บทที่ บทที่ 10 · Chapter X

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There are moments in which the mind, particularly of the young, is so

disposed, that a little importunity suffices to obtain from it any thing

that has the appearance of virtuous sacrifice; as a flower scarcely

budded abandons itself on its fragile stem, ready to yield its sweets to

the first breeze which plays around it. These moments, which ought to be

regarded by others with timid respect, are exactly those of which

interested cunning makes use, to insnare the unguarded will.

On the perusal of this letter, the prince saw the way opened to the

furtherance of his views. He sent for Gertrude; she obeyed the command,

and, in his presence, threw herself at his feet, and had scarcely power

to exclaim, “Pardon!” He made a sign to her to rise, and in a grave

voice answered, that it was not enough merely to confess her fault, and

ask forgiveness, but that it was necessary to merit it. Gertrude asked

submissively, “what he would have her do?” To this the prince did not

reply directly, but spoke at length of the fault of Gertrude: the poor

girl shuddered as at the touch of a hand on a severe wound. He

continued, that even if he had entertained the project of settling her

in the world, she had herself placed an insuperable obstacle to it;

since he could never, as a gentleman of honour, permit her to marry,

after having given such a specimen of herself. The miserable listener

was completely humbled!

The prince, then, by degrees softened his voice and manner to say, that

for all faults there was a remedy, and that the remedy for hers was

clearly indicated; that she might perceive, in this fatal accident, a

warning that the world was too full of dangers for her——

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Gertrude, overwhelmed with shame and remorse.

“Ah, you perceive it yourself!” resumed the prince. “Well, we will

speak no more of the past; all is forgotten. You have taken the only

honourable way that remains for you; and because you _have_ taken it

voluntarily, it rests with me to make it turn to your advantage, and to

make the merit of the sacrifice all your own.” So saying, he rang the

bell, and said to the servant who appeared, “The princess and the prince

immediately.” He continued to Gertrude, “I wish to make them the sharers

of my joy; I wish that they should begin at once to treat you as you

deserve. You have hitherto found me a severe judge; you shall now prove

that I am a loving father.”

At these words Gertrude remained stupified; she thought of the “yes” she

had so precipitately suffered to escape from her lips, and would have

recalled it; but she did not dare; the satisfaction of the prince

appeared so entire, his condescension so conditional, that she could not

presume to utter a word to disturb it.

The princess and prince came into the room. On seeing Gertrude there,

they appeared full of doubt and surprise; but the prince, with a joyful

countenance, said to them, “Behold here the lost sheep! and let these be

the last words that shall recall painful recollections. Behold the

consolation of the family! Gertrude has no longer need of advice; she

has voluntarily chosen her own good. She has resolved, she has signified

to me that she has resolved——” She raised to him a look of

supplication, but he continued more plainly, “that she has resolved to

take the veil.”

“Well done, well done,” exclaimed they both, overwhelming her with

embraces, which Gertrude received with tears, which they chose to

interpret as tears of joy. Then the prince enlarged on the splendid

destiny of his daughter, on the distinction she would enjoy in the

monastery and in the country, as the representative of the family. Her

mother and her brother renewed their congratulations and praises.

Gertrude stood as if possessed by a dream.

It was then necessary to fix the day for the journey to Monza, for the

purpose of making the request of the abbess. “How rejoiced she will be!”

said the prince; “I am sure all the nuns will appreciate the honour

Gertrude does them. But why not go there to-day? Gertrude will

willingly take the air.”

“Let us go, then,” said the princess.

“I will order the carriage,” said the young prince.

“But——” said Gertrude submissively.

“Softly, softly,” said the prince, “let her decide; perhaps she does not

feel disposed to go to-day, and would rather wait until to-morrow. Say,

do you wish to go to-day or to-morrow?”

“To-morrow,” said Gertrude, in a feeble voice, glad of a short reprieve.

