The discourse of the merchant had plunged our poor Renzo into
inexpressible agitation and alarm; there was no doubt that his adventure
was noised abroad—that people were in search of him? Who could tell how
many bailiffs were in pursuit of him? Who could tell what orders had
been given to watch at the villages, inns, and along the roads? True it
was, that two only of the officers were acquainted with his person, and
he didn’t bear his name stamped on his forehead. Yet he had heard
strange stories of fugitives being discovered by their suspicious air,
or some unexpected mark; in short, he was alarmed at every shadow.
Although at the moment he quitted Gorgonzola, the bells struck the _Ave
Maria_, and the increasing darkness diminished his danger, he
unwillingly took the high road, with the intention, however, of entering
the first path which should appear to him to lead in the right
direction. He met some travellers, but, his imagination filled with
apprehensions, he dared not interrogate them. “The host called it six
miles,” said he; “if, in travelling through by-paths, I make it eight or
ten, these good limbs will not fail me, I know. I am certainly not going
towards Milan, and must therefore be approaching the Adda. If I keep
on, sooner or later I must arrive there; the Adda has a voice
sufficiently loud to be heard at some distance, and when I hear it,
there will be no longer any need of direction. If there is a boat there,
I shall cross immediately; if not, I will wait until morning in a field,
upon the ground, like the sparrows, which will be far better than a
prison.”
He saw a cross-road open to the left, and he pursued it: “_I_ play the
devil!” continued he, “_I_ assassinate the lords! A packet of letters!
My companions keeping watch! I would give something to meet this
merchant face to face, on the other side of the Adda; (Oh! when shall I
reach the beautiful stream?) I would ask him politely where he picked up
that fine story. Know, my good sir, that, devil as I am, it was I who
aided Ferrer, and like a good Christian saved your superintendent of
provisions from a rough joke that those ruffians, my friends, were about
to play on him. Ay, while you were keeping watch over your shop——and
that enormous packet of letters—in the hands of the government. See,
sir, here it is; a single letter, written by a worthy man, a monk; a
hair of whose beard is worth——but in future learn to speak with more
charity of your neighbours.” However, after a while, these thoughts of
the poor traveller gave way to more urgent considerations of his present
difficulties; he no longer feared pursuit or discovery; but darkness,
solitude, and fatigue combined to distress him and retard his progress.
A chill north wind penetrated his light clothing, his wedding suit; and,
uncomfortable and disheartened, he wandered on, in hopes of finding some
place where he might obtain concealment and repose for the night.
He passed through villages, but did not dare ask shelter; the dogs
howled at his approach, and induced him to quicken his steps. At single
houses near the road-side his fatigue tempted him to knock for shelter;
but the apprehension of being saluted with the cry of “Help, thieves!
robbers!” banished the idea from his mind. Leaving the cultivated
country, he found himself in a plain, covered with fern and broom; and
thinking this a favourable symptom of the near vicinity of the river, he
followed the path across it. When he had advanced a few steps, he
listened, but in vain. The desolation of the place increased the
depression of his spirits. Strange forms and apparitions, the birth of
former tales and legends, began to haunt his imagination; and to drive
them away he began to chant the prayers for the dead. He passed through
a thicket of plum-trees and oaks, and found himself on the borders of a
wood; he conquered his repugnance to enter it, but as he proceeded into
its depths, every object excited his apprehensions. Strange forms
appeared beneath the bushes; and the shade of the trees, trembling on
his moon-lit path, with the crackling of the dead leaves between his
footsteps, inspired him with dread. He would have hastened through the
perilous passage, but his limbs refused their office; the wind blew cold
and sharp, and penetrating his weakened frame, almost subdued its small
remains of vigour. His senses, affected by undefined horrors, appeared
to be leaving him; aroused to his danger, he made a violent effort to
regain some degree of resolution, in order to return through the wood,
and seek shelter in the last village he had passed through, even if it
should be in an inn! As he stopped for a moment, before putting his
design in execution, the wind brought a new sound to his ear—the murmur
of running water. Intently listening, to ascertain if his senses did not
deceive him, he cried out, “It is the Adda!” His fatigue vanished, his
pulse returned, his blood flowed freely through his veins, his fears
disappeared; and guided by the friendly sound, he went forward. He soon
reached the extremity of the plain, and found himself on the edge of a
steep precipice, whence looking downward, he discovered, through the
bushes, the long-desired river, and, on the other side of it, villages
scattered here and there, with hills in the distance; and on the summit
of one of these a whitish spot, which in the dimness he took to be a
city; Bergamo certainly! He descended the declivity, and throwing aside
the bushes with his hands, looked beyond them, to spy if some friendly
bark were moving on the flood, or if he could not, by listening, hear
the sound of oars cleaving the water; but he saw, he heard nothing. If
it had been any stream less than the Adda, he would have attempted to
ford it, but this he well knew to be impracticable.
