You will not forsake6 us, Father?’ sobbed7 Lucia.
‘Forsake you! replied he. ‘Great God! with what face could I again make request to Him, if I should forsake you? You in this state! You whom He confides9 to me! Don’t despair: He will help you. He sees all: He can make use even of such an unworthy instrument as I am to confound a . . . Let us see: let me think what I can do for you.’
So saying, he leaned his left elbow on his knee, laid his forehead on his hand, and with the right grasped his beard and chin, as if to concentrate and hold fast all the powers of his mind.
But the most attentive11 consideration only served to show more distinctly the urgency and intricacy of the case, and how few, how uncertain, and how dangerous were the ways of meeting it. ‘Instil shame into Don Abbondio, and make him sensible of how much he is failing in his duty? Shame and duty are nothing to him, when overwhelmed with fear. Inspire him with fears? How can I suggest one that would overbalance the dread12 he already has of a musket13? Inform the Cardinal14-Archbishop of all, and invoke15 his authority? This requires time, and in the mean while what might not happen? And afterwards, supposing even this unhappy innocent were married, would that be a curb16 to such a man? . . . Who knows to what length he might proceed? And resist him? How? Ah! if I could,’ thought the poor friar: ‘if I could but engage in this cause my brethren here and at Milan! But it is not a common affair, and I should be abandoned. Don Rodrigo pretends to be a friend to the convent, and professes17 himself a favourer of the Capuchins; and his followers18 have more than once taken refuge with us. I should find myself alone in the undertaking19; I should be opposed by meddling20, quarrelsome persons; and, what is worse, I should, perhaps, by an ill-timed endeavour, only render the condition of this poor girl more hopeless.’ Having considered every view of the question, the best seemed to be to confront Don Rodrigo himself, and try, by entreaties21, the terrors of the life to come, and even if this world, if that were possible, to dissuade22 him from his infamous23 purpose. At least, he could by this means ascertain24 whether he continued obstinately25 bent26 on his wicked design, discover something more of his intentions, and act accordingly. While the friar was thus engaged, Renzo, who for reasons that every one can divine, could not long absent himself, made his appearance at the door; but seeing the Father absorbed in thought, and the women beckoning28 to him not to interrupt him, he stood silent on the threshold. Raising his head to communicate his design to the women, the friar perceived Renzo, and saluted29 him with his usual affection, increase and rendered more intense by compassion30.
‘Have they told you . . . Father?’ asked Renzo, in an agitated32 tone.
‘Only too much: and for that reason I am here.’
‘What do you say to the rascal33?’
What do you wish me to say of him? He is far away, and my words would be of no use. But I say to you, my Renzo, trust in God, and He will not forsake you.’
‘What blessed words!’ exclaimed the youth. ‘You are not one of those who always wrong the poor. But the Signor Curate, and that Signor Doctor . . . ’
‘Don’t recall those scenes, Renzo, which only serve to irritate you uselessly. I am a poor friar; but I repeat what I have said to these poor women: poor as I am, I will not forsake you.’
‘Ah! you are not like the world’s friends! Good-for-nothing creatures that they are! You would not believe the protestations they made me in prosperity. Ha! ha! They were ready to give their lives for me; they would have defended me against the devil. If I had had an enemy . . . I had only to let them know it, and I should have been quickly rid of him! And now, if you were to see how they draw back . . . ’ At this moment Renzo perceived, on raising his eyes to those of his auditor34, that the good friar’s face was clouded, and he felt that he had uttered something wrong. He only added to his perplexities, however, and made matters worse, by trying to remedy them: ‘I meant to say . . . I don’t at all mean . . . that is, I meant to say . . . ’
‘What did you mean to say? Have you, then, begun to spoil my work before I have undertaken it? It is well for you that you have been undeceived in time. What! you went in search of friends . . . and such friends! . . . who could not have helped you, had they been willing; and you forgot to seek the only One who can and will assist you! Do you not know that God is the friend of the afflicted35 who put their trust in Him? Do you not know that threatening and contention36 gain nothing for the weak? And even if . . . ’ Here he forcibly grasped Renzo’s arm: his countenance37, without losing if its authority, expressed the ground, and his voice became slow and almost sepulchral38: ‘Even if they did, it is a terrible gain! Renzo! will you trust to me? To me, did I say — a feeble mortal, a poor friar? No; but will you trust in God?