“To-morrow,” said the prince, solemnly; “she has decided to go

to-morrow. Meanwhile I will see the vicar of the nuns, to have him to

appoint a day for the examination.” He did so, and the vicar named the

day after the next. In the interval Gertrude was not left a moment to

herself. She would have desired some repose for her mind after so many

contending emotions; to have reflected on the step she had already

taken, and what remained to be done—but the machine once in motion at

her direction, it was no longer in her power to arrest its progress;

occupations succeeded each other without interruption. The princess

herself assisted at her toilette, which was completed by her own maid.

This effected, dinner was announced, and poor Gertrude was made to pass

through the crowd of servants, who nodded their congratulations to each

other. She found at the table a few relations of the family, who had

been invited in haste to participate in the general joy. The young

bride—thus they called young persons about to enter the monastic

life—the young bride had enough to do to reply to the compliments which

were paid to her; she felt that each reply was a confirmation of her

destiny; but how act differently? After dinner came the hour of riding,

and Gertrude was placed in a carriage with her mother and two uncles,

who had been among the guests. They entered the street Marina, which

then crossed the space now occupied by the public gardens, and was the

public promenade, where the nobility refreshed themselves after the

fatigues of the day. The uncles conversed much with Gertrude, and one of

them in particular, who appeared to know every body, every carriage,

and every livery, had something to tell of signor such an one, and

signora such an one; but checking himself, he said to his niece, “Ah!

you little rogue! you turn your back upon all these follies; you are the

righteous person; you leave us worldlings far behind; you are going to

lead a happy life, and take yourself to paradise in a coach.”

They returned home in the dusk of the evening, and the servants,

appearing with torches, announced to them that numerous visiters had

arrived. The report had spread, and a multitude of relations and friends

had come to offer their congratulations. The young bride was the idol,

the amusement, the victim of the evening. Finally, Gertrude was left

alone with the family. “At last,” said the prince, “I have had the

consolation of seeing my daughter in society becoming her rank and

station. She has conducted herself admirably, and has evinced that there

will be no preventive to her obtaining the highest honours, and

supporting the dignity of the family.” They supped hastily, so as to be

ready early in the morning.

At the request of Gertrude, her attendant, of whose insolence she

bitterly complained to her father, was removed, and another placed in

her stead. This was an old woman, who had been nurse to the young

prince, in whom was centred all her hopes and her pride. She was

overjoyed at the decision of Gertrude, who, as a climax to her trials,

was obliged to listen to her congratulations and praises. She talked of

her numerous aunts and relatives, who were so happy as nuns; of the many

visits she would doubtless receive. She further spoke of the young

prince, and the lady who was to be his wife, and the visit which they

would doubtless pay to Gertrude at the monastery, until, wearied out

with the conflicts of the day, the poor girl fell asleep. She was

aroused in the morning by the harsh voice of the old woman, “Up, up,

signora, young bride! it is day; the princess is up, and waiting for

you. The young prince is impatient. He is as brisk as a hare, the young

devil; he was so from an infant. But when he is ready, you must not make

him wait; he is the best temper in the world, but that always makes him

impatient and noisy. Poor fellow, we must pity him, it is the effect of

temperament; in such moments he has respect to no one but the head of

the household; however, one day he will be the head; may that day be far

off! Quick, quick, signorina! You should have been out of your nest

before this.”

The idea of the young prince, risen and impatient, recalled the

scattered thoughts of Gertrude, and hastily she suffered herself to be

dressed, and descended to the saloon, where her parents and brother were

assembled. A cup of chocolate was brought her, and the carriage was

announced. Before their departure, the prince took his daughter aside,

and said to her, “Courage, Gertrude; yesterday you did well, to-day you

must excel yourself; the point is now to make a suitable appearance in

the country and in the monastery, where you are destined to hold the

first station. They expect you, and all eyes will be on you. Dignity and

ease. The abbess will ask you what is your request; it is a mere form,

but you must reply that you wish to be admitted to take the veil in this

monastery, where you have been educated, and treated so kindly; which is

the truth. Speak these words with a free unembarrassed air, so as not to

give occasion for scandal. These good mothers know nothing of the

unhappy occurrence; that must remain buried with the family. However, an

anxious countenance might excite suspicion; show whose is the blood in

your veins; be polite and modest; but remember also, that in this

country, out of the family, there is none your superior.”

