At first she thought it was a vision, which Heaven had sent her as a punishment. At last the hideous9 truth forced itself on her mind. “They have taken him,” she thought, “and now he is lost!” She remembered the language used within the fortress10 after his escape—the very humblest jailer had felt himself mortally humiliated12 by it. Clelia looked at Fabrizio, and in spite of herself, her eyes spoke13 all the passion that was driving her to despair. “Can you believe,” she seemed to say to Fabrizio, “that I shall find happiness in the sumptuous14 palace that is being prepared for me? My father tells me, till I am sick of hearing it, that you are as poor as we are. Heavens! how gladly would I share that poverty! But, alas15, we must never see each other again!”
Clelia had not the strength to make any use of the alphabets. Even as she gazed at Fabrizio, she turned faint, and dropped upon a chair beside the window. Her head rested upon the window ledge16, and as she had striven to look at him till the last moment her face, turned toward Fabrizio, was fully17 exposed to his gaze. When, after a few moments, she opened her eyes, her first glance sought Fabrizio. Tears stood in his eyes, but they were tears of utter happiness. He saw that absence had not made her forget him. For some time the two poor young creatures remained as though bewitched by the sight of each other. Fabrizio ventured to say a few words, as though singing to a guitar, something to this effect: “It is to see you again that I have come back to prison; I am to be tried.”
These words seemed to stir all Clelia’s sense of virtue18. She rose swiftly to her feet, covered her eyes, and endeavoured to make him understand, by the most earnest gestures, that she must never see him again. This had been her promise to the Madonna, which she had forgotten when she had looked at him. When Fabrizio still ventured to give expression to his love, Clelia fled indignantly, swearing to herself that she would never see him again. For these were the exact terms of her vow to the Madonna: “My eyes shall never look on him again.” She had written them on a slip of paper which her uncle Cesare had allowed her to burn on the altar, at the moment of the elevation19, while he was saying mass.
But in spite of every vow, Fabrizio’s presence in the Farnese Tower drove Clelia back into all her former habits. She now generally spent her whole day alone in her room, but hardly had she recovered from the state of agitation20 into which Fabrizio’s appearance had thrown her, than she began to move about the palace, and renew acquaintance, so to speak, with all her humbler friends. A very talkative old woman, who worked in the kitchens, said to her, with a look of mystery, “Signor Fabrizio will not get out of the citadel21 this time.”
“He will not commit the crime of getting over the walls,” said Clelia, “but he will go out by the gate if he is acquitted23.”
“I tell your Excellency, and I know what I am saying, that he will never go out till he is carried out feet foremost.”
Clelia turned deadly pale; the old woman remarked it, and her eloquence24 was checked. She felt she had committed an imprudence in speaking thus before the daughter of the governor, whose duty it would be to tell every one Fabrizio had died of illness. As Clelia was going back to her rooms she met the prison doctor, an honest, timid kind of man, who told her, with a look of alarm, that Fabrizio was very ill. Clelia could hardly drag herself along; she hunted high and low for her uncle, the good priest Cesare, and found him at last in the chapel25, praying fervently26; his face betrayed the greatest distress27. The dinner bell rang. Not a word was exchanged between the two brothers at table, but toward the end of the meal the general addressed some very tart28 remark to his brother. This latter looked at the servants, who left the room.
“General,” said Don Cesare to the governor, “I have the honour to inform you that I am about to leave the citadel. I give you my resignation.”
“Bravo! Bravissimo!… to cast suspicion on me! And your reason, may I inquire?”
“My conscience.”
“Pooh! you’re nothing but a shaveling priest. You know nothing about honour.”