‘Oh yes!’ replied Renzo; ‘He is in truth the Lord.’
‘Very well; promise me that you will not attack — that you will not provoke — any one; that you will be guided by me.’
‘I promise you.’
Lucia drew a long breath, as if she were relieved from a great weight; and Agnese exclaimed, ‘Bravo, my son!’
‘Listen, my children,’ continued Friar Cristoforo; ‘I will go to-day and speak to this man. If it please God to touch his heart, and give force to my words, well; but, if not, He will show us some other remedy. You, in the mean while, be quiet and retired39; avoid gossip, and don’t show yourselves. To-night, or to-morrow morning, at the latest, you shall see me again.’ So saying, he cut short all their thanks and benedictions41, and departed. He returned first to the convent, where he arrived in time to join the chorus in chanting, dined, and then set off on his way towards the den42 of the wild beast he had undertaken to tame.
The small but elegant palace of Don Rodrigo stood by itself, rising like a castle from the summit of one of the abrupt43 cliffs by which the shore of the lake was broken and diversified44. Our anonymous45 author only adds to this indication, that the site (it would have been better to have given the name in full) was rather on the side adjoining the country of the Betrothed46, about three miles distant from them, and four from the convent. At the base of the cliff, on the side looking towards the lake, lay a group of cottages, inhabited by the peasantry in the service of Don Rodrigo, the diminutive47 capital of his little kingdom. It was quite sufficient to pass through it to be assured of the character and customs of the country. Casting a glance into the lower rooms, should a door happen to be open, one saw hanging on the wall, fowling-pieces, spades, rakes, straw hats, nets, and powder-flasks, in admired confusion. Everywhere might be seen powerful, fierce-looking men, wearing a large lock, turned back upon their head, and enclosed in a net; old men, who, having lost their teeth, appeared ready, at the slightest provocation48, to show their gums; women, of masculine appearance, with strong, sinewy49 arms, prepared to come in to the aid of their tongues on every occasion. Even the very children, playing in the road, displayed in their countenances50 and behaviour a certain air of provocation and defiance51.
Father Cristoforo passed through this hamlet, and ascended52 a winding53 foot-path to a small level plot of ground, in front of the palace. The door was shut — a sign that the master of the mansion54 was dining, and would not be disturbed. The few small windows that looked into the road, the frameworks of which were dis-jointed, and decayed with age, were defended by large iron bars; and those of the ground-floor were so high, that a man could scarcely reach them by standing55 on the shoulders of another. Perfect silence reigned57 around; and a passer-by might have deemed it a deserted58 mansion, had not four creatures, two animate59, and two inanimate, disposed opposite each other, outside, given some indication of inhabitants. Two great vultures, with extended wings and pendent heads — one stripped of its feathers, and half consumed by time; the other still feathered, and in a state of preservation60, were nailed, one on each post of the massive doorway61; and two bravoes, stretched at full length on the benches to the right and left, were on guard, and expecting their call to partake of the remains62 of the Signor’s table. The Father stood still, in the attitude of one who was prepared to wait; but one of the bravoes rose, and called to him: ‘Father, Father, come forward, we don’t make Capuchins wait here; we are friends of the convent; and I have sometimes been within it when the air outside was not very good for me, and when, if the door had been closed upon me, I should have fared badly.’ So saying, he gave two strokes of the knocker, which were answered immediately from within, by the howling and yelling of mastiffs, and curs, and in a few moments by an old grumbling64 servant; but seeing the Father, he made him a low bow, quieted the animals with hand and voice, introduced the visitor into a narrow passage, and closed the door again. He then conducted him into a small apartment, and, regarding him with a surprised and respectful look, said, ‘Are you not . . . Father Cristoforo of Pescarenico?
‘I am.’
‘You here?’
‘As you see, my good man.’
‘It must be to do good, then. Good,’ continued he, muttering between his teeth, as he still led the way; ‘good may be done anywhere.’
