Chương Chương 9 · Chapter IX

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The shock which the boat received, as it struck against the shore,

aroused Lucy from her reverie; they quitted the bark, and Renzo turned

to thank and reward the boatman. “I will take nothing—nothing,” said

he: “we are placed on earth to aid one another.” The carriage was ready,

the driver seated; its expected occupants took their places, and the

horses moved briskly on. Our travellers arrived then at Monza, which we

believe to have been the name of the place to which Father Christopher

had directed Renzo, a little after sunrise. The driver turned to an inn,

where he appeared to be well acquainted, and demanded for them a

separate room. He, as well as the boatman, refused the offered

recompence of Renzo; like the boatman, he had in view a reward, more

distant indeed, but more abundant; he withdrew his hand, and hastened to

look after his beast.

After an evening such as we have described, and a night passed in

painful thoughts both in regard to recent events and future

anticipations—disturbed, indeed, by the frequent joltings of their

incommodious vehicle,—our travellers felt a little rest in their

retired apartment at the inn highly necessary. They partook of a small

meal together, not more in proportion to the prevailing want, than to

their own slender appetites; and recurred with a sigh to the delightful

festivities, which, two days before, were to have accompanied their

happy union. Renzo would willingly have remained with his companions all

the day, to secure their lodging and perform other little offices. But

they strongly alleged the injunctions of Father Christopher, together

with the gossiping to which their continuing together would give rise,

so that he at length acquiesced. Lucy could not conceal her tears; Renzo

with difficulty restrained his; and, warmly pressing the hand of Agnes,

he pronounced with a voice almost choked, “Till we meet again.”

The mother and daughter would have been in great perplexity, had it not

been for the kind driver, who had orders to conduct them to the convent,

which was at a little distance from the village. Upon their arrival

there, the guide requested the porter to call the superior: he appeared,

and the letter of Father Christopher was delivered to him. “Oh, from

Father Christopher!” said he, recognising the handwriting. His voice and

manner told evidently that he uttered the name of one whom he regarded

as a particular friend. During the perusal of the letter, he manifested

much surprise and indignation, and, raising his eyes, fixed them on Lucy

and her mother with an expression of pity and interest. When he had

finished reading, he remained for a moment thoughtful, and then

exclaimed, “There is no one but the signora; if the signora would take

upon herself this obligation——” and then addressing them, “My

friends,” said he, “I will make the effort, and I hope to find you a

shelter, more than secure, more than honourable; so that God has

provided for you in the best manner. Will you come with me?”

The females bowed reverently in assent; the friar continued, “Come with

me, then, to the monastery of the signora. But keep yourselves a few

steps distant, because there are people who delight to speak evil of

others, and God knows how many fine stories might be told, if the

superior of the convent was seen walking with a beautiful young

woman—with women, I mean.”

So saying, he went on before: Lucy blushed; the guide looked at Agnes,

who could not conceal a momentary smile; and they all three obeyed the

command of the friar, and followed him at a distance. “Who is the

signora?” said Agnes, addressing their conductor.

“The signora,” replied he, “is not a nun; that is, not a nun like the

others. She is not the abbess, nor the prioress; for they say that _she_

is one of the youngest of them; but she is from Adam’s rib, and her

ancestors were great people, who came from Spain; and they call her the

_signora_, to signify that she is a great lady,—every one calls her so,

because they say that in this monastery they have never had so noble a

person; and her relations down at Milan are very powerful, and in Monza

still more so; because her father is the first lord in the country; for

which reason she can do as she pleases in the convent,—and moreover

people abroad bear her a great respect, and if she undertakes a thing,

she makes it succeed; and if this good father induces her to take you

under her protection, you will be as safe as at the foot of the altar.”

When the superior arrived at the gate of the town, which was defended at

that time by an old tower, and part of a dismantled castle, he stopped

and looked back to see if they followed him—then advanced towards the

monastery, and, remaining on the threshold, awaited their approach. The

guide then took his leave, not without many thanks from Agnes and her

daughter for his kindness and faithfulness. The superior led them to the

portress’s chamber, and went alone to make the request of the signora.

After a few moments he re-appeared, and with a joyful countenance told

them that she would grant them an interview: on their way, he gave them

much advice concerning their deportment in her presence. “She is well

disposed towards you,” said he, “and has the power to protect you. Be

humble, and respectful; reply with frankness to the questions she will

ask you, and when not questioned, be silent.”

They passed through a lower chamber, and advanced towards the parlour.

