We have said that on the death of this duke, the first in the line of succession, Carlo Gonzaga, head of a younger branch now established in France, where he possessed3 the duchies of Nevers and Rhetel, had entered upon the possession of Mantua, and we may now add, of Monferrat: for our haste made us leave this name on the point of the pen. The Spanish minister, who was resolved at any compromise (we have said this too) to exclude the new prince from these two fiefs, and who, to exclude him, wanted some pretext4 (because wars made without any pretext would be unjust), had declared himself the upholder of the claims which another Gonzaga Ferrante, prince of the Guastalla, pretended to have upon Mantua; and Carlo Emanuele I., duke of Savoy, and Margherita Gonzaga, duchess dowager of Lorraine, upon Monferrat. Don Gonzalo, who was of the family of the great commander, and bore his name, who had already made war in Flanders, and was extremely anxious to bring one into Italy, was perhaps the person who made most stir that this might be undertaken: and in the mean while, interpreting the intentions, and anticipating the orders of the above-named minister, he concluded a treaty with the Duke of Savory5 for the invasion and partition of Monferrat; and afterwards readily obtained a ratification6 of it from the Count Duke, by persuading him that the acquisition of Casale would be very easy, which was the most strongly defended point of the portion assigned to the King of Spain. He protested, however, in the king’s name, against any intention of occupying the country further than under the name of a deposit, until the sentence of the Emperor should be declared; who, partly from the influence of others, partly from private motives7 of his own, had, in the mean while, denied the investiture to the new duke, and intimated to him that he should give up to him in sequestration the controverted8 states: afterwards, having heard the different sides, he would restore them to him who had the best claim. To these conditions the Duke of Nevers would not consent.
He had, however, friends of some eminence9 in the Cardinal10 de Richelieu, the Venetian noblemen, and the Pope. But the first of these, at that time engaged in the siege of La Rochelle, and in a war with England, and thwarted11 by the party of the queen-mother, Maria de’ Medici, who, for certain reasons of her own, was opposed to the house of Nevers, could give nothing but hopes. The Venetians would not stir, nor even declare themselves in his favour, unless a French army were first brought into Italy; and while secretly aiding the duke as they best could, they contented12 themselves with putting off the Court of Madrid and the Governor of Milan with protests, propositions, and peaceable or threatening admonitions, according to circumstances. Urban VIII. recommended Nevers to his friends, interceded13 in his favour with his enemies, and designed projects of accommodation; but would not hear a word of sending men into the field.
By this means the two confederates for offensive measures were enabled the more securely to begin their concerted operations. Carlo Emanuele invaded Monferrat from his side; Don Gonzalo willingly laid siege to Casale, but did not find in the undertaking14 all the satisfaction he had promised himself: for it must not be imagined that war is a rose without a thorn. The Court did not provide him with nearly all the means he demanded; his ally, on the contrary, assisted him too much: that is to say, after having taken his own portion, he went on to take that which was assigned to the King of Spain. Don Gonzalo was enraged15 beyond expression; but fearing that, if he made any noise about it, this duke, as active in intrigues16 and fickle17 in treaty, as bold and valiant18 in arms, would revolt to the French, he was obliged to shut his eyes to it, gnaw19 the bit, and put on a satisfied air. The siege, besides, went on badly, being protracted20 to a great length, and sometimes thrown back, owing to the steady, cautious, and resolute21 behaviour of the besieged22, the lack of sufficient numbers on the part of the besiegers, and, according to the report of some historian, the many false steps taken by Don Gonzalo; on which point we leave truth to choose her own side, being inclined even, were it really so, to consider it a very happy circumstance, if it were the cause that in this enterprise there were some fewer than usual slain23, beheaded, or wounded; and, c?teris paribus, rather fewer tiles injured in Casale. In the midst of these perplexities, the news of the sedition24 at Milan arrived, to the scene of which he repaired in person.
