“Well, are you pleased with me?” he said, and threw himself into her arms. “Thanks to you, I have been spending four fairly happy years at Naples, instead of boring myself at Novara with the mistress the police authorized14 me to take.”
The duchess could not get over her astonishment15; she would not have known him if she had met him in the street. She thought him, what he really was, one of the best-looking men in Italy. It was his expression, especially, that was so charming.
When she had sent him to Naples he had looked a reckless daredevil; the riding-whip which never left his hand seemed an inherent portion of his being. Now, when strangers were present, his manner was the most dignified16 and guarded imaginable, and when they were alone she recognised all the fiery17 ardour of his early youth. Here was a diamond which had lost nothing in the cutting. Hardly an hour after Fabrizio’s arrival Count Mosca made his appearance; he had come a little too soon. The young[138] man spoke18 so correctly about the Parmesan order conferred on his tutor, and expressed his lively gratitude19 for other benefits to which he dared not refer in so open a manner with such perfect propriety, that at the first glance the minister judged him correctly. “This nephew of yours,” he murmured to the duchess, “is born to adorn20 all the dignities to which you may ultimately desire to raise him.” Up to this point all had gone marvellously well. But when the minister, who had been very much pleased with Fabrizio, and until then had given his whole attention to his behaviour and gestures, looked at the duchess, the expression in her eyes struck him as strange.
“This young man makes an unusual impression here,” said he to himself. The thought was a bitter one. The count had passed his fiftieth year—a cruel word, the full meaning of which can only be realized, perhaps, by a man who is desperately21 in love. He was exceedingly kind-hearted, very worthy22 to be loved, except for his official severity. But in his eyes that cruel phrase, my fiftieth year, cast a black cloud over all his life, and might even have driven him to be cruel on his own account. During the five years which had elapsed since he had persuaded the duchess to settle in Parma, she had often roused his jealousy23, more especially in the earlier days. But she had never given him any cause for real complaint. He even believed, and he was right, that it was with the object of tightening24 her hold upon his heart that the duchess had bestowed25 apparent favour on certain of the young beaux about the court. He was sure, for instance, that she had refused the advances of the prince, who, indeed, had dropped an instructive remark on the occasion.
“But,” the duchess had objected laughingly, “if I accepted your Highness’s attentions, how should I ever dare to face the count again?”
“I should be almost as much put out of countenance27 as you. The poor dear count—my friend! But that is a difficulty very easily surmounted28, and which I have already considered. The count should be shut up in the citadel29 for the rest of his life!”
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At the moment of Fabrizio’s arrival, the duchess was so transported with delight that she gave no thought at all to the ideas her looks might stir in the count’s brain. Their effect was deep, and his consequent suspicion ineradicable.
Two hours after his arrival Fabrizio was received by the prince. The duchess, foreseeing the good effect of this impromptu30 audience on the public mind, had been soliciting31 it for two months beforehand. This favour placed Fabrizio, from the very outset, above the heads of all his equals. The pretext32 had been that he was only passing through Parma on his way to see his mother in Piedmont. Just at the very moment when a charming little note from the duchess brought the prince the information that Fabrizio was waiting on his pleasure, his Highness was feeling bored. “Now,” said he to himself, “I shall behold33 a very silly little saint; he will be either empty-headed or sly.” The commandant of the fortress34 had already reported the preliminary visit to the archbishop uncle’s tomb. The prince saw a tall young man enter his presence; but for his violet stockings he would have taken him for a young officer.
This little surprise drove away his boredom35. “Here,” thought he to himself, “is a fine-looking fellow, for whom I shall be asked God knows what favours—all and any that are at my disposal. He has just arrived; he must feel some emotion. I’ll try a little Jacobinism, and we shall see what kind of answers he’ll give.”
After the first few gracious words spoken by the prince, “Well, monsignore,” said he to Fabrizio, “are the inhabitants of Naples happy? Is the King beloved?”
“Most Serene36 Highness,” replied Fabrizio, without a moment’s hesitation37, “as I passed along the streets I used to admire the excellent demeanour of the soldiers of his Majesty’s various regiments38. All good society is respectful, as it should be, to its masters; but I confess I have never in my life permitted people of the lower class to speak to me of anything but the labour for which I pay them.”