During their ride, the troubles and the trials of the world, and the

blessed life of the cloister, were the principal subjects of

conversation. As they approached the monastery, the crowd collected from

all parts; as the carriage stopped before the walls, the heart of

Gertrude beat more rapidly: they alighted amidst the concourse; all eyes

were fastened on her, and compelled her to study the movements of her

countenance; and, above all, those of her father, upon whom she could

not help fixing her regards, notwithstanding the fear he inspired. They

crossed the first court, entered the second, and here appeared the

interior cloister, wide open, and occupied by nuns. In front was the

abbess, surrounded by the most aged of the sisterhood; behind these the

others, raised promiscuously on tiptoe, and farther back the lay

sisters, standing on benches and overlooking the scene; whilst here and

there were seen, peeping between the cowls, some youthful faces, which

Gertrude recognised as those of her school companions. As she stood

fronting the abbess, the latter demanded, with grave solemnity, “What

she desired to have in this place, where nothing could be denied her?”

“I am here,” began Gertrude; but, about to utter the words which were to

decide her destiny irrevocably, she felt her heart fail, and hesitating,

she fixed her eyes on the crowd before her. She beheld there the

well-known face of one of her companions, who regarded her with looks of

compassion and malice, as if to say, “They have caught the brave one.”

This sight required all her courage, and she was about to give a reply

very different from that which was expected from her, when, glancing at

her father, she caught from his eye such an anxious and threatening

expression, that, overcome by terror, she proceeded, “I am here to ask

admittance into this monastery, where I have been instructed so kindly.”

The abbess immediately expressed her regret, that the regulations were

such as to prohibit an immediate answer, which must be given by the

common suffrage of the sisterhood; but that Gertrude knew well the

sentiments they entertained towards her; and might judge what that

answer would be. In the mean time nothing prevented them from

manifesting their joy at her request. There was then heard a confused

murmur of congratulations and rejoicing.

Whilst the nuns were surrounding their new companion, and offering their

congratulations to all the party, the abbess expressed her wish to

address a few words to the prince at the parlour grating.

“Signor,” said she, “in obedience to our rules—to fulfil a necessary

form—I must inform you—that whenever a young person desires to

assume—the superior, which I am, though unworthily, is obliged to make

known to the parents that if—they have forced the will of their

daughter, they will incur the pains of excommunication. You will

excuse——”

“Oh! yes, yes, reverend mother. Your exactitude is very praiseworthy,

very just. But you cannot doubt——”

“Oh! imagine, prince, if—but I merely speak by order; besides——”

“True—true, reverend mother.”

After these few words, and a renewal of compliments and thanks, they

departed.

