Chapter Chapter 16 · Chapter XVI

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“Fly, fly, honest man! Here is a convent, there is a church; this way!

this way!” was shouted to Renzo from every side. The advice was not

necessary; from the moment that he conceived the hope of extricating

himself from the talons of the police, he had determined, if he

succeeded, to depart immediately, not only from the city, but the

dukedom. “Because,” thought he, “however they may have procured it, they

have my name on their books; and with name and surname, they will take

me again if they choose to do so.” As to an asylum, he was determined

not to have recourse to it, but in the last extremity. “Because,”

thought he, “if I can be a bird of the woods, I will not be a bird of

the cage.” He then determined to seek his cousin Bartolo in the

territory of Bergamo, who had often urged him to establish himself

there; but to find the road was the difficulty! In a part of the city

entirely unknown to him, he did not know which gate led to Bergamo; nor

if he had known it, would he have been able to find it. He thought a

moment of asking directions from his liberators, but he had for some

time had strange suspicions with regard to the obliging sword-cutler,

father of four children; so that he did not dare openly declare his

design, lest, amidst the crowd, there might be another of the same

stamp. He determined therefore to hasten from this spot, and ask the way

when he should arrive at a place where there would be nothing to fear

from the curiosity or the character of others. He said to his

liberators, “Thanks, a thousand thanks! friends! may Heaven reward you!”

and quitting the crowd through a passage made for him, he ran down lanes

and narrow streets, without knowing whither.

When he thought himself sufficiently removed from the scene of peril, he

slackened his steps, and began to look around for some countenance which

might inspire him with confidence enough to make his enquiries. But the

enquiry would of itself be suspicious; time pressed; the police,

recovering from their fright, would, without doubt, pursue their

fugitive; the noise of his escape might have reached even there; and in

so great a multitude Renzo might pass many judgments in physiognomy

before he should find one which seemed favourable. After suffering many

to pass whose appearance was unpropitious, he at last summoned courage

to address a man, who seemed in such haste, that Renzo deemed he would

not hesitate to answer his questions, in order to get rid of him. “Will

you be so good, sir, as to tell me through which gate to go to Bergamo?”

“To Bergamo? through the eastern gate. Take this street to the left; you

will come to the square of the cathedral; then——”

“That is enough, sir; I know the way after that; God reward you!” And he

went on hastily by the way pointed out to him, and arrived at the square

of the cathedral. He crossed it, passed by the remains of the

extinguished bonfire, at which he had assisted the day before; the

bake-house of the Crutches half demolished, and still guarded by

soldiers; and finally, reaching the convent of the capuchins, and

looking at the door of the church, he said to himself, sighing, “The

friar gave me good advice yesterday, when he told me it would be best

for me to wait patiently in the church.” He stopped a moment, and seeing

that many persons guarded the gate through which he had to pass, he felt

a repugnance to confront them; and hesitated whether it would not be his

wisest plan to seek this asylum and deliver his letter. But he soon

resumed courage, saying, “A bird of the woods as long as I can be. Who

knows me? Certainly the police cannot be waiting for me at all the

gates.” He looked around, therefore, and perceiving that no one appeared

to notice him, and, whistling as he went, as if from carelessness, he

approached the gate. A company of custom-house officers, with a

reinforcement of Spanish soldiers, were stationed precisely at its

entrance, to keep out persons from abroad, who might be attracted, by

the noise of the tumult, to rush into the city; their attention was

therefore directed beyond the gate, and Renzo, taking advantage of this,

contrived, with a quiet and demure look, to pass through, as if he were

some peaceful traveller; but his heart beat violently. He pursued a path

on the right, to avoid the high road, and for some distance did not dare

to look behind him.

On! on! he passed hamlets and villages, without asking the name of them;

hoping that, whilst he was removing from Milan, he was approaching

Bergamo. He looked behind him from time to time, while pressing onwards,

and rubbing first one wrist, then the other, which bore the red marks

from the painful pressure of the manacles. His thoughts were a confused

medley of repentance, anxiety, and resentment; and he wearily retraced

the circumstances of the preceding night, to ascertain what had plunged

him into these difficulties, and above all, how they came to know his

name. His suspicions rested on the cutler, whose curiosity he well

remembered, and he had also a confused recollection that after his

departure he had continued to talk, but with whom, his memory did not

serve to inform him. The poor fellow was lost in these speculations; the

past was a chaos.