“The deuce!” thought the prince; “what a priestling! Here’s a well-trained bird! The Sanseverina’s own wit!” Thoroughly39 piqued40, the prince used all his skill to draw[140] Fabrizio into talk upon this risky42 subject. The young man, stimulated43 by the danger of his position, was lucky enough to find admirable answers. “To put forward one’s love for one’s king,” said he, “is almost an insolence44. What we owe him is blind obedience45.” The sight of so much prudence11 almost made the prince angry. “This young man from Naples seems to be a clever fellow, and I don’t like the breed. It’s all very well for a clever man to behave according to the best principles, and even to believe in them honestly—somehow or other he is always sure to be first cousin to Voltaire and Rousseau!”
The prince felt there was a sort of defiance46 of himself in the correct manners and unassailable answers of this youth just leaving college; things were by no means turning out as he had foreseen. In the twinkling of an eye he changed his tone to one of simple good-nature, and going back, in a few words, to the great principles of society and government, he reeled off, applying them to the occasion, certain sentences from Fénelon which had been taught him in his childhood for use at public audiences.
“These principles surprise you, young man,” said he to Fabrizio (he had addressed him as monsignore at the beginning of the audience, and proposed to repeat the title when he dismissed him, but during the course of the conversation he considered it more skilful47 and more favourable48 to the development of the feelings to use a more intimate and friendly term), “these principles, young man, surprise you. I confess they have no close resemblance with the slices of absolutism (he used the very words) which are served up every day in my official newspaper. But, good God! why do I quote that to you? You know nothing of the writers in that paper!”
“I beg your Most Serene Highness’s pardon. Not only do I read the Parma newspaper, which seems to me fairly well written, but I share its opinion, that everything which has been done since the death of Louis XIV in 1715, is at once a folly49 and a crime. Man’s foremost interest is his own salvation—there can not be two opinions on that score—and that bliss50 is to last for all eternity51. The words liberty,[141] justice, happiness of the greatest number, are infamous52 and criminal; they give men’s minds a habit of discussion and disbelief. A Chamber53 of Deputies mistrusts what those people call the ministry54. Once that fatal habit of distrust is contracted, human weakness applies it to everything. Man ends by distrusting the Bible, the commands of the Church, tradition, etc., and thenceforward he is lost. Even supposing—and it is horribly false and criminal to say it—this distrust of the authority of the princes set up by God could insure happiness during the twenty or thirty years of life on which each of us may reckon, what is half a century, or even a whole century, compared with an eternity of torment55?”
The manner in which Fabrizio spoke showed that he was endeavouring to arrange his ideas so that his auditor56 might grasp them as easily as possible. He was evidently not repeating a lesson by rote57.
Soon the prince ceased to care about coping with the young man, whose grave and simple manner made him feel uncomfortable.
“Farewell, monsignore,” he said abruptly58. “I see that the education given in the Ecclesiastical Academy at Naples is an admirable one, and it is quite natural that when these excellent teachings are sown in so distinguished59 an intelligence, brilliant results should be obtained. Farewell!” And he turned his back on him.
“That fool is not pleased with me,” said Fabrizio to himself.
“Now,” thought the prince, as soon as he was alone, “it remains60 to be seen whether that handsome young fellow is susceptible61 of any passion for anything; in that case he will be perfect. Could he possibly have repeated his aunt’s lessons more cleverly? I could have fancied I heard her speaking! If there was a revolution here it would be she who would edit the Moniteur, just as the San Felice did it in old days at Naples. But, in spite of her five-and-twenty years and her beauty, the San Felice was hanged for good and all—a warning to ladies who are too clever!”
When the prince took Fabrizio for his aunt’s pupil he[142] made a mistake. Clever folk born on the throne, or close behind it, soon lose all their delicacy62 of touch. They proscribe63 all freedom of conversation around them, taking it for coarseness; they will not look at anything but masks, and yet claim to be judges of complexion64; and the comical thing is that they believe themselves to be full of tact65. In this particular case, for instance, Fabrizio did believe very nearly everything we have heard him say. It is quite true that he did not bestow26 a thought on those great principles more than twice in a month. He had lively tastes, he had intelligence, but he also had faith.
