On the very morning after Fabrizio’s escape, several persons received a tolerable sonnet5, which acclaimed6 his flight as one of the finest actions of the century, and likened Fabrizio to an angel descending7 upon earth on outspread wings. On the evening of the third day, every tongue in Parma was repeating a really magnificent piece of verse. This purported8 to be Fabrizio’s soliloquy as he swung himself down the rope, and reviewed the various incidents of his life. Two magnificent lines insured this second sonnet its proper place in public estimation. Every connoisseur9 recognised the hand of Ferrante Palla.
But at this point, I myself ought to fall into the epic10 style. What colours are bright enough to paint the torrents11 of indignation that submerged the hearts of all well-conditioned folk at the incredible news of the insolent12 illumination at Sacca! One shriek13 of horror went up against the duchess; even genuine Liberals thought she had risked the safety of the poor suspects in the various prisons in a most barbarous fashion, and unnecessarily exasperated14 the sovereign’s feelings. Count Mosca declared that only one course was left to the duchess’s old friends—they must forget her. The concert of execration15 was quite unanimous. Any stranger passing through the town must have been struck by the strength of public opinion. Still, in this country, where the delights of vengeance16 are thoroughly17 appreciated, the illuminations and the splendid fête given to over six thousand peasants in the park at Sacca had a huge success. Everybody in Parma was saying that the duchess had given a thousand sequins to her peasants, and this, it was added, explained the somewhat rough reception given the thirty gendarmes18 the police had been foolish enough to send into the village, thirty-six hours after the splendid festivities, and the general drunkenness which had followed on them, had come to an end. The gendarmes had been received with volleys of stones, had taken to flight, and two of them had been thrown into the river.
As to the bursting of the great reservoir at the Palazzo Sanseverina, that had hardly been noticed. A few streets had been flooded during the night, and in the morning people might have thought it had been raining. Ludovico had carefully broken the glass in one of the palace windows, which accounted for the entrance of the thieves, and a short ladder had actually been found hard by. Count Mosca was the only person who recognised the finger of his friend.
Fabrizio was quite resolved to get back to Parma as soon as he could. He sent Ludovico with a long letter to the archbishop, and that faithful servant came back to the first village in Piedmont—Sannazaro, to the west of Pavia—and there posted the Latin epistle addressed by the worthy21 prelate to his young friend. We must here add a detail, which, like many others, doubtless, may strike people as wearisome, in a country where caution is no longer necessary. The name “Fabrizio del Dongo” was never written; all letters intended for him were addressed to Ludovico San-Michele, either at Locarno in Switzerland, or at Belgirate in Piedmont. The envelope was made of coarse paper, it was clumsily sealed, the address was hardly legible, and occasionally adorned22 with additions worthy of a cook, and all these letters were antedated23, by six days, from Naples.
From the Piedmontese village of Sannazaro, near Pavia, Ludovico hurried back to Parma. He was charged with a mission which Fabrizio regarded as of the utmost importance. He was ordered to do no less a thing than to send Clelia Conti a silken handkerchief, on which one of Petrarch’s sonnets24 had been printed. One word in the sonnet had, indeed, been altered. Clelia found it on her table, two days after she had received the thanks of the Marchese Crescenzi, who declared himself the happiest of men; and I need not describe the impression this mark of unfailing recollection produced upon her feelings.
Ludovico had received orders to collect every possible detail as to what was happening in the citadel25. He it was who brought Fabrizio the sad news that the marriage with the Marchese Crescenzi appeared to be a settled thing. Hardly a day passed that he did not offer Clelia some form of festivity within the citadel walls. One decisive proof that the marriage was settled was that the marchese, who was excessively rich, and consequently, like most wealthy people in northern Italy, exceedingly stingy, was making huge preparations—and that, although he was marrying a dowerless girl. It is true that General Fabio Conti, whose vanity had been sorely stung by this remark—the first which occurred to all his fellow-countrymen—had just bought a landed property costing over three hundred thousand francs, and that, though he had nothing of his own, he had paid for it with ready money, presumably money belonging to the marquis. He had also given out that he bestowed26 the property on his daughter as a wedding gift. But the expenses of drawing up the deeds, and others, which came to more than twelve thousand francs, struck the Marchese Crescenzi, a man of very logical mind, as a very ridiculous outlay27. He, on his part, was having magnificent hangings—admirably devised for delighting the eyes, by the famous Pallazzi, a Bolognese painter—woven at Lyons. These hangings, each of which bore some part of the Crescenzi family arms (the family, as all the world knows, is descended28 from the famous Roman Consul29 Crescentius, who lived in 985), were to furnish the seventeen saloons composing the ground floor of the marchese’s palace. The hangings, clocks, and chandeliers, delivered in Parma, cost over three hundred and fifty thousand francs. The value of the new mirrors, added to those the house already contained, reached two hundred thousand francs. With the exception of two rooms, famous as the work of Parmegiano, the greatest painter of that country next to the divine Correggio, all the apartments on the first and second floor were now occupied by the most famous Florentine and Milanese painters, who were adorning30 them with frescoes31. Fokelberg, the great Swedish sculptor33, Tenerani, from Rome, and Marchesi, from Milan, had been working for a year on ten bas-reliefs representing as many noble acts in the life of that truly great man Crescentius. Most of the ceilings, which were also painted in fresco32, contained some allusion34 to his career. One particular ceiling—on which Hayez, of Milan, had depicted35 Crescentius received in the Elysian Fields by Francesco Sforza, Lorenzo the Magnificent, King Robert, the Tribune Cola di Rienzi, Macchiavelli, Dante, and the other great figures of the Middle Ages—was most generally admired. Expressed admiration36 for these elect beings was considered to hint scorn of the people in power at the moment.