Here, in the report which was given him, mention was also made of the rebellious25 and clamorous26 flight of Renzo, and of the real or supposed doings which had been the occasion of his arrest; and they could also inform him that this person had taken refuge in the territory of Bergamo. This circumstance arrested Don Gonzalo’s attention. He had been informed from another quarter, that great interest had been felt at Venice in the insurrection at Milan; that they had supposed he would be obliged on this account to abandon the siege of Casale; and that they imagined he was reduced to great despondency and perplexity about it: the more so, as shortly after this event, the tidings had arrived, so much desired by these noblemen, and dreaded27 by himself, of the surrender of La Rochelle. Feeling considerably28 annoyed, both as a man and a politician, that they should entertain such an opinion of his proceedings29, he sought every opportunity of undeceiving them, and persuading them, by induction30, that he had lost none of his former boldness; for to say, explicitly32, I have no fear, is just to say nothing. One good plan is to show displeasure, to complain, and to expostulate: accordingly, the Venetian ambassador having waited upon him to pay his respects, and at the same time to read in his countenance33 and behaviour how he felt within, Don Gonzalo, after having spoken lightly of the tumult35, like a man who had already provided a remedy for everything, made those complaints about Renzo which the reader already knows; as he is also acquainted with what resulted from them in consequence. From that time, he took no further interest in an affair of so little importance, which, as far as he was concerned, was terminated; and when, a long time afterwards, the reply came to him at the camp at Casale, whither he had returned, and where he had very different things to occupy his mind, he raised and threw back his head, like a silkworm searching for a leaf; reflected for a moment, to recall more clearly to his memory a fact of which he only retained a shadowy idea; remembered the circumstance, had a vague and momentary36 recollection of the person; passed on to something else, and thought no more about it.
But Renzo, who, from the little which he had darkly comprehended, was far from supposing so benevolent38 an indifference39, had, for a time, no other thought, or rather, to speak more correctly, no other care, than to keep himself concealed40. It may be imagined whether he did not ardently41 long to send news of himself to the women, and receive some from them in exchange; but there were two great difficulties in the way. One was, that he also would have been forced to trust to an amanuensis, for the poor fellow knew not how to write, nor even read, in the broad sense of the word; and if, when asked the question, as the reader may perhaps remember, by the Doctor Azzecca-Garbugli, he replied in the affirmative, it was not, certainly, a boast, a mere42 bravado43, as they say; it was the truth, that he could manage to read print, when he could take his time over it: writing, however, was a different thing. He would be obliged, then, to make a third party the depositary of his affairs, and of a secret so jealously guarded: and it was not easy in those times to find a man who could use his pen, and in whom confidence could be placed, particularly in a country where he had no old acquaintances. The other difficulty was to find a bearer; a man who was going just to the place he wanted, who would take charge of the letter, and really recollect37 to deliver it; all these, too, qualifications rather difficult to be met with in one individual.
At length, by dint44 of searching and sounding, he found somebody to write for him; but ignorant where the women were, or whether they were still at Monza, he judged it better to enclose the letter directed to Agnese under cover to Father Cristoforo, with a line or two also for him. The writer undertook the charge, moreover, of forwarding the packet, and delivered it to one who would pass not far from Pescarenico; this person left it with many strict charges, at an inn on the road, at the nearest point to the monastery45; and, as it was directed to a convent, it reached this destination; but what became of it afterwards was never known. Renzo, receiving no reply, sent off a second letter, nearly like the first, which he enclosed in another to an acquaintance or distant relation of his at Lecco. He sought for another bearer, and found one; and this time the letter reached the person to whom it was addressed. Agnese posted off to Maggianico, had it read and interpreted to her by her cousin Alessio; concerted with him a reply, which he put down in writing for her, and found means of sending it to Antonio Rivolta in his present place of abode46: all this, however, not quite so expeditiously47 as we have recounted it. Renzo received the reply, and in time sent an answer to it. In short, a correspondence was set on foot between the two parties, neither frequent nor regular, but still kept up by starts, and at intervals48.