The taste for liberty, the fashion for and worship of the happiness of the greatest number, which is one of the manias67 of the nineteenth century, was in his eyes no more than a heresy68, which would pass away like others, after slaying69 many souls, just as the plague, while it rages in any particular region, kills many bodies. And in spite of all this, Fabrizio delighted in reading the French newspapers, and even committed imprudences for the sake of procuring70 them.
When Fabrizio returned, rather in a flutter, from his audience at the palace, and began to relate the prince’s various attacks upon him to his aunt, “You must call at once,” she said, “on Father Landriani, our excellent archbishop. Go to his house on foot, slip quietly up the stairs, don’t make much stir in the antechamber, and if you have to wait, all the better—a thousand times better. Be apostolic, in a word.”
“I understand,” said Fabrizio; “the man is a Tartuffe.”
“Not the least in the world; he is the very embodiment of virtue.”
“Even after what he did at the time of Count Palanza’s execution?” returned Fabrizio in astonishment.
“Yes, my friend, even after what he did then. Our archbishop’s father was a clerk in the Ministry of Finance, quite a humble71, middle-class person; that explains everything. Monsignore Landriani is a man of intelligence, lively, far-reaching, and profound. He is sincere, he loves[143] virtue. I am convinced that if the Emperor Decius were to come back to earth he would cheerfully endure martyrdom, like Polyeuctus, in the opera that was performed here last week. There you have the fair side of the medal; here is the reverse: The moment he enters the sovereign’s presence, or even the presence of his Prime Minister, he is dazzled by so much grandeur72, he flushes, grows confused, and it becomes physically73 impossible to him to say ‘No.’ This accounts for the things he has done and which have earned him his cruel reputation all over Italy. But what is not generally known is that when public opinion opened his eyes as to Count Palanza’s trial, he voluntarily imposed on himself the penance74 of living on bread and water for thirteen weeks—as many weeks as there are letters in the name Davide Palanza. There is at this court an exceedingly clever rascal75 of the name of Rassi, the prince’s chief justice, or head of the Law Department, who, at the period of Count Palanza’s death, completely bewitched Father Landriani. While he was doing his thirteen weeks’ penance, Count Mosca, out of pity, and a little out of spite, used to invite him to dinner once or twice a week. To please his host the good archbishop ate his dinner like anybody else—he would have thought it rebellion and Jacobinism to parade his repentance76 of an action approved by his sovereign. But it was quite well known that for every dinner which his duty as a faithful subject had forced him to eat like everybody else, he endured a self-imposed penance of two days on bread and water. Monsignore Landriani, though his mind is superior and his knowledge first-class, has one weakness—he likes to be loved. You must look at him tenderly, therefore, and at your third visit you must be frankly77 fond of him. This, together with your birth, will make him adore you at once. Show no surprise if he accompanies you back to the head of the stairs; look as if you were accustomed to his ways—he is a man who was born on his knees before the nobility. For the rest, be simple, apostolic—no wit, no brilliancy, no swift repartee78. If you do not startle him he will delight in your company. Remember, it is on his own initiative that he must appoint you his grand vicar; the count and[144] I will appear surprised, and even vexed79, at your too rapid promotion80. That is essential on account of the sovereign.”
Fabrizio hurried to the archiepiscopal palace.
By remarkable81 good luck the good prelate’s servant, who was a trifle deaf, did not catch the name of Del Dongo. He announced a young priest called Fabrizio. The archbishop was engaged with a priest of not very exemplary morals, whom he had summoned in order to reprimand him. He was in the act of administering a reproof—a very painful effort to him, and did not care to carry the trouble about with him any longer. He therefore kept the great-nephew of the famous Archbishop Ascanio del Dongo waiting for three quarters of an hour.
How shall I reproduce his excuses and his despair when, having conducted the parish priest as far as the outermost83 antechamber, he inquired, as he passed back toward his apartment, what he could do for the young man who stood waiting, caught sight of his violet stockings, and heard the name Fabrizio del Dongo?
