I promessi sposi. English

  CHAPTER IX.

  The shock which the boat received, as it struck against the shore,aroused Lucy from her reverie; they quitted the bark, and Renzo turnedto thank and reward the boatman. "I will take nothing--nothing," saidhe: "we are placed on earth to aid one another." The carriage was ready,the driver seated; its expected occupants took their places, and thehorses moved briskly on. Our travellers arrived then at Monza, which webelieve to have been the name of the place to which Father Christopherhad directed Renzo, a little after sunrise. The driver turned to an inn,where he appeared to be well acquainted, and demanded for them aseparate room. He, as well as the boatman, refused the offeredrecompence of Renzo; like the boatman, he had in view a reward, moredistant indeed, but more abundant; he withdrew his hand, and hastened tolook after his beast.

  After an evening such as we have described, and a night passed inpainful thoughts both in regard to recent events and futureanticipations--disturbed, indeed, by the frequent joltings of theirincommodious vehicle,--our travellers felt a little rest in theirretired apartment at the inn highly necessary. They partook of a smallmeal together, not more in proportion to the prevailing want, than totheir own slender appetites; and recurred with a sigh to the delightfulfestivities, which, two days before, were to have accompanied theirhappy union. Renzo would willingly have remained with his companions allthe day, to secure their lodging and perform other little offices. Butthey strongly alleged the injunctions of Father Christopher, togetherwith the gossiping to which their continuing together would give rise,so that he at length acquiesced. Lucy could not conceal her tears; Renzowith difficulty restrained his; and, warmly pressing the hand of Agnes,he pronounced with a voice almost choked, "Till we meet again."

  The mother and daughter would have been in great perplexity, had it notbeen for the kind driver, who had orders to conduct them to the convent,which was at a little distance from the village. Upon their arrivalthere, the guide requested the porter to call the superior: he appeared,and the letter of Father Christopher was delivered to him. "Oh, fromFather Christopher!" said he, recognising the handwriting. His voice andmanner told evidently that he uttered the name of one whom he regardedas a particular friend. During the perusal of the letter, he manifestedmuch surprise and indignation, and, raising his eyes, fixed them on Lucyand her mother with an expression of pity and interest. When he hadfinished reading, he remained for a moment thoughtful, and thenexclaimed, "There is no one but the signora; if the signora would takeupon herself this obligation----" and then addressing them, "Myfriends," said he, "I will make the effort, and I hope to find you ashelter, more than secure, more than honourable; so that God hasprovided for you in the best manner. Will you come with me?"

  The females bowed reverently in assent; the friar continued, "Come withme, then, to the monastery of the signora. But keep yourselves a fewsteps distant, because there are people who delight to speak evil ofothers, and God knows how many fine stories might be told, if thesuperior of the convent was seen walking with a beautiful youngwoman--with women, I mean."

  So saying, he went on before: Lucy blushed; the guide looked at Agnes,who could not conceal a momentary smile; and they all three obeyed thecommand of the friar, and followed him at a distance. "Who is thesignora?" said Agnes, addressing their conductor.

  "The signora," replied he, "is not a nun; that is, not a nun like theothers. She is not the abbess, nor the prioress; for they say that _she_is one of the youngest of them; but she is from Adam's rib, and herancestors were great people, who came from Spain; and they call her the_signora_, to signify that she is a great lady,--every one calls her so,because they say that in this monastery they have never had so noble aperson; and her relations down at Milan are very powerful, and in Monzastill more so; because her father is the first lord in the country; forwhich reason she can do as she pleases in the convent,--and moreoverpeople abroad bear her a great respect, and if she undertakes a thing,she makes it succeed; and if this good father induces her to take youunder her protection, you will be as safe as at the foot of the altar."

  When the superior arrived at the gate of the town, which was defended atthat time by an old tower, and part of a dismantled castle, he stoppedand looked back to see if they followed him--then advanced towards themonastery, and, remaining on the threshold, awaited their approach. Theguide then took his leave, not without many thanks from Agnes and herdaughter for his kindness and faithfulness. The superior led them to theportress's chamber, and went alone to make the request of the signora.After a few moments he re-appeared, and with a joyful countenance toldthem that she would grant them an interview: on their way, he gave themmuch advice concerning their deportment in her presence. "She is welldisposed towards you," said he, "and has the power to protect you. Behumble, and respectful; reply with frankness to the questions she willask you, and when not questioned, be silent."

