I promessi sposi. English

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  Here, among those who were expecting the arrival of the army in alarmand consternation, we find persons of our acquaintance. He who did notbehold Don Abbondio on the day when the report was spread of the descentof the army, of its near approach, and its excesses, can have no idea ofthe power of fright upon a feeble mind. All sorts of reports wereafloat. They are coming--thirty, forty, fifty thousand men. They havesacked Cortenova; burnt Primaluna; plundered Introbbio, Pasturo, Barsio.They have been seen at Balobbio; to-morrow they will be here. Such werethe statements in circulation. The villagers assembled in tumultuouscrowds, hesitating whether to fly or remain, while the women lamentedaloud over their miserable fate.

  Don Abbondio, to whom flight had immediately suggested itself, saw init, nevertheless, invincible obstacles, and frightful dangers. "Whatshall I do?" cried he; "where shall I go?" The mountains, withoutspeaking of the difficulty of ascending them, were not safe; the footsoldiers climbed them like cats, if they had the slightest indication orhope of booty; the waters of the lake were swollen; it was blowingviolently; in addition to which, the greater part of the watermen,fearing to be forced to pass soldiers or baggage, had taken refuge withtheir boats on the opposite shore; the few barks that remained werealready filled with people, and endangered by the weather. It wasimpossible to find a carriage or horse, or any mode of conveyance. DonAbbondio did not dare venture on foot, incurring, as he would, theprobability of being stopped on the road. The confines of theBergamascan territory were not so distant, but that he could have walkedthere in a little while; but a report had reached the village, that asquadron of _cappelletri_ had been sent in haste from Bergamo, to guardthe frontiers against the German foot-soldiers. These were not lessdevils incarnate than those they were commissioned to oppose. The poorman was beside himself with terror; he endeavoured to concert withPerpetua some plan of escape, but Perpetua was quite occupied incollecting and concealing his valuables; with her hands full, shereplied, "Let me place this in safety; we will then do as other peopledo." Don Abbondio desired eagerly to discuss with her the best means tobe pursued, but Perpetua, between hurry and fright, was less tractablethan usual: "Others will do the best they can," said she, "and so willwe. Excuse me, but you only hinder one. Do you not think they have skinsto save as well as we?"

  Relieving herself thus from his importunities, she went on with heroccupation; the poor man, as a last resource, went to a window, andcried, in a piteous tone, to the people who were passing, "Do your poorcurate the favour to bring him a horse or a mule; is it possible no onewill come to help me? Wait for me at least; wait till I can go with you;abandon me not. Would you leave me in the power of these dogs? Know younot that they are Lutherans, and that the murder of a priest will seemto them a meritorious deed? Would you leave me here to be martyred?"

  But to whom did he address this appeal? to men who were themselvesincumbered with the weight of their humble movables, or, disturbed bythe thoughts of what they had been obliged to leave behind, exposed tothe ravages of the destroyer. One drove his cow before him; anotherconducted his children, who were also laden with burdens, his wifeperhaps with an infant in her arms. Some went on their way withoutreplying or looking at him; others merely said, "Eh, sir, do as you can;you are fortunate in having no family to think of; help yourself; do thebest you can."

  "Oh, poor me!" cried Don Abbondio, "oh, what savages! they have nofeeling; they give not a thought to their poor curate!" And he wentagain in search of Perpetua.

  "Oh, you are come just in time," said she, "where is your money?"

  "What shall we do with it?"

  "Give it to me; I will bury it in the garden with the plate."

  "But----"

  "But, but, give it to me; keep a few pence for necessity, and let memanage the rest."

  Don Abbondio obeyed, and drawing his treasure from his strong box, gaveit to Perpetua. "I will bury it in the garden, at the foot of thefig-tree," said she, as she disappeared. She returned in a few moments,with a large basket, full of provisions, and a small one, which wasempty; into the latter she put a few articles of clothing for herselfand master.

  "You must take your breviary with you," said she.

  "But where are we going?"

  "Where every one else goes. We will go into the street, and then weshall hear and see what we must do."

  At this moment Agnes entered with a small basket in her hand, and withthe air of one about to make an important proposal.