The matter struck our hero in so comic a light that even on this first visit he ventured, in a passion of tenderness, to kiss the saintly prelate’s hand. It was worth something to hear the archbishop reiterating84 in his despair “That a Del Dongo should have waited in my antechamber!” He felt obliged, in his own excuse, to relate the whole story of the parish priest, his offences, his replies, and so forth85.
“Can that really be the man,” said Fabrizio to himself, as he returned to the Palazzo Sanseverina, “who hurried on the execution of that poor Count Palanza?”
“What does your Excellency think?” said Count Mosca laughingly, as he entered the duchess’s room. (The count would not allow Fabrizio to call him “your Excellency.”)
“I am utterly86 amazed! I know nothing about human nature. I would have wagered87, if I had not known his name, that this man could not bear to see a chicken bleed.”
“And you would have won,” replied the count. “But when he is in the prince’s presence, or even in mine, he[145] can not say ‘No.’ As a matter of fact, I must have my yellow ribbon across my coat if I am to produce my full effect upon him; in morning dress he would contradict me, and I always put on my uniform before I receive him. It is no business of ours to destroy the prestige of power—the French newspapers are demolishing88 it quite fast enough. The respectful mania66 will hardly last out our time, and you, nephew, you’ll outlive respect—you’ll be a good-natured man.”
Fabrizio delighted in the count’s society. He was the first superior man who had condescended89 to converse90 with him seriously, and, further, they had a taste in common—that for antiques and excavations. The count, on his side, was flattered by the extreme deference91 with which the young man listened to him, but there was one capital objection—Fabrizio occupied rooms in the Palazzo Sanseverina; he spent his life with the duchess, and let it appear, in all innocence92, that this intimacy93 constituted his great happiness, and Fabrizio’s eyes and skin were distressingly94 brilliant.
For a long time Ranuzio-Ernest IV, who seldom came across an unaccommodating fair, had been nettled95 by the fact that the duchess, whose virtue was well known at court, had made no exception in his favour. As we have seen, Fabrizio’s intelligence and presence of mind had displeased96 him from the very outset; he looked askance at the extreme affection, somewhat imprudently displayed, between aunt and nephew. He listened with excessive attention to the comments of his courtiers, which were endless. The young man’s arrival, and the extraordinary audience granted him, were the talk and astonishment of the court for a good month. Whereupon the prince had an idea.
In his guard there was a private soldier who could carry his wine in the most admirable manner. This man spent his life in taverns98, and reported the general spirit of the military direct to the sovereign. Carlone lacked education, otherwise he would long ago have been promoted. His orders were to be in the palace every day when the great clock struck noon.
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The prince himself went a little before noon to arrange something about the sun-blind in a room on the mezzanine connected with the apartment in which his Highness dressed. He returned to this room a little after noon had struck, and found the soldier there. The prince had a sheet of paper and an ink-bottle in his pocket. He dictated99 the following note to the soldier:
“Your Excellency is a very clever man, no doubt, and it is thanks to your deep wisdom that we see this state so well governed. But, my dear count, such great successes can not be obtained without rousing a little envy, and I greatly fear there may be some laughter at your expense, if your sagacity does not guess that a certain handsome young man has had the good fortune to inspire, in spite of himself, it may be, a most extraordinary passion. This fortunate mortal is, we are told, only twenty-three years of age, and, dear count, what complicates100 the question is that you and I are much more than double that. In the evening, and at a certain distance, the count is delightful, sprightly101, a man of wit, as charming as he can be; but in the morning, and in close intimacy, the newcomer may, if we look at matters closely, prove more attractive. Now, we women think a great deal of that freshness of youth, especially when we ourselves are past thirty. Is there not talk already of settling the charming young man at our court in some great position? and who may the person be who most constantly mentions the subject to your Excellency?”
The prince took the letter and gave the soldier two crowns.
“These over and above your pay,” he said, with a gloomy look. “You will keep absolute silence to everybody, or you will go to the dampest of the lower dungeons102 in the citadel.”
In his writing-table the prince kept a collection of envelopes addressed to the majority of the people about his court by the hand of this same soldier, who was supposed not to know how to write, and never did write even his[147] police reports. The prince chose out the envelope he wanted.