  They passed through a lower chamber, and advanced towards the parlour.Lucy, who had never been in a monastery before, looked around as sheentered it for the signora; but there was no one there; in a fewmoments, however, she observed the friar approach a small window orgrating, behind which she beheld a nun standing. She appeared abouttwenty-five years of age; her countenance at first sight produced animpression of beauty, but of beauty prematurely faded. A black veil hungin folds on either side of her face; below the veil a band of whitelinen encircled a forehead of different, but not inferior whiteness;another plaited band encompassed the face, and terminated under the chinin a neck handkerchief, or cape, which, extending over the shoulders,covered to the waist the folds of her black robe. But her forehead wascontracted from time to time, as if by some painful emotion; now, herlarge black eye was fixed steadfastly on your face with an expression ofhaughty curiosity, then hastily bent down as if to discover some hiddenthought; in certain moments an attentive observer would have deemed thatthey solicited affection, sympathy, and pity; at others, he would havereceived a transient revelation of hatred, matured by a crueldisposition; when motionless and inattentive, some would have imaginedthem to express haughty aversion, others would have suspected thelabouring of concealed thought, the effort to overcome some secretfeeling of her soul, which had more power over it than all surroundingobjects. Her cheeks were delicately formed, but extremely pale and thin;her lips, hardly suffused with a feeble tinge of the rose, seemed tosoften into the pallid hue of the cheeks; their movements, like those ofher eyes, were sudden, animated, and full of expression and mystery. Herloftiness of stature was not apparent, owing to an habitual stoop; aswell as to her rapid and irregular movements, little becoming a nun, oreven a lady. In her dress itself there was an appearance of studiedneglect, which announced a singular character; and from the band aroundher temples was suffered to escape, through forgetfulness or contempt ofthe rules which prohibited it, a curl of glossy black hair.

  These things made no impression on the minds of Agnes and Lucy,unaccustomed as they were to the sight of a nun; and to the superior itwas no novelty--he, as well as many others, had become familiarised toher habit and manners.

  She was, as we have said, standing near the grate, against which sheleaned languidly, to observe those who were approaching. "Reverendmother, and most illustrious lady," said the superior, bending low,"this is the poor young woman for whom I have solicited your protection,and this is her mother."

  Both mother and daughter bowed reverently. "It is fortunate that I haveit in my power," said she, turning to the father, "to do some littleservice to our good friends the capuchin fathers. But tell me a littlemore particularly, the situation of this young woman, that I may bebetter prepared to act for her advantage."

  Lucy blushed, and held down her head. "You must know, reverend mother,"said Agnes--but the father interrupted her;--"This young person, mostillustrious lady," continued he, "has been recommended to me, as I havetold you, by one of my brethren. She has been obliged to depart secretlyfrom her native place, in order to escape heavy perils; and she has needfor some time of an asylum, wher
e she can remain unknown, and where noone will dare to molest her."

  "What perils?" demanded the lady. "Pray, father, do not talk soenigmatically: you know, we nuns like to hear stories minutely."

  "They are perils," replied the father, "that should not be told to thepure ears of the reverend mother."--"Oh, certainly," said the lady,hastily, and slightly blushing. Was this the blush of modesty? He wouldhave doubted it, who should have observed the rapid expression ofdisdain which accompanied it, or have compared it with that which fromtime to time diffused itself over the cheek of Lucy.

  "It is sufficient to say," resumed the friar, "that a powerful lord--itis not all the rich and noble who make use of the gifts of God for thepromotion of his glory, as you do, most illustrious lady--a powerfullord, after having persecuted for a long time this innocent creaturewith wicked allurements, finding them unavailing, has had recourse toopen force, so that she has been obliged to fly from her home."

  "Approach, young woman," said the signora. "I know that the father istruth itself; but no one can be better informed than you with regard tothis affair. To you it belongs to tell us if this lord was an odiouspersecutor." Lucy obeyed the first command, and approached the grating;but the second, accompanied as it was with a certain malicious air ofdoubt, brought a blush over her countenance, and a sense of painfulembarrassment, which she found it impossible to overcome."Lady----mother----reverend----" stammered she. Agnes now felt herselfauthorised to come to her assistance. "Most illustrious lady," said she,"I can bear testimony that my daughter hates this lord as the devilhates holy water. I would call him the devil, were it not for yourreverend presence. The case is this: this poor maiden was promised to agood and industrious youth; and if the curate had done his duty----"

  "You are very ready to speak without being interrogated," interruptedthe lady, with an expression of anger on her countenance, which changedit almost to deformity. "Silence; I have not to be informed that parentshave always an answer prepared in the name of their children."