“Fabrizio is killed!” said Clelia to herself. “They’ve poisoned him at his dinner, or else they’ll do it to-morrow.” She flew to her aviary29, determined30 to sing and accompany herself on the piano. “I will confess it all,” said she to herself. “I shall be given absolution for breaking my vow to save a man’s life.” What was her consternation31, on reaching the aviary, to perceive that the screens had been replaced by boards, fastened to the iron bars. Half distracted, she endeavoured to warn the prisoner by a few words, which she screamed rather than sang. There was no answer of any sort. A deathlike silence already reigned32 within the Farnese Tower. “It’s all over,” she thought. Distraught, she ran down the stairs, then ran back again, to fetch what money she had, and her little diamond earrings33. As she went by she snatched up the bread remaining from dinner, which had been put on a sideboard. “If he is still alive, it is my duty to save him.” With a haughty34 air she moved toward the little door in the tower. The door was open, and eight soldiers had only just been stationed in the pillared hall on the ground floor. She looked boldly at the soldiers. Clelia had intended to speak to the sergeant35 who should have been in charge, but the man was not there. Clelia hurried up the little iron staircase which wound round one of the pillars; the soldiers stared at her, very much astonished, but presumably on account of her lace shawl, and her bonnet36, they dared not say anything to her. There was nobody at all on the first floor, but on the second, at the entrance to the passage, which, as my readers may recollect37, was closed by three iron-barred doors, and led to Fabrizio’s room, she found a turnkey, a stranger to her, who said, with a startled look:
“He hasn’t dined yet.”
“I know that quite well,” said Clelia loftily. The man did not venture to stop her. Twenty paces farther on, Clelia found, sitting on the first of the six wooden steps leading up to Fabrizio’s room, another turnkey, very elderly, and exceedingly red in the face, who said to her firmly, “Signorina, have you an order from the governor?”
“Do you not know who I am?”
At that moment Clelia was possessed38 by a sort of supernatural strength. She was quite beside herself. “I am going to save my husband,” she said to herself.
While the old turnkey was calling out, “But my duty will not permit me,” Clelia ran swiftly up the six steps. She threw herself against the door. A huge key was in the lock; it took all her strength to turn it. At that moment the old turnkey, who was half drunk, snatched at the bottom of her skirt. She dashed into the room, slammed the door, tearing her gown, and, as the turnkey pushed at it, to get in after her, she shot a bolt which she found just under her hand. She looked into the room and saw Fabrizio sitting at a very small table, on which his dinner was laid. She rushed at the[470] table, overturned it, and, clutching Fabrizio’s arm, she cried, “Hast thou eaten?”
This use of the second person singular filled Fabrizio with joy. For the first time in her agitation, Clelia had forgotten her womanly reserve and betrayed her love.
Fabrizio had been on the point of beginning his fatal meal. He clasped her in his arms, and covered her with kisses. “This food has been poisoned,” thought he to himself. “If I tell her I have not touched it, religion will reassert its rights, and Clelia will take to flight. But if she looks upon me as a dying man I shall persuade her not to leave me. She is longing39 to find a means of escape from her hateful marriage; chance has brought us this one. The jailers will soon collect; they will break in the door, and then there will be such a scandal that the Marchese Crescenzi will take fright, and break off his marriage.”
During the momentary40 silence consequent on these reflections, Fabrizio felt that Clelia was already endeavouring to free herself from his embrace.
“I feel no pain as yet,” he said to her, “but soon I shall lie at thy feet in agony. Help me to die!”
“Oh, my only friend,” she answered, “I will die with thee!” and she clasped her arms about him with a convulsive pressure.
Half dressed as she was, and half wild with passion, she was so beautiful that Fabrizio could not restrain an almost involuntary gesture. He met with no resistance.
In the gush41 of passion and generous feeling which follows on excessive happiness, he said to her boldly: “The first instants of our happiness shall not be soiled by a vile42 lie. But for thy courage I should now be nothing but a corpse43, or struggling in the most hideous tortures. But at thy entrance I was only about to dine; I had not touched any of the dishes.”
Fabrizio dilated44 on the frightful45 picture, so as to soften46 the indignation he already perceived in Clelia’s eyes. Torn by violent and conflicting feelings, she looked at him for an instant, and then threw herself into his arms. A great noise arose in the passage, the iron doors were roughly opened and violently banged, and there was talking and shouting.
“Oh, if only I was armed!” exclaimed Fabrizio. “They took my arms away before they would let me come in. No doubt they are coming to make an end of me. Farewell, my Clelia! I bless my death, since it has brought me my happiness!” Clelia kissed him, and gave him a little ivory-handled dagger47, with a blade not much longer than that of a penknife.
“Do not let them kill thee,” she said. “Defend thyself to the last moment. If my uncle hears the noise—he is brave and virtuous—he will save thee. I am going to speak to them!” and as she said the words, she rushed toward the door.