Lucy, who had never been in a monastery before, looked around as she

entered it for the signora; but there was no one there; in a few

moments, however, she observed the friar approach a small window or

grating, behind which she beheld a nun standing. She appeared about

twenty-five years of age; her countenance at first sight produced an

impression of beauty, but of beauty prematurely faded. A black veil hung

in folds on either side of her face; below the veil a band of white

linen encircled a forehead of different, but not inferior whiteness;

another plaited band encompassed the face, and terminated under the chin

in a neck handkerchief, or cape, which, extending over the shoulders,

covered to the waist the folds of her black robe. But her forehead was

contracted from time to time, as if by some painful emotion; now, her

large black eye was fixed steadfastly on your face with an expression of

haughty curiosity, then hastily bent down as if to discover some hidden

thought; in certain moments an attentive observer would have deemed that

they solicited affection, sympathy, and pity; at others, he would have

received a transient revelation of hatred, matured by a cruel

disposition; when motionless and inattentive, some would have imagined

them to express haughty aversion, others would have suspected the

labouring of concealed thought, the effort to overcome some secret

feeling of her soul, which had more power over it than all surrounding

objects. Her cheeks were delicately formed, but extremely pale and thin;

her lips, hardly suffused with a feeble tinge of the rose, seemed to

soften into the pallid hue of the cheeks; their movements, like those of

her eyes, were sudden, animated, and full of expression and mystery. Her

loftiness of stature was not apparent, owing to an habitual stoop; as

well as to her rapid and irregular movements, little becoming a nun, or

even a lady. In her dress itself there was an appearance of studied

neglect, which announced a singular character; and from the band around

her temples was suffered to escape, through forgetfulness or contempt of

the rules which prohibited it, a curl of glossy black hair.

These things made no impression on the minds of Agnes and Lucy,

unaccustomed as they were to the sight of a nun; and to the superior it

was no novelty—he, as well as many others, had become familiarised to

her habit and manners.

She was, as we have said, standing near the grate, against which she

leaned languidly, to observe those who were approaching. “Reverend

mother, and most illustrious lady,” said the superior, bending low,

“this is the poor young woman for whom I have solicited your protection,

and this is her mother.”

Both mother and daughter bowed reverently. “It is fortunate that I have

it in my power,” said she, turning to the father, “to do some little

service to our good friends the capuchin fathers. But tell me a little

more particularly, the situation of this young woman, that I may be

better prepared to act for her advantage.”

Lucy blushed, and held down her head. “You must know, reverend mother,”

said Agnes—but the father interrupted her;—“This young person, most

illustrious lady,” continued he, “has been recommended to me, as I have

told you, by one of my brethren. She has been obliged to depart secretly

from her native place, in order to escape heavy perils; and she has need

for some time of an asylum, where she can remain unknown, and where no

one will dare to molest her.”

“What perils?” demanded the lady. “Pray, father, do not talk so

enigmatically: you know, we nuns like to hear stories minutely.”

“They are perils,” replied the father, “that should not be told to the

pure ears of the reverend mother.”—“Oh, certainly,” said the lady,

hastily, and slightly blushing. Was this the blush of modesty? He would

have doubted it, who should have observed the rapid expression of

disdain which accompanied it, or have compared it with that which from

time to time diffused itself over the cheek of Lucy.

“It is sufficient to say,” resumed the friar, “that a powerful lord—it

is not all the rich and noble who make use of the gifts of God for the

promotion of his glory, as you do, most illustrious lady—a powerful

lord, after having persecuted for a long time this innocent creature

with wicked allurements, finding them unavailing, has had recourse to

open force, so that she has been obliged to fly from her home.”

“Approach, young woman,” said the signora. “I know that the father is

truth itself; but no one can be better informed than you with regard to

this affair. To you it belongs to tell us if this lord was an odious

persecutor.” Lucy obeyed the first command, and approached the grating;

but the second, accompanied as it was with a certain malicious air of

doubt, brought a blush over her countenance, and a sense of painful

embarrassment, which she found it impossible to overcome.

“Lady——mother——reverend——” stammered she. Agnes now felt herself

authorised to come to her assistance. “Most illustrious lady,” said she,

“I can bear testimony that my daughter hates this lord as the devil

hates holy water. I would call him the devil, were it not for your

reverend presence. The case is this: this poor maiden was promised to a

good and industrious youth; and if the curate had done his duty——”

“You are very ready to speak without being interrogated,” interrupted

the lady, with an expression of anger on her countenance, which changed

it almost to deformity. “Silence; I have not to be informed that parents

have always an answer prepared in the name of their children.”