To form some idea, however, of this correspondence, it is necessary to know a little how such things went on in those days — indeed, how they go on now; for in this particular, I believe, there is little or no variation.
The peasant who knows not how to write, and finds himself reduced to the necessity of communicating his ideas to the absent, has recourse to one who understands the art, taking him, as far as he can, from among those of his own rank — for, with others, he is either shamefaced, or afraid to trust them; he informs them, with more or less order and perspicuity49, of past events; and in the same manner, describes to him the thoughts he is to express. The man of letters understands part, misunderstands part, gives a little advice, proposes some variation, says, ‘Leave it to me;’ then he takes the pen, transfers the idea he has received, as he best can, from speaking to writing, corrects it his own way, improves it, puts in flourishes, abbreviates50, or even omits, according as he deems most suitable for his subject; for so it is, and there is no help for it, he who knows more than his neighbours will not be a passive instrument in their hands; and when he interferes51 in other people’s affairs, he will force them to do things his own way. In addition to all this, it is not always quite a matter of course that the above-named literate53 himself expresses all that he intended; nay54, sometimes it happens just the reverse, as indeed, it does even to us who write for the press. When the letter thus completed reaches the hands of the correspondent, who is equally unpractised in his a, b, c, he takes it to another learned genius of that tribe, who reads and expounds55 it to him. Questions arise on the matter of understanding it, because the person interested, presuming upon his acquaintance with the antecedent circumstances, asserts that certain words mean such and such a thing; the reader, resting upon his greater experience in the art of composition, affirms that they mean another. At last, the one who does not know, is obliged to put himself into the hands of the one who does, and trusts to him the task of writing a reply; which, executed like the former example, is liable to a similar style of interpretation56. If, in addition, the subject of the correspondence be a rather delicate topic, if secret matters be treated of in it, which it is desirable should not be understood by a third party, in case the letter should go astray; if with this view there be a positive intention of not expressing things quite clearly, then, however, short a time the correspondence is kept up, the parties invariably finish by understanding each other as well as the two schoolmen who had disputed for four hours upon abstract mutations; not to take our simile57 from living beings, lest we expose ourselves to have our ears boxed.
Now, the case of our two correspondents was exactly what we have described. The first letter written in Renzo’s name, contained many subjects. Primarily, besides an account of the flight, by far more concise58, but, at the same time, more confused, than that which we have given, was a relation of his actual circumstances, from which both Agnese and her interpreter were very far from deriving59 any lucid60 or tolerably correct idea. Then he spoke34 of secret intelligence, change of name, his being in safety, but still requiring concealment61; things in themselves not very familiar to their understandings, and related in the letter rather enigmatically. Then followed warm and impassioned inquiries62 about Lucia’s situation, with dark and mournful hints of the rumours63 which had reached even his ears. There were, finally, uncertain and distant hopes and plans in reference to the future; and for the present promises and entreaties64 to keep their plighted65 faith, not to lose patience or courage, and to wait for better days.
Some time passed away, and Agnese found a trusty messenger, to convey an answer to Renzo, with the fifty scudi assigned to him by Lucia. At the sight of so much gold, he knew not what to think; and, with a mind agitated66 by wonder and suspense67, which left no room for gratification, he set off in search of his amanuensis, to make him interpret the letter, and find the key to so strange a mystery.
Agnese’s scribe, after lamenting68, in the letter, the want of perspicuity in Renzo’s epistle, went on to describe, in a way at least quite as much to be lamented69, the tremendous history of that person (so he expressed himself); and here he accounted for the fifty scudi; then he went on to speak of the vow70, employing much circumlocution71 in the expression of it, but adding, in more direct and explicit31 terms, the advice to set his heart at rest, and think no more about it.