A few hours later Count Mosca received a letter through the post. The probable hour of its arrival had been carefully calculated, and at the moment when the postman, who had been seen to go in with a letter in his hand, emerged from the minister’s palace, Mosca was summoned to the presence of his Highness. Never had the favourite appeared wrapped in so black a melancholy103. To enjoy it more thoroughly the prince called out as he entered: “I want to divert myself by gossiping with my friend, not to work with my minister. I am enjoying the most frightful104 headache to-night, and I feel depressed105 into the bargain.”
Must I describe the abominable106 temper that raged in the breast of Count Mosca della Rovere, Prime Minister of Parma, when he was at last permitted to take leave of his august master? Ranuzio-Ernest IV possessed107 a finished skill in the art of torturing the human heart, and I should not do him much injustice108 if I were to compare him here with a tiger who delights in playing with his victim.
The count had himself driven home at a gallop109, called out that not a soul was to be admitted, sent word to the auditor in waiting that he was dismissed (the very thought of a human being within hearing distance of his voice was odious110 to him), and shut himself up in his great picture gallery. There, at last, he could give rein111 to all his fury, and there he spent his evening, walking to and fro in the dark, like a man beside himself. He tried to silence his heart, so as to concentrate all the strength of his attention on the course he should pursue. Plunged112 in an anguish113 which would have stirred the pity of his bitterest enemy, he mused114: “The man I hate lives with the duchess, spends every moment of his time with her. Must I try to make one of her women speak? Nothing could be more dangerous—she is so kind, she pays them well, they adore her (and who, great God! does not adore her?). Here lies the question,” he began again passionately116. “Must I let her guess the jealousy which devours117 me, or must I hide it?
“If I hold my peace, no attempt at concealment118 will[148] be made. I know Gina; she is a woman who always follows her first impulse; her behaviour is unforeseen even by herself; if she tries to trace out a plan beforehand, she grows confused; at the moment of action some new idea always occurs to her, which she follows delightedly as being the best in the world, and which ruins everything.
“If I say nothing of my martyrdom, then nothing is hidden from me, and I see everything which may happen.
“Yes, but if I speak, I call other circumstances into existence; I make them reflect, I prevent many of the horrible things which may happen.… Perhaps he will be sent away” (the count drew a breath). “Then I shall almost have won my cause. Even if there were a little temper at first, I could calm that down.… And if there were temper, what could be more natural? … She has loved him like a son for the last fifteen years. There lies all my hope—like a son! … But she has not seen him since he ran away to Waterloo; but when he came back from Naples, to her, especially, he was a different man! A different man!” he reiterated120 furiously, “and a charming man, too! Above all, he has that tender look and smiling eye which give so much promise of happiness. And the duchess can not be accustomed to seeing such eyes at our court. Their place is taken here by glances that are either dreary121 or sardonic122. I myself, worried by business, ruling by sheer influence only, over a man who would fain turn me into ridicule—what eyes must I often have! Ah, whatever care I take, it is my eyes, after all, that must have grown old. Is not my very laughter always close on irony123? … I will go further—for here I must be sincere—does not my merriment betray its close association with absolute power and … wickedness? Do not I say to myself, sometimes—especially when I am exasperated—‘I can do what I choose’? And I even add a piece of foolishness—‘I must be happier than others, because in three matters out of four I possess what others have not, sovereign power.…’ Well, then, let me be just. This habit of thought must spoil my smile—must give me a look of satisfied selfishness.… And how charming is[149] that smile of his! It breathes the easy happiness of early youth, and sheds that happiness around him.”
Unfortunately for the count, the weather that evening was hot, oppressive, close on a thunder-storm—the sort of weather, in a word, which in those countries inclines men to extreme resolves. How can I reproduce all the arguments, all the views of what had happened to him, which for three mortal hours tortured the passionate115-hearted man? At last prudent97 counsels prevailed, solely124 as a result of this reflection: “In all probability I am out of my mind. When I think I am arguing I am not arguing at all. I am only turning about in search of a less cruel position, and I may pass by some decisive reason without perceiving it. As the excess of my suffering blinds me, let me follow that rule approved by all wise men, which is called prudence.