Gertrude was silent during their ride; overcome and occupied by

conflicting thoughts, ashamed of her own want of resolution, vexed with

others as well as herself, she was still meditating some way of escape,

but every time she looked at her father, she felt her destiny to be

irrevocable. After the various engagements of the day were over,—the

dinner, the visits, the drive, the _conversazione_, the supper,—the

prince brought another subject under discussion, which was the choice of

a godmother (so they called the lady who is selected as chaperone to the

young candidate in the interval between the request for admission, and

the putting on of the habit); the duty of this person was to visit, with

her charge, the churches, public palaces, the _conversazioni_, in short,

every thing of note in the city and its environs; so as to afford a peep

at that world they were about to quit for ever. “We must think of a

godmother,” said the prince, “because to-morrow the vicar of the nuns

will be here for the examination, and soon after that, Gertrude will be

finally accepted. Now the choice shall come from Gertrude herself,

although contrary to usage; but she deserves to be made an exception,

and we may confidently trust to her judgment in the selection.” And

then, turning to her, as if bestowing a singular favour, he continued,

“Any one of the ladies who were at the _conversazione_ this evening,

possesses the necessary qualifications for a godmother; any one of them

will consider it an honour; make your selection.” Gertrude instantly

felt that the choice would be a renewal of consent; but the proposal was

made with such an air of condescension, that a refusal would have

appeared to spring from contempt or ingratitude. Thus she took another

step, and named a lady who had been forward in attentions to her during

the whole evening. “A perfectly wise choice,” said the prince, who had

expected no less. The affair had all been previously arranged; this lady

had been so much with Gertrude at the _conversazione_, and had displayed

such kindness of manner, that it would have been an effort for her to

think of another. The attentions, however, of this lady were not without

their object: she had also for a long time contemplated making the young

prince her son; she, therefore, naturally interested herself in all that

concerned the family, and felt the deepest interest in her dear

Gertrude.

On the morrow, the imagination of Gertrude was occupied with the

expected examination, and with a vague hope of some opportunity to

retract. At an early hour she was sent for by the prince, who addressed

her in these words:—“Courage, my daughter; you have as yet conducted

yourself admirably; to-day you must crown the work. All that has been

done, has been done with your consent. If, in the meanwhile, you had any

doubts, any misgivings, you should have expressed them; but at the point

to which things have now arrived, it will no longer do to play the

child. The worthy man who is to come this morning, will put a hundred

questions to you, concerning your vocation; such as, whether you go

voluntarily, and the why and the wherefore. If you falter in your

replies, he will continue to urge you; this will produce pain to

yourself, but might become the source of a more serious evil. After all

the public demonstrations that we have made, the slightest hesitation on

your part might place my honour in danger, by conveying the idea that I

had taken a mere youthful whim for a confirmed resolution, and that I

had thus acted precipitately; in this case, I should feel myself under

the necessity, in order to preserve my character inviolate, to reveal

the true motive——” But, seeing the countenance of Gertrude all on

flame, and contracting itself like the leaves of a flower in the heat

which precedes a tempest, he stopped a moment, and then resumed, “Well,

well, all depends on yourself. I know you will not show yourself a

child; but recollect, you must reply with freedom, so as not to create

suspicion in the mind of this worthy man.” He then suggested the

answers to be made to the probable questions that would be put, and

concluded with various remarks upon the happiness that awaited Gertrude

at the convent. At this moment the servant announced the arrival of the

vicar, and the prince was obliged to leave his daughter alone to receive

him.

The good man had come with a preconceived opinion that Gertrude went

voluntarily to the cloister, because the prince had told him so. It was

one of his maxims, however, to preserve himself unprejudiced, and to

depend only on the assertions of the candidates themselves. “Signorina,”

said he, “I come to play the part of the tempter; I come to suggest

doubts where you have affirmed certainties; I come to place before your

eyes difficulties, and ascertain if you have well considered them. You

will allow me to trouble you with some interrogatories?”

“Say on,” replied Gertrude.

The good priest then began to interrogate her in the form prescribed.

“Do you feel in your heart a free spontaneous resolution to become a

nun? Have menaces, or allurements, or authority been made use of? Speak

without reserve to one whose duty it is to ascertain the true state of

your feelings, and to prevent violence being done to them.”

The true reply to such a question presented itself suddenly to the mind

of Gertrude, with terrible reality. But to come to an explanation, to

say she was threatened, to relate the unfortunate story—from this her

spirit shrank, and she brought herself to the resolution of saying, “I

become a nun, freely, from inclination.”

“How long have you had this intention?” asked the good priest.

“I have always had it,” said Gertrude, finding it easier after the first

step to proceed in falsehood.

“But what is the principal motive which has induced you?”

The interrogator was not aware of the chord he touched; and Gertrude,

making a great effort to preserve the tranquillity of her countenance,

amid the tumult of her soul, replied. “The motive is, to serve God, and

to fly the perils of the world.”

“Has there never been any disgust? any—excuse me—caprice? Often

trifling causes make impressions which we deem will be perpetual, but

the causes cease——”

“No, no,” replied Gertrude, hastily; “the cause is that which I have

said.”