Renzo very nearly quarrelled with the reader; he trembled, shuddered72, became enraged with what he had understood, and with what he could not understand. Three or four times did he make him read over the melancholy73 writing, now comprehending better, now finding what had at first appeared clear, more and more incomprehensible. And, in this fervour of passion, he insisted upon his amanuensis immediately taking pen in hand, and writing a reply. After the strongest expressions imaginable of pity and horror at Lucia’s circumstances —‘Write,’ pursued he, as he dictated74 to his secretary, ‘that I won’t set my heart at rest, and that I never will; and that this is not advice to be giving to a lad like me; and that I won’t touch the money; that I’ll put it by, and keep it for the young girl’s dowry; that she already belongs to me; and that I know nothing about a vow; and that I have often heard say that the Madonna interests herself to help the afflicted75, and obtains favours for them; but that she encourages them to despise and break their word, I never heard; and that this vow can’t hold good; and that with this money we have enough to keep house here; and that I am somewhat in difficulties now, it’s only a storm which will quickly pass over;’ and other similar things. Agnese received this letter also, and replied to it; and the correspondence continued in the manner we have described.
Lucia felt greatly relieved when her mother had contrived76, by some means or other, to let her know that Renzo was alive, safe, and acquainted with her vow, and desired nothing more than that he should forget her; or, to express it more exactly, that he should try to forget her. She, on her part, made a similar resolution a hundred times a day with respect to him; and employed, too, every means she could think of to put it into effect. She continued to work indefatigably77 with her needle, trying to apply her whole mind to it; and when Renzo’s image presented itself to her view, would begin to repeat or chant some prayers to herself. But that image, just as if it were actuated by pure malice78, did not generally come so openly; it introduced itself stealthily behind others, so that the mind might not be aware of having harboured it, till after it had been there for some time. Lucia’s thoughts were often with her mother; how should it have been otherwise? and the ideal Renzo would gently creep in as a third party, as the real person had so often done. So, with everybody, in every place, in every remembrance of the past, he never failed to introduce himself. And if the poor girl allowed herself sometimes to penetrate79 in fancy into the obscurity of the future, there, too, he would appear, if it were only to say: I, ten to one, shall not be there. However, if not to think of him at all were a hopeless undertaking, yet Lucia succeeded up to a certain point, in thinking less about him, and less intensely than her heart would have wished. She would even have succeeded better, had she been alone in desiring to do so. But there was Donna Prassede, who, bent80 on her part, upon banishing81 the youth from her thoughts, had found no better expedient82 than constantly talking about him. ‘Well,’ she would say, ‘have you given up thinking of him?’
‘I am thinking of nobody,’ replied Lucia.
Donna Prassede, however, not to be appeased83 by so evasive an answer, replied that there must be deeds, not words; and enlarged upon the usual practices of young girls, ‘who,’ said she, ‘when they have set their hearts upon a dissolute fellow, (and it is just to such they have a leaning), won’t consent to be separated from them. An honest and rational contract to a worthy84 man, a well-tried character, which, by some accident, happens to be frustrated85 — they are quickly resigned; but let it be a villain86, and it is an incurable87 wound.’ And then she commenced a panegyric88 upon the poor absentee, the rascal89 who had come to Milan to plunder90 the town, and massacre91 the inhabitants; and tried to make Lucia confess all the knavish92 tricks he had played in his own country.