“Besides, once I have spoken the fatal word jealousy, my line is marked out for good and all. If, on the contrary, I say nothing to-day, I can always speak to-morrow, and everything remains in my hands.” The excitement had been too violent; the count would have lost his reason if it had lasted. He had a moment’s relief—his attention had just fixed125 itself on the anonymous126 letter. Whence could it come? Hereupon supervened a search for names, and a verdict on each as it occurred, which created a diversion. At last the count recollected127 the spiteful flash in the sovereign’s eye when he had said, toward the close of the audience: “Yes, dear friend, there can be no doubt that the pleasures and cares of the most fortunate ambition, and even of unlimited128 power, are nothing compared with the inner happiness to be found in the relations of a tender and loving intercourse129. Myself, I am a man before I am a prince, and when I am so happy as to love, it is the man, and not the prince, that my mistress knows.”
The count compared that twinkle of spiteful pleasure with the words in the letter, “It is thanks to your deep wisdom that we see this state so well governed.”
“The prince wrote that sentence!” he exclaimed. “It is too gratuitously130 imprudent for any courtier. The letter comes from his Highness.”
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That problem once solved, the flush of satisfaction caused by the pleasure of guessing it soon faded before the cruel picture of Fabrizio’s charms, which once more rose up before him. It was as though a huge weight had fallen back upon the heart of the unhappy man. “What matters it who wrote the anonymous letter?” he cried in his fury. “Does it make the fact it reveals to me any less true? This whim131 may change my whole life,” he added, as though to excuse his own excitement. “At any moment, if she cares for him in a certain way, she may start off with him to Belgirate, to Switzerland, or to any other corner of the world. She is rich, and, besides, if she had only a few louis a year to live on, what would that matter to her? Did she not tell me, only a week ago, that she was tired of her palace, well arranged and magnificent as it is? That youthful nature must have novelty! And how simply this new happiness offers itself to her! She will be swept away before she has thought of the danger—before she has thought of pitying me! and yet I am so wretched!” he exclaimed, bursting into tears.
He had sworn he would not go to see the duchess that evening, but he could not resist the temptation. Never had his eyes so thirsted for the sight of her. About midnight he entered her rooms. He found her alone with her nephew. At ten o’clock she had dismissed all her company and closed her doors.
At the sight of the tender intimacy between the two, and the unaffected delight of the duchess, a frightful difficulty, and an unexpected one, rose up before the count’s eyes; he had not thought of it during his lengthy132 ponderings in the picture gallery. How was he to conceal119 his jealousy?
Not knowing what pretext to adopt, he pretended he had found the prince exceedingly prejudiced against him that evening, contradicting everything he said, and so forth. He had the pain of perceiving that the duchess hardly listened to him, and paid no attention to circumstances which only two nights before would have led her into a whole train of argument. The count looked at Fabrizio. Never had that handsome Lombard countenance seemed to him so simple[151] and so noble. Fabrizio was paying much more attention than the duchess to the difficulties he was relating.
“Really,” said he to himself, “that face combines extreme kind-heartedness with a certain expression of tender and artless delight which is quite irresistible133. It seems to say, ‘The only serious matters in this world are love and the happiness it brings.’ And yet if any detail which demands intelligence occurs, his eye kindles134, and one is quite astonished and amazed.
“In his eyes everything is simple, because everything is sent from above. My God, how am I to struggle against such an enemy? And after all, what will my life be without Gina’s love? With what delight she seems to listen to the charming sallies of that young intellect, which, to a woman’s mind, must seem unique!”
A frightful thought clutched the count like a cramp135. “Shall I stab him there, in her sight, and kill myself afterward136?” He walked up and down the room; his legs were shaking under him, but his hand closed convulsively upon the handle of his dagger137. Neither of the others were paying any attention to him. He said he was going to give an order to his servant. They did not even hear him; the duchess was laughing fondly at something Fabrizio had just said to her. The count went under a lamp in the outer drawing-room, and looked to see whether the point of his dagger was sharp. “My manner to the young man must be gracious and perfectly138 polite,” he thought, as he returned and drew close to them.