Agnes drew back mortified, and the father guardian signified to Lucy by

a look, as well as by a movement of the head, that now was the time to

rouse her courage, and not leave her poor mother in the dilemma.

“Reverend lady,” said she, “what my mother has told you is the truth. I

willingly engaged myself to the poor youth (and here she became covered

with blushes)—— Pardon me this boldness; but I would not have you

think ill of my mother. And as to this lord (God forgive him!) I would

rather die than fall into his hands. And if you do this deed of charity,

be certain, signora, none will pray for you more heartily than those

whom you have thus sheltered.”

“I believe you,” said the lady, with a softened voice; “but we will see

you alone. Not that I need farther explanation, nor other motives to

accede to the wishes of the father superior,” added she, turning to him

with studied politeness. “Nay,” continued she, “I have been thinking,

and this is what has occurred to me. The portress of the monastery has

bestowed in marriage, a few days since, her last daughter; these females

can occupy her room, and supply her place in the little services which

it was her office to perform.”

The father would have expressed his thanks, but the lady interrupted

him. “There is no need of ceremony; in case of need, I would not

hesitate to ask assistance of the capuchin fathers. In short,” continued

she, with a smile, in which appeared a degree of bitter irony, “are we

not brothers and sisters?”

So saying, she called a nun, her attendant (by a singular distinction

she had two assigned for her private service), and sent her to inform

the abbess; she then called the portress, and made with her and Agnes

the necessary arrangements. Then taking leave of the superior, she

dismissed Agnes to her room, but retained Lucy. The signora, who, in

presence of a capuchin, had studied her actions and her words, thought

no longer of putting a restraint on them before an inexperienced country

girl. Her discourse became by degrees so strange, that, in order to

account for it, we will relate the previous history of this unhappy and

misguided person.

She was the youngest daughter of the Prince ***, a great Milanese

nobleman, who was among the wealthiest of the city. The magnificent

ideas he entertained of his rank, made him suppose his wealth hardly

sufficient to support it properly; he therefore determined to preserve

his riches with the greatest care. How many children he had does not

clearly appear; it is only known that he had destined to the cloister

all the youngest of both sexes, in order to preserve his fortune for the

eldest son. The condition of the unhappy signora had been settled even

before her birth; it remained only to be decided whether she were to be

a monk or a nun. At her birth, the prince her father, wishing to give

her a name which could recall at every moment the idea of a cloister,

and which had been borne by a saint of a noble family, called her

Gertrude. Dolls, clothed like nuns, were the first toys that were put

into her hands; then pictures of nuns; and these gifts were accompanied

with many injunctions to be careful of them, for they were precious

things. When the prince or princess, or the young prince, who was the

only one of the children brought up at home, wished to praise the beauty

of the infant, they found no way of expressing their ideas, except in

exclamations of this sort, “What a mother abbess!” But no one ever said

directly to her, “Thou must be a nun;” such an intention, however, was

understood, and included in every conversation regarding her future

destiny. If, sometimes, the little Gertrude betrayed perversity and

impetuosity of temper, they would say to her, “Thou art but a child, and

these manners are not becoming: wait till thou art the mother abbess,

and then thou shalt command with a rod; thou shalt do whatever pleases

thee.” At other times, reprehending her for the freedom and familiarity

of her manners, the prince would say, “Such should not be the deportment

of one like you; if you wish at some future day to have the respect of

all around you, learn now to have more gravity; remember that you will

be the first in the monastery, because noble blood bears sway every

where.”

By such conversations as these the implicit idea was produced in the

mind of the child, that she was to be a nun. The manners of the prince

were habitually austere and repulsive; and, with respect to the

destination of the child, his resolution appeared fixed as fate. At six

years of age she was placed for her education in the monastery where we

find her: her father, being the most powerful noble in Monza, enjoyed

there great authority; and his daughter, consequently, would receive

those distinctions, with those allurements, which might lead her to

select it for her perpetual abode. The abbess and nuns, rejoicing at the

acquisition of such powerful friendship, received with great gratitude

the honour conferred in preference on them, and entered with avidity

into the views of the prince; Gertrude experienced all sorts of favours

and indulgences, and, child as she was, the respectful attention of the

nuns towards her was exercised with the same deference as if she had

been the abbess herself! Not that they were all pledged to draw the poor

child into the snare; many acted with simplicity, and through

tenderness, merely following the example of those around them; if the

suspicions of others were excited, they kept silence, so as not to cause

useless disturbance; some, indeed, more discriminating and

compassionate, pitied the poor child as being the object of artifices,

to the like of which they themselves had been the victims.

