, the women
tore themselves apart, promising, by turns, to see each other the next autumn,
at the latest; as if the fulfillment of these promises depended upon
themselves, and as people always do, nevertheless, in similar cases.
Meanwhile, a considerable time passed away, and Agnese could hear no
tidings of Renzo. Neither letter nor message reached her from him; and among
all those whom she could ask from Bergamo, or the neighbourhood, no one knew
anything at all about him.
Nor was she the only one who made inquiries in vain: Cardinal Federigo,
who had not told the poor woman merely out of compliment that he would seek
for some information concerning the unfortunate man, had, in fact, immediately
written to obtain it. Having returned to Milan after his visitation, he
received a reply, in which he was informed, that the address of the person he
had named could not be ascertained; that he had certainly made some stay in
such a place, where he had given no occasion for any talk about himself; but
that, one morning, he had suddenly disappeared; that a relative of his, with
whom he had lodged there, knew not what had become of him, and could only
repeat certain vague and contradictory rumours which were afloat, that the
youth had enlisted for the Levant, had passed into Germany, or had perished in
fording a river; but that the writer would not fail to be on the watch, and if
any better authenticated tidings came to light, would immediately convey them
to his most illustrious and very reverend Lordship.
These, and various other reports, at length spread throughout the
territory of Lecco, and, consequently, reached the ears of Agnese. The poor
woman did her utmost to discover which was the true account, and to arrive at
the origin of this and that rumour; but she never succeeded in tracing it
further than they say, which, even at the present day, suffices, by itself, to
attest the truth of facts. Sometimes she had scarcely heard one tale, when
some one would come and tell her not a word of it was true; only, however, to
give her another in compensation, equally strange and disastrous. The truth
is, all these rumours were alike unfounded.
The Governor of Milan, and Captain - General in Italy, Don Gonzalo
Fernandez de Cordova, had complained bitterly to the Venetian minister,
resident at Milan, because a rogue, and public robber, a promoter of
plundering and massacre, the famous Lorenzo Tramaglino, who, while in the very
hands of justice, had excited an insurrection to force his escape, had been
received and harboured in the Bergamascan territory. The minister in residence
replied, that he knew nothing about it; he would write to Venice, that he
might be able to give his Excellency any explanation that could be procured on
the subject.
It was a maxim of Venetian policy to second and cultivate the inclination
of Milanese silk - weavers to emigrate into the Bergamascan territory, and,
with this object, to provide many advantages for them, more especially that
without which every other was worthless; we mean, security. As, however, when
two great diplomatists dispute, in however trifling a matter, third parties
must always have a taste in the shape of consequences, Bortolo was warned, in
confidence, it was not known by whom, that Renzo was not safe in that
neighbourhood, and that he would do wisely to place him in some other
manufacture for a while, even under a false name. Bortolo understood the hint,
raised no objections, explained the matter to his cousin, took him with him in
a carriage, conveyed him to another new silk - mill, about fifteen miles off,
and presented him, under the name of Antonio Rivolta, to the owner, who was a
native of the Milanese, and an old acquaintance. This person, though the times
were so bad, needed little entreaty to receive a workman who was recommended
to him as honest and skilful by an intelligent man like Bortolo. On the trial
of him afterwards, he found he had only reason to congratulate himself on the
acquisition; excepting that, at first, he thought the youth must be naturally
rather stupid, because, when any one called Antonio, he generally did not
answer.
Soon after, an order came from Venice, in peaceable form, to the sheriff
of Bergamo, requiring him to obtain and forward information, whether, in his
jurisdiction, and more expressly in such a village, such an individual was to
be found. The sheriff, having made the necessary researches in the manner he
saw was desired, transmitted a reply in the negative, which was transmitted to
the minister at Milan, who transmitted it to Don Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova.
There were not wanting inquisitive people who tried to learn from Bortolo
why this youth was no longer with him, and where he had gone. To the first
inquiry he replied, `Nay, he has disappeared!` but afterwards, to get rid of
the most pertinacious without giving them a suspicion of what was really the
case, he contrived to entertain them, some with one, some with another, of the
stories we have before mentioned: always, however, as uncertain reports, which
he also had heard related, without having any positive accounts.
But when inquiries came to be made of him by commission from the
Cardinal, without mentioning his name, and with a certain show of importance
and mystery, merely giving him to understand that it was in the name of a
great personage, Bortolo became the more guarded, and deemed it the more
necessary to adhere to his general method of reply; nay, as a great personage
was concerned, he gave out by wholesale all the stories which he had
published, one by one, of his various disasters.
Let it not be imagined that such a person as Don Gonzalo bore any
personal enmity to the poor mountain silk - weaver; that informed, perhaps, of
his irreverence and ill - language towards his Moorish king, chained by the
throat, he would have wreaked his vengeance upon him; or that he thought him
so dangerous a subject as to be worth pursuing even in flight, and not
suffered to live even at a distance, like the Roman senate with Hannibal. Don
Gonzalo had too many and too important affairs in his head to trouble himself
about Renzo`s doings; and if it seems that he did trouble himself about them,
it arose from a singular combination of circumstances, by which the poor
unfortunate fellow, without desiring it, and without being aware of it, either
then, or ever afterwards, found himself linked, as by a very subtile and
invisible chain, to these same too many and too important affairs.
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