Having passed through two or three dark apartments, they at last reached the door of the dining-room, where they were greeted with a loud and confused noise of knives, forks, glasses, pewter dishes, and, above all, of discordant65 voices alternately endeavouring to take the lead in conversation. The friar wished to withdraw, and was debating at the door with the servant, and begging permission to wait in some corner of the house till dinner was over, when the door opened. A certain Count Attilio, who was sitting opposite, (he was a cousin of Don Rodrigo, and we have already mentioned him without giving his name,) seeing a shaved head and monk’s habit, and perceiving the modest intentions of the good friar, exclaimed, ‘Aha! aha! You sha’n’t make your escape, reverend Father; forward, forward!’ Don Rodrigo, without precisely66 divining the object of this visit, had a sort of presentiment2 of what awaited him, and would have been glad to avoid it; but since Attilio had thoughtlessly given this blunt invitation, he was obliged to second it, and said, ‘Come in, Father, come in.’ The friar advanced, making a low bow to the host, and respectfully responded to the salutations of the guests.
It is usual (I do not say invariable) to represent the innocent in the presence of the wicked with an open countenance, an air of security, an undaunted heart, and a ready facility of expression. In reality, however, many circumstances are required to produce this behaviour, which are rarely met with in combination. It will not, therefore, be wondered at, that Friar Cristoforo, with the testimony67 of a good conscience, and a firm persuasion68 of the justice of the cause he had come to advocate, together with a mingled69 feeling of horror and compassion for Don Rodrigo, stood, nevertheless, with a certain air of timidity and submissiveness, in the presence of this same Don Rodrigo, who was seated before him in an arm-chair, in his own house, on his own estate, surrounded by his friends, and many indications of his power, with every homage70 paid to him, and with an expression of countenance that would at once prohibit the making of a request, much more the giving advice, correction, or reproof71. On his right, sat Count Attilio, his cousin, and, it is needless to say, his companion in libertinism72 and oppression, who had come from Milan to spend a few days with him. To his left, and on the other side of the table, was seated, with a profound respect, tempered, however, with a certain air of security, and even arrogance73, the Signor Podestà;1 the person whose business it was, professedly, to administer justice to Renzo Tramaglino, and inflict74 upon Don Rodrigo one of the appointed penalties. Opposite the Podestà, in an attitude of the purest, most unbounded servility, sat our Doctor, Azzecca-Garbugli, with his black cap, and more than usually red nose; and facing the cousins were two obscure guests, of whom our story merely records that they did nothing but eat, bow their heads, and smile approval at everything uttered by a fellow-guest, provided another did not contradict it.
‘Give the Father a seat,’ said Don Rodrigo. A servant presented a chair, and Father Cristoforo sat down, making some excuse to the Signor for coming at so inopportune an hour.
‘I wish to speak with you alone, on a matter of importance,’ added the friar, in a lower voice, in Don Rodrigo’s ear.
‘Very well, I will attend you’, replied he; ‘but in the mean while, bring the Father something to drink.’
The Father tried to excuse himself; but Don Rodrigo, raising his voice above the re-commencing tumult76, cried, ‘No, no, you shall not do me this wrong; it shall never be said that a Capuchin left this house without tasting my wine, nor an insolent77 creditor78 the wood of my forests.’ These words were followed by a general laugh, and, for a moment, interrupted the question that was being warmly agitated among the guests. A servant then brought in a bottle of wine, on a tray, and a tall glass, in the shape of a chalice79, and presented them to the Father, who, unwilling80 to refuse the pressing invitation of one he so much wished to propitiate81, did not hesitate to pour some out, and began slowly to sip40 the wine.
‘The authority of Tasso will not serve your purpose, respected Signor Podestà; it even militates against you,’ resumed Count Attilio, in a thundering voice; ‘for that learned, that great man, who perfectly82 understood all the rules of chivalry83, has made the messenger of Argante ask leave of the pious84 Buglione, before delivering the challenge to the Christian85 knights87 . . . ’
‘But this,’ replied the Podestà, vociferating no less vehemently88, ‘this is a liberty, a mere75 liberty, a poetical89 ornament90; since an ambassador is, in his nature, inviolable by the law of nations, jure gentium. But, without seeking so far, the proverb says, Ambasciator non porta pena; and proverbs, you know, contain the wisdom of the human race. Besides, the messenger having uttered nothing in his own name, but only presented the challenge in writing . . . ’
‘But when will you understand that this messenger was an inconsiderate ass31, who didn’t know the first? . . . ’
‘With your leave, gentlemen,’ interrupted Don Rodrigo, who was afraid of the question being carried too far, ‘we will refer it to Father Cristoforo, and abide91 by his sentence.’
