บทที่ บทที่ 29 · Chapter XXIX

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Here, among those who were expecting the arrival of the army in alarm

and consternation, we find persons of our acquaintance. He who did not

behold Don Abbondio on the day when the report was spread of the descent

of the army, of its near approach, and its excesses, can have no idea of

the power of fright upon a feeble mind. All sorts of reports were

afloat. They are coming—thirty, forty, fifty thousand men. They have

sacked Cortenova; burnt Primaluna; plundered Introbbio, Pasturo, Barsio.

They have been seen at Balobbio; to-morrow they will be here. Such were

the statements in circulation. The villagers assembled in tumultuous

crowds, hesitating whether to fly or remain, while the women lamented

aloud over their miserable fate.

Don Abbondio, to whom flight had immediately suggested itself, saw in

it, nevertheless, invincible obstacles, and frightful dangers. “What

shall I do?” cried he; “where shall I go?” The mountains, without

speaking of the difficulty of ascending them, were not safe; the foot

soldiers climbed them like cats, if they had the slightest indication or

hope of booty; the waters of the lake were swollen; it was blowing

violently; in addition to which, the greater part of the watermen,

fearing to be forced to pass soldiers or baggage, had taken refuge with

their boats on the opposite shore; the few barks that remained were

already filled with people, and endangered by the weather. It was

impossible to find a carriage or horse, or any mode of conveyance. Don

Abbondio did not dare venture on foot, incurring, as he would, the

probability of being stopped on the road. The confines of the

Bergamascan territory were not so distant, but that he could have walked

there in a little while; but a report had reached the village, that a

squadron of _cappelletri_ had been sent in haste from Bergamo, to guard

the frontiers against the German foot-soldiers. These were not less

devils incarnate than those they were commissioned to oppose. The poor

man was beside himself with terror; he endeavoured to concert with

Perpetua some plan of escape, but Perpetua was quite occupied in

collecting and concealing his valuables; with her hands full, she

replied, “Let me place this in safety; we will then do as other people

do.” Don Abbondio desired eagerly to discuss with her the best means to

be pursued, but Perpetua, between hurry and fright, was less tractable

than usual: “Others will do the best they can,” said she, “and so will

we. Excuse me, but you only hinder one. Do you not think they have skins

to save as well as we?”

Relieving herself thus from his importunities, she went on with her

occupation; the poor man, as a last resource, went to a window, and

cried, in a piteous tone, to the people who were passing, “Do your poor

curate the favour to bring him a horse or a mule; is it possible no one

will 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 you

not that they are Lutherans, and that the murder of a priest will seem

to them a meritorious deed? Would you leave me here to be martyred?”

But to whom did he address this appeal? to men who were themselves

incumbered with the weight of their humble movables, or, disturbed by

the thoughts of what they had been obliged to leave behind, exposed to

the ravages of the destroyer. One drove his cow before him; another

conducted his children, who were also laden with burdens, his wife

perhaps with an infant in her arms. Some went on their way without

replying 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 the

best you can.”

“Oh, poor me!” cried Don Abbondio, “oh, what savages! they have no

feeling; they give not a thought to their poor curate!” And he went

again 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 me

manage the rest.”

Don Abbondio obeyed, and drawing his treasure from his strong box, gave

it to Perpetua. “I will bury it in the garden, at the foot of the

fig-tree,” said she, as she disappeared. She returned in a few moments,

with a large basket, full of provisions, and a small one, which was

empty; into the latter she put a few articles of clothing for herself

and 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 we

shall hear and see what we must do.”

At this moment Agnes entered with a small basket in her hand, and with

the air of one about to make an important proposal.

She had decided not to wait the approach of the dangerous guests, alone

as she was, and with the gold of the Unknown in her possession; but had

remained some time in doubt where to seek an asylum. The residue of the

crowns, which in time of famine would have been so great a treasure, was

now the principal cause of her anxiety and irresolution; as, under the

present circumstances, those who had money were worse off than others;