  Agnes drew back mortified, and the father guardian signified to Lucy bya look, as well as by a movement of the head, that now was the time torouse her courage, and not leave her poor mother in the dilemma."Reverend lady," said she, "what my mother has told you is the truth. Iwillingly engaged myself to the poor youth (and here she became coveredwith blushes)---- Pardon me this boldness; but I would not have youthink ill of my mother. And as to this lord (God forgive him!) I wouldrather die than fall into his hands. And if you do this deed of charity,be certain, signora, none will pray for you more heartily than thosewhom you have thus sheltered."

  "I believe you," said the lady, with a softened voice; "but we will seeyou alone. Not that I need farther explanation, nor other motives toaccede to the wishes of the father superior," added she, turning to himwith studied politeness. "Nay," continued she, "I have been thinking,and this is what has occurred to me. The portress of the monastery hasbestowed in marriage, a few days since, her last daughter; these femalescan occupy her room, and supply her place in the little services whichit was her office to perform."

  The father would have expressed his thanks, but the lady interruptedhim. "There is no need of ceremony; in case of need, I would nothesitate to ask assistance of the capuchin fathers. In short," continuedshe, with a smile, in which appeared a degree of bitter irony, "are wenot brothers and sisters?"

  So saying, she called a nun, her attendant (by a singular distinctionshe had two assigned for her private service), and sent her to informthe abbess; she then called the portress, and made with her and Agnesthe necessary arrangements. Then taking leave of the superior, shedismissed Agnes to her room, but retained Lucy. The signora, who, inpresence of a capuchin, had studied her actions and her words, thoughtno longer of putting a restraint on them before an inexperienced countrygirl. Her discourse became by degrees so strange, that, in order toaccount for it, we will relate the previous history of this unhappy andmisguided person.

  She was the youngest daughter of the Prince ***, a great Milanesenobleman, who was among the wealthiest of the city. The magnificentideas he entertained of his rank, made him suppose his wealth hardlysufficient to support it properly; he therefore determined to preservehis riches with the greatest care. How many children he had does notclearly appear; it is only known that he had destined to the cloisterall the youngest of both sexes, in order to preserve his fortune for theeldest son. The condition of the unhappy signora had been settled evenbefore her birth; it remained only to be decided whether she were to bea monk or a nun. At her birth, the prince her father, wishing to giveher a name which could recall at every moment the idea of a cloister,and which had been borne by a saint of a noble family, called herGertrude. Dolls, clothed like nuns, were the first toys that were putinto her hands; then pictures of nuns; and these gifts were accompaniedwith many injunctions to be careful of them, for they were preciousthings. When the prince or princess, or the young prince, who was theonly one of the children brought up at home, wished to praise the beautyof the infant, they found no way of expressing their ideas, except inexclamations of this sort, "What a mother abbess!" But no one ever saiddirectly to her, "Thou must be a nun;" such an intention, however, wasunderstood, and included in every conversation regarding her futuredestiny. If, sometimes, the little Gertrude betrayed perversity andimpetuosity of temper, they would say to her, "Thou art but a child, andthese manners are not becoming: wait till thou art the mother abbess,and then thou shalt command with a rod; thou shalt do whatever pleasesthee." At other times, reprehending her for the freedom and familiarityof her manners, the prince would say, "Such should not be the deportmentof one like you; if you wish at some future day to have the respect ofall around you, learn now to have more gravity; remember that you willbe the first in the monastery, because noble blood bears sway everywhere."

  By such conversations as these the implicit idea was produced in themind of the child, that she was to be a nun. The manners of the princewere habitually austere and repulsive; and, with respect to thedestination of the child, his resolution appeared fixed as fate. At sixyears of age she was placed for her education in the monastery where wefind her: her father, being the most powerful noble in Monza, enjoyedthere great authority; and his daughter, consequently, would receivethose distinctions, with those allurements, which might lead her toselect it for her perpetual abode. The abbess and nuns, rejoicing at theacquisition of such powerful friendship, received with great gratitudethe honour conferred in preference on them, and entered with avidityinto the views of the prince; Gertrude experienced all sorts of favoursand indulgences, and, child as she was, the respectful attention of thenuns towards her was exercised with the same deference as if she hadbeen the abbess herself! Not that they were all pledged to draw the poorchild into the snare; many acted with simplicity, and throughtenderness, merely following the example of those around them; if thesuspicions of others were excited, they kept silence, so as not to causeuseless disturbance; some, indeed, more discriminating andcompassionate, pitied the poor child as being the object of artifices,to the like of which they themselves had been the victims.