Lucia, with a voice tremulous with shame, sorrow, and such indignation as could find place in her gentle breast and humble93 condition affirmed and testified that the poor fellow had done nothing in his country to give occasion for anything but good to be said of him; ‘she wished,’ she said, ‘that someone were present from his neighbourhood, that the lady might hear his testimony94.’ Even on his adventures at Milan, the particulars of which she could not learn, she defended him merely from the knowledge she had had of him and his behaviour, from his very childhood. She defended him, or intended to defend him, from the simple duty of charity, from her love of truth, and, to use just the expression by which she described her feelings to herself, as her neighbour. But Donna Prassede drew fresh arguments from these apologies, to convince Lucia that she had quite lost her heart to this man. And, to say the truth, in these moments it is difficult to say how the matter stood. The disgraceful picture the old lady drew of the poor youth, revived, from opposition95, more vividly96 and distinctly than ever in the mind of the young girl, the idea which long habit had established there; the recollections she had stifled97 by force, returned in crowds upon her; aversion and contempt recalled all her old motives of esteem98 and sympathy, and blind and violent hatred99 only excited stronger feelings of pity. With these feelings, who can say how much there might or might not be of another affection which follows upon them, and introduces itself so easily into the mind? Let it be imagined what it would do in one whence it was attempted to eject it by force. However it may be, the conversation, on Lucia’s side, was never carried to any great length, for words were very soon resolved into tears.
Had Donna Prassede been induced to treat her in this way from some inveterate100 hatred towards her, these tears might, perhaps, have vanquished101 and silenced her; but as she spoke with the intention of doing good, she went on without allowing herself to be moved by them, as groans102 and imploring103 cries may arrest the weapons of an enemy, but not the instrument of the surgeon. Having, however, discharged her duty for that time, she would turn from reproaches and denunciations to exhortation104 and advice, sweetened also by a little praise; thus designing to temper the bitter with the sweet, the better to obtain her purpose, by working upon the heart under every state of feeling. These quarrels, however, (which had always nearly the same beginning, middle, and end), left no resentment105, properly speaking, in the good Lucia’s heart against the harsh sermonizer, who, after all, treated her, in general, very kindly106; and even in this instance, evinced a good intention. Yet they left her in such agitation107, with such a tumult of thoughts and affections, that it required no little time, and much effort, to regain108 her former degree of calmness.
It was well for her that she was not the only one to whom Donna Prassede had to do good; for, by this means, these disputes could not occur so frequently. Besides the rest of the family, all of whom were persons more or less needing amendment109 and guidance — besides all the other occasions which offered themselves to her, or she contrived to find, of extending the same kind office, of her own free will, to many to whom she was under no obligations; she had also five daughters, none of whom were at home, but who gave her much more to think about than if they had been. Three of these were nuns110, two were married: hence Donna Prassede naturally found herself with three monasteries111 and two houses to superintend; a vast and complicated undertaking, and the more arduous112, because two husbands, backed by fathers, mothers, and brothers; three abbesses, supported by other dignitaries, and by many nuns, would not accept her superintendence. It was a complete warfare113, alias114 five warfares, concealed, and even courteous115, up to a certain point, but ever active, ever vigilant116. There was in every one of these places a continued watchfulness117 to avoid her solicitude118, to close the door against her counsels, to elude119 her inquiries, and to keep her in the dark, as far as possible, on every undertaking. We do not mention the resistance, the difficulties she encountered in the management of other still more extraneous120 affairs: it is well known that one must generally do good to men by force. The place where her zeal121 could best exercise itself, and have full play, was in her own house: here everybody was subject in everything, and for everything, to her authority, saving Don Ferrante, with whom things went on in a manner entirely122 peculiar123.
A man of studious turn, he neither loved to command nor obey. In all household matters, his wife was the mistress, with his free consent; but he would not submit to be her slave. And if, when requested, he occasionally lent her the assistance of his pen, it was because it suited his taste; and after all, he knew how to say no, when he was not convinced of what she wished him to write. ‘Use your own sense,’ he would say, in such cases; ‘do it yourself, since it seems so clear to you.’ Donna Prassede, after vainly endeavouring for some time to induce him to recant, and do what she wanted, would be obliged to content herself with murmuring frequently against him, with calling him one who hated trouble, a man who would have his own way, and a scholar: a title which, though pronounced with contempt, was generally mixed with a little complacency.