He then endeavoured to form some plan for the future; but all other

considerations were soon swallowed up in the necessity which he was

under of ascertaining the road; and to do this, he was obliged to

address himself to some one. He was reluctant to name Bergamo, lest it

might excite suspicion: why it should, he knew not; but his mind was a

prey to vague apprehensions of evil. However, he could not do otherwise;

and, as at Milan, he accosted the first passenger whose appearance

promised favourably.

“You are out of the road,” replied the traveller; and directed him to a

path by which he might regain the high road. Renzo thanked him, and

followed the direction, with the intention, however, of keeping the high

road in sight, without exposing himself to hazard by travelling on it.

The project was more easily conceived than executed; in pursuing a

zigzag course, from right to left, and left to right, and endeavouring

still to keep the general direction of the way, he had probably

traversed twelve miles, when he was only six miles from Milan; and as to

Bergamo, it was a chance if he was not farther from it, than when he

began his journey. He reflected that this would never do, and he must

seek some other expedient; that which occurred to him, was to inform

himself of the name of some village near the frontier, which he would

reach by crossroads, and asking the way to that, be enabled to avoid the

mention of this dreaded Bergamo, which seemed to him so likely to cause

distrust and suspicion.

Whilst he was reflecting on the best method of pursuing this plan

without awakening conjectures, he saw a green branch hanging from the

door of a lonely cottage, some distance beyond a village; and as he had

for some time felt the need of refreshment, he thought he could now kill

two birds with one stone, and therefore entered the humble dwelling.

There was no one within, but an old woman, with her distaff by her

side, and spindle in her hand. He asked for a mouthful to eat; she

offered him some _stracchino_[27], and some wine. He accepted the food,

but refused the wine; of which he felt an intuitive horror since the

events of the preceding night. The old woman then began to assail her

guest with enquiries of his trade, his journey, and of the news from

Milan, of the disturbances of which she had heard some rumours. To her

question, “Where are you going?” he replied, “I am obliged to go to many

places, but if I find a moment of time, I should like to stop awhile at

the village on the road to Bergamo, near the frontier, but in the

territory of Milan—what do they call it?—There must be some village

there,” thought he.

[27] A kind of soft cheese.

“Gorgonzola, you mean,” replied the old woman.

“Gorgonzola,” repeated Renzo, as if to fix it in his memory, “is it far

from here?”

“I don’t know for certain; perhaps ten or twelve miles. If one of my

children were here, they could tell you.”

“And do you think I could reach there by keeping on these pleasant

paths, without taking the high road, where there is so much dust? such a

quantity of dust! It is so long since we have had any rain!”

“I think you can. You can ask at the first village to the

right,”—naming it.

“Thank you,” said Renzo, carrying off the remains of his bread, which

was much coarser than what he had lately eaten from the foot of the

Cross of St. Dionysius; and paying the bill, departed. He took the road

to the right, and with the name of Gorgonzola in his mouth, from village

to village, he succeeded in reaching it an hour before sunset.

He had on his way intended to halt here for some more substantial

refreshment; he felt also the need of sleep; but rather than indulge

himself in this, he would have dropped dead on the road. His design was

to inform himself, at the inn, of the distance from the Adda, to

contrive to obtain some direction to the cross paths which led to it,

and after having eaten, to go on his way. Born at the second source of

this river, he had often heard that at a certain point, and for some

distance, its waters marked the confines of the Milanese and Venetian

states. He had no precise idea of the spot where this boundary

commenced, but, at this time, the principal matter was to reach the

river. Provided he could not accomplish it by daylight, he decided to

travel as long as the darkness and his strength would permit, and then

to wait the approach of day in a field, among brambles, or any where,

where it should please God, an inn excepted. After advancing a few steps

in Gorgonzola, he saw a sign, and entering the house, asked the host for

a mouthful to eat, and a half-pint of wine, his horror of which had been

subdued by his excessive fatigue. “I pray you to be in haste,” added he,

“for I must continue my journey immediately.” And he said this, not only

because it was the truth, but from fear that the host, imagining he was

going to lodge there, might ask him his _name_, _surname_, and _whence

he came_, and _what was his business_!