He was uncertain what plan to pursue: to lie down on the grass for the
next six hours, and wait until morning, exposed to the north wind and
the damps of the night; or to continue walking to and fro, to protect
himself from the cold, until the day should dawn: neither of these held
out much prospect of comfort. He suddenly recollected to have seen, in a
neighbouring part of the uncultivated heath, a _cascinotto_;—this was
the name given by the peasants of the Milanese to cabins covered with
straw, constructed with the trunks and branches of trees, and the
crevices filled with mud, where they were in the habit of placing the
crop, gathered during the day, until a more convenient opportunity for
removing it; they were therefore abandoned except at such seasons. Renzo
found his way thither, pushed open the door, and perceiving a bundle of
straw on the ground, thought that sleep, even in such a place, would be
very welcome. Before, however, throwing himself on the bed Providence
had provided for him, he kneeled, and returned thanks for the blessing,
and for all the assistance which had been this day afforded him, and
then implored forgiveness for the errors of the previous day; then
gathering the straw around him as some defence against the cold, he
closed his eyes to sleep; but sleep was not so soon to visit our poor
traveller. Confused images began to throng his fancy; the merchant, the
notary, the bailiffs, the cutler, the host, Ferrer, the superintendent,
the company at the inn, the crowds in the streets, assailed his
imagination by turns; then came the thought of Don Abbondio, Roderick,
Lucy, Agnes, and the good friar. He remembered the paternal counsels of
the latter, and reflected with shame and remorse on his neglect of them;
and what bitter retrospection did the image of Lucy produce! and Agnes!
poor Agnes! how ill had she been repaid for her motherly solicitude on
his behalf! an outcast from her home, solitary, uncertain of the future,
reaping misery from what seemed to promise the happiness of her
declining years! Poor Renzo! what a night didst thou pass! what an
apartment! what a bed for a matrimonial couch! tormented, too, with
apprehensions of the future! “I submit to the will of God,” said he,
speaking aloud, “to the will of God! He does only that which is right; I
accept it all as a just chastisement for my sins. Lucy, however, is so
good! the Lord will not long afflict her with suffering.”
In the mean time he despaired of obtaining any repose; the cold was
insupportable; his teeth chattered; he ardently wished for day, and
measured with impatience the slow progress of the hours; this he was
enabled to do, as he heard, every half hour, in the deep silence, the
heavy sound of some distant clock, probably that of Trezzo. When the
time arrived which he had fixed on for his departure, half benumbed with
exposure to the night air, he stretched his stiffened limbs, and opening
the door of the _cascinotto_, looked out, to ascertain if any one were
near, and finding all silent around, he resumed his journey along the
path he had quitted.
The sky announced a beautiful day; the setting moon shone pale in an
immense field of azure, which, towards the east, mingled itself lightly
with the rosy dawn. Near the horizon were scattered clouds of various
hues and forms; it was, in fact, the sky of Lombardy, beautiful,
brilliant, and calm. If Renzo had had a mind at ease, he would no doubt
have stopped to contemplate this splendid ushering in of day, so
different from that which he had been accustomed to witness amidst his
mountains; but his thoughts were otherwise occupied. He reached the brow
of the precipice where he had stood the preceding night, and looking
below, perceived, through the bushes, a fisherman’s bark, which was
slowly stemming the current, near the shore. He descended the precipice,
and standing on the bank, made a sign to the fisherman to approach. He
intended to do this with a careless air, as if it were of little
importance, but in spite of himself, his manner was half supplicatory.
The fisherman, after having for a moment surveyed the course of the
water, as if to ascertain the practicability of reaching the shore,
directed the boat towards it; before it touched the bank, Renzo, who was
standing on the water’s edge, awaiting its approach, seized the prow,
and jumped into it.
“Do me a service, and I will pay you for it,” said he; “I wish to cross
to the other shore.”
The fisherman having divined his object, had already turned his boat in
that direction. Renzo, perceiving another oar in the bottom of the bark,
stooped to take it.
“Softly, softly,” said the fisherman. But seeing with what skill the
young man managed the oar, “Ah! ah!” added he, “you know the trade.”
“A very little,” replied Renzo, and he continued to row with a vigour
and skill beyond that of a mere amateur in the art. With all his
efforts, however, the bark moved slowly; the current, setting strong
against it, drove it continually from the line of its direction, and
impeded the rapidity of its course. New perplexities presented
themselves to the mind of Renzo; now that the Adda was almost passed, he
began to fear that it might not, at this place, serve for the boundary
between the states, and that, this obstacle surmounted, there would yet
be others remaining. He spoke to the fisherman, and pointing to the
white spot he had noticed the night before, and which was now much more
distinct, “Is that Bergamo?” said he.