All these splendid details absorbed the attention of the nobles and burghers of Parma, and wrung37 our hero’s heart, when he read them, related with artless admiration, in a long letter of over twenty pages which Ludovico had dictated38 to a customs-officer at Casal Maggiore.
“And I am so poor!” said Fabrizio to himself. “I have four thousand francs a year in all, and for everything. It is downright insolence39 for me to dare to be in love with Clelia Conti, for whom all these marvels40 are being prepared.”
One item in Ludovico’s letter, written in his own clumsy hand, informed his master that he had happened, one night, on poor Grillo, his former jailer, who had been thrown into prison and subsequently released, and who now bore all the appearance of a man who was hiding. Grillo had begged him, of his charity, to give him a sequin, and Ludovico had given him four in the duchess’s name. The former jailers, twelve of them, who had just been set at liberty, were making themselves ready to give the new men who had succeeded them a “knifing entertainment” (trattamento di coltellate) if they could contrive41 to come upon them outside the citadel. Grillo had reported that there was a serenade at the fortress42 every night, that the Signorina Clelia Conti looked very pale, was often ill, and other things of that sort. As a consequence of this absurd expression, Ludovico received orders, by return of post, to come back to Locarno. He came, and the details he supplied by word of mouth were still more distressing43 to Fabrizio’s feelings.
My readers may imagine how pleasant he made himself to the poor duchess; he would have died a thousand deaths rather than have pronounced the name of Clelia Conti in her presence.
The duchess loathed44 Parma, and to Fabrizio everything that reminded him of that city was at once sublime45 and tender.
Less than ever had the duchess forgotten her vengeance. She had been so happy before Giletti’s death, and now, what a fate was hers! She was living in constant expectation of a frightful46 event, not a word of which she dared mention to Fabrizio—she who, when she had made her arrangement with Ferrante, had dreamed that one day she would rejoice Fabrizio’s heart by assuring him that his day of vengeance would surely come.
My readers may conceive some idea of the agreeability of the conversations between Fabrizio and the duchess. The dreariest47 silence generally reigned48 between the two. To increase the enjoyment49 of their intercourse50 the duchess had allowed herself to be tempted51 into playing a trick upon her too beloved nephew. The count wrote to her almost every day. Apparently52 he still sent couriers, as in the first days of their love, for his letters always bore the postmark of some small Swiss town. The poor man taxed his wits so as not to speak too openly of his affection, and to devise amusing letters. All she did was to glance over them carelessly. What, alas53, is the fidelity54 of a lover she esteems55, to a woman whose heart is wrung by the coldness of the man she prefers!
In two months the duchess only sent him back one answer, and that was to request him to sound the princess, and find out whether, in spite of the insolent display of fireworks, a letter from the duchess would be well received. The letter he was to present, if he thought it wise, prayed the princess to appoint the Marchese Crescenzi to the post of lord in waiting to her Serene56 Highness, which had lately fallen vacant, and begged the position might be given him in consideration of his marriage. The duchess’s letter was a masterpiece, full of the tenderest respect, most perfectly57 expressed. Its courtier-like language did not contain a single word of which the consequences, even the most distant, could have been otherwise than agreeable to the princess, and the answer it elicited58 breathed a tender friendship, which separation was putting to the torture.
“My son and I,” wrote the princess, “have not had one fairly pleasant evening since your sudden departure. Has my dear duchess forgotten that it is to her I owe the fact that I have regained59 a consulting voice in the nomination60 of the officers of my household? Does she feel herself obliged to give reasons for appointing the marchese, as though her expressed desire were not the best of reasons to me? The marchese will have the post if I can do anything toward it, and in my heart there will always be a place—and the very first—for my delightful61 duchess. My son uses absolutely the same expressions—though indeed they are rather strong in the mouth of a great fellow of one-and-twenty—and begs you will send him specimens62 of the minerals of the valley of Orta, near Belgirate. You can address your letters to the count, who still detests63 you, and whom I love all the better on account of this sentiment. The archbishop, too, has remained faithful to you. We all hope to see you back some day; remember, that must be! The Marchesa Ghisleri, my mistress of the robes, is about to leave this world for a better one. The poor woman has given me a great deal of trouble, and she displeases64 me now by departing at such an unseasonable moment. Her illness makes me think of the name which I should once have found such pleasure in substituting for hers—if, indeed, I could have succeeded in obtaining this sacrifice of her independence from the unique being who, when she left us, carried away with her all the delights of my little court,” and so forth65.