Don Ferrante passed many hours in his study, where he had a considerable collection of books, scarcely less than three hundred volumes: all of them choice works, and the most highly esteemed124 on their numerous several subjects, in each of which he was more or less versed125. In astrology, he was deservedly considered as more than a dilettante126; for he not only possessed the generical notions and common vocabulary of influences, aspects, and conjunctions; but he knew how to talk very aptly, and as it were ex cathedra, of the twelve houses of the heavens, of the great circles, of lucid and obscure degrees, of exultation127 and dejection, of transitions and revolutions — in short, of the most assured and most recondite128 principles of the science. And it was for perhaps twenty years that he maintained, in long and frequent disputes, the system of Cardano against another learned man who was staunchly attached to that of Alcabizio, from mere obstinacy129, as Don Ferrante said; who, readily acknowledging the superiority of the ancients, could not, however, endure that unwillingness130 to yield to the moderns, even when they evidently have reason on their side. He was also more than indifferently acquainted with the history of the science; he could, on an occasion, quote the most celebrated131 predictions which had been verified, and reason clearly and learnedly on other celebrated predictions which had failed, showing that the fault was not in the science, but in those who knew not how to apply it.
He had learnt as much of ancient philosophy as might have sufficed him, but still went on acquiring more from the study of Diogenes Laertius. As, however, these systems, how beautiful soever they may be, cannot all be held at once; and as, to be a philosopher, it is necessary to choose an author, so Don Ferrante had chosen Aristotle, who, he used to say, was neither ancient nor modern; he was the philosopher, and nothing more. He possessed also various works of the wisest and most ingenious disciples132 of that school among the moderns: those of its impugners he would never read, not to throw away time, as he said; nor buy, not to throw away money. Surely, by way of exception, did he find room in his library for those celebrated two-and-twenty volumes De Subtilitate, and for some other antiperipatetic work of Cardano’s, in consideration of his value in astrology. He said, that he who could write the treatise134 De Restitutione temporum et motuum c?lestium, and the book Duodecim geniturarum, deserved to be listened to even when he erred135; that the great defect of this man was, that he had too much talent; and that no one could conceive what he might have arrived at, even in philosophy, had he kept himself in the right way. In short, although, in the judgment136 of the learned, Don Ferrante passed for a consummate137 peripatetic133, yet he did not deem that he knew enough about it himself; and more than once he was obliged to confess, with great modesty138, that essence, universals, the soul of the world, and the nature of things, were not so very clear as might be imagined.
He had made a recreation rather than a study of natural philosophy; the very works of Aristotle on this subject he had rather read than studied: yet, with this slight perusal139, with the notices incidentally gathered from treatises140 on general philosophy, with a few cursory glances at the Magia naturale of Porta, at the three histories, lapidum, animalium, plantarum, of Cardano, at the treatise on herbs, plants, and animals, by Albert Magnus, and a few other works of less note, he could entertain a party of learned men, for a while, with dissertations141 on the most wonderful virtues142 and most remarkable144 curiosities of many medicinal herbs; he could minutely describe the forms and habits of sirens and the solitary145 phoenix146; and explain how the salamander exists in the fire without burning; how the remora, that diminutive147 fish, has strength and ability completely to arrest a ship of any size in the high seas; how drops of dew become pearls in the shell; how the chameleon148 feeds on air; how ice, by being gradually hardened, is formed into crystal, in the course of time; with many other of the most wonderful secrets of nature.
Into those of magic and witchcraft149 he had penetrated150 still more deeply, as it was a science, says our anonymous151 author, much more necessary and more in vogue152 in those days, in which the facts were of far higher importance, and it was more within reach to verify them. It is unnecessary to say that he had no other object in view in such a study, than to inform himself, and to become acquainted with the very worst arts of the sorcerers, in order that he might guard against them and defend himself. And, by the guidance principally of the great Martino Delrio (a leader of the science), he was capable of discoursing153 ex professo upon the fascination154 of love, the fascination of sleep, the fascination of hatred, and the infinite varieties of these three principal genuses of enchantment155, which are only too often, again says our anonymous author, beheld156 in practice at the present day, attended by such lamentable157 effects.