“The city of Bergamo,” replied the fisherman.
“And the other shore, does it belong to Bergamo?”
“It is the territory of St. Mark.”
“Long live St. Mark!” cried Renzo. The fisherman made no reply.
The boat reached the shore, at last; Renzo thanked God in his heart, as
he stepped upon it; and turning to the fisherman took from his pocket a
_berlinga_ and gave it to him. The man took it in silence, and with a
significant look, placed his forefinger on his lip; and saying, “A good
journey to you,” returned to his employment.
In order to account for the prompt and discreet civility of this man
towards a perfect stranger, we must inform the reader, that he was
accustomed to render similar favours to smugglers and outlaws, not so
much for the sake of the little gain which accrued to him thereby, as
not to create enemies among these classes of people. He rendered these
services, therefore, when he was sure of not being seen by the
custom-house officers, bailiffs, or spies. Thus he endeavoured to act
with an impartiality, which should give offence to neither party.
Renzo stopped a moment to contemplate the shore he had quitted, and
where he had suffered so much; “I am at last safely beyond it,” was his
first thought; then the remembrance of those he had left behind rushed
over his mind, overwhelming it with regret and shame; for, with the calm
and virtuous image of Lucy, came the recollection of his extravagances
in Milan.
He shook off, however, these oppressive thoughts, and went on, taking
the direction of the whitish mass on the declivity of the mountain,
until he should meet some one who could direct him on his way. And now
with what a different and careless air he accosted travellers! he
hesitated no more, he pronounced boldly the name of the place where his
cousin lived, to ask the way to it; from the information given him by
the first traveller he met, he found that he had still nine miles to
travel.
His journey was not agreeable. Without referring to his own causes of
trouble, Renzo was affected every moment by the sight of painful and
distressing objects; so that he foresaw, that he should find in this
country the poverty he had left in his own. All along the way he was
assailed by mendicants,—mendicants of necessity, not of
choice,—peasants, mountaineers, tradesmen, whole families reduced to
poverty, and to the necessity of begging their bread. This sight,
besides the compassion it excited, made him naturally recur to his own
prospects.
“Who knows,” thought he, mournfully, “if I shall find work to do?
perhaps things are not as they were in preceding years. Bartolo wishes
me well, I know; he is a good fellow; he has made money; he has invited
me many times to come to him; I am sure he will not abandon me. And then
Providence has aided me until now; and will continue to do so.”
Meanwhile, the walk had sharpened his appetite; he could indeed have
well waited to the end of his journey, which was only two miles farther,
but he did not like to make his first appearance before his cousin as a
hungry beggar; he therefore drew all his wealth from his pocket, and
counting it on the palm of his hand, found that he had more than
sufficient to procure a slight repast; after paying for which, he would
still have a few pence remaining.
As he came out of the inn at which he had rested, to proceed on his
journey, he saw, lying near the door, two women: the one was elderly,
and the other more youthful, with an infant in her arms, which was in
vain seeking sustenance from its exhausted mother; both were of the
complexion of death: by them stood a man, whose countenance and limbs
gave signs of former vigour; now lost from long inanition. All three
stretched forth their hands, but spoke not—what prayer could be so
moving as their appearance. Renzo sighed; “There is a Providence,” said
he, as he placed in the nearest hand the last remnant of his wealth.
The slight repast he had made, and the good deed he had performed (for
we are composed of body and soul), had equally tended to refresh and
invigorate him. If, to afford relief to these unhappy persons,
Providence had kept in reserve the last farthing of a fugitive stranger,
would he leave the wants of that stranger unsupplied? He looked with
renewed hope to the future; he pictured to himself the return of
abundant harvests, and in the mean time he had his cousin Bartolo and
his own industry to depend on, and moreover he had left at home a small
sum of money, the fruit of his economy, which he could send for, if
needed. “Then,” said he, “plenty will eventually return, and trade will
be profitable again; the Milanese workmen will be in demand, and can set
a high price on their labour; I shall have more than enough to satisfy
my wants, and can lay by money, and can furnish my nice house, and then
write to Agnes and Lucy to come—and then—But why wait for this? We
should have been obliged to live, had we remained at home; we should
have been obliged to live during this winter, upon my little savings,
and we can do the same here. There are curates every where, and they can
come shortly. Oh! what joy will it be to walk together on this same
road; to go to the borders of the Adda, where I will point out to them
the place where I embarked, the woods through which I passed, the spot
where I stood watching for a boat.”
He reached at last the village of his cousin; at its entrance, he saw a
very high house, with numerous windows, and perceived it to be a silk
manufactory; he entered, and amidst the noise of the water and
machinery loudly demanded, “if Bartolo Castagneri was within?”
“Signor Bartolo? there he is.”