Thus, day after day, when the duchess met Fabrizio, she felt conscious of having done all that in her lay to hurry on the marriage which was driving him to despair, and they often spent four or five hours sailing together upon the lake, without uttering a single word to each other. Fabrizio’s kind-heartedness was complete and perfect, but he was thinking of other things, and his simple and artless mind supplied him with no subjects of conversation. The duchess saw this, and therein was her torture.
I have forgotten to relate, in its proper place, that the duchess had taken a house at Belgirate, a lovely village which fulfils all the promise of its name (the view of a beautiful curve of the lake). Out of the French window of the drawing-room, the duchess could step into her boat. She had chosen a very ordinary one, for which four rowers would have sufficed, but she hired twelve, and was careful to have one man from each of the villages in the neighbourhood of Belgirate. The third or fourth time she found herself in the middle of the lake, with all these well-chosen men about her, she signed to them to cease rowing.
“I look upon you all as my friends,” she said, “and I am going to trust you with a secret. My nephew Fabrizio has escaped from prison, and perhaps some treacherous66 attempt may be made to lay hands upon him, although he is on your lake, and in a free country. Keep your ears open, and warn me of everything you may hear. I give you leave to come into my room either by day or night.”
The men responded in the most enthusiastic manner; she had the talent of making herself loved. But she did not think there would be any question of trying to seize Fabrizio; it was for herself she was taking these precautions, and before she had given the fatal order to open the reservoir at the Palazzo Sanseverina, she would never have dreamed of them.
Prudence3 had also led her to hire Fabrizio’s lodging67 in the Port of Locarno. Every day he either came to see her, or she herself went to see him in Switzerland. The delights of their perpetual tête-à-tête may be gauged68 by the following detail. The marchesa and her daughters came to see them twice, and they were glad of the presence of these strangers—for ties of blood notwithstanding, a person who knows nothing of one’s dearest interests, and whom one does not see more than once a year, may fairly be called a stranger.
One night, the duchess, with the marchesa and her two daughters, was at Fabrizio’s rooms in Locarno. The archpriest of the neighbourhood and the village priest had both come to pay their respects to the ladies. The archpriest, who was interested in some commercial house, and kept himself informed of the current news, happened to say:
“The Prince of Parma is dead.”
The duchess turned very pale. She could hardly find courage to inquire, “Have you heard any details?”
“No,” replied the archpriest, “the report only mentions his death; but that is quite certain.”
The duchess looked at Fabrizio. “It was for him I did it,” she said to herself, “and I would have done a thousand times worse. And there he sits in front of me, utterly69 indifferent, and thinking of another woman!” It was beyond the duchess’s power to endure the dreadful thought; she swooned away. Every one hastened to her assistance, but when she came back to her senses she noticed that Fabrizio was far less perturbed70 than the two priests; he was dreaming, as usual. “He is thinking he will go back to Parma,” said the duchess to herself, “and perhaps that he will break off Clelia’s marriage with the marchese. But I shall know how to prevent that.” Then, recollecting71 the presence of the two ecclesiastics72, she hastily added:
The two priests took their leave, and the duchess, who longed to be alone, announced her intention of going to bed.
“No doubt,” said she to herself, “prudence forbids my returning to Parma for a month or two. But I feel I shall never have that patience; I suffer too much here. Fabrizio’s perpetual silence and absorption are more than my heart can bear. Who would have told me I ever could have felt weary of sailing alone with him over this beautiful lake! And just at the moment when, to avenge74 him, I have done more than I can ever tell him! After such a sight as that, death seems nothing at all. Now, indeed, I am paying for the ecstasies75 of happiness and childish delight I felt in my palace at Parma, when Fabrizio joined me there on his return from Naples. If I had said one word then, it would all have been settled; and perhaps, if he had been bound to me, he never would have thought of that little Clelia. But that word filled me with a horrible repugnance76. Now she has the better of me, and what can be more natural? She is only twenty, and I, besides being altered by trouble and illness, am twice her age.… I must die, I must make an end of it! A woman of forty is nothing to any man, except those who have loved her in her youth. The only joys left to me now are those of vanity. And do they make life worth living? That’s another reason for going to Parma and amusing myself. If certain things happened, I should be put to death; well, what matter? I will die nobly, and just before the end, but not till then, I will tell Fabrizio, ‘Ungrateful boy, it was for you I did it!’… Yes, Parma is the only place where I can find occupation for what little life remains77 to me. I’ll play the great lady there. What a blessing78 it would be if I could find enjoyment, now, in the glories which used to make the Raversi sick with envy! In those days I only became aware of my happiness by seeing it mirrored in jealous eyes.… My vanity has one piece of good fortune. Except for the count, perhaps, not a soul can have guessed at what has cut my affections at their root.… I will love Fabrizio, I will devote myself to his fortunes, but he shall not break off Clelia’s marriage and marry her himself.… No, that shall never be!”
So far had the duchess proceeded in her melancholy79 soliloquy when she heard a great noise in the house.
