LUCIA had aroused herself only a short time before, and part of that time she had been striving to awaken herself thoroughly, and to sever the disturbed dreams of sleep from the remembrances and images of a reality which too much resembled the feverish visions of sickness. The old woman quickly made up to her, and, with a constrained voice of humility, said: ‘Ah! have you slept? You might have slept in bed: I told you so often enough last night.’ And receiving no reply, she continued, in a tone of pettish entreaty: ‘Just eat something; do be prudent. Oh, how wretched you look! You must want something to eat. And then if, when he comes back, he’s angry with me!’
‘No, no; I want to go away. I want to go to my mother. Your master promised I should; he said, to-morrow morning. Where is he?’
‘He’s gone out; but he said he’d be back soon, and would do all you wished.’
‘Did he say so? did he say so? Very well; I wish to go to my mother, directly, directly.’
And behold! the noise of footsteps was heard in the adjoining room; then a tap at the door. The old woman ran to it, and asked, ‘Who’s there?’
‘Open the door,’ replied the well-known voice, gently.
The old woman drew back the bolt, and, with a slight push, the Unnamed half opened the door, bid her come out, and hastily ushered in Don Abbondio and the good woman. He then nearly closed the door again, and waiting himself outside, sent the aged matron to a distant part of the castle, as he had before dismissed the other one, who was keeping watch outside.
All this bustle, the moment of expectation, and the first appearance of strange figures, made Lucia’s heart bound with agitation; for, if her present condition was intolerable, every change was an additional cause of alarm. She looked up, and beheld a priest and a woman; this somewhat reanimated her; she looked more closely; is it he or not? At last, she recognized Don Abbondio, and remained with her eyes fixed, as if by enchantment. The female then drew near, and bending over her, looked at her compassionately, taking both her hands, as if to caress and raise her at the same time, and saying: ‘Oh, my poor girl! come with us, come with us.’
‘Who are you? demanded Lucia; but without listening to the reply, she again turned to Don Abbondio, who was standing two or three yards distant, even his countenance expressing some compassion; she gazed at him again, and exclaimed: ‘You! Is it you! The Signor Curate? Where are we? . . . Oh, poor me! I have lost my senses!’
‘No, no,’ replied Don Abbondio, ‘it is indeed I: take courage. Don’t you see we are here to take you away? I am really your curate, come hither on purpose on horseback . . . ’
As if she had suddenly regained all her strength, Lucia precipitately sprang upon her feet: then again fixing her eyes on those two faces, she said: ‘It is the Madonna, then, that has sent you.’
‘I believe indeed it is,’ said the good woman.
‘But can we go away? Can we really go away?’ resumed Lucia, lowering her voice, and assuming a timid and suspicious look. ‘And all these people? . . . ’ continued she, with her lips compressed, and quivering with fear and horror: ‘And that Lord . . . that man! . . . He did, indeed, promise . . . ’
‘He is here himself in person, came on purpose with us,’ said Don Abbondio; ‘he is outside waiting for us. Let us go at once; we mustn’t keep a man like him waiting.’
At this moment, he of whom they were speaking opened the door, and showing himself at the entrance, came forward into the room. Lucia, who but just before had wished for him, nay, having no hope in any one else in the world, had wished for none but him, now, after having seen and listened to friendly faces and voices, could not restrain a sudden shudder: she started, held her breath, and throwing herself on the good woman’s shoulder, buried her face in her bosom. At the first sight of that countenance, on which, the evening before, he had been unable to maintain a steady gaze, now rendered more pale, languid and dejected, by prolonged suffering and abstinence, the Unnamed had suddenly checked his steps; now, at the sight of her impulse of terror, he cast his eyes on the ground, stood for a moment silent and motionless, and then replying to what the poor girl had not expressed in words, ‘It is true,’ exclaimed he; ‘forgive me!’
‘He is come to set you free; he’s no longer what he was; he has become good; don’t you hear him asking your forgiveness? said the good woman, in Lucia’s ear.
‘Could he say more? Come, lift up your head; don’t be a baby: we can go directly,’ said Don Abbondio. Lucia raised her face, looked at the Unnamed, and seeing his head bent low, and his embarrassed and humble look, she was seized with a mingled feeling of comfort, gratitude, and pity, as she replied, ‘Oh, my Lord! God reward you for this deed of mercy!’
‘And you a thousandfold, for the good you do me by these words.’
So saying, he turned round, went towards the door, and led the way out of the room. Lucia, completely reassured, followed, leaning on the worthy female’s arm, while Don Abbondio brought up the rear. They descended the staircase, and reached the little door that led into the court. The Unnamed opened it, went towards the litter, and, with a certain politeness, almost mingled with timidity, (two novel qualities in him,) offered his arm to Lucia, to assist her to get in; and afterwards to the worthy dame. He then took the bridles of the two mules from the driver’s hand, and gave his arm to Don Abbondio, who had approached his gentle steed.