Not less vast and profound was his knowledge of history, particularly universal history, in which his authors were Tarcagnota, Dolce, Bugatti, Campana, and Guazzo; in short, all the most highly esteemed.
‘But what is history,’ said Don Ferrante, frequently, ‘without politics? — A guide who walks on and on, with no one following to learn the road, and who consequently throws away his steps; as politics without history is one who walks without a guide.’ There was therefore a place assigned to statistics on his shelves; where, among many of humbler rank and less renown158, appeared, in all their glory, Bedino, Cavalcanti, Sansovino, Paruta, and Boccalini. There were two books, however, which Don Ferrante infinitely159 preferred above all others on this subject; two which, up to a certain time, he used to call the first, without ever being able to decide to which of the two this rank should exclusively belong: one was the Principe and Discorsi of the celebrated Florentine secretary; ‘a great rascal, certainly,’ said Don Ferrante, ‘but profound’: the other, the Ragion di Stato of the no less celebrated Giovanni Botero; ‘an honest man, certainly,’ said he again, ‘but shrewd.’ Shortly after, however, just at the period which our story embraces, a work came to light which terminated the question of pre-eminence, by surpassing the works of even these two Matadores, said Don Ferrante; a book in which was enclosed and condensed every trick of the system, that it might be known, and every virtue143, that it might be practised; a book of small dimensions, but all of gold; in one word, the Statista Regnante of Don Valeriano Castiglione, that most celebrated man, of whom it might be said that the greatest scholars rivalled each other in sounding his praises, and the greatest personages in trying to rob him of them; that man, whom Pope Urban VIII. honoured, as is well known, with magnificent encomiums; whom the Cardinal Borghese and the Viceroy of Naples, Don Pietro di Toledo, entreated160 to relate — one, the doings of Pope Paul V., the other, the wars of his Catholic Majesty161 in Italy, and both in vain; that man, whom Louis XIII. King of France, at the suggestion of Cardinal de Richelieu, nominated his historiographer; on whom Duke Carlo Emanuele, of Savoy, conferred the same office; in praise of whom, not to mention other lofty testimonials, the Duchess Cristina, daughter of the most Christian162 King Henry IV., could, in a diploma, among many other titles, enumerate163 ‘the certainty of the reputation he is obtaining in Italy of being the first writer of our times.’
But if, in all the above-mentioned sciences, Don Ferrante might be considered a learned man, one there was in which he merited and enjoyed the title of Professor — the science of chivalry164. Not only did he argue on it in a really masterly manner, but, frequently requested to interfere52 in affairs of honour, always gave some decision. He had in his library, and one may say, indeed, in his head, the works of the most renowned165 writers on this subject: Paris del Pozzo, Fausto da Longiano, Urrea, Muzio, Romei, Albergato, the first and second Forno of Torquato Tasso, of whose other works, ‘Jerusalem Delivered,’ as well as ‘Jerusalem Taken,’ he had ever in readiness, and could quote from memory, on occasion, all the passages which might serve as a text on the subject of chivalry. The author, however, of all authors, in his estimation, was our celebrated Francesco Birago, with whom he was more than once associated in giving judgment on cases of honour; and who, on his side, spoke of Don Ferrante in terms of particular esteem. And from the time that the Discorsi Cavallereschi of this renowned writer made their appearance, he predicted, without hesitation166, that this work would destroy the authority of Olevano, and would remain, together with its other noble sisters, as a code of primary authority among posterity167: and every one may see, says our anonymous author, how this prediction has been verified.
From this he passes on to the study of belles168 lettres; but we begin to doubt whether the reader has really any great wish to go forward with us in this review, and even to fear that we may already have won the title of servile copyist for ourselves, and that of a bore, to be shared with the anonymous author, for having followed him out so simply, even thus far, into a subject foreign to the principal narrative, and in which, probably, he was only so diffuse169, for the purpose of parading erudition, and showing that he was not behind his age. However, leaving written what is written, that we may not lose our labour, we will omit the rest to resume the thread of our story: the more willingly, as we have a long period to traverse without meeting with any of our characters, and a longer still, before finding those in whose success the reader will be most interested, if anything in the whole story has interested him at all.