“Hark!” she cried; “they are coming to arrest me! Ferrante has been taken and has confessed. Well, all the better. I shall have something to do; I must fight for my life. But to begin with, I mustn’t let them take me!”
Half dressed, the duchess fled to the bottom of her garden. She was just meditating80 climbing over a low wall, and escaping into the open country, when she caught sight of some one going into her room, and recognised Bruno, the count’s confidential81 man. He was alone with her maid. She approached the open window; the man was telling the maid about the wounds he had received. The duchess came back into her room, and Bruno, casting himself at her feet, besought82 her not to tell the count the absurd hour at which he had arrived.
“The moment the prince was dead,” he added, “the count sent orders to all the posting-houses that no horses were to be given to any Parmese subject; consequently I travelled as far as the Po with our own horses. But when we were getting off the ferry-boat my carriage was overturned, smashed up, and destroyed, and I was so seriously hurt that I could not ride, as it was my duty to have done.”
“Very good,” said the duchess, “it is three o’clock in the morning. I’ll say it is midday. But don’t you dare to contradict me!”
“That is like the signora’s usual kindness.”
In a literary work, politics play the part of a pistol shot in the middle of a concert—something rough and disagreeable, to which, nevertheless, we can not refuse our attention.
I am now going to speak of very ugly matters, concerning which, for more than one reason, I would gladly be silent. But I am compelled to refer to certain events which come within our purview83, seeing they are connected with the lives of the persons I describe.
“But good God,” said the duchess to Bruno, “how did that great prince come by his death?”
“He went out to shoot birds of passage in the marshes84 by the river, a few leagues from Sacca. He fell into a hole, hidden by a tuft of grass; he was in a violent perspiration85, and the cold struck him. He was conveyed to a lonely house, and there he died, within a few hours. Some declare that Signore Catena and Barone are dead too, and that the whole accident was caused by the saucepans in the peasant’s house, into which they were taken, being full of verdigris—they all breakfasted in that house. Then the hot-headed folk, the Jacobins, who say whatever suits them, talk about poison. I know that my friend Toto, one of the court servants, would have died but for the care lavished86 on him by a sort of lunatic who seemed to know a great deal about medicine, and made him use very strange remedies. But nobody talks about the prince’s death any more, and, indeed, he was a cruel man. When I was starting, the populace was collecting to murder Chief-Justice Rassi, and the people wanted to set the gates of the citadel on fire, so as to try and save the prisoners. But some people declared Fabio Conti would fire his cannon87 on them, while others vowed88 the gunners in the fortress had poured water on their gunpowder89, and would not destroy their fellow-citizens. But here is something far more interesting: While the surgeon at Sandolaro was binding90 up my poor arm, a man came in from Parma, and told us that when the people saw Barbone, that clerk from the citadel, in the streets, they first of all thrashed him mercilessly, and then hanged him on the tree in the square, nearest to the citadel. Then they set out to destroy that fine statue of the prince that stands in the royal gardens, but the count sent for a battalion91 of the guard, drew it up in front of the statue, and sent the people word that no man who came into the garden should leave it alive, and then every one was frightened.
“But a very strange thing, which the man from Parma, a former gendarme19, told me, over and over again, is that the count kicked General , the commandant of the prince’s guard, tore off his epaulettes, and had him marched out of the garden by two fusileers.”
“That’s just like the count!” exclaimed the duchess, in a transport of delight, which she would have thought impossible a moment previously92. “He would never allow any one to insult our princess, and as for General P⸺, he was so devoted93 to his legitimate94 masters that he would never serve the usurper95, whereas the count, whose feelings were less delicate, fought through all the Spanish campaigns, a thing which was often cast in his teeth at court.”
The duchess had opened the count’s letter, but over and over again she stopped reading it to question Bruno.
It was a very comical letter. The count used the most lugubrious96 language, and yet the most lively joy was evident in every word. He gave no details as to the manner of the prince’s death, and ended his letter with the following words:
“You will come back, of course, my dearest angel. But I would advise your waiting a day or two for the messenger whom the princess will send you, as I hope, either to-day or to-morrow. Your return must be as magnificent as your departure was bold.
“As to the great culprit, who is with you, I fully20 expect to have him tried by twelve judges, selected from every party in the state. But to punish the wretch97 as he deserves, I must first of all be in a position to make curl-papers out of the first sentence, if it exists.”
The count had reopened his letter:
“Here’s quite another business. I have just had cartridges98 served out to the two battalions99 of the guards. I am going to fight, and do my best to deserve that surname of ‘Cruel’ with which the Liberals have so long honoured me. That old mummy, General , has dared to talk in barracks of parleying with the populace, which is in a state of semi-revolt. I write this in the middle of the street. I go hence to the palace, which no one shall enter except across my dead body. Farewell! If I die, I die as I have lived, worshipping you in any case. Don’t forget to send for the three hundred thousand francs lodged100 in your name with at Lyons.