“If thou art not killed,” she said feverishly48, with her hand on the bolt and her head turned toward him, “starve rather than touch any food that is brought thee. Keep this bread about thy person always.” The noise was drawing nearer. Fabrizio caught hold of her, took her place by the door, and throwing it open violently, rushed down the six wooden steps. The ivory-handled dagger was in his hand, and he was just about to drive it into the waistcoat of General Fontana, the prince’s aide-de-camp, who started back in alarm, and exclaimed, “But I have come to save you, Signor del Dongo!”
Fabrizio turned back, up the six steps, said, within the room, “Fontana has come to save me,” then, returning to the general, on the wooden steps, he conversed49 calmly with him, begging him, in many words, to forgive him his angry impulse. “There has been an attempt to poison me; that dinner you see laid out there is poisoned. I had the sense not to touch it, but I will confess to you that the incident annoyed me. When I heard you coming up the stairs, I thought they were coming to finish me with daggers50.… General, I request you will give orders that nobody shall enter my room. Somebody would take away the poison, and our good prince must be informed of everything.”
The general, very pale, and very much horrified51, transmitted the order suggested by Fabrizio to the specially52 selected jailers, who had followed him. These gentry53, very much crestfallen54 at seeing the poison discovered, lost no time in getting downstairs. They made as though they were going in front, to get out of the way of the prince’s aide-de-camp on the narrow staircase; as a matter of fact, they were panting to escape and disappear. To General Fontana’s great astonishment55, Fabrizio halted for more than a quarter of an hour at the little iron staircase that ran round the pillar on the ground floor. He wanted to give Clelia time to conceal56 herself on the first floor.
It was the duchess who, after doing several wild things, had succeeded in getting General Fontana sent to the citadel. This success had been the result of chance. Leaving Count Mosca, who was as much alarmed as herself, she hurried to the palace. The princess, who had a strong dislike to energy, which always struck her as being vulgar, thought she was mad, and did not show the least disposition57 to attempt any unusual step to help her. The duchess, distracted, was weeping bitterly. All she could do was to repeat, over and over again, “But, madam, within a quarter of an hour Fabrizio will be dead of poison!”
When the duchess perceived the princess’s perfect indifference58, her grief drove her mad. That moral reflection, which would certainly have occurred to any woman educated in one of those northern religions which permit of self-examination—“I was the first to use poison, and now it is by poison that I am destroyed”—never occurred to her. In Italy such considerations, in moments of deep passion, would seem as commonplace as a pun would appear to a Parisian, under parallel circumstances.
In her despair, the duchess chanced to go into the drawing-room, where she found the Marchese Crescenzi, who was in waiting that day. When the duchess had returned to Parma he had thanked her fervently for his post as lord in waiting, to which, but for her, he could never have aspired59. There had been no lack of asseverations of devotion on his part. The duchess addressed him in the following words:
“Rassi is going to have Fabrizio, who is in the citadel, poisoned. Put some chocolate and a bottle of water, which I will give you, into your pocket. Go up to the citadel, and save my life by telling General Fabio Conti that if he does not allow you to give Fabrizio the chocolate and the water yourself, you will break off your marriage with his daughter.”
The marchese turned pale, and his features, instead of kindling60 into animation61, expressed the most miserable62 perplexity. He “could not believe that so hideous a crime could be committed in so well-ordered a city as Parma, ruled over by so great a prince,” and so forth63. And to make it worse, he enunciated64 all these platitudes65 exceedingly slowly. In a word, the duchess found she had to deal with a man who was upright enough, but weak beyond words, and quite unable to make up his mind to act. After a score of remarks of this kind, all of them interrupted by her impatient exclamations66, he hit on an excellent excuse. His oath as lord in waiting forbade him to take part in any machinations against the government.
My readers will imagine the anxiety and despair of the duchess, who felt the time was slipping by.
“But see the governor, at all events, and tell him I will hunt Fabrizio’s murderers into hell!”
Despair had quickened the duchess’s eloquence. But all her fervour only added to the marchese’s alarm, and doubled his natural irresolution67. At the end of an hour he was even less inclined to do anything than he had been at first.