  Things would have proceeded agreeably to the wishes of all concerned,had Gertrude been the only child in the monastery; but this was not thecase; and there were some among her school companions who were destinedfor the matrimonial state. The little Gertrude, filled with the idea ofher superiority, spoke proudly of her future destiny, expecting therebyto excite their envy at her peculiar honours: with scorn and wonder sheperceived that their estimation of them was very different. To themajestic but circumscribed and cold images of the power of an abbess,they opposed the varied and bright pictures of husband, guests, cities,tournaments, courts, dress, and equipage. New and strange emotions arosein the mind of Gertrude: her vanity had been cultivated in order to makethe cloister desirable to her; and now, easily assimilating itself withthe ideas thus presented, she entered into them with all the ardour ofher soul. She replied, that no one could oblige her to take the
veil,without her own consent; that she could also marry, inhabit a palace,and enjoy the world; that she could if she wished it; that she _would_wish it, and _did_ wish it. The necessity of her own consent, hithertolittle considered, became henceforth the ruling thought of her mind; shecalled it to her aid, at all times, when she desired to luxuriate in thepleasing images of future felicity.

  But her fancied enjoyment was impaired by the reflection, which at suchmoments intruded itself, that her father had irrevocably decided herdestiny; and she shuddered at the recollection of his austere manners,which impressed upon all around him the sentiments of a fatal necessityas being necessarily conjoined with whatever he should command. Thenwould she compare her condition to that of her more fortunatecompanions; and envy soon grew into hatred. This would manifest itselfby a display of present superiority, and sometimes of ill-nature,sarcasm, and spite; at other times her more amiable and gentle qualitieswould obtain a transitory ascendency. Thus she passed the periodallotted for her education, in dreams of future bliss, mingled with thedread of future misery. That which she anticipated most distinctly, wasexternal pomp and splendour; and her fancy would often luxuriate inimaginary scenes of grandeur, constructed out of such materials as hermemory could faintly and confusedly furnish forth, and the descriptionsof her companions supply. There were moments when these brilliantimaginings were disturbed by the idea of religion; but the religionwhich had been inculcated to the poor girl did not proscribe pride, but,on the contrary, sanctified it, and proposed it as a means of obtainingterrestrial felicity. Thus despoiled of its essence, it was no longerreligion, but a phantom, which, assuming at times a power over her mind,the unhappy girl was tormented with superstitious dread, and, filledwith a confused idea of duties, imagined her repugnance to the cloisterto be a crime, which could only be expiated by her voluntary dedication.

  There was a law, that no young person could be accepted for the monasticlife, without being examined by an ecclesiastic, called the vicar of thenuns, so that it should be made manifest that it was the result of herfree election; and this examination could not take place until a yearafter she had presented her petition for admission, in writing, to thevicar. The nuns, therefore, who were aware of the projects of herfather, undertook to draw from her such a petition; encountering her inone of those moments, when she was assailed by her superstitious fears,they suggested to her the propriety of such a course, and assured her,nevertheless, that it was a mere formality (which was true), and wouldbe without efficacy, unless sanctioned by some after-act of her own. Thepetition, however, had scarcely been sent to its destination, whenGertrude repented of having written it; she then repented of thisrepentance, passing months in incessant vicissitude of feeling. Therewas another law, that, at this examination, a young person should not bereceived, without having remained at least a month at her paternal home.A year had nearly passed since the petition had been sent, and Gertrudehad been warned that she would soon be removed from the monastery, andconducted to her father's house, to take the final steps towards theconsummation of that which they held certain. Not so the poor girl; hermind was busied with plans of escape: in her perplexity, she unbosomedherself to one of her companions, who counselled her to inform herfather by letter of the change in her views. The letter was written andsent; Gertrude remained in great anxiety, expecting a reply, which nevercame. A few days after, the abbess took her aside, and, with a mixedexpression of contempt and compassion, hinted to her the anger of theprince, and the error she had committed; but that, if she conductedherself well for the future, all would be forgotten. The poor girlheard, and dared not ask farther explanation.