‘Well — very well,’ said Count Attilio, highly pleased at the idea of referring a question of chivalry to a Capuchin: while the more eager Podestà with difficulty restrained his excited feelings, and a shrug92 of contempt, which seemed to say — Absurdity93!
‘But, from what I have heard,’ said the Father, ‘these are matters I know nothing of.’
‘As usual, the modest excuses of the Fathers,’ said Don Rodrigo; ‘but you shall not get off so easily. Come, now, we know well enough you did not come into the world with a cowl on your head, and that you are no stranger to its ways. See here; this is the question . . . ’
‘The case is this,’ began Count Attilio.
‘Let me tell it, who am neutral, cousin,’ replied Don Rodrigo. ‘This is the story. A Spanish cavalier sent a challenge to a Milanese cavalier; the bearer, not finding him at home, delivered the summons to his brother, who, after reading it, gave the bearer in reply a good thrashing. The dispute is . . . ’
‘One good turn deserves another,’ cried Count Attilio. ‘It was really inspiration . . . ’
‘Of the devil,’ added the Podestà. ‘To beat an ambassador! — a man whose person is sacred! Even you, Father, will say whether this was a knightly94 deed.’
‘Yes, Signor, knightly,’ cried the Count, ‘and you will allow me to say so, who ought to understand what relates to a cavalier. Oh, if they had been blows, it would be another matter; but a cudgel defiles95 nobody’s hands. What puzzles me is, why you think so much of the shoulders of a mean scoundrel.’
‘Who said anything about his shoulders, Signor Count? You would make out I had talked nonsense such as never entered my mind. I spoke96 of his office, not of his shoulders; and am now considering the laws of chivalry. Be do good as to tell me whether the heralds97 that the ancient Romans sent to bid defiance to other nations asked leave to announce their message; and find me one writer who mentions that a herald98 was ever beaten.’
‘What have the officers of the ancient Romans to do with us — a simple nation, and in these things far, far behind us? But, according to the laws of modern chivalry, which are the only right ones, I affirm and maintain that a messenger who dared to place a challenge in the hand of a knight86 without having asked his permission, is an incautious fool, who may be beaten, and who richly deserves it.’
‘Answer me this syllogism99 . . . ’
‘No, no, nothing.’
‘But listen, listen. To strike an unarmed person is a treacherous100 act. Atqui the messenger de quo was without arms. Ergo . . . ’
‘Gently, gently, Signor Podestà.’
‘Why gently?’
‘Gently, I say: what are you talking about? It is an act of treachery to give a man a blow with a sword behind him, or to shoot him in the back; and to this even there are certain exceptions . . . but we will keep to the point. I allow that this may generally be called an act of treachery; but to bestow101 four blows on a paltry102 fellow like him! It would have been a likely thing to say: Take care I don’t beat you, as one says to a gentleman: Draw your sword. And you, respected Signor Doctor, instead of smiling at me there, and giving me to understand you are of my opinion, why don’t you support my position with your capital powers of argument, and help me to drive some reason into the head of this Signor?’
‘I . . . ’ replied the Doctor, in confusion. ‘I enjoy this learned dispute, and am glad of the accident that has given occasion to so agreeable a war of genius. But it does not belong to me to give sentence: his illustrious lordship has already delegated a judge . . . the Father here . . . ’
‘True,’ said Don Rodrigo; ‘but how is the judge to speak when the disputants will not be silent?’
‘I am dumb,’ said Count Attilio. The Podestà made a sign that he would not speak.
‘Ah, at last! What do you say, Father?’ asked Don Rodrigo with half-jesting gravity.