“Here comes that poor devil Rassi, wigless101 and as pale as death; you’ve no idea what a figure he is. The populace is bent102 on hanging him. That would be too hard on him; he deserves to be drawn103 and quartered as well! He would have taken refuge in my palace, and has run after me into the street. I hardly know what to do with him.… I do not want to take him to the prince’s palace; that would bring about a revolt in that quarter. will see whether I care for him. My first words to Rassi were, ‘I must have the sentence on Monsignore del Dongo, and all the copies you have of it, and you will tell all those shameless judges, who have brought about this revolt, that I will have them all hanged, and you, my friend, into the bargain, if they breathe a single word of this sentence, which has never existed.’ I am sending a company of grenadiers to the archbishop, in Fabrizio’s name. Farewell, dear angel. My house will be burned, and I shall lose those delightful pictures I have of you. I am hurrying off to the palace to get that vile104 General cashiered. He is working for his own hand, flattering the populace as basely as he used to flatter the late prince. All these generals are frightened out of their wits; I think I’ll have myself appointed commander-in-chief.”
The duchess was spiteful enough not to send and rouse Fabrizio. She felt a glow of admiration for the count, which strongly resembled love. “All things considered,” said she to herself, “I really must marry him.” She wrote him instantly to that effect, and sent off one of her servants. That night the duchess had no time to feel unhappy.
The next day, toward noon, she saw a boat with six rowers swiftly cleaving105 the waters of the lake. Fabrizio and she soon recognised a man wearing the Prince of Parma’s livery. He was, in fact, one of his couriers, who, before he jumped on shore, called out to the duchess: “The revolt is put down.” This courier brought her several letters from the count, a charming missive from the princess, and a parchment decree from Prince Ranuzio-Ernest V which created her Duchess of San Giovanni, and appointed her Mistress of the Robes to the Princess-Mother. The young prince, who was learned in mineralogy, and whom she believed to be a simpleton, had been clever enough to write her a little note, but there was love at the end of it. The note began thus:
“The count says, my Lady Duchess, that he is pleased with me. As a matter of fact, I have faced a few musket106 shots beside him, and my horse was wounded. The fuss made over so small a thing has made me earnestly desire to be present at a real battle, so long as it be not against my own subjects. I owe everything to the count; all my generals, who know nothing of war, have behaved like hounds. I believe two or three of them have run away as far as Bologna. Since the day when a great and deplorable event called me to power, I have signed no decree which gives me so much pleasure as this, which appoints you my mother’s mistress of the robes. My mother and I have remembered that one day you admired the beautiful view from the Palazzetto San Giovanni, which once belonged to Petrarch—at least, so we are told. My mother desired to give you this little property, and I, not knowing what to give you, and not daring to offer you all that belongs to you already, have made you a duchess in my own country. I do not know whether you are so learned as to be aware that Sanseverina is a Roman title. I have just given the ribbon of my Order to our excellent archbishop, who has displayed a firmness very uncommon107 in a man of sixty-two. You will not be angry with me for having recalled all the banished108 ladies. I am told that in future I must never sign my name without having written the words ‘your affectionate.’ It vexes109 me that I should be thus made to squander110 an assurance which is not fully true, except when I write myself ‘your affectionate, Ranuzio-Ernest.’”
Who would not have thought, judging from this language, that the duchess was about to enjoy the highest favour? Nevertheless, she found something very odd in other letters from the count, which reached her two hours later. These advised her, without further explanation, to put off her return to Parma for a few days, and to write the princess word that she was exceedingly unwell. Notwithstanding, the duchess and Fabrizio started for Parma immediately after dinner; the duchess’s object, which, however, she did not admit to herself, was to hurry on the Marchese Crescenzi’s marriage. Fabrizio, for his part, performed the journey in a state of wild happiness, which seemed perfectly ridiculous to his aunt. He had hopes of seeing Clelia soon, and fully reckoned on carrying her off, in spite of herself, if that should be the only means of breaking off her marriage.
The journey of the duchess and her nephew was a very cheerful one. At the last posting station before Parma, Fabrizio stopped a moment to put on his churchman’s garb111. As a rule he wore ordinary mourning dress. When he came back to the duchess’s room—
“There seems to me something very odd and inexplicable,”she said, “in the count’s letters. If you will be ruled by me you will stay here for a few hours. I’ll send you a messenger as soon as I have had a talk with the mighty112 minister.”
It was only very unwillingly113 that Fabrizio bowed to this sensible piece of advice. The count received the duchess with transports of joy worthy of a boy of fifteen, calling her “his wife.” It was long before he would talk of politics. When they came back, at last, to the dull realms of common sense—
“You did very wisely,” he said, “to prevent Fabrizio from arriving openly. There is a great reaction going on here. Just guess the name of the colleague the prince has imposed on me as Minister of Justice. Rassi, my dear soul, Rassi, whom I treated like the blackguard he is, on the day of our great excitements. By the way, I must warn you that everything that happened here has been suppressed. If you read our Gazette, you will perceive that a clerk at the citadel, of the name of Barbone, has been killed by a fall from a carriage. As for the sixty-odd rogues114 I had shot when they tried to wreck115 the prince’s statue in the gardens, they are all quite well, but they have gone on long journeys. Count Zurla, the Minister of the Interior, has personally visited each of these unlucky heroes’ homes, and has made over fifteen sequins to their family or friends, with strict orders to say that the dead man is travelling, and a very direct threat that any one who ventures to hint anybody has been killed will be forthwith shut up in prison. A man from my own office at the Ministry116 for Foreign Affairs has been sent to the journalists of Milan and Turin, to prevent any mention of the ‘unfortunate event’—that’s the correct term—and this man is to go as far as Paris and London, so as to give an almost official denial to any newspaper reference to our disturbances117. Another agent has gone toward Bologna and Florence. I shrug118 my shoulders.