The vicar, in order to execute his duty fully, persisted in his

enquiries, but Gertrude was determined to deceive him. She could not for

a moment think of rendering the good man acquainted with her weakness;

she knew, indeed, that he could prevent her being a nun, but that this

would be the extent of his authority and his protection. When he should

be gone, she would still be left alone, to endure fresh trials from her

father and the family. Finding, therefore, a uniform answer to all his

questions, he became somewhat wearied of putting them, and, concluding

that all was as it should be, with many prayers for her welfare, he took

his leave. As he crossed the hall he met the prince, and congratulated

him on the good dispositions of his daughter. This put an end to a very

painful state of suspense and anxiety on the part of the prince; who,

forgetting his usual gravity, ran to his daughter, and loaded her with

praises, caresses, and promises, and with a tenderness of affection in

great measure sincere: such is the inconsistency of the human heart.

Then ensued a round of spectacles and diversions, during which we cannot

attempt to describe minutely or in order the emotions to which the heart

of Gertrude was subjected. The perpetual change of objects, the freedom

enjoyed by this change, rendered more odious to her the idea of her

prison; still more pungent were the impressions she received in the

festivals and assemblies of the city. The pomp of the palaces, the

splendour of their furniture, the buzzing and festal clamour of the

_conversazione_, communicated to her such an intoxication, such an eager

desire for happiness, that she thought she could encounter all the

consequences of a recantation, or even suffer death, rather than return

to the cold shades of the cloister. But all such resolutions instantly

fled as her eyes rested on the austere countenance of the prince.

Meanwhile, the vicar of the nuns had made the necessary deposition, and

liberty was given to hold a chapter for the acceptation of Gertrude. The

chapter was held, and she was received! Wearied out with her long

conflicts, she requested immediate admittance, which was readily

granted. After a noviciate of twelve days, full of resolves and

counter-resolves, the moment arrived when she finally pronounced the

fatal “yes,” which was to exclude her from the world for ever. But even

in the depths of the monastery she found no repose; she had not the

wisdom to make a virtue of necessity, but was continually and uselessly

recurring to the past. She could not call religion to her aid, for

religion had no share in the sacrifice she had made; and heavily and

bitterly she bore the yoke of bondage. She hated the nuns, because she

remembered their artifices, and regarded them in some measure as the

authors of her misfortune; she tyrannised over them with impunity,

because they dared not rebel against her authority, and incur the

resentment of the powerful lord, her father. Those nuns who were really

pious and harmless, she hated for their piety itself, as it seemed to

cast a tacit reproach on her weakness; and she suffered no occasion to

escape without railing at them as bigots and hypocrites. It might,

however, have mitigated her asperity towards them, had she known that

the black balls to oppose her entrance had been cast into the urn by

their sympathetic generosity. She found, however, one consolation, in

the unlimited power she possessed, in being courted and flattered, and

in hearing herself called the “signora.” But what a consolation! Her

soul felt its insufficiency, but had not the courage nor the virtue to

seek happiness from the only source where it could be found. Thus she

lived many years, tyrannising over and feared by all around her, till an

occasion presented itself for a further developement of her habitual,

but secret feelings. Among other privileges which had been accorded to

her in the monastery, was that of having her apartments on a side of the

building little frequented by the other nuns. Opposite to this quarter

of the convent was a house, inhabited by a young man, a villain by

profession, one of those who, at this period, by their mutual

combinations were enabled to set at nought the public laws. His name was

Egidio. From his small window, which overlooked the court-yard, he had

often seen Gertrude wandering there from listlessness and melancholy.

Allured rather than intimidated by the danger and iniquity of the act,

he dared one day to speak to her. The wretched girl replied!