‘I have already excused myself by saying I don’t understand the matter,’ replied Friar Cristoforo, returning the wine-glass to a servant.
‘Poor excuses,’ cried the two cousins. ‘We must have your sentence.’
‘Since you wish it, my humble103 opinion is that there should be neither challenges, bearers, nor blows.’
The guests interchanged looks of unfeigned astonishment104.
‘Oh, this is too bad!’ exclaimed Count Attilio. ‘Pardon me, Father, but this is too bad. It is easy to see you know nothing of the world.’
‘He?’ said Don Rodrigo. ‘Ha! ha! he knows it, cousin, as well as you do: isn’t it true, Father?’
Instead of replying to this courteous105 interrogation, the Father said to himself:— This is aimed at you; but remember, friar, that you are not here for yourself; and that which affects you only is not to be taken into the account.
‘It may be,’ said the cousin; ‘but the Father . . . what is his name?’
‘Father Cristoforo, ‘replied more than one.
‘But, Father Cristoforo, most reverend Father, with your principles you would turn the world upside down. Without challenges! Without blows! Farewell to the point of honour; impunity106 for all villains107. Fortunately, however, the supposition is impossible.’
‘Up, Doctor, up,’ broke in Don Rodrigo, who always tried to divert the argument from the original disputants. ‘You are the man to argue on any matter. Let us see what you will do in discussing this question with Father Cristoforo.’
‘Really,’ replied the Doctor, brandishing108 his fork in the air, and turning to the Father, ‘really I cannot understand how Father Cristoforo, who is at once the perfect devotee and a man of the world, should not remember that his sentence, good, excellent, and of just weight, as it is in the pulpit, is of no value (with due respect be it spoken) in a question of chivalry. But the Father knows, better than I, that everything is good in its place; and I think that this time he has only endeavoured the escape by a jest from the difficulty of giving sentence.’
What can one reply to reasonings deduced from a wisdom so ancient, yet so new? Nothing; and so thought our friar.
But Don Rodrigo, wishing to cut short this dispute, proceeded to suggest another. ‘Apropos,’ said he; ‘I hear there are rumours109 of an accommodation at Milan.’
The reader must know that, at this time, there was a contest for the succession to the Duchy of Mantua, which, on the death of Vincenzo Gonzaga, who left no male issue, had fallen into the possession of the Duke of Nevers, Gonzaga’s nearest relation. Louis XIII., or rather Cardinal Richelieu, wished to support him on account of his being well-disposed toward the French. Philip IV., or rather the Count D’Olivares, commonly called the Count Duke, opposed him for the same reason, and had declared war against him. As the Duchy was a fief of the empire, the two parties made interest, by intrigue110, threats, and solicitations, at the court of the Emperor Ferdinand II.; the former urging him to grant the investiture to the new Duke, the latter to refuse it, and even assist in banishing111 him from the State.
‘I am inclined to think,’ said Count Attilio, ‘that matters may be adjusted. I have certain reasons . . . ’
‘Don’t believe it, Signor Count, don’t believe it,’ interrupted the Podestà; ‘even in this corner of the world I have means of ascertaining112 the state of things; for the Spanish governor of the castle, who condescends113 to make me his friend, and who being the son of one of the Count Duke’s dependents, is informed of everything . . . .’