The host replied that he should have what he requested, and Renzo seated

himself at the end of a bench near the door.

There were in the room some idle people of the neighbourhood, who, after

having discussed the great news from Milan of the preceding day,

wondered how affairs were going on; as the circumstances of the

rebellion had left their curiosity unsatisfied as to its termination; a

sedition neither suppressed nor successful; suspended rather than

terminated; an unfinished work; the end of an act rather than of a

drama. One of them detached himself from the company, and, approaching

the new-comer, asked him, “If he came from Milan?”

“I?” said Renzo, endeavouring to collect his thoughts for a reply.

“You; if the enquiry be lawful.”

Renzo, contracting his mouth, made a sort of inarticulate sound, “Milan,

from what I hear—from what they say—is not a place where one would go

now, unless necessity required it.”

“The tumult continues, then?” asked he, with eagerness.

“One must have been on the spot, to know if it were so,” said Renzo.

“But do you not come from Milan?”

“I come from Liscate,” replied the youth, who, in the mean while had

prepared his answer. He had, indeed, come from that place, as he had

passed through it. He had learned its name from a traveller who had

mentioned it, as the first village on his road to Gorgonzola.

“Oh!” said his interrogator, “I wish you had come from Milan. But

patience—and did you hear nothing from Milan at Liscate?”

“It is very possible that others knew something,” replied our

mountaineer; “but I have heard nothing.”

The inquisitive person rejoined his companions.

“How far is it from this to the Adda?” said Renzo to the host, in a low

careless tone, as he set before him something to eat.

“To the Adda? to cross the river?”

“That is—yes—to the Adda.”

“Would you cross the bridge of Cassano, or the ferry of Canonica?”

“Where are they?—I ask simply from curiosity.”

“Ah! I name them because they are the places chosen by honest people,

who are willing to give an account of themselves.”

“That is right. And how far are they?”

“It must be about six miles.”

“Six miles! I did not know that,” said he. “But,” resuming an air of

indifference, “if one wished to shorten the distance, are there not

other places, where one might cross?”

“Certainly,” replied the host, looking at him with an expression of

malignant curiosity, which restrained Renzo from any further enquiry. He

drew the dish towards him, and looking at the decanter the host had put

on the table, said, “Is this wine pure?”

“As gold. Ask all the inhabitants of the village, and hereabouts. But

you can judge yourself.” So saying, he joined the other customers.

“Curse the hosts!” said Renzo, in his heart. “The more I know of them,

the worse I find them.”

He began to eat, listening at the same time to the conversation, to

learn what was thought, in this place, of the events in which he had

acted so principal a part; and also to discover if there were not some

honest man among the company, of whom a poor youth might ask his way

without fear of being compelled in return to tell his business.

“But,” said one, “to-morrow, at the latest, we shall know something from

Milan.”

“I am sorry I did not go to Milan this morning,” said another.

“If you will go to-morrow, I will go with you,” said two or three.

“That which I wish to know,” replied the first speaker, “is, if these

gentlemen of Milan will think of poor people abroad, or if they will

only think of obtaining advantages for themselves. You know how they

are. The citizens are proud—they think only of themselves; the

villagers are treated as if they were not Christians.”

“We have mouths also, to eat, and to give our reasons,” said another in

a voice as timid as the remark was daring, “and since the thing has

begun——” But he did not think to finish his sentence.

“It is not only in Milan, that they conceal grain,” said another, with a

mysterious air—when suddenly they heard approaching the trampling of a

horse. They ran to the door, and recognising the person who arrived,

they went out to receive him. It was a merchant of Milan, who, going

frequently to Bergamo on business, was accustomed to pass the night at

this inn, and as he had almost always found there the same company, he

had formed an acquaintance with all of them. They crowded around

him—one held the bridle, another the stirrup. “You are welcome.”

“And I am glad to find you all here.”

“Have you made a good journey?”

“Very good. And you all, how do you do?”

“Well, well. What news from Milan?”

“Ah! there is great news truly,” said the merchant, dismounting, and

leaving his horse in the care of a boy. “But,” continued he, entering

the house with the company, “perhaps you know by this time better than I

do.”

“Truly, we know nothing.”