Then was experienced a new but not unmixed satisfaction; into the

painful void of her soul was infused a powerful stimulus, a fresh

principle of vitality: but this enjoyment resembled the restoring

beverage which the ingenious cruelty of the ancients presented to the

criminal, in order to strengthen him to sustain his martyrdom. A change

came also over her whole deportment; she was regular, tranquil,

endearing, and affable; in such a degree, that the sisters congratulated

themselves upon the circumstance, little imagining the true motive, and

that the alteration was none other than hypocrisy added to her other

defects. This outward improvement, however, did not last long; she soon

returned to her customary caprices, and, moreover, was heard to utter

bitter imprecations against the cloistral prison, in unusual and

unbecoming language. The sisters bore these vicissitudes as well as they

could, and attributed them to the light and capricious nature of the

signora. For some time it did not appear that the suspicions of any one

of them were excited; but one day the signora had been speaking with one

of the sisters, her attendant, and reviling her beyond measure for some

trifling matter: the sister suffered a while, and gnawed the bit in

silence; but finally, becoming impatient, declared that she was mistress

of a secret, and could advise the signora in her turn. From this time

forward her peace was lost. Not many days after, however, this very

sister was missing from her accustomed offices; they sought her in her

cell, and did not find her; they called, and she answered not; they

searched diligently in every place, but without success. And who knows

what conjectures might have arisen, if there had not been found a great

opening in the wall of the orchard, through which she had probably made

her escape. They sent messengers in various directions to pursue, and

restore her, but they never heard of her more! Perhaps they would not

have been so unfortunate in their search, if they had dug near the

garden wall! Finally, the nuns concluded that she must have gone to a

great distance, and because one of them happened to say, she has taken

refuge in Holland, “O yes,” said they, “she has, without doubt, taken

refuge in Holland.” The signora did not believe this, but she had

certain reasons for encouraging the opinion, and this she did not fail

to do. Thus the minds of the nuns became satisfied; but who can tell the

torments of the signora’s soul? Who can tell how many times a day the

image of this sister came unbidden into her mind, and fastened itself

there with terrible tenacity? Who can tell how many times she desired to

behold the real and living person, for the company of this empty,

impassible, terrible shade? Who can tell with what delight she would

have heard the very words of the threat repeated in her mental ear,

rather than this continual and fantastic murmur of those very words,

sounding with a pertinacity of which no living voice could have been

capable.

It was about a year after this event, that we find Lucy at the

monastery, and under the protection of the signora. The reader may

remember, that after Agnes and the portress had left the room, the

signora and Lucy had entered into conversation alone; the former

continued her questions concerning Don Roderick, with a fearlessness

which filled the mind of Lucy with astonishment, little supposing that

the curiosity of the nuns ever exercised itself upon such subjects. The

opinions which were blended with these enquiries, were not less strange;

she laughed at the dread which Lucy expressed herself to have of Don

Roderick, asking her if he was not handsome; and surmising that Lucy

would have liked him very well, if it had not been for her preference of

Renzo. When again with her mother, the poor girl expressed her

astonishment at such observations from such a source, but Agnes, as more

experienced, solved the mystery. “Do not be surprised,” said she; “when

you have known the world as I have, you will cease to wonder at any

thing. The nobility, some more, some less, some one way, some another,

have all a little oddity. We must let them talk, especially when we have

need of them; we must appear to listen to them seriously, as if they

were talking very wisely. Did you not hear how she interrupted me, as if

I had uttered some absurdity? I did not wonder at it; they are all so.

Notwithstanding that, Heaven be thanked, she seems to have taken a

liking to you, and is willing to protect us; and if we would retain her

favour, we must let her say that which it shall please her to say.”

A desire to oblige the superior, the complacency experienced in

protecting, the thought of the good opinions which would be the result

of a protection thus piously extended, a certain inclination towards

Lucy, and also a degree of self-satisfaction in doing good to an

innocent creature, in succouring and consoling the oppressed, had really

disposed the signora to take to heart the fate of our poor fugitives.

The mother and daughter congratulated themselves on their safe and

honourable asylum. They would have wished to remain unknown to all; but

this, in a convent, was impossible; and one there was, besides, too far

interested in obtaining an account of one of the two, stimulated as his

passion had been by the opposition he had encountered. We will leave

them for the present in their safe retreat, and return to the palace of

Don Roderick, at the hour in which he was anxiously expecting the result

of his wicked and villanous enterprise.