‘Oh, what condescension!’ said Don Abbondio, as he mounted much more nimbly than he had done the first time; and as soon as the Unnamed was also seated, the party resumed their way. The Signor’s brow was raised: his countenance had regained its customary expression of authority. The ruffians whom they passed on their way, discovered, indeed, in his face the marks of deep thought, and an extraordinary solicitude; but they neither understood, nor could understand, more about it. They knew not yet anything of the great change which had taken place in their master; and, undoubtedly, none of them would have divined it merely from conjecture.
The good woman immediately drew the curtains over the little windows; and then, affectionately taking Lucia’s hands, she applied herself to comfort her with expressions of pity, congratulation, and tenderness. Seeing, then, that not only fatigue from the suffering she had undergone, but the perplexity and obscurity of all that had happened, prevented the poor girl from being sensible of the joy of her deliverance, she said all she could think of most likely to recall her recollection, and to clear up, and set to rights, so to say, her poor scattered thoughts. She named the village she came from, and to which they were now going.
‘Yes!’ said Lucia, who knew how short a distance it was from her own. ‘Ah, most holy Madonna, I praise thee! My mother! my mother!’
‘We will send to fetch her directly,’ said the good woman, not knowing that it was already done.
‘Yes, yes, and God will reward you for it . . . And you, who are you? How have you come . . . ’
‘Our Curate sent me,’ said the good woman, ‘because God has touched this Signor’s heart, (blessed be His name!) and he came to our village to speak to the Signor Cardinal Archbishop, for he is there in his visitation, that holy man of God; and he had repented of his great sins, and wished to change his life; and he told the Cardinal that he had caused a poor innocent to be seized, meaning you, at the instigation of another person, who had no fear of God; but the Curate didn’t tell me who it could be.’
‘Lucia raised her eyes to heaven.
‘You know who it was, perhaps,’ continued the good woman.
‘Well; the Signor Cardinal thought that, as there was a young girl in the question, there ought to be a female to come back with her; and he told the Curate to look for one; and the Curate, in his goodness, came to me . . . ’
‘Oh, the Lord recompense you for your kindness!’
‘Well, just listen to me, my poor child! And the Signor Curate bid me encourage you, and try to comfort you directly, and point out to you how the Lord has saved you by a miracle . . . ’
‘Ah yes, by a miracle indeed; through the intercession of the Madonna!’
‘Well, that you should have a right spirit, and forgive him who has done you this wrong, and be thankful that God has been merciful to him, yes, and pray for him too; for, besides that you will be rewarded for it, you will also find your heart lightened.’
Lucia replied with a look which expressed assent as clearly as words could have done, and with a sweetness which words could not have conveyed.
‘Noble girl!’ rejoined the woman. ‘And your Curate, too, being at our village, (for there are numbers assembled from all the country round to elect four public officers,) the Signor Cardinal thought it better to send him with us; but he has been of little use: I had before heard that he was a poor-spirited creature; but, on this occasion, I couldn’t help seeing that he was as frightened as a chicken in a bundle of hemp.’
‘And this man . . . ’ asked Lucia, ‘this person who has become good . . . who is he?’
‘What! don’t you know him?’ said the good woman, mentioning his name.
‘Oh, the mercy of the Lord!’ exclaimed Lucia. How often had she heard that name repeated with horror in more than one story, in which it always appeared as, in other stories, that of the monster Orcus! And at the thought of having once been in his dreaded power, and being now under his merciful protection — at the thought of such fearful danger, and such unlooked-for deliverance; and at the remembrance of whose face it was that had at first appeared to her so haughty, afterwards so agitated, and then so humbled, she remained in a kind of ecstasy, only occasionally repeating, ‘Oh, what a mercy!’
‘It is a great mercy, indeed!’ said the good woman. ‘It will be a great relief to half the world, to all the country round. To think how many people he kept in fear; and now, as our Curate told me . . . and then, only to see his face, he is become a saint! And the fruits are seen so directly.’
To assert this worthy person did not feel much curiosity to know rather more explicitly the wonderful circumstances in which she was called upon to bear a part, would not be the truth. But we must say, to her honour, that, restrained by a respectful pity for Lucia, and feeling, in a manner, the gravity and dignity of the charge which had been entrusted to her, she never even thought of putting an indiscreet or idle question; throughout the whole journey, her words were those of comfort and concern for the poor girl.
‘Heaven knows how long it is since you have eaten anything!’
‘I don’t remember . . . not for some time.’
‘Poor thing! you must want something to strengthen you?’
‘Yes,’ replied Lucia, in a faint voice.
‘Thank God, we shall get something at home directly. Take heart, for it’s not far now.’
Lucia then sank languidly to the bottom of the litter, as if overcome with drowsiness, and the good woman left her quietly to repose.