“Is it possible?—Well, you will hear fine news, or rather bad news. Eh!

host! is my bed unoccupied? It is well. A glass of wine, and my usual

dish. Quick, quick! because I must go to bed early, in order to rise

early, as I must be at Bergamo to dinner. And you,” pursued he, seating

himself at the table opposite to Renzo, who continued silent and

attentive, “you know nothing of the mischief of yesterday!”

“We heard about yesterday.”

“I knew that you must have heard it, being here always on guard to watch

travellers.”

“But to-day? What has been done to-day?”

“Ah! to-day! Then you know nothing of to-day?”

“Nothing at all. No one has passed.”

“Then let me wet my lips, and I will tell you what has happened to-day.”

He filled the glass, swallowed its contents, and continued: “To-day, my

dear friends, little was wanting to make the tumult worse than

yesterday. And I can hardly believe that I am here to tell you, for I

had nearly given up all thoughts of coming, that I might stay to guard

my shop.”

“What was the matter, then?” said one of his auditors.

“What was the matter? I will tell you.” And beginning to eat, he at the

same time pursued his relation; the company standing on his right and

left, listened with open mouths and ears. Renzo, without appearing to

hear him, was, in fact, the most attentive of all; and ate his last

mouthful very, very slowly. “This morning, then, those vagabonds who

made such a hurly-burly yesterday, met at the points agreed on, and

began to run from street to street, sending forth cries in order to

collect a crowd. You know it is with such people, as when one sweeps a

house; the more you sweep, the more dirt you have. When they thought

there were people enough, they approached the house of the

superintendant of provision, as if the atrocities they committed

yesterday were not enough, to a gentleman of his character. Oh! the

rascals! And the abuse they bestowed on him! All invention and

falsehood: he is a worthy punctual man; I can say it, for I know; and I

furnish him cloth for his liveries. They hurried then towards his

house—such a mob! such faces! They passed before my shop. Such

faces—the Jews of the _Via Crucis_ are nothing to them. And the

blasphemies they uttered! enough to make one stop one’s ears, had it not

been for fear of observation. Their intention was to plunder, but——”

“But?” said they all.

“But they found the street barricadoed, and a company of musketeers on

guard. When they saw this ceremony—what would you have done?”

“Turn back.”

“Certainly; and that is precisely what they did. But see if the devil

did not carry them there. When they came on the Cordusio, they saw the

baker that they had wanted to plunder the day before; and what do you

think they were doing at this baker’s? They were distributing bread to

purchasers; the first gentlemen of the land were there, watching over

its distribution. The mob, instigated by the devil, rushed upon them

furiously, and, in the twinkling of an eye, gentlemen, bakers,

purchasers, bread, counters, benches, loaves, bags, flour, all

topsy-turvy.”

“And the musketeers?”

“The musketeers had the vicar’s house to guard. One can’t sing and carry

the cross too. It was done in the twinkling of an eye, I say. Plunder,

plunder; every thing was carried off. And then they proposed the

amusement of yesterday, to burn what remained, in the square, and make a

bonfire. And immediately they began, the rascals! to drag every thing

out of the house, when one among them——Guess what fine proposal he

made!”

“What?”

“What! to gather every thing in the shop in a heap, and set fire to it

and the shop at the same time. No sooner said than done——”

“Did they set fire to it?”

“Wait a bit. An honest man in the neighbourhood had an inspiration from

Heaven. He ran into the house, ascended the stairs, took a crucifix, and

hung it in front of a window; took from the head of the bed two wax

candles which had been blessed, lit them, and placed them right and left

of the crucifix. The crowd looked up; there is a little fear of God yet,

in Milan, it must be confessed; the crowd retired—a few would have been

sacrilegious enough to set fire to paradise itself; but seeing the rest

not of their opinion, they were obliged to be quiet. Guess what happened

then! All the lords of the cathedral in procession, with the cross

elevated, and in pontifical robes; and my lord the arch-priest began to

preach on one side, and my lord the _penitenziere_ on the other, and

then others here and there: ‘_But, honest people, what would you do? Is

this the example you set to your children? Return to your homes; you

shall have bread at a fair price; you can see, yourselves, the rate is

affixed at every corner!_’”

“Was it true?”

“Can you doubt it? Do you think the lords of the cathedral would come in

their robes and declare falsehoods?”

“And what did the people do?”

“By little and little they dispersed; they ran to the corners of the

streets; the rate was there for those who knew how to read. Eight ounces

of bread for a penny!”