  She had decided not to wait the approach of the dangerous guests, aloneas she was, and with the gold of the Unknown in her possession; but hadremained some time in doubt where to seek an asylum. The residue of thecrowns, which in time of famine would have been so great a treasure, wasnow the principal cause of her anxiety and irresolution; as, under thepresent circumstances, those who had money were worse off than others;being exposed at the same time to the violence of strangers, and thetreachery of their companions. It is true, none knew of the wealth whichhad thus, as it were, fallen to her from heaven, except Don Abbondio, towhom she had often applied to change a crown, leaving him always somepart of it for those more unfortunate than herself. But hiddenproperty, above all, to those not accustomed to such a possession, keepsthe possessor in continual suspicion of others. Now, whilst shereflected on the peculiar dangers to which she was exposed, by the verygenerosity itself of the Unknown, the offer of unlimited service, whichhad accompanied the gift, suddenly occurred to her recollection. Sheremembered the descriptions she had heard of his castle, as situated ina high place, where, without the concurrence of the master, none daredventure but the birds of heaven. Resolving to go thither, and reflectingon the means of making herself known to this signor, her thoughtsrecurred to Don Abbondio, who, since the conversation with thearchbishop, had been very particular in his expression of good feelingtowards her, as he could at present be, without compromising himself,there being but little probability, from the situation of affairs, thathis benevolence would be put to the test. She naturally supposed, thatin a time of such consternation, the poor man would be more alarmed thanherself, and might acquiesce in her plan; this was, therefore, thepurpose of her visit. Finding him alone with Perpetua, she made knownher intentions.

  "What do you say to it, Perpetua?" asked Don Abbondio.

  "I say that it is an inspiration from Heaven, and that we must lose notime, and set off immediately."

  "But then----"

  "But then, but then; when we have arrived safely there, we shall be veryglad, that's all. It is well known that this signor thinks of nothingnow but doing good to others, and he will afford us an asylum with thegreatest pleasure. There, on the frontiers, and almost in the sky, thesoldiers will not trouble us. But then--but then, we shall have enoughto eat, no doubt. On the top of the mountains, the provisions we havehere with us would not serve us long."

  "Is it true that he is really converted?"

  "Can you doubt it, after all you have seen?"

  "And if, after all, we should be voluntarily placing ourselves inprison?"

  "What prison? With this trifling, excuse me, we shall never come to anyconclusion. Worthy Agnes! your plan is an excellent one." So saying, sheplaced the basket on the table, and having passed her arms through thestraps, swung it over her shoulders.

  "Could we not procure," said Don Abbondio, "some man to accompany us?Should we encounter some ruffian on the way, what assistance would yoube to me?"

  "Not done yet! always losing time!" cried Perpetua. "Go then, and lookfor a man, and you will find every one engaged in his own business, Iwarrant you. Come, take your breviary, and your hat, and let us be off."

  Don Abbondio was obliged to obey, and they departed. They passed througha small door into the churchyard. Perpetua closed it from custom; notfor the security it could now give. Don Abbondio cast a look towards thechurch,--"It is for the people to guard it," thought he; "it is theirchurch: let them see to it, if they have the heart." They took theby-paths through the fields
, but were in continual apprehension ofencountering some one, who might arrest their progress. They met no one,however; all were employed, either in guarding their houses, or packingtheir furniture, or travelling, with their moveables, towards themountains.

  Don Abbondio, after many sighs and interjections, began to grumblealoud: he complained of the Duke of Nevers, who could have remained toenjoy himself in France, had he not been determined to be Duke ofMantua, in despite of all the world; of the emperor, and above all, ofthe governor, whose duty it was to keep this scourge from the country,and not invoke it by his taste for war.

  "Let these people be, they cannot help us now," said Perpetua. "Theseare your usual chatterings, excuse me, which mean nothing. That whichgives me the most uneasiness----"

  "What is it?"

  Perpetua, who had been leisurely recalling to mind the things which shehad so hastily concealed, remembered that she had forgotten such anarticle, and had not safely deposited such another; that she had lefttraces which might impart information to the depredators.

  "Well done!" cried Don Abbondio, in whom the security he was beginningto feel with regard to his life allowed his anxiety to appear for hisproperty; "well done! Is this what you have been doing? Where were yourbrains?"