The unhappy woman, who had reached the utmost limit of distraction68, and was thoroughly convinced the governor would never refuse anything to so rich a son-in-law, went so far as to throw herself at his feet. This seemed only to increase the Marchese Crescenzi’s cowardice—the strange sight filled him with an unconscious fear that he himself might be compromised. But then a strange thing happened. The marchese, a kind-hearted man at bottom, was touched when he saw so beautiful and, above all, so powerful a woman, kneeling at his feet.
“I myself, rich and noble as I am,” thought he, “may one day be forced to kneel at the feet of some republican.”
The marchese began to cry, and at last it was agreed that the duchess, as mistress of the robes, should introduce him to the princess, who would give him leave to convey a small basket, of the contents of which he would declare himself ignorant, to Fabrizio.
The previous night, before the duchess had become aware of Fabrizio’s folly69 in giving himself up to the citadel, a commedia dell’arte had been acted at court, and the prince, who always kept the lovers’ parts for himself, and played them with the duchess, had spoken to her so passionately71 of his love that had such a thing been possible, in Italy, to any passionate70 man, or any prince, he would have looked ridiculous.
The prince, who, shy as he was, took his love-affairs very seriously, was walking along one of the corridors of the palace, when he met the duchess, hurrying the Marchese Crescenzi, who looked very much flustered72, into the princess’s presence. He was so surprised and dazzled by the beauty and the emotion with which despair had endued73 the mistress of the robes, that for the first time in his life he showed some decision of character. With a gesture that was more than imperious, he dismissed the marchese, and forthwith made a formal declaration of his love to the duchess. No doubt the prince had thought it all over beforehand, for it contained some very sensible remarks.
“Since my rank forbids me the supreme74 happiness of marrying you, I will swear to you on the Holy Wafer that I will never marry without your written consent. I know very well,” he added, “that I shall cause you to lose the hand of the Prime Minister—a clever and very charming man—but, after all, he is fifty-six years old, and I am not yet twenty-two. I should feel I was insulting you, and should deserve your refusal, if I spoke to you of advantages apart from my love. But every soul about my court who cares about money speaks with admiration75 of the proof of love the count gives you, by leaving everything he possesses in your hands. I shall be only too happy to imitate him in this respect. You will use my fortune much better than I, and you will have the entire disposal of the annual sum which my ministers pay over to the lord steward76 of the crown. Thus[475] it will be you, duchess, who will decide what sums I may expend77 each month.”
The duchess thought all these details very long-winded. The sense of Fabrizio’s peril78 was tearing at her heart.
“But don’t you know, sir,” she exclaimed, “that Fabrizio is at this moment being poisoned in your citadel. Save him! I believe everything!” The arrangement of her sentence was thoroughly awkward. At the word poison all the confidence, all the good faith which had been evident in the poor, well-meaning prince’s conversation, disappeared like a flash. The duchess only noticed her blunder when it was too late to remedy it, and this increased her despair—a thing she had thought impossible. “If I had not mentioned poison,” said she to herself, “he would have granted me Fabrizio’s liberty. Oh, dear Fabrizio,” she added, “I am fated to ruin you by my folly!”
It took the duchess a long time, and she was forced to employ many wiles79, before she could win the prince back to his passionate declarations of affection. But he was still thoroughly scared. It was only his mind that spoke; his heart had been frozen—first of all by the idea of poison, and then by another, as displeasing80 to him as the first had been terrible. “Poison is being administered in my dominions81 without my being told anything about it. Rassi, then, is bent82 on dishonouring84 me in the eyes of Europe. God alone knows what I shall read in the French newspapers next month.”
Suddenly, timid as the young man was, his heart was silent, and an idea started up in his mind.
“Dear duchess,” he cried, “you know how deeply I am attached to you. I would fain believe your terrible notion about poison is quite unfounded. But, indeed, it set me thinking, too, and for a moment it almost made me forget my passionate love for you, the only one I have ever felt in my life. I feel I am not very lovable; I am nothing but a boy, very desperately85 in love. But put me to the test, at all events!”
As the prince spoke he grew very eager.
“Save Fabrizio, and I will believe everything! No doubt I am carried away by a foolish mother’s fears. But send instantly to fetch Fabrizio from the citadel, and let me see him. If he is still alive, send him from the palace to the city jail, and keep him there for months and months, until he has been tried, if that be your Highness’s will!”