Until the autumn of the following year, 1629, they all remained, some willingly, some by force, almost in the state in which we left them, nothing happening to any one, and no one doing anything worthy of being recorded. The autumn at length approached, in which Agnese and Lucia had counted upon meeting again; but a great public event frustrated that expectation: and this certainly was one of its most trifling170 effects. Other great events followed, which, however, made no material change in the destinies of our characters. At length, new circumstances, more general, more influential171, and more extensive, reached even to them — even to the lowest of them, according to the world’s scale. It was like a vast, sweeping172, and irresistible173 hurricane, which, uprooting174 trees, tearing off roots, levelling battlements, and scattering175 their fragments in every direction, stirs up the straws hidden in the grass, pries176 into every corner for the light and withered177 leaves, which a gentler breeze would only have lodged178 there more securely, and bears them off in its headlong course of fury.
Now, that the private events which yet remain for us to relate may be rendered intelligible179, it will be absolutely necessary for us, even here, to promise some kind of account of these public ones, and thus make a still further digression.
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1
cursory
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| adj.粗略的；草率的；匆促的 | |
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2
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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3
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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4
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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5
savory
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| adj.风味极佳的，可口的，味香的 | |
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6
ratification
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| n.批准，认可 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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controverted
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| v.争论，反驳，否定( controvert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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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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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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12
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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interceded
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| v.斡旋，调解( intercede的过去式和过去分词 )；说情 | |
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14
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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17
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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18
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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19
gnaw
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| v.不断地啃、咬；使苦恼，折磨 | |
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protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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21
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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24
sedition
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| n.煽动叛乱 | |
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25
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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27
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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28
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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induction
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| n.感应，感应现象 | |
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explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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explicitly
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| ad.明确地，显然地 | |
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33
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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34
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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35
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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38
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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44
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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expeditiously
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| adv.迅速地，敏捷地 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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49
perspicuity
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| n.（文体的）明晰 | |
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50
abbreviates
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| 使简短( abbreviate的第三人称单数 )； 缩简； 缩略； 使用缩写词 | |
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51
interferes
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| vi. 妨碍，冲突，干涉 | |
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52
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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53
literate
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| n.学者；adj.精通文学的，受过教育的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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expounds
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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57
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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58
concise
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| adj.简洁的，简明的 | |
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59
deriving
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| v.得到( derive的现在分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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circumlocution
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| n. 绕圈子的话，迂回累赘的陈述 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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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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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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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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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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indefatigably
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| adv.不厌倦地，不屈不挠地 | |
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78
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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79
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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80
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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81
banishing
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的现在分词 ) | |
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82
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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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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frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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86
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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panegyric
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| n.颂词，颂扬 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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knavish
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| adj.无赖（似）的，不正的；刁诈 | |
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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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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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extraneous
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| adj.体外的；外来的；外部的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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dilettante
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| n.半瓶醋，业余爱好者 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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128
recondite
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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129
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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130
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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131
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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132
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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133
peripatetic
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| adj.漫游的，逍遥派的，巡回的 | |
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134
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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137
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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139
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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140
treatises
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| n.专题著作，专题论文，专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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141
dissertations
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| 专题论文，学位论文( dissertation的名词复数 ) | |
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142
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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143
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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chameleon
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| n.变色龙，蜥蜴；善变之人 | |
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witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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150
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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152
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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153
discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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155
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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158
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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159
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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enumerate
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| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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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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165
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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166
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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168
belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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169
diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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171
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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174
uprooting
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| n.倒根，挖除伐根v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的现在分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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175
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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176
pries
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| v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的第三人称单数 )；撬开 | |
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177
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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178
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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