“What good fortune.”

“The vine is fine, if its fruitfulness continues. Do you know how much

flour has been consumed since yesterday? As much as would supply the

dukedom two months.”

“And have they made no good law for us country people?”

“What they have done at Milan is for the city alone. I know not what to

tell you; for you, it must be as God shall direct. The tumult has

entirely ceased for the present; I have not told you all yet. Here is

the best——”

“What! is there any thing more?”

“Yesterday evening, or this morning, they have arrested some of the

leaders, and they have been told that four will be hung. Hardly was this

known, when every one betook himself home by the shortest road, so as

not to be the fifth. Milan, when I left it, resembled a convent of

monks.”

“But will they really hang them?”

“Undoubtedly, and very soon,” replied the merchant.

“And what will the people do?”

“The people will go to see them,” said the merchant. “They desired so

much to see a man hung, that the rascals were about to satisfy their

curiosity on the superintendent of provision. They will see instead,

four rogues, accompanied by capuchins and friars of the _buona

morte_[28]; well, they have richly deserved it. It is a providence, you

see; it was a necessary thing. They had begun to enter the shops, and

take what they wanted, without putting their hand to their purse. If

they had been suffered to go on their own way, after bread, it would

have been wine, and then something else—and I assure you, as an honest

man, keeping a shop, it was not a very agreeable idea.”

[28] Good death. A confraternity which exists under

the same name in the south of France.

“Assuredly not,” said one of his auditors.

“Assuredly not,” repeated the others in chorus.

“And,” continued the merchant, “it had been in preparation a long while.

There was a league, you know?”

“A league!”

“A league. Cabals instigated by the Navarrese, by that cardinal of

France, you know, who has a half-barbarous name, and who every day

offers some new affront to the crown of Spain. But he aims chiefly at

Milan, because he knows, the knave, that the strength of the king lies

there.”

“Indeed!”

“Would you have a proof of it? Those who made the most noise were

strangers; people who were never seen before in Milan. I have forgotten,

after all, to tell you something I heard; one of these had been caught

in an inn——”

When this chord was touched, poor Renzo felt a cold shiver, and could

with difficulty conceal his agitation. No one however perceived it, and

the orator proceeded:—

“They do not yet know whence he came, by whom he was sent, nor what kind

of man he was; but he was certainly one of the leaders. Yesterday, in

the height of the tumult, he played the devil; then, not content with

that, he began to exhort, and propose a fine thing truly! to murder all

the lords! Rascal! how would poor people live, if the lords were killed?

He was taken, however, and they found on him an enormous packet of

letters, after which they were taking him to prison. But what do you

think? his companions, who were keeping watch round the inn, came in

great force, and delivered him. The rogue!”

“And what has become of him?”

“It is not known. He has escaped, or is concealed in Milan. These people

find lodging and concealment any where, although they have neither house

nor home of their own. The devil helps them; but they are sometimes

taken in the snare, when they least expect it. When the pear is ripe, it

must fall. It is well known that these letters are in the hands of

government, that they contain an account of the whole plot, that many

people are implicated, that they have turned the city upside down, and

would have done much worse. Some say the bakers are rogues, and so say

I: but they ought to be hanged at least in a legal manner. There

certainly is corn concealed; and the government ought to have spies and

find it out, and hang up all that keep it back in company with the

bakers; and if they don’t, all the city ought to remonstrate again and

again, but never allow the villainous practice of entering shops and

warehouses for plunder.”

The little that Renzo had eaten had become poison. It appeared like an

age before he dared rise to quit. He felt nailed to the spot. To have

moved from the inn and the village, in the midst of the conversation,

would have incurred suspicion. He determined to wait till the babbler

should cease to speak of him and apply to some other subject.

“And I,” said one of the company, “who have some experience, know that a

tumult like this is no place for an honest man; therefore I have not

suffered my curiosity to conquer me, and have remained quietly at home.”

“And did I move?” said another.

“And I,” added a third, “if by any chance I had been at Milan, I would

have left my business unfinished, and returned home.”

At this moment the host approached the corner of the table, to see how

the stranger came on. Renzo gathered courage to speak, asked for his

bill, settled it, and rapidly crossed the threshold, trusting himself to

the guardian care of a kind Providence.