The duchess noticed with despair that the prince, instead of granting so simple a petition with a word, had grown gloomy. He was very much flushed; he looked at the duchess, then dropped his eyes, and his cheeks grew pale. The idea of poison she had so unluckily put forward had inspired him with a thought worthy86 of his own father, or of Philip II. But he did not dare to express it.
“Listen, madam,” he said at last, as though with an effort, and in a tone that was not particularly gracious. “You look down upon me as a boy, and further, as a creature possessing no attraction. Well, I am going to say something horrible to you, which has been suggested to me, this instant, by the real and deep passion I feel for you. If I had the smallest belief in the world in this poison story, I should have taken steps at once; my duty would have made that a law. But I take your request to be nothing but a wild fancy, the meaning of which, you will allow me to say, I may not fully grasp. You expect me, who have hardly reigned three months, to act without consulting my ministers. You ask me to make an exception to a general rule, which, I confess, seems to me a very reasonable one. At this moment it is you, madam, who are absolute sovereign here; you inspire me with hope in a matter which is all in all to me. But within an hour, when this nightmare of yours, this fancy about poison, has faded away, my presence will become a weariness to you, and you will drive me away, madam. Therefore I want an oath. Swear to me, madam, that if Fabrizio is restored to you, safe and sound, you will grant me, within three months, all the happiness that my love can crave87; that you will ensure the bliss88 of my whole life by placing one hour of yours at my disposal, and that you will be mine!”
At that moment the castle clock struck two. “Ah, perhaps it is too late now!” thought the duchess.
“I swear it,” she cried, and her eyes were wild.
Instantly the prince became a different man. Running to the aide-de-camp’s room at the end of the gallery—
“General Fontana,” he cried, “gallop89 at full speed to the citadel; hurry as fast as you can to the room where Signor del Dongo is confined, and bring him to me. I must speak to him within twenty minutes—within fifteen, if that be possible.”
“Ah, general!” exclaimed the duchess, who had followed on the prince’s heels. “My whole life may depend on one moment. A report—a false one, no doubt—has made me fear Fabrizio may be poisoned. The moment you are within earshot, call out to him not to eat. If he has touched food, you must make him sick; say I insist upon it—use violence if necessary. Tell him I am following close after you, and believe I shall be indebted to you all my life!”
“My lady duchess, my horse is saddled; I am thought a good rider; I will gallop as hard as I can go, and I shall be at the citadel eight minutes before you.”
The aide-de-camp vanished. He was a man whose one merit was that he knew how to ride.
Before he had well closed the door the young prince, who apparently90 knew his own mind now, seized the duchess’s hand. “Madam,” he said, and there was passion in his tone, “deign to come with me to the chapel.” Taken aback for the first time in her life, the duchess followed him without a word. She and the prince ran down the whole length of the great gallery of the palace, at the far end of which the chapel was situated91. When they were inside the chapel the prince cast himself on his knees, as much before the duchess as before the altar.
“Repeat your oath!” he exclaimed passionately. “If you had been just, if the misfortune of my being a prince had not injured my cause, you would have granted me, out of pity for my love, that which you owe me now, because you have sworn it.”
“If I see Fabrizio again, and he has not been poisoned—if he is alive within a week from now—if your Highness appoints him coadjutor to Archbishop Landriani, and his ultimate successor—I will trample92 everything, my honour, my womanly dignity, beneath my feet, and I will give myself to your Highness.”
“But, dearest friend,” said the prince, with a comical mixture of nervous anxiety and tenderness, “I am afraid of some pitfall93 I do not understand, and which may destroy all my happiness; that would kill me. If the archbishop makes some ecclesiastical difficulty which will drag the business out for years, what is to become of me? I am acting94, you see, in perfect good faith; are you going to treat me like a Jesuit?”
“No, in all good faith. If Fabrizio is saved, and if you do all in your power to make him coadjutor and future archbishop, I will dishonour83 myself, and give myself to you. Your Highness will undertake to write ‘approved’ on the margin95 of a request which the archbishop will present within the week?”
“I will sign you a blank sheet of paper! You shall rule me and my dominions!” Reddening with happiness, and thoroughly beside himself, he insisted on a second oath. So great was his emotion that it made him forget his natural timidity, and in that palace chapel where they were alone together, he whispered things which, if he had said them three days previously96, would have altered the duchess’s opinion of him. But in her heart, despair concerning Fabrizio’s danger had now been replaced by horror at the promise which had been torn from her.