being exposed at the same time to the violence of strangers, and the

treachery of their companions. It is true, none knew of the wealth which

had thus, as it were, fallen to her from heaven, except Don Abbondio, to

whom she had often applied to change a crown, leaving him always some

part of it for those more unfortunate than herself. But hidden

property, above all, to those not accustomed to such a possession, keeps

the possessor in continual suspicion of others. Now, whilst she

reflected on the peculiar dangers to which she was exposed, by the very

generosity itself of the Unknown, the offer of unlimited service, which

had accompanied the gift, suddenly occurred to her recollection. She

remembered the descriptions she had heard of his castle, as situated in

a high place, where, without the concurrence of the master, none dared

venture but the birds of heaven. Resolving to go thither, and reflecting

on the means of making herself known to this signor, her thoughts

recurred to Don Abbondio, who, since the conversation with the

archbishop, had been very particular in his expression of good feeling

towards her, as he could at present be, without compromising himself,

there being but little probability, from the situation of affairs, that

his benevolence would be put to the test. She naturally supposed, that

in a time of such consternation, the poor man would be more alarmed than

herself, and might acquiesce in her plan; this was, therefore, the

purpose of her visit. Finding him alone with Perpetua, she made known

her 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 no

time, and set off immediately.”

“But then——”

“But then, but then; when we have arrived safely there, we shall be very

glad, that’s all. It is well known that this signor thinks of nothing

now but doing good to others, and he will afford us an asylum with the

greatest pleasure. There, on the frontiers, and almost in the sky, the

soldiers will not trouble us. But then—but then, we shall have enough

to eat, no doubt. On the top of the mountains, the provisions we have

here 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 in

prison?”

“What prison? With this trifling, excuse me, we shall never come to any

conclusion. Worthy Agnes! your plan is an excellent one.” So saying, she

placed the basket on the table, and having passed her arms through the

straps, 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 you

be to me?”

“Not done yet! always losing time!” cried Perpetua. “Go then, and look

for a man, and you will find every one engaged in his own business, I

warrant you. Come, take your breviary, and your hat, and let us be off.”

Don Abbondio was obliged to obey, and they departed. They passed through

a small door into the churchyard. Perpetua closed it from custom; not

for the security it could now give. Don Abbondio cast a look towards the

church,—“It is for the people to guard it,” thought he; “it is their

church: let them see to it, if they have the heart.” They took the

by-paths through the fields, but were in continual apprehension of

encountering some one, who might arrest their progress. They met no one,

however; all were employed, either in guarding their houses, or packing

their furniture, or travelling, with their moveables, towards the

mountains.

Don Abbondio, after many sighs and interjections, began to grumble

aloud: he complained of the Duke of Nevers, who could have remained to

enjoy himself in France, had he not been determined to be Duke of

Mantua, in despite of all the world; of the emperor, and above all, of

the 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. “These

are your usual chatterings, excuse me, which mean nothing. That which

gives me the most uneasiness——”

“What is it?”

Perpetua, who had been leisurely recalling to mind the things which she

had so hastily concealed, remembered that she had forgotten such an

article, and had not safely deposited such another; that she had left

traces which might impart information to the depredators.

“Well done!” cried Don Abbondio, in whom the security he was beginning

to feel with regard to his life allowed his anxiety to appear for his

property; “well done! Is this what you have been doing? Where were your

brains?”

“How!” replied Perpetua, stopping for a moment, and attempting, as far

as 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 me

as you ought to have done? I have thought more of my master’s goods than

my own; and if there is any thing lost, I can’t help it, I have done

more than my duty.”

Agnes interrupted these disputes by introducing her own troubles: she

was obliged to relinquish the hope of seeing her dear Lucy, for some

time at least; for she could not expect that Donna Prassede would come

into this vicinity under such circumstances. The sight of the

well-remembered places through which they were passing increased the

anguish of her feelings. Leaving the fields, they had taken the high

road, the same which the poor woman had travelled, in re-conducting, for

so short a time, her daughter to her home, after having been with her at

the tailor’s. As they approached the village, “Let us go and visit these

worthy people,” said Agnes.

“And rest a little, and eat a mouthful,” said Perpetua, “for I begin to

have enough of this basket.”

“On condition that we lose no time, for this is not by any means a

journey 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 the

questions 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?” said

the 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, we

shall be warned in time.”

The three travellers decided to take a few hours’ rest: as it was the

hour of dinner, “Do me the honour,” said the tailor, “to partake of my

humble fare.”

Perpetua said she had provisions enough in her basket wherewith to break

her fast; after a little ceremony, however, on both sides, they agreed

to seat themselves at the dinner table.