  "How!" replied Perpetua, stopping for a moment, and attempting, as faras her load would permit, to place her arms a-kimbo; "do you find fault,when it was yourself who teased me out of my wits, instead of helping meas you ought to have done? I have thought more of my master's goods thanmy own; and if there is any thing lost, I can't help it, I have donemore than my duty."

  Agnes interrupted these disputes by introducing her own troubles: shewas obliged to relinquish the hope of seeing her dear Lucy, for sometime at least; for she could not expect that Donna Prassede would comeinto this vicinity under such circumstances. The sight of thewell-remembered places through which they were passing increased theanguish of her feelings. Leaving the fields, they had taken the highroad, the same which the poor woman had travelled, in re-conducting, forso short a time, her daughter to her home, after having been with her atthe tailor's. As they approached the village, "Let us go and visit theseworthy people," said Agnes.

  "And rest a little, and eat a mouthful," said Perpetua, "for I begin tohave enough of this basket."

  "On condition that we lose no time, for this is not by any means ajourney for amusement," said Don Abbondio.

  They were received with open arms, and cordially welcomed; Agnes,embracing the good hostess, wept bitterly; replying with sobs to thequestions her husband and she asked concerning Lucy.

  "She is better off than we are," said Don Abbondio; "she is at Milan,sheltered from danger, far from these horrible scenes."

  "The signor curate and his companions are fugitives, are they not?" saidthe tailor.

  "Yes," replied, at the same time, Perpetua and her master.

  "I sympathise with your misfortunes."

  "We are going to the castle of----"

  "That is well thought of; you will be as safe as in Paradise."

  "And are you not afraid here?"

  "We are too much off the road. If they should turn out of their way, weshall be warned in time."

  The three travellers decided to take a few hours' rest: as it was thehour of dinner, "Do me the honour," said the tailor, "to partake of myhumble fare."

  Perpetua said she had provisions enough in her basket wherewith to breakher fast; after a little ceremony, however, on both sides, they agreedto seat themselves at the dinner table.

  The children had joyfully surrounded their old friend Agnes; the tailorordered one of them to roast some early chestnuts; "and you," said he toanother, "go to the garden, and bring some peaches; all that are ripe.And you," to a third, "climb the fig-tree, and gather the best figs; itis a business to which you are well accustomed." As for himself, he leftthe room to tap a small cask of wine, while his wife went in search of atable-cloth. All being prepared, they seated themselves at the friendlyboard, if not with unmingled joy, at least with much more satisfactionthan they could have anticipated from the events of the morning.

  "What does the signor curate say to the disasters of the times? I canfancy I'm reading the history of the Moors in France," said the tailor.

  "What do I say? That even that misfortune might have befallen me,"replied Don Abbondio.

  "You have chosen an excellent asylum, however; for none can ascend thoseheights without the consent of the master. You will find a numerouscompany there. Many people have already fled thither, and there arefresh arrivals every day."

  "I dare to hope we shall be well received. I know this worthy signor:when I had the honour to be in his company he was all politeness."

  "And," said Agnes, "he sent me word by his illustrious lordship, that ifever I should need assistance, I had only to apply to him."

  "What a wonderful conversion!" resumed Don Abbondio. "And he perseveres?does he _not_ persevere?"

  The tailor spoke at length of the holy life of the Unknown, and said,that after having been the scourge of the country, he had become itsbest example and benefactor.

  "And the people of his household--that band?" asked Don Abbondio, whohad heard some contradictory stories concerning them, and did not feel,therefore, quite secure.

  "The greater part have left him," replied the tailor, "and those whohave remained have changed their manner of life; in short, this castlehas become like the Thebaid. The signor curate understands me."

  Then retracing with Agnes the visit of the cardinal, "What a great man!"said he, "a great man, indeed! what a pity he remained so short a timewith us! I wished to do him honour. Oh, if I had only been able toaddress him again, more at my leisure!"

  When they rose from table, he showed them an engraving of the cardinal,which he had hung on the door, from veneration to his virtues, and alsoto enable him to assure every body that it was no likeness; he knew itwas not, as he had regarded him closely at his leisure in this veryroom.