Things would have proceeded agreeably to the wishes of all concerned,

had Gertrude been the only child in the monastery; but this was not the

case; and there were some among her school companions who were destined

for the matrimonial state. The little Gertrude, filled with the idea of

her superiority, spoke proudly of her future destiny, expecting thereby

to excite their envy at her peculiar honours: with scorn and wonder she

perceived that their estimation of them was very different. To the

majestic but circumscribed and cold images of the power of an abbess,

they opposed the varied and bright pictures of husband, guests, cities,

tournaments, courts, dress, and equipage. New and strange emotions arose

in the mind of Gertrude: her vanity had been cultivated in order to make

the cloister desirable to her; and now, easily assimilating itself with

the ideas thus presented, she entered into them with all the ardour of

her soul. She replied, that no one could oblige her to take the veil,

without her own consent; that she could also marry, inhabit a palace,

and enjoy the world; that she could if she wished it; that she _would_

wish it, and _did_ wish it. The necessity of her own consent, hitherto

little considered, became henceforth the ruling thought of her mind; she

called it to her aid, at all times, when she desired to luxuriate in the

pleasing images of future felicity.

But her fancied enjoyment was impaired by the reflection, which at such

moments intruded itself, that her father had irrevocably decided her

destiny; and she shuddered at the recollection of his austere manners,

which impressed upon all around him the sentiments of a fatal necessity

as being necessarily conjoined with whatever he should command. Then

would she compare her condition to that of her more fortunate

companions; and envy soon grew into hatred. This would manifest itself

by a display of present superiority, and sometimes of ill-nature,

sarcasm, and spite; at other times her more amiable and gentle qualities

would obtain a transitory ascendency. Thus she passed the period

allotted for her education, in dreams of future bliss, mingled with the

dread of future misery. That which she anticipated most distinctly, was

external pomp and splendour; and her fancy would often luxuriate in

imaginary scenes of grandeur, constructed out of such materials as her

memory could faintly and confusedly furnish forth, and the descriptions

of her companions supply. There were moments when these brilliant

imaginings were disturbed by the idea of religion; but the religion

which had been inculcated to the poor girl did not proscribe pride, but,

on the contrary, sanctified it, and proposed it as a means of obtaining

terrestrial felicity. Thus despoiled of its essence, it was no longer

religion, but a phantom, which, assuming at times a power over her mind,

the unhappy girl was tormented with superstitious dread, and, filled

with a confused idea of duties, imagined her repugnance to the cloister

to be a crime, which could only be expiated by her voluntary dedication.

There was a law, that no young person could be accepted for the monastic

life, without being examined by an ecclesiastic, called the vicar of the

nuns, so that it should be made manifest that it was the result of her

free election; and this examination could not take place until a year

after she had presented her petition for admission, in writing, to the

vicar. The nuns, therefore, who were aware of the projects of her

father, undertook to draw from her such a petition; encountering her in

one of those moments, when she was assailed by her superstitious fears,

they suggested to her the propriety of such a course, and assured her,

nevertheless, that it was a mere formality (which was true), and would

be without efficacy, unless sanctioned by some after-act of her own. The

petition, however, had scarcely been sent to its destination, when

Gertrude repented of having written it; she then repented of this

repentance, passing months in incessant vicissitude of feeling. There

was another law, that, at this examination, a young person should not be

received, without having remained at least a month at her paternal home.

A year had nearly passed since the petition had been sent, and Gertrude

had been warned that she would soon be removed from the monastery, and

conducted to her father’s house, to take the final steps towards the

consummation of that which they held certain. Not so the poor girl; her

mind was busied with plans of escape: in her perplexity, she unbosomed

herself to one of her companions, who counselled her to inform her

father by letter of the change in her views. The letter was written and

sent; Gertrude remained in great anxiety, expecting a reply, which never

came. A few days after, the abbess took her aside, and, with a mixed

expression of contempt and compassion, hinted to her the anger of the

prince, and the error she had committed; but that, if she conducted

herself well for the future, all would be forgotten. The poor girl

heard, and dared not ask farther explanation.