To Don Abbondio the return was certainly not so harassing as the journey thither not long before; but, nevertheless, even this was not a ride of pleasure. When his overwhelming fears had subsided, he felt, at first, as if relieved from every burden; but very shortly a hundred other fancies began to haunt his imagination; as the ground whence a large tree has been uprooted remains bare and empty for a time, but is soon abundantly covered with weeds. He had become more sensitive to minor causes of alarm; and in thoughts of the present, as well as the future, failed not to find only too many materials for self-torment. He felt now, much more than in coming, the inconveniences of a mode of travelling to which he was not at all accustomed, and particularly in the descent from the castle to the bottom of the valley. The mule-driver, obedient to a sign from the Unnamed, drove on the animals at a rapid pace; the two riders followed in a line behind, with corresponding speed, so that, in sundry steep places, the unfortunate Don Abbondio, as if forced up by a lever behind, rolled forward, and was obliged to keep himself steady by grasping the pommel of the saddle; not daring to request a slower pace, and anxious, also, to get out of the neighbourhood as quickly as he could. Besides this, wherever the road was on an eminence, on the edge of a steep bank, the mule, according to the custom of its species, seemed as if aiming, out of contempt, always to keep on the outside, and to set its feet on the very brink; and Don Abbondio saw, almost perpendicularly beneath him, a good leap, or, as he thought, a precipice. — Even you — said he to the animal, in his heart — have a cursed inclination to go in search of dangers, when there is such a safe and wide path. — And he pulled the bridle to the opposite side, but in vain; so that, grumbling with vexation and fear, he suffered himself, as usual, to be guided at the will of others. The ruffians no longer gave him so much alarm, now that he knew for certain how their master regarded them. — But — reflected he — if the news of this grand conversion should get abroad among them while we are still here, who knows how these fellows would take it? Who knows what might arise from it? What, if they should get an idea that I am come hither as a missionary! Heaven preserve me! they would martyr me! — The haughty brow of the Unnamed gave him no uneasiness. — To keep those visages there in awe — though the — it needs no less than this one here; I understand that myself; but why has it fallen to my lot to be thrown amongst such people? —
But enough; they reached the foot of the descent, and at length also issued from the valley. The brow of the Unnamed became gradually smoother. Don Abbondio, too, assumed a more natural expression, released his head somewhat from imprisonment between his shoulders, stretched his legs and arms, tried to be a little more at his ease, which, in truth, made him look like a different creature, drew his breath more freely, and, with a calmer mind, proceeded to contemplate other and remoter dangers. — What will that villain of a Don Rodrigo say? To be left in this way, wronged, and open to ridicule; just fancy whether that won’t be a bitter dose. Now’s the time when he’ll play the devil outright. It remains to be seen whether he won’t be angry with me, because I have been mixed up with this business. If he has already chosen to send these two demons to meet me on the high road with such an intimation, what will he do now, Heaven knows! He can’t quarrel with his illustrious Lordship, for he’s rather out of his reach; he’ll be obliged to gnaw the bit with him. But all the while the venom will be in his veins, and he’ll be sure to vent it upon somebody, How will all these things end? The blow must always fall somewhere; the lash must be uplifted. Of course, his illustrious Lordship intends to place Lucia in safety: that other unfortunate misguided youth is beyond reach, and has already had his share; so behold the lash must fall upon my shoulders. It will indeed be cruel, if, after so many inconveniences and so much agitation, without my deserving it, too, in the least, I should have to bear the punishment. What will his most illustrious Grace do now to protect me, after having brought me into the dance? Can he ensure that this cursed wretch won’t play me a worse trick than before? And, besides, he has so many things to think of; he puts his hand to so many businesses. How can he attend to all? Matters are sometimes left more entangled than at first. Those who do good, do it in the gross; when they have enjoyed this satisfaction, they’ve had enough, and won’t trouble themselves to look after the consequences; but they who have such a taste for evil-doings, are much more diligent; they follow it up to the end, and give themselves no rest, because they have an everdevouring canker within them. Must I go and say that I came here at the express command of his illustrious Grace, and not with my own good will? That would seem as if I favoured the wicked side. Oh, sacred Heaven! I favour the wicked side! For the pleasure it gives me! Well; the best plan will be to tell Perpetua the case as it is, and then leave it to her to circulate it, provided my Lord doesn’t take a fancy to make the whole matter public, and bring even me into the scene. At any rate, as soon as ever we arrive, if he’s out of church, I’ll go and take my leave of him as quickly as possible; if he’s not, I’ll leave an apology, and go off home at once. Lucia is well attended to; there’s no need for me; and after so much trouble, I, too, may claim a little repose. And besides . . . what if my Lord should feel some curiosity to know the whole history, and it should fall to me to give an account of that wedding business! This is all that is wanting to complete it. And if he should come on a visit to my parish? . . . Oh, let it be what it will, I will not trouble myself about it beforehand; I have troubles enough already. For the present, I shall shut myself up at home. As long as his Grace is in this neighbourhood, Don Rodrigo won’t have the face to make a stir. And afterwards . . . oh, afterwards! Ah, I see that my last years are to be spent in sorrow! —
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............