‘I tell you, I have opportunity every day at Milan of talking with great men; and I know, on good authority, that the Pope is highly interested in the restoration of peace, and has made propositions . . . ’
‘So it ought to be, the thing is according to rule, and his Holiness does his duty; a Pope ought always to mediate63 between Christian Princes; but the Court Duke has his own policy, and . . . ’
‘And, and, and — do you know, my good Signor, what the Emperor thinks of it at this moment? Do you think there is no other place in the world besides Mantua? There are many things to be looked after, my good Signor. Do you know, for example, how far the Emperor can, at this moment, confide8 in that Prince Valdistano, or Vallestai, or whatever they call him; and whether . . . ’
‘His right name in German,’ again interrupted the Podestà, ‘is Vagliensteino, as I have often heard it pronounced by our Spanish Signor, the governor of the castle. But be of good courage, for . . . ’
‘Will you teach me?’ exclaimed the Count, angrily; but Don Rodrigo motioned to him with his knee, for his sake, to cease contradiction. He therefore remained silent; and the Podestà, like a vessel114 disengaged from a sand-bank, continued, with wide-spread sails, the course of his eloquence115. ‘Vagliensteino gives me little concern, because the Count Duke has his eyes on everything, and in every place; and if Vagliensteino chooses to play any tricks, he will set him right with fair words or foul116. He has his eye everywhere, I say, and long arms; and if he has resolved, as he justly has, like a good politician, that the Signor Duke of Nevers shall not take root in Mantua, the Signor Duke of Nevers will not take root there, and the Cardinal Richelieu will sink in the water. It makes me smile to see this worthy10 Signor Cardinal contending with a Count Duke — with an Olivares. I should like to rise again, after a lapse117 of two hundred years, to hear what posterity118 will say of these fine pretensions119. It requires something more than envy: there must be a head; and of heads like that of a Count Duke there is but one in the world. The Count Duke, my good Signors,’ continued the Podestà, sailing before the wind, and a little surprised at not encountering one shoal, ‘the Count Duke is an aged27 fox, (speaking with all respect,) who can make anybody lose his track; when he aims at the right, we may be sure he will take the left; so that no one can boast of knowing his intentions; and even they who execute them, and they who write his despatches, understand nothing of them. I can speak with some knowledge of the circumstances; for that worthy man, the Governor of the Castle, deigns120 to place some confidence in me. The Count Duke, on the other hand, knows exactly what is going forward in all the other Courts, and their great politicians — many of whom, it cannot be denied, are very upright men — have scarcely imagined a design before the Count Duke has discovered it, with that clever head of his, his underhand ways, and his nets everywhere spread. That poor man, the Cardinal Richelieu, makes an attempt here, busies himself there; he toils121, he strives; and what for? When he has succeeded in digging a mine, he finds a countermine already completed by the Count Duke . . . ’
No one knows when the Podestà would have come ashore122, had not Don Rodrigo, urged by the suggestions of his cousin, ordered a servant to bring him a certain bottle of wine.
‘Signor Podestà,’ said he, ‘and gentlemen; a toast to the Count Duke; and you will then tell me whether the wine is worthy of the person.’ The Podestà replied by a bow, in which might be discerned an expression of particular acknowledgment; for all that was said or done in honour of the Duke, he received, in part, as done to himself.
‘Long live Don Gasparo Guzman, Count of Olivares, Duke of San Lucar, grand Private of the King, Don Philip the Great, our Sovereign!’ exclaimed Don Rodrigo, raising his glass.
Private (for the information of those who know it not) was the title used in those days to signify the favourite of a prince.
‘Long live the Count!’ replied all.
‘Help the Father,’ said Don Rodrigo.
‘Excuse me,’ replied the Father; ‘but I have already been guilty of a breach123 of discipline, and I cannot . . . ’
‘What!’ said Don Rodrigo; ‘it is a toast to the Count Duke. Will you make us believe that you hold with the Navarrines?’
Thus they contemptuously styled the French Princes of Navarre, who had begun to reign56 over them in the time of Henry IV.
On such an adjuration124, he was obliged to taste the wine. All the guests broke out in exclamations125 and encomiums upon it, except the Doctor, who, by the gesture of his head, the glance of his eyes, and the compression of his lips, expressed much more than he could have done by words.
‘What do you say of it, eh, Doctor?’ asked Don Rodrigo.
Withdrawing from the wine-glass a nose more ruddy and bright than itself, the Doctor replied, with marked emphasis upon every syllable126: ‘I say, pronounce, and affirm that this is the Olivares of wines; censui, et in eam ivi sententiam, that its equal cannot be found in the twenty-two kingdoms of the King, our Sovereign, whom God defend! I declare and determine that the dinners of the most noble Signor Don Rodrigo excel the suppers of Heliogabalus, and that famine is perpetually banished127 and excluded from this place, where splendour reigns128 and has its abode129.’