The duchess was overwhelmed by the thought of what she had done. If she was not yet conscious of the frightful bitterness of what she had said, it was because her attention was still strained by anxiety as to whether General Fontana would reach the citadel in time.
To stem the boy’s wild love talk, and turn the conversation, she praised a famous picture by Parmegiano, which adorned97 the high altar in the chapel.
“Do me the kindness of allowing me to send it to you,” said the prince.
“I accept it,” replied the duchess. “But give me leave to hurry to meet Fabrizio.”
With a bewildered look she told her coachman to make his horses into a gallop. On the bridge that spanned the fortress moat she met General Fontana and Fabrizio coming out on foot.
“Have you eaten?”
“No, by some miracle.”
The duchess threw herself on Fabrizio’s breast, and fell into a swoon, which lasted for an hour, and engendered98 fears, first for her life, and afterward99 for her reason.
At the sight of General Fontana, General Fabio Conti had grown white with rage. He dallied100 so much about obeying the prince’s order, that the aide-de-camp, who concluded the duchess was about to occupy the position of reigning101 mistress, had ended by losing his temper. The governor had intended to make Fabrizio’s illness last two or three days, and “now,” said he to himself, “this general, a man about the court, will find the impudent102 fellow struggling in the agonies which are to avenge103 me for his flight.”
Greatly worried, Fabio Conti stopped in the guard-room of the Farnese Tower, and hastily dismissed the soldiers in it. He did not care to have any witnesses of the approaching scene.
Five minutes afterwards, he was petrified104 with astonishment by hearing Fabrizio’s voice, and seeing him well and hearty105, describing the prison to General Fontana. He swiftly disappeared.
At his interview with the prince, Fabrizio behaved like a perfect gentleman. In the first place, he had no intention of looking like a child who is frightened by a mere106 nothing. The prince inquired kindly107 how he felt.
“Like a man, your Serene108 Highness, who is starving with hunger, because, by good luck, he has neither breakfasted nor dined.”
After having had the honour of thanking the prince, he requested permission to see the archbishop, before proceeding109 to the city jail.
The prince had turned exceedingly pale when the conviction that the poison had not been altogether a phantom110 of the duchess’s imagination had forced itself upon his childish brain. Absorbed by the cruel thought, he did not at first reply to Fabrizio’s request that he might see the archbishop. Then he felt obliged to atone111 for his inattention by excessive graciousness.
“You can go out alone, sir, and move through the streets of my capital without any guard. Toward ten or eleven o’clock you will repair to the prison, and I trust you will not have to stay there long.”
On the morrow of that great day, the most remarkable112 in his whole life, the prince thought himself a young Napoleon. That great man, he had read, had received favours from several of the most beautiful women of his court. Now that he too was a Napoleon by his success in love, he recollected113 that he had also been a Napoleon under fire. His soul was still glowing with delight over the firmness of his treatment of the duchess. The sense that he had achieved something difficult made quite another man of him. For a whole fortnight he became accessible to generous-minded argument; he showed some resolution of character.
He began, that very day, by burning the patent creating Rassi a count, which had been lying on his writing-table for the last month. He dismissed General Fabio Conti, and commanded Colonel Lange, his successor, to tell him the truth about the poison. Lange, a brave Polish soldier, terrified the jailers, and found out that Signor del Dongo was to have been poisoned at his breakfast, but that too many persons would have had to have been let into the secret. At his dinner, measures had been more carefully taken, and but for General Fontana’s arrival, Monsignore del Dongo would have died. The prince was thrown into consternation. But, desperately in love as he was, it was a consolation114 to him to be able to think, “It turns out that I really have saved Monsignore del Dongo’s life, and the duchess will not dare to break the word she has given me.” From this thought another proceeded: “My way of life is much more difficult than I supposed. Every one agrees that the duchess is an exceedingly clever woman. In this case my interest and my heart agree. What divine happiness it would be for me, if she would become my Prime Minister!”
So worried was the prince by the horrors he had discovered, that he would have nothing to do with the acting that evening.
“It would be too great a happiness for me,” said he to the duchess, “if you would rule my dominions, even as you rule my heart. To begin with, I am going to tell you how I have spent my day.” And he began to relate everything very exactly. How he had burned Rassi’s patent, his appointment of Lange, Lange’s report on the attempted poisoning, and so forth.