The children had joyfully surrounded their old friend Agnes; the tailor

ordered one of them to roast some early chestnuts; “and you,” said he to

another, “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; it

is a business to which you are well accustomed.” As for himself, he left

the room to tap a small cask of wine, while his wife went in search of a

table-cloth. All being prepared, they seated themselves at the friendly

board, if not with unmingled joy, at least with much more satisfaction

than they could have anticipated from the events of the morning.

“What does the signor curate say to the disasters of the times? I can

fancy 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 those

heights without the consent of the master. You will find a numerous

company there. Many people have already fled thither, and there are

fresh 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 if

ever 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 its

best example and benefactor.

“And the people of his household—that band?” asked Don Abbondio, who

had heard some contradictory stories concerning them, and did not feel,

therefore, quite secure.

“The greater part have left him,” replied the tailor, “and those who

have remained have changed their manner of life; in short, this castle

has 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 time

with us! I wished to do him honour. Oh, if I had only been able to

address 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 also

to enable him to assure every body that it was no likeness; he knew it

was not, as he had regarded him closely at his leisure in this very

room.

“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 a

vehicle to carry the little company to the foot of the ascent, and

returned 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 you

some; for I amuse myself sometimes with reading. They are not like

yours, to be sure, being in the vulgar tongue, but——”

“A thousand thanks, but under present circumstances I have scarcely

brains enough to read my breviary.”

After an exchange of thanks, invitations, and promises, they bade

farewell, and pursued, with a little more tranquillity of mind, the

remainder of their journey.

The tailor had told Don Abbondio the truth, with regard to the new life

of the Unknown. From the day that we took our leave of him, he had

continued to put in practice his good intentions, by repairing injuries,

reconciling himself with his enemies, and succouring the distressed and

unfortunate. The courage he had formerly evinced in attack and defence

he now employed in avoiding all occasion both for the one and the other.

He went unarmed and alone; disposed to suffer the possible consequences

of the violences he had committed; persuaded that it would be adding to

his crimes to employ any methods of defence for himself, as he was a

debtor to all the world; and persuaded also, that though the evil done

to him would be sin against God, it would be but a just retribution

against himself; and that he had left himself no right to revenge an

injury, however unprovoked it might be at the time. But he was not less

inviolable than when he bore arms to insure his safety; the recollection

of his former ferocity, and the contrast of his present gentleness, the

former exciting a desire of revenge, and the latter rendering this

revenge so easy, conspired to subdue hatred, and, in its place, to

substitute an admiration which served him as a safeguard. The man whom

no one could humble, but who had humbled himself, was regarded with the

deepest veneration. Those whom he had wronged had obtained, beyond their

hopes, and without incurring any danger, a satisfaction which they could

never have promised themselves from the most complete revenge, the

satisfaction of seeing him repent of his wrongs, and participate, so to

speak, in their indignation. In his voluntary abasement, his countenance

and manner had acquired, without his own knowledge, something elevated

and noble; his outward demeanour was as dauntless as ever.

This change, also, in addition to other reasons, secured him from public

retribution at the instigation of those in authority. His rank and

family, which had always been a species of defence to him, still

prevailed in his favour; and to his name, already famous, was joined the

personal esteem which was now due to him. The magistrates and nobility

had rejoiced at his conversion, as well as the people; as this

conversion produced compensations that they were neither accustomed to

ask 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 invaded

countries fled to the castle, delighted that his walls, so long the

object of dread and execration to the feeble, should now be regarded as

a place of security and protection, the Unknown received them rather

with gratitude than politeness. He caused it to be made public, that his

doors would be open to all, and employed himself immediately in placing

not only the castle but the valley beneath in a state of defence:

assembling the servants who had remained with him, he addressed them on

the opportunity God had afforded them, as well as himself, to serve

those whom they had so frequently oppressed and terrified. With his old

accent of command, expressing the certainty of being obeyed, he gave

them general orders, as to their deportment, so that those who should

take refuge with him might behold in them only defenders and friends. He

gave their arms to them again, of which they had been deprived; as also

to the peasants of the valley, who were willing to engage in its

defence: he named officers, and appointed to them their duty and their

different stations, as he had been accustomed to do in his former

criminal life. He himself, however, whether from principle, or that he

had made a vow to that effect, remained unarmed at the head of his

garrison.

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 use

of the guests God should send him; and in the mean while he was himself

never idle, visiting every post, examining every defence, and

maintaining the most perfect order by his authority and his presence.