His brain was boiling. They seemed to him to be bending forward and exchanging kisses there in his very sight. “That is not possible under my eyes,” he thought. “My reason is going. I must compose myself. If I am rough the duchess is capable, out of sheer pique41 to her vanity, of following him to Belgirate, and there, or during the journey, a chance word may give a name to what they feel for each other; and then, in a moment, all the consequences must come.
“Solitude will make that one word decisive, and besides, what is to become of me once the duchess is far away from[152] me? And if, after a great many difficulties with the prince, I should go and show my aged82 and careworn139 face at Belgirate, what part should I play between those two in their delirious140 happiness?
“Even here, what am I but the terzo incommodo (our beautiful Italian language was made for the purposes of love)! Terzo incommodo (the third party, in the way)! What anguish for a man of parts to feel himself in this vile141 position, and not to have strength of mind to get up and go away!”
The count was on the point of breaking out, or at all events of betraying his suffering by the disorder142 of his countenance. As he walked round the drawing-room, finding himself close to the door, he took to flight, calling out, in good-natured and friendly fashion, “Good-bye, you two!—I must not shed blood,” he murmured to himself.
On the morrow of that horrible evening, after a night spent partly in revolving143 Fabrizio’s advantages, and partly in the agonizing144 paroxysms of the most cruel jealousy, it occurred to the count to send for a young man-servant of his own. This man was making love to a girl named Cecchina, one of the duchess’s waiting-maids, and her favourite. By good luck, this young servant was exceedingly steady in his conduct, even stingy, and was anxious to be appointed doorkeeper in one of the public buildings at Parma. The count ordered this man to send instantly for Cecchina. The man obeyed, and an hour later the count appeared unexpectedly in the room occupied by the girl and her lover. The count alarmed them both by the quantity of gold coins he gave them; then, looking into the trembling Cecchina’s eyes, he addressed her in the following words: “Are there love passages between the duchess and monsignore?”
“No,” said the girl, making up her mind after a moment’s silence. “No, not yet; but he often kisses the signora’s hands. He laughs, I know, but he kisses them passionately.”
This testimony145 was borne out by a hundred answers to as many questions put by the distracted count. His passionate anxiety ensured the poor folks honest earning of[153] the money he had given them. He ended by believing what they told him, and felt less wretched. “If ever the duchess suspects this conversation of ours,” he said to Cecchina, “I will send your lover to spend twenty years in the fortress, and you will never see him again till his hair is white.”
A few days went by, during which it became Fabrizio’s turn to lose all his cheerfulness.
“So much the worse for his Excellency!” she replied with a touch of peevishness147.
This was not the real cause of the anxiety which had driven away Fabrizio’s gaiety. “The position,” he mused, “in which chance has placed me is untenable. I am quite sure she will never speak—a too significant word would be as horrifying148 to her as an act of incest. But supposing that one evening, after a day of imprudence and folly, she should examine her own conscience! What will my position be if she believes I have guessed at the inclination149 she seems to feel toward me? I shall simply be the casto Giuseppe” (an Italian proverb alluding150 to Joseph’s ridiculous position with regard to the wife of the eunuch Potiphar).
“Shall I make her understand by confiding151 to her frankly that I am quite incapable152 of any serious passion? My ideas are not sufficiently153 well ordered to enable me to express the fact so as to prevent its appearing a piece of deliberate impertinence. My only other resource is to simulate a great devotion for a lady left behind me in Naples, and in that case I must go back there for four-and-twenty hours. This plan is a wise one, but what a trouble it will be! I might try some obscure little love affair here at Parma. This might cause displeasure, but anything is preferable to the horrible position of the man who will not understand. This last expedient154 may, indeed, compromise my future. I must try to diminish that danger by my prudence, and by buying discretion155.” The cruel thought, amid all these considerations, was that Fabrizio really cared for the duchess far more than he did for anybody else in the world. “I must be awkward indeed,” said he to himself[154] angrily, “if I am so afraid of not being able to convince her of what is really true.”
He had not wit to extricate156 himself from the difficulty, and he soon grew gloomy and morose157. “What would become of me, great heavens, if I were to quarrel with the only being on earth to whom I am passionately attached?”