“But the comical thing, at my age, is that I felt a flash of real enthusiasm when I was addressing the soldiers of the guard, and when I tore the epaulettes off that contemptible119 fellow, . At that moment I would have given my life[439] for the prince without the smallest hesitation120. I confess, now, it would have been a very silly way of ending it. At this moment the prince, kind-hearted young fellow as he is, would give a thousand crowns if I would die of some sickness. He dares not ask me to resign, as yet, but we see each other as seldom as possible, and I send him a quantity of small written reports, just as I did with the late prince after Fabrizio was imprisoned121. By the way, I have not turned his sentence into curl-papers, for the excellent reason that that villain122 Rassi never gave it to me. That is why you have done so wisely to prevent Fabrizio from arriving publicly. The sentence is still valid123. However, I do not believe Rassi would dare to arrest our nephew to-day. Still, he may possibly dare to do it within a fortnight. If Fabrizio absolutely insists on coming into the city, let him come and live in my house.”
“But what is the reason of all this?” exclaimed the astonished duchess.
“The prince has been persuaded that I give myself the airs of a dictator, and of the saviour124 of the country; that I want to lead him like a child, and even that, in speaking of him, I used those fatal words ‘that child.’ This may be true; I was very much excited that day. But, indeed, I really looked on him as a thorough man, because he was not frightened in face of the first musketry firing he had ever heard in his life. He is by no means a fool. His tone, indeed, is much better than his father’s, and—I can not say it too often—at the bottom of his heart he is both good and upright. But his honest young soul is stung when the story of some piece of rascality125 is told him, and he thinks his own nature must be vile to perceive such things. Think what his education has been.”
“Your Excellency should have remembered that he was to be our master some day, and should have placed a clever man about his person.”
“In the first place, we have the instance of the Abbé de Condillac, who was appointed by my predecessor126, the Marchese di Felino, and turned his pupil into a very king of simpletons. He walked in religious processions, and in 1796 he failed to make terms with General Buonaparte, who would have tripled the size of his dominions127. And in the second place, I never dreamed I should have been Prime Minister for ten successive years. Now that my mind is disabused128 of that idea—that is to say, for the last month—I am resolved to put together a million of francs before I leave this Bedlam129 I have saved, to its fate. But for me, Parma would have spent two months as a republic, with the poet Ferrante Palla as dictator!”
The duchess reddened at the words. The count knew nothing of that story.
“We are coming back, now, to the regular eighteenth-century monarchy130, ruled by the confessor and the mistress. At heart, all the prince cares for is mineralogy—and perhaps, madam, for you! Since he has succeeded, his body-servant, whose brother, a fellow with nine months’ service, I have just made a captain—this body-servant, I say, has put an idea into his head that he ought to be the happiest of men, because his profile will appear on the coinage. That fine notion has brought boredom131 in its train.
“Now he must have an aide-de-camp to help him out of his boredom. Well, even if he were to offer me that precious million of money, which is so necessary to insure our comfort at Naples or Paris, I would not undertake to cure him of his boredom, and spend four or five hours every day in his Highness’s company. Besides, as I am cleverer than he is, he would think me a monster before the first month was out.
“The late prince was spiteful and envious132, but he had fought as a soldier, and commanded troops, and that had given him a certain sense of deportment. There were the makings of a prince in him, and with him I could behave as a minister, whether good or bad. But with this honest son of his, in spite of all his candour and real kind-heartedness, I am obliged to resort to intrigue133. I find myself the rival of the veriest old woman among his courtiers, and a rival in an inferior position, too, for I shall certainly despise scores of precautions which I ought to take. For instance, three days ago, one of those women who lay out clean towels in all his rooms contrived134 to mislay the key of one of the prince’s English writing-tables. Whereupon his Highness refused to attend to any of the business, the papers for which were in that particular receptacle. For twenty francs we might have had the board at the back of the writing-table removed, or have had the lock opened with a false key. But Ranuzio-Ernest V informed me that such a proceeding135 would give the court locksmith bad habits.
“So far he has never contrived to be of the same mind three days running. If the young prince had been born a marquis, with a large fortune, he would have been one of the most worthy men about his own court—a sort of Louis XVI. But how is that pious136 simplicity137 of his to escape all the skilful138 ambushes139 that surround him? Thus your friend the Raversi’s salon140 is more powerful than ever. Its frequenters have discovered that I, who had the populace fired on, and who was resolved, if necessary, to kill three thousand of them, sooner than permit any insult to the statue of the prince, who had been my master, am a violent Liberal; that I tried to get a constitution signed, and more stuff of the same kind. With such republican stories, these madmen would prevent us from enjoying even the best of monarchies141.… You, madam, in fine, are the only existing member of that Liberal party at the head of which my enemies have placed me, of whom the prince has not spoken in harsh terms. The archbishop, who is still a perfectly upright man, is in thorough disgrace, because he used reasonable language about what I did on the unlucky day.