“I feel I am a very inexperienced ruler. The count’s jokes humiliate11 me. Even at the council-table he jokes, and in general society he says things which you will say are not true. He declares I am a child, and that he leads me wherever he chooses. Though I am a prince, madam, I am a man as well, and such remarks are very vexatious. To cast doubt on the stories Mosca put about, I was induced to appoint that dangerous scoundrel Rassi to the ministry115. And now here I have General Fabio Conti, who still believes him to be so powerful that he dares not confess whether it was he or the Raversi who suggested his making away with your nephew. I have a good mind to have General Fabio Conti tried. The judges would soon find out whether he is guilty of the attempted poisoning.”
“But have you any judges, sir?”
“You have learned lawyers, sir, who look very solemn as they walk through the streets. But their verdicts will always follow the will of the dominant117 party at your court.”
While the young prince, thoroughly scandalized, was saying a number of things which proved his candour to be far greater than his wisdom, the duchess was thinking to herself.
“Will it answer my purpose to have Conti dishonoured118? Certainly not, for then his daughter’s marriage with that worthy commonplace individual Crescenzi becomes impossible.”
An endless conversation followed on this subject between the duchess and the prince. The prince’s admiration quite blinded him. Out of consideration for Clelia’s marriage with the Marchese Crescenzi, but on this account solely119, as he angrily informed the ex-governor, the prince overlooked his attempt to poison a prisoner. But, advised by the duchess, he sent him into banishment120 until the date of his daughter’s marriage. The duchess believed she no longer loved Fabrizio, but she was passionately anxious to see Clelia married to the marchese. This came of her vague hope that she might thus see Fabrizio grow less absent-minded.
In his delight, the prince would have disgraced Rassi openly that very night. The duchess said to him laughingly:
“Do not you know a saying of Napoleon’s, that a man in a high position, on whom all men’s eyes are fixed121, must never allow himself to act in anger? But it is too late to do anything to-night. Let us put off all business until to-morrow.”
She wanted to get time to consult the count, to whom she faithfully repeated the whole of the evening’s conversation, only suppressing the prince’s frequent references to a promise the thought of which poisoned her existence. The duchess hoped to make herself so indispensable that she would be able to get the matter indefinitely adjourned122 by saying to the prince, “If you are so barbarous as to make me endure such a humiliation123, which I should never forgive, I will leave your state the next morning.”
The count, when the duchess consulted with him as to Rassi’s fate, behaved like a true philosopher. Rassi and General Fabio Conti travelled to Piedmont together.
A very peculiar124 difficulty arose in connection with Fabrizio’s trial. The judges wanted to acquit22 him by acclamation at their very first sitting.
The count was obliged to use threats to make the trial last a week, and insure the hearing of all the witnesses. “These people are all alike,” said he to himself.
The day after his acquittal, Fabrizio del Dongo took possession, at last, of his post as grand vicar to the good Archbishop Landriani. On that same day the prince signed the despatches necessary to insure Fabrizio’s appointment as the archbishop’s coadjutor and ultimate successor, and within less than two months, he was installed in this position.
Everybody complimented the duchess on her nephew’s serious bearing. As a matter of fact, he was in utter despair.
Immediately after his deliverance, which had been followed by General Fabio Conti’s disgrace and banishment, and the duchess’s accession to the highest favour, Clelia had taken refuge in the house of her aunt, the Countess Cantarini, a very rich and very aged125 woman, who never thought of anything but her health. Clelia might have seen Fabrizio, but any one acquainted with her former engagements, and seeing her present mode of behaviour, would have concluded that her regard for her lover had departed when the danger in which he stood had disappeared. Fabrizio not only walked past the Palazzo Cantarini as often as he decently could; he had also succeeded, after endless trouble, in hiring a small lodging126 opposite the first floor of the mansion127. Once, when Clelia had thoughtlessly stationed herself at the window, to watch a procession pass by, she had started back, as though terror-struck. She had caught sight of Fabrizio, dressed in black, but as a very poor workman, looking at her out of one of his garret windows, filled with oiled paper, like those of his room in the Farnese Tower. Fabrizio would have been very thankful to persuade himself that Clelia was avoiding him on account of her father’s disgrace, which public rumour128 ascribed to the duchess. But he was only too well acquainted with another cause for her retirement129, and nothing could cheer his sadness.