The day, so ardently desired and so greatly feared, came at last. The

anticipation of the trials that awaited her was forgotten in her

tumultuous joy at the sight of the open country, the city, and the

houses. She might well feel thus, after having been for eight years

enclosed within the walls of the monastery! She had previously arranged

with her new confidant the part she was to act. Oh! they will try to

force me, thought she: but I will persist, humbly and respectfully; the

point is, not to say _Yes_; and I will _not_ say it. Or, perhaps they

will endeavour to shake my purpose by kindness: but I will weep, I will

implore, I will excite their compassion, I will beseech them not to

sacrifice me. But none of her anticipations were verified: her parents

and family, with the usual artful policy in such cases, maintained a

perfect silence with regard to the subject of her meditations; they

regarded her with looks of contemptuous pity, and appeared to avoid all

conversation with her, as if she had rendered herself unworthy of it. A

mysterious anathema appeared to hang over her, and to keep at a distance

every member of the household. If, wearied with this proscription, she

endeavoured to enter into conversation, they made her understand

indirectly, that by obedience alone could she regain the affections of

the family. But this was precisely the condition to which she could not

assent: she therefore continued in her state of excommunication, which

unhappily appeared to be, at least partially, the consequence of her own

conduct.

Such a state of things formed a sad contrast to the radiant visions

which had occupied her imagination. Her confinement was as strict at

home as it had been in the monastery; and she, who had fancied she

should enjoy, at least for this brief period, the pleasures of the

world, found herself an exile from all society. At every announcement of

a visiter, she was compelled to retire with the elderly persons of the

family; and always dined apart whenever a guest was present. Even the

servants of the family appeared to concur with the designs of their

master, and to treat her with carelessness, ill concealed by an awkward

attempt at formality. There was one among them, however, who seemed to

feel towards her respect and compassion. This was a handsome page, who

equalled, in her imagination, the ideal images of loveliness she had so

often fondly cherished. There was soon apparent a change in her manner,

a love of reverie and abstraction, and she no longer appeared to covet

the favour of her family; some engrossing thought had taken possession

of her mind. To be brief, she was detected one day in folding a letter,

which it had been better she had not written, and which she was obliged

to relinquish to her female attendant, who carried it to the prince, her

father. He came immediately to her apartment with the letter in his

hand, and in few but terrible words told her, that for the present she

should be confined to her chamber, with the society only of the woman

who had made the discovery; and intimated for the future still darker

punishments. The page was dismissed, with an imperative command of

silence, and solemn threatenings of punishment should he presume to

violate it. Gertrude was then left alone, with her shame, her remorse,

and her terror; and the sole company of this woman, whom she hated, as

the witness of her fault, and the cause of her disgrace. The hatred was

cordially returned, inasmuch as the attendant found herself reduced to

the annoying duty of a jailer, and was made the guardian of a perilous

secret for life. The first confused tumult of her feelings having in

some measure subsided, she recalled to mind the dark intimations of her

father with regard to some future punishment: what could this be? It

most probably was a return to the monastery at Monza, not as the

signorina, but as a guilty wretch, who, loaded with shame, was to be

inclosed within its walls for ever! Now, indeed, her fancy no longer

dwelt on the bright visions with which it had been so often busied; they

were too much opposed to the sad reality of her present condition. Such

an act would repair all her errors, and change (could she doubt it) in

an instant her condition. The only castle in which Gertrude could

imagine a tranquil and honourable asylum, and which was not in the

_air_, was the monastery, in which she now resolved to place herself for

ever! Opposed to this resolution rose up the contemplations of many

years past: but times were changed, and to the depth in which Gertrude

had fallen, the condition of a nun, revered, obeyed, and feared, formed

a bright contrast. She was perpetually tormented also by her jailer,

who, to revenge herself for the confinement imposed on her, failed not

to taunt her for her misdemeanor, and to repeat the menaces of her

father; or whenever she seemed disposed to relent, and to show something

like pity, her tone of protection was still more intolerable. The

predominant desire of Gertrude was to escape from her clutches, and to

raise herself to a condition above her anger or her pity. At the end of

four or five long days, with her patience exhausted by the bitter

railings of her keeper, she sat herself down in a corner of the chamber,

and covering her face with her hands, wept in bitterness of soul. She

experienced an absolute craving for other faces and other sounds than

those of her tormentor; and a sudden joy imparted itself to her mind,

from the reflection, that it depended only on herself to be restored to

the good-will and attentions of the family. Mingled with this joy, came

repentance for her fault, and a desire to expiate it. She arose, went to

a small table, and taking a pen, wrote to her father, expressing her

penitence and her hope, imploring his pardon, and promising to do all

that might be required of her.