“On the day after that which was not then, as yet, known as ‘unlucky,’ while it was still true that a revolt had taken place, the prince told the archbishop that he was going to make me a duke, so that you might not have to take an inferior title when you married me. To-day, I fancy, it is Rassi, whom I ennobled for selling me the late prince’s secrets, who will be made a count. In face of such promotion142 as that, I should look like a fool.”
“And the poor prince will degrade himself.”
“No doubt of that. But, after all, he is master here, and in less than a fortnight, that fact will still the voice of ridicule143. Therefore, dear duchess, let us do as we should do if we were playing tric-trac. Let us withdraw.”
“But we shall be anything but rich!”
“After all, neither you nor I need luxury. If you will give me a seat in your box at the San Carlo, and a horse to ride, I shall be more than content. It will never be the luxury, greater or less, in which we live, that will insure our position; it will be the pleasure the clever folk of the place may find in drinking a cup of tea in your drawing-room.”
“But,” replied the duchess, “what would have happened on the unlucky day if you had held yourself apart, as I trust you will do in future?”
“The troops would have fraternized with the populace, there would have been three days of killing144 and burning;—for it will be a century, yet, before a republic can cease to be an anomaly in this country. After that, a fortnight’s pillage145, until two or three foreign regiments146 had been sent in to quell147 the disorder148. Ferrante Palla was in the midst of the populace, as brave, and as raging mad, as usual. He had some dozen friends backing him up, no doubt, and out of that Rassi will make a fine conspiracy149. One thing is certain; that, though he wore an incredibly tattered150 coat, he was distributing money by handsful in every direction.”
Astounded151 by all this news, the duchess hurried off to present her acknowledgments to the princess. The moment she entered the royal apartment, the lady-in-waiting presented her with the little gold key, to be worn at the waist, which is the symbol of supreme152 authority in that portion of the palace ruled by the princess. Clara Paolina lost no time in dismissing all her attendants. For the first moments after she was left alone with her friend, her manner and speech were neither of them absolutely frank. The duchess, who could not understand what this meant, was very cautious in her answers. At last the princess burst into tears, and throwing herself into the duchess’s arms, exclaimed:
“My misfortunes are beginning afresh. My son will treat me worse than his father did.”
“I’ll take good care he does not,” replied the duchess vehemently153. “But in the first place,” she went on, “I must[443] beg your Most Serene Highness to condescend154 to accept all my gratitude155 and my humblest duty.”
“What do you mean?” exclaimed the princess, alarmed at the thought of a possible resignation.
“What I mean is, that whenever your Most Serene Highness gives me leave to turn the shaking chin of yonder Chinese monster on the chimneypiece to the right, you will give me permission, too, to call things by their real names.”
“Is that all, my dear duchess?” exclaimed Clara Paolina, rising, and herself placing the monster’s chin in the required position. “Speak now, with perfect freedom,” she added, in the most gracious fashion.
“Madam,” replied the duchess, “your Highness has grasped the position perfectly. Both you and I are in a most dangerous position. Fabrizio’s sentence is not annulled156. Consequently, whenever there is any desire to get rid of me, and insult you, he will be cast into prison again. Our position is as bad as ever it was. As regards myself personally, I am going to marry the count, and we shall settle at Naples or in Paris. The final stroke of ingratitude157 from which the count is suffering at the present moment, has thoroughly sickened him; and save for your Serene Highness’s sake, I should not advise him to have anything more to do with this mess, unless the prince were to give him an enormous sum of money. I will ask your Highness’s leave to explain that the count, who had a hundred and thirty thousand francs when he first entered politics, owns barely twenty thousand francs a year at the present time. In vain have I besought him, this ever so long, to consider his own pocket. During my absence he has picked a quarrel with the prince’s farmers-general, who were scoundrels. The count has replaced them by other scoundrels, who have given him eight hundred thousand francs.”
“What!” exclaimed the astonished princess. “Good heavens, how sorry I am to hear that!”
“Madam,” replied the duchess, with the most absolute coolness, “shall I turn the monster’s head to the left?”
“No, no, indeed!” exclaimed the princess; “but I am[444] sorry that a man of the count’s character should have thought of gain of that description.”
“But for this theft he would have been despised by all honest folk.”
“Good God! can that be possible?”
“Madam,” replied the duchess, “except my friend the Marchese Crescenzi, who has four or five hundred thousand francs a year of his own, every soul in this place steals. And how should they not steal, in a country where gratitude for the greatest services does not last quite a month? Therefore the only real thing which outlives disgrace is money. Madam, I am about to venture on some terrible truths.”