Neither his acquittal, nor his important functions, the first he had been called on to perform, nor his fine social position, nor even the assiduous court paid him by all the clergy130 and devout131 persons in the diocese, touched him in the least. His charming rooms in the Palazzo Sanseverina were no longer large enough. The duchess, to her great delight, was obliged to give him the whole of the second floor of her palace, and two fine rooms on the first floor, which were always full of people waiting to pay their duty to the youthful coadjutor. The clause insuring his succession to the archbishopric had created an extraordinary effect in the country. Those resolute132 qualities in Fabrizio’s character, which had once so scandalized the needy133 and foolish courtiers, were now ascribed to him as virtues134.
It was a great lesson in philosophy to Fabrizio to find himself so utterly135 indifferent to all these honours, and far more unhappy in his splendid rooms, with half a score of lackeys136 dressed in his liveries, than he had been in his wooden chamber137 in the Farnese Tower, with hideous jailers all about him, and in perpetual terror for his life. His mother and his sister, the Duchess V⸺, who had travelled to Parma to see him in his glory, were struck by his deep melancholy138. So greatly did it alarm the Marchesa del Dongo, who had become the most unromantic of women, that she thought he must have been given some slow poison in the Farnese Tower. Discreet139 as she was, she felt it her duty to speak to him about his extraordinary depression, and Fabrizio’s tears were his only answer.
The innumerable advantages arising out of his brilliant position produced no impression on him, save one of vexation. His brother, that vainest of mortals, eaten up with the vilest140 selfishness, wrote him an almost formal letter of congratulation, and with this letter he received a bank bill for fifty thousand francs, to enable him, so the new marchese wrote, to purchase horses and carriages worthy of his name. Fabrizio sent the money to his younger sister, who had made a poor marriage.
Count Mosca had caused a fine Italian translation to be made of the Latin genealogy141 of the Valserra del Dongo family, originally published by Fabrizio, Archbishop of Parma. This he had splendidly printed, with the Latin text on the opposite page; the engravings had been reproduced by magnificent lithographs142, done in Paris. By the duchess’s desire a fine portrait of Fabrizio was inserted, opposite that of the late archbishop. This translation was published as Fabrizio’s work, executed during his first imprisonment143. But in our hero’s heart every feeling was dead, even the vanity inherent in every human creature. He did not condescend144 to read one page of the volume attributed to him. His social position made it incumbent145 on him to present a magnificently bound copy of it to the prince, who, thinking he owed him some amends146 for having brought him so near an agonizing147 death, granted him his “grandes entrées” to the sovereign’s apartment—an honour which confers the title of “Eccellenza.”
该作者的其它作品
《红与黑 The Red and the Black》
该作者的其它作品
《红与黑 The Red and the Black》
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1
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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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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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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12
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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13
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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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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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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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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28
tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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29
aviary
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| n.大鸟笼，鸟舍 | |
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30
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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32
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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33
earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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37
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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38
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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41
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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42
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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43
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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46
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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47
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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50
daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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51
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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52
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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53
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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54
crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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55
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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56
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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57
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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58
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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59
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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61
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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62
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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63
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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64
enunciated
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| v.（清晰地）发音( enunciate的过去式和过去分词 )；确切地说明 | |
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65
platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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66
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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67
irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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68
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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69
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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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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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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72
flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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73
endued
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| v.授予，赋予（特性、才能等）( endue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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75
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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76
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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77
expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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81
dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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82
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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84
dishonouring
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| 使（人、家族等）丧失名誉（dishonour的现在分词形式） | |
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85
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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86
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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87
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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89
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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90
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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91
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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92
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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93
pitfall
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| n.隐患，易犯的错误；陷阱，圈套 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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dallied
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的过去式和过去分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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104
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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105
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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106
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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107
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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108
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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113
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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114
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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115
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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116
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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117
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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118
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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120
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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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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adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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126
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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lackeys
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| n.听差( lackey的名词复数 )；男仆（通常穿制服）；卑躬屈膝的人；被待为奴仆的人 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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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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139
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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142
lithographs
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| n.平版印刷品( lithograph的名词复数 ) | |
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143
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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146
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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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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