“Signor! that’s a good sign,” thought Renzo. He perceived his cousin,
and ran towards him, exclaiming, “I am come at last!” Bartolo made an
exclamation of surprise, and embraced him; he then took him into another
chamber, apart from the noise of the machinery and the notice of the
inquisitive, and said, “I am glad to see you, but you are a droll
fellow. I have invited you many times to come hither; you have always
refused, and now choose a most unfavourable moment.”
“What shall I say to you? I have not now come of my own free will,” said
Renzo; and he briefly, and with much emotion, related the mournful
story.
“That’s another affair truly,” said Bartolo. “Poor Renzo! you have
relied on me, and I will not abandon you. To say truth, workmen are not
in much demand at present; and it is with difficulty that those already
engaged are kept by their employers. But my master regards me, and he
has money; and besides, without boasting, we are equally dependent on
each other—he has the capital, and I the skill, such as it is! I am his
first workman, his _factotum_! Poor Lucy Mondella! I remember her as if
it was but yesterday that I last saw her! An excellent girl! always so
modest at church; and if you passed by her cottage—I see it now, the
little cottage beyond the village, with a large fig-tree against the
wall——”
“No, no,” said Renzo, “do not speak of it.”
“I meant to say, that if you passed it, you always heard the noise of
her reel. And Don Roderick! even before I left, showed symptoms of his
character; but now, it seems, he plays the devil outright, until God
shall put a bridle on his neck. Well, as I said, we suffer here also the
consequences of scarce harvests.—But, apropos, are you not hungry?”
“It is not long since I have eaten,” said Renzo.
“And how are you off for money?” Renzo extended the palm of his hand and
shook his head. “No matter,” said Bartolo: “I have plenty. Cheer up;
things will change for the better soon, and then you can repay me.”
“I have a small sum at home, and I will send for it.”
“Well, in the mean while, depend on me. God has given me wealth to spend
for others, and above all, for my relations and friends.”
“I knew that you would befriend me,” said Renzo, affectionately pressing
his cousin’s hand.
“Well, what a fuss they have made at Milan,” continued Bartolo; “the
people seem to me to be mad. The report has reached us, but I shall be
glad to know the particulars from you. I think we shall have enough to
talk about, shall we not? Here, however, things are conducted with more
judgment. The city purchased two thousand loads of corn from a merchant
of Venice; the corn comes from Turkey. Now, what do you think happened?
The governors of Verona and Brescia forbade the transit of the corn.
What did the people of Bergamo do then, do you think? They sent to
Venice a man that knew how to talk, I can tell you: he went to the doge,
and made a speech which they say deserves to be printed! Immediately an
order was sent to let the corn pass: the governors were obliged to obey.
The country, too, has been thought of. Another good man informed the
senate that the people here were famishing, and the senate granted us
four thousand bushels of millet, which makes very good bread. And then,
if there is no bread, you and I can eat meat; God has given me wealth I
tell you. Now I will conduct you to my patron. I have often spoken of
you to him; he will make you welcome. He is a native of Bergamo, a man
of an excellent disposition. ’Tis true, he did not expect you at this
time, but when he learns your story—And then he knows how to value
skilful workmen, because scarcity lasts but a little while, and business
must finally go on.—But I must hint to you one thing; do you know what
name they give to us Milanese in this country?”
“What name they give us?”
“They call us simpletons.”[29]
[29] Baggiani.
“That is certainly not a very agreeable name.”
“What matters it? Whoever is born in the territory of Milan, and would
gain his living in that of Bergamo, must put up with it. As to the
people here, they call a Milanese a simpleton as freely as they call a
gentleman _sir_.”
“They say so, I suppose, to those who will suffer it.”
“My good fellow, if you are not disposed to submit to be called
simpleton, till it becomes familiar to your taste, you must not expect
to live in Bergamo. You would always be obliged to carry your knife in
hand; and when you had killed three or four, you might be killed
yourself, and have to appear before the bar of God with three or four
murders to answer for?”
“And a Milanese who understands his trade?”
“It is all the same; he would still be a simpleton. Do you know how my
master expresses himself when he talks of me to his friends? _Heaven has
sent me this simpleton to carry on my business. If it were not for this
simpleton I should never get on._ It is the custom.”
“It is a silly custom, to say the least of it; and especially as it is
we who have brought the art hither, and who carry it on. Is it possible
that there is no remedy?”
“None. Time may accomplish it. The next generation may be different, but
at present we must submit. And after all, what is it?”
“Why, if there is no other evil——”
“Ah! now that you are convinced, all will be well. Let us go to my
master. Be of good courage.”
In fact, the promises of Bartolo were realised, and all _was_ well. It
was truly a kind Providence; for we shall see how little dependence
Renzo could place on the treasure he had left at home,—the savings of
his labour.