  The day, so ardently desired and so greatly feared, came at last. Theanticipation of the trials that awaited her was forgotten in hertumultuous joy at the sight of the open country, the city, and thehouses. She might well feel thus, after having been for eight yearsenclosed within the walls of the monastery! She had previously arrangedwith her new confidant the part she was to act. Oh! they will try toforce me, thought she: but I will persist, humbly and respectfully; thepoint is, not to say _Yes_; and I will _not_ say it. Or, perhaps theywill endeavour to shake my purpose by kindness: but I will weep, I willimplore, I will excite their compassion, I will beseech them not tosacrifice me. But none of her anticipations were verified: her parentsand family, with the usual artful policy in such cases, maintained aperfect silence with regard to the subject of her meditations; theyregarded her with looks of contemptuous pity, and appeared to avoid allconversation with her, as if she had rendered herself unworthy of it. Amysterious anathema appeared to hang over her, and to keep at a distanceevery member of the household. If, wearied with this proscription, sheendeavoured to enter into conversation, they made her understandindirectly, that by obedience alone could she regain the affections ofthe family. But this was precisely the condition to which she could notassent: she therefore continued in her state of excommunication, whichunhappily appeared to be, at least partially, the consequence of her ownconduct.

  Such a state of things formed a sad contrast to the radiant visionswhich had occupied her imagination. Her confinement was as strict athome as it had been in the monastery; and she, who had fancied sheshould enjoy, at least for this brief period, the pleasures of theworld, found herself an exile from all society. At every announcement ofa visiter, she was compelled to retire with the elderly persons of thefamily; and always dined apart whenever a guest was present. Even theservants of the family appeared to concur with the designs of theirmaster, and to treat her with carelessness, ill concealed by an awkwardattempt at formality. There was one among them, however, who seemed tofeel towards her respect and compassion. This was a handsome page, whoequalled, in her imagination, the ideal images of loveliness she had sooften fondly cherished. There was soon apparent a change in her manner,a love of reverie and abstraction, and she no longer appeared to covetthe favour of her family; some engrossing thought had taken possessionof her mind. To be brief, she was detected one day in folding a letter,which it had been better she had not written, and which she was obligedto relinquish to her female attendant, who carried it to the prince, herfather. He came immediately to her apartment with the letter in hishand, and in few but terrible words told her, that for the present sheshould be confined to her chamber, with the society only of the womanwho had made the discovery; and intimated for the future still darkerpunishments. The page was dismissed, with an imperative command ofsilence, and solemn threatenings of punishment should he presume toviolate it. Gertrude was then left alone, with her shame, her remorse,and her terror; and the sole company of this woman, whom she hated, asthe witness of her fault, and the cause of her disgrace. The hatred wascordially returned, inasmuch as the attendant found herself reduced tothe annoying duty of a jailer, and was made the guardian of a periloussecret for life. The first confused tumult of her feelings having insome measure subsided, she recalled to mind the dark intimations of herfather with regard to some future punishment: what could this be? Itmost probably was a return to the monastery at Monza, not as thesignorina, but as a guilty wretch, who, loaded with shame, was to beinclosed within its walls for ever! Now, indeed, her fancy no longerdwelt on the bright visions with which it had been so often busied; theywere too much opposed to the sad reality of her present condition. Suchan act would repair all her errors, and change (could she doubt it) inan instant her condition. The only castle in which Gertrude couldimagine a tranquil and honourable asylum, and which was not in the_air_, was the monastery, in which she now resolved to place herself forever! Opposed to this resolution rose up the contemplations of manyyears past: but times were changed, and to the depth in which Gertrudehad fallen, the condition of a nun, revered, obeyed, and feared, formeda bright contrast. She was perpetually tormented also by her jailer,who, to revenge herself for the confinement imposed on her, failed notto taunt her for her misdemeanor, and to repeat the menaces of herfather; or whenever she seemed disposed to relent, and to show somethinglike pity, her tone of protection w
as still more intolerable. Thepredominant desire of Gertrude was to escape from her clutches, and toraise herself to a condition above her anger or her pity. At the end offour or five long days, with her patience exhausted by the bitterrailings of her keeper, she sat herself down in a corner of the chamber,and covering her face with her hands, wept in bitterness of soul. Sheexperienced an absolute craving for other faces and other sounds thanthose of her tormentor; and a sudden joy imparted itself to her mind,from the reflection, that it depended only on herself to be restored tothe good-will and attentions of the family. Mingled with this joy, camerepentance for her fault, and a desire to expiate it. She arose, went toa small table, and taking a pen, wrote to her father, expressing herpenitence and her hope, imploring his pardon, and promising to do allthat might be required of her.