On the other hand, Fabrizio could not make up his mind to disturb so delightful a condition of felicity by an imprudent word. His position was so full of enjoyment158, his intimate relations with so charming and so pretty a woman were so delightful! As regarded the more trivial aspects of life, her protection insured him such an agreeable position at the court, the deep intrigues159 of which, thanks to the explanations she gave him, amused him like a stage play. “But at any moment,” he reflected, “I may be wakened as by a thunderclap. If one of these evenings, so cheerful and affectionate, spent alone with this fascinating woman, should lead to anything more fervent160, she will expect to find a lover in me. She will look for raptures161 and wild transports, and all I can ever give her is the liveliest affection, without any love. Nature has bereft162 me of the capacity for that sort of sublime163 madness. What reproaches I have had to endure on that score already! I fancy I still hear the Duchess of A⸺, and I could laugh at the duchess! But she will think that I fail in love for her, whereas it is love which fails in me; and she never will understand me. Often, when she has told me some story about the court, with all the grace and frolicsomeness164 that she alone possesses—and a story, besides, which it is indispensable for me to know—I kiss her hands and sometimes her cheek as well. What should I do if her hand pressed mine in one particular way?”
Fabrizio showed himself daily in the most esteemed165 and dullest houses in Parma. Guided by his aunt’s wise counsels, he paid skilful court to the two princes, father and son, to the Princess Clara Paolina, and to the archbishop. Success came to him, but this did not console him for his mortal terror of a misunderstanding with the duchess.
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1
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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3
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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6
excavations
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| n.挖掘( excavation的名词复数 )；开凿；开凿的洞穴（或山路等）；（发掘出来的）古迹 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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11
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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12
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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13
genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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14
authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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15
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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16
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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17
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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18
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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19
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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20
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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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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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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24
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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25
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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27
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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28
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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29
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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30
impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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31
soliciting
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| v.恳求( solicit的现在分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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32
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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33
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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34
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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35
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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36
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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37
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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38
regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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39
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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40
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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41
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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42
risky
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| adj.有风险的，冒险的 | |
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43
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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44
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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45
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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46
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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47
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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48
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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49
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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50
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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51
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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52
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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53
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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54
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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55
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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56
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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57
rote
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| n.死记硬背，生搬硬套 | |
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58
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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59
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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60
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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61
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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62
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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63
proscribe
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| v.禁止；排斥；放逐，充军；剥夺公权 | |
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64
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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65
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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66
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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67
manias
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| n.（mania的复数形式） | |
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68
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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69
slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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70
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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71
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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72
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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73
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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74
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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75
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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76
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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77
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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78
repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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79
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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80
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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81
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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82
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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83
outermost
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| adj.最外面的，远离中心的 | |
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84
reiterating
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的现在分词 ) | |
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85
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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86
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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87
wagered
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| v.在（某物）上赌钱，打赌( wager的过去式和过去分词 )；保证，担保 | |
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88
demolishing
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| v.摧毁( demolish的现在分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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89
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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90
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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91
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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92
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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93
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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94
distressingly
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| adv. 令人苦恼地；悲惨地 | |
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95
nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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96
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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97
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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98
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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99
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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100
complicates
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| 使复杂化( complicate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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101
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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102
dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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103
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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104
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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105
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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106
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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107
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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108
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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109
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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110
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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111
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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112
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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113
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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114
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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115
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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116
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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117
devours
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| 吞没( devour的第三人称单数 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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118
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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119
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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122
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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123
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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124
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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125
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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126
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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127
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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129
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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gratuitously
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| 平白 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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133
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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kindles
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的第三人称单数 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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135
cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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136
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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137
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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138
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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139
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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140
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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141
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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143
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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144
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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145
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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146
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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147
peevishness
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| 脾气不好；爱发牢骚 | |
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148
horrifying
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| a.令人震惊的，使人毛骨悚然的 | |
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149
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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151
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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152
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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153
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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154
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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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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157
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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158
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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159
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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160
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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161
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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162
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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163
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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164
frolicsomeness
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165
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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