  "Did they mean that for him?" said Agnes. "The habit is the same,but----"

  "It is no likeness, is it?" said the tailor; "that is what I always say,but other things being wanting, there is at least his name under it,which tells who it is."

  Don Abbondio being impatient to be gone, the tailor went in search of avehicle to carry the little company to the foot of the ascent, andreturned in a few moments to inform them it was ready. "Signor curate,"said he, "if you wish a few books to carry with you, I can lend yousome; for I amuse myself sometimes with reading. They are not likeyours, to be sure, being in the vulgar tongue, but----"

  "A thousand thanks, but under present circumstances I have scarcelybrains enough to read my breviary."

  After an exchange of thanks, invitations, and promises, they badefarewell, and pursued, with a little more tranquillity of mind, theremainder of their journey.

  The tailor had told Don Abbondio the truth, with regard to the new lifeof the Unknown. From the day that we took our leave of him, he hadcontinued to put in practice his good intentions, by repairing injuries,reconciling himself with his enemies, and succouring the distressed andunfortunate. The courage he had formerly evinced in attack and defencehe now employed in avoiding all occasion both for the one and the other.He went unarmed and alone; disposed to suffer the possible consequencesof the violences he had committed; persuaded that it would be adding tohis crimes to employ any methods of defence for himself, as he was adebtor to all the world; and persuaded also, that though the evil doneto him would be sin against God, it would be but a just retributionagainst himself; and that he had left himself no right to revenge aninjury, however unprovoked it might be at the time. But he was not lessinviolable than when he bore arms to insure his safety; the recollectionof his former ferocity, and the contrast of his present gentleness, theformer exciting a desire of revenge, and the latter rendering thisrevenge so easy, conspired to subdue hatred, and, in its place, tosubstitute an admiration which served him as a safeguard. The man whomno on
e could humble, but who had humbled himself, was regarded with thedeepest veneration. Those whom he had wronged had obtained, beyond theirhopes, and without incurring any danger, a satisfaction which they couldnever have promised themselves from the most complete revenge, thesatisfaction of seeing him repent of his wrongs, and participate, so tospeak, in their indignation. In his voluntary abasement, his countenanceand manner had acquired, without his own knowledge, something elevatedand noble; his outward demeanour was as dauntless as ever.

  This change, also, in addition to other reasons, secured him from publicretribution at the instigation of those in authority. His rank andfamily, which had always been a species of defence to him, stillprevailed in his favour; and to his name, already famous, was joined thepersonal esteem which was now due to him. The magistrates and nobilityhad rejoiced at his conversion, as well as the people; as thisconversion produced compensations that they were neither accustomed toask nor obtain. Probably, also, the name of the Cardinal Frederick,whose interest in his conversion, and subsequent friendship for him,were well known, served him as an impenetrable shield.

  Upon the arrival of the German troops, when fugitives from the invadedcountries fled to the castle, delighted that his walls, so long theobject of dread and execration to the feeble, should now be regarded asa place of security and protection, the Unknown received them ratherwith gratitude than politeness. He caused it to be made public, that hisdoors would be open to all, and employed himself immediately in placingnot only the castle but the valley beneath in a state of defence:assembling the servants who had remained with him, he addressed them onthe opportunity God had afforded them, as well as himself, to servethose whom they had so frequently oppressed and terrified. With his oldaccent of command, expressing the certainty of being obeyed, he gavethem general orders, as to their deportment, so that those who shouldtake refuge with him might behold in them only defenders and friends. Hegave their arms to them again, of which they had been deprived; as alsoto the peasants of the valley, who were willing to engage in itsdefence: he named officers, and appointed to them their duty and theirdifferent stations, as he had been accustomed to do in his formercriminal life. He himself, however, whether from principle, or that hehad made a vow to that effect, remained unarmed at the head of hisgarrison.

  He also employed the females of the household in preparing beds, straw,mattresses, sacks, in various rooms intended as temporary dormitories.He ordered abundant provisions to be brought to the castle for the useof the guests God should send him; and in the mean while he was himselfnever idle, visiting every post, examining every defence, andmaintaining the most perfect order by his authority and his presence.