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.