“I give you leave,” said the princess with a deep sigh; “and yet they hurt me cruelly!”
“Well, then, madam, the prince, your son, a perfectly upright man, may make you far more wretched than his father did. The late prince’s nature was very much like that of other men. Our present sovereign is never sure of desiring the same thing for three days on end. Consequently, to be sure of him, one must live perpetually with him, and never let him speak to any one else. As this truth is not very difficult to divine, the new ultra party, led by those two wise heads, Rassi and the Marchesa Raversi, will endeavour to provide the prince with a mistress. This mistress will be given ‘carte blanche’ to make her own fortune, and to dispose of some inferior posts. But she will have to answer to the party for her master’s constant good-will.
“To be thoroughly well-established at your Highness’s court, I must have Rassi spurned158 and banished. Further, I must have Fabrizio tried by the most upright judges who can be found. If, as I hope, these judges recognise his innocence159, it will be only natural to grant the archbishop’s wish that Fabrizio shall be his coadjutor, and his ultimate successor. If I fail, the count and I will forthwith retire. In that case I leave your Serene Highness this farewell advice: You must never forgive Rassi, and you must never leave your son’s dominions. So long as you keep near him, your good son will never do you any serious harm.”
“I have followed your arguments with all the attention they deserve,” replied the princess with a smile. “But am I, then, to undertake the care of finding a mistress for my son?”
“Not that, indeed, madam! But see to it that your drawing-room shall be the only one in which he finds amusement.”
On this subject the conversation ran on endlessly. The scales were falling from the eyes of the innocent and intelligent princess. The duchess sent a courier to Fabrizio, to tell him he might enter the city, but that he must conceal160 himself. Hardly any one saw him. Dressed as a peasant, he spent his whole time in the wooden booth which a chestnut161 seller had set up under the trees of the square, just opposite the citadel gates.
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1
invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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acclaimed
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| adj.受人欢迎的 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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purported
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| adj.传说的，谣传的v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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execration
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| n.诅咒，念咒，憎恶 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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gendarmes
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| n.宪兵，警官( gendarme的名词复数 ) | |
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gendarme
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| n.宪兵 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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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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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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antedated
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| v.（在历史上）比…为早( antedate的过去式和过去分词 )；先于；早于；（在信、支票等上）填写比实际日期早的日期 | |
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sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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adorning
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| 修饰，装饰物 | |
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frescoes
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| n.壁画( fresco的名词复数 )；温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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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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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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41
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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42
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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43
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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44
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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45
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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47
dreariest
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的最高级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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49
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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51
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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52
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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53
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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54
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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55
esteems
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| n.尊敬，好评( esteem的名词复数 )v.尊敬( esteem的第三人称单数 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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56
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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57
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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58
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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60
nomination
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| n.提名，任命，提名权 | |
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61
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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62
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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detests
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的第三人称单数 ) | |
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64
displeases
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| 冒犯，使生气，使不愉快( displease的第三人称单数 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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66
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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67
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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68
gauged
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| adj.校准的；标准的；量规的；量计的v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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69
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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72
ecclesiastics
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| n.神职者，教会，牧师( ecclesiastic的名词复数 ) | |
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73
slandered
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| 造谣中伤( slander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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75
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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76
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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77
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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78
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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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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80
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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81
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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82
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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83
purview
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| n.范围；眼界 | |
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84
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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85
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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86
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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88
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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89
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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90
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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91
battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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92
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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93
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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94
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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95
usurper
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| n. 篡夺者, 僭取者 | |
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96
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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97
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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98
cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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99
battalions
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| n.（陆军的）一营（大约有一千兵士）( battalion的名词复数 )；协同作战的部队；军队；（组织在一起工作的）队伍 | |
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100
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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101
wigless
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| adj.无假发的，不戴假发（套）的 | |
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102
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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103
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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104
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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105
cleaving
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的现在分词 ) | |
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106
musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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107
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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108
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
vexes
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| v.使烦恼( vex的第三人称单数 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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110
squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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111
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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112
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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113
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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114
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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115
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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116
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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117
disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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118
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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119
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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120
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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121
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
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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123
valid
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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124
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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125
rascality
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| 流氓性，流氓集团 | |
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126
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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127
dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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128
disabused
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| v.去除…的错误想法( disabuse的过去式和过去分词 )；使醒悟 | |
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129
bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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130
monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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131
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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132
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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133
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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134
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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135
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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136
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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137
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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138
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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139
ambushes
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| n.埋伏( ambush的名词复数 )；伏击；埋伏着的人；设埋伏点v.埋伏( ambush的第三人称单数 )；埋伏着 | |
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140
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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141
monarchies
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| n. 君主政体, 君主国, 君主政治 | |
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142
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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143
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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144
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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145
pillage
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| v.抢劫；掠夺；n.抢劫，掠夺；掠夺物 | |
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146
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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147
quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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148
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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149
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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150
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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151
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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152
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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153
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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154
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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155
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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156
annulled
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| v.宣告无效( annul的过去式和过去分词 )；取消；使消失；抹去 | |
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157
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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158
spurned
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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160
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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161
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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