‘Well said! well defined!’ cried the guests, with one voice; but the word famine, which he had uttered by chance, at once directed the minds of all to this mournful subject, and every one spoke of the famine. In this matter they were all agreed, at least on the main point; but the uproar130 was greater, perhaps, than if there had been a diversity of opinion. All spoke at once. ‘There is no famine,’ said one; ‘it is the monopolists . . . ’
‘And the bakers,’ said another, ‘who hide the grain. Hang them, say I.’
‘Yes, yes, hang them without mercy.’
‘Upon fair trial,’ cried the Podestà.
‘Trial?’ cried Count Attilio, more loudly. ‘Summary justice, I say. Take three or four, or five or six, of those who are acknowledged by the common voice to be the richest and most avaricious131, and hang them.’
‘Examples! examples! — without examples, nothing can be done.’
‘Hang them! hang them! and grain will flow out in abundance.’
Whoever, in passing through a fair, has had the pleasure of hearing the harmony produced by a party of fiddlers, when, between one air and another, each one tunes132 his instrument, making it sound as loud as possible, that he may the more distinctly hear it in the midst of, and above, the surrounding uproar, may imagine what would be the harmony of these (if one may so say) discourses133. The party continued pouring out and drinking the wine, while the praises of it were mingled, as was but just, with sentences of economical jurisprudence; so that the loudest, and most frequently heard, words were —nectar, and hang them.
Don Rodrigo, in the mean while, glanced from time to time towards the friar, and always saw him in the same station, giving no signs of impatience134 or hurry, without a movement tending to remind him that he was waiting his leisure, but with the air of one who was determined135 not to depart till he had had a hearing. He would gladly have sent him away, and escaped the interview; but to dismiss a Capuchin without having given him audience, was not according to the rules of his policy. However, since the annoying duty could not be avoided, he resolved to discharge it at once, and free himself from the obligation. He therefore rose from the table, and with him all the excited party, without ceasing their clamour. Having asked leave of his guests, he advanced in a haughty136 manner towards the friar, who had immediately risen with the rest; and saying to him, ‘At your command, Father,’ conducted him into another apartment.
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presentiments
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| n.（对不祥事物的）预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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confides
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的第三人称单数 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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13
musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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invoke
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| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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19
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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20
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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22
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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23
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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24
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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25
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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26
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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28
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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29
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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30
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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31
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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32
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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33
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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34
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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35
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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37
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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38
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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39
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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40
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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41
benedictions
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| n.祝福( benediction的名词复数 )；（礼拜结束时的）赐福祈祷；恩赐；（大写）（罗马天主教）祈求上帝赐福的仪式 | |
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42
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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45
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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46
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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47
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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48
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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49
sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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50
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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51
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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52
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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54
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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55
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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56
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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57
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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58
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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59
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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60
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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61
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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62
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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63
mediate
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| vi.调解，斡旋；vt.经调解解决；经斡旋促成 | |
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64
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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65
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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66
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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67
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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68
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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69
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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70
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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71
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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72
libertinism
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| n.放荡，玩乐，（对宗教事物的）自由思想 | |
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73
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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74
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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75
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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76
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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77
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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78
creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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79
chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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80
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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81
propitiate
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| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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82
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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83
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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84
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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85
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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86
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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87
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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88
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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89
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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90
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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91
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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92
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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93
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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94
knightly
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| adj. 骑士般的 adv. 骑士般地 | |
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95
defiles
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| v.玷污( defile的第三人称单数 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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96
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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97
heralds
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| n.使者( herald的名词复数 )；预报者；预兆；传令官v.预示( herald的第三人称单数 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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98
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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99
syllogism
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| n.演绎法，三段论法 | |
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100
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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101
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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102
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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103
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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104
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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105
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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106
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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107
villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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108
brandishing
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| v.挥舞( brandish的现在分词 )；炫耀 | |
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109
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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110
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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111
banishing
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的现在分词 ) | |
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112
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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113
condescends
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的第三人称单数 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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114
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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115
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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116
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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117
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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118
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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119
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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120
deigns
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的第三人称单数 ) | |
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121
toils
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| 网 | |
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122
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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123
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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124
adjuration
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| n.祈求，命令 | |
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125
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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126
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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127
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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129
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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130
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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131
avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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132
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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133
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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134
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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135
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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136
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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