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Betrothed (version 2 Dramatic Reading)

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<h2>CHAPTER XXX.</h2> As our fugitives approached the valley, they were joined by many companions in misfortune, who were on the same errand to the castle with themselves: under similar circumstances of distress and anguish, intimacies are soon matured, and they listened to the relation of each other's peril with mutual interest and sympathy; some had fled, like the curate and our females, without waiting the arrival of the troops; others had actually seen them, and could describe, in lively colours, their savage and horrible appearance. “We are fortunate, indeed,” said Agnes; “let us thank Heaven. We may lose our property, but at least our lives are safe.” But Don Abbondio could not see so much reason for congratulation; the great concourse of people suggested new causes of alarm. “Oh,” murmured he to the females when no one was near enough to hear him; “oh, do you not perceive that by assembling here in such crowds we shall attract the notice of the soldiery? As every one flies and no one remains at home, they will believe that our treasures are up here, and this belief will lead them hither. Oh, poor me! why was I so thoughtless as to venture here!” “What should they come here for?” said Perpetua, “they are obliged to pursue their route; and, at all events, where there is danger, it is best to have plenty of company.” “Company, company, silly woman! don't you know that every lansquenet could devour a hundred of them? and then, if any of them should commit some foolish violence, it would be a fine thing to find ourselves in the midst of a battle! It would have been better to have gone to the mountains. I don't see why they have all been seized with a mania to go to one place. Curse the people! all here; one after the other, like a frightened flock of sheep!” “As to that,” said Agnes, “they may say the same of us.” “Hush, hush! it is of no use to talk,” said Don Abbondio; “that which is done, is done: we are here, and here we must remain. May Heaven protect us!” But his anxiety was much increased by the appearance of a number of armed men at the entrance of the valley. It is impossible to describe his vexation and alarm. “Oh, poor me!” thought he; “I might have expected this from a man of his character. What does he mean to do? Will he declare war? Will he act the part of a sovereign? Oh, poor me! poor me! In this terrible conjuncture he ought to have concealed himself as much as possible; and, behold, he seeks every method to make himself known. It is easy to be seen he wants to provoke them.” “Do you not see, sir,” said Perpetua, “that these are brave men who are able to defend us? Let the soldiers come; these men are not at all like our poor devils of peasants, who are good for nothing but to use their legs.” “Be quiet,” replied Don Abbondio, in a low but angry tone, “be quiet; you know not what you say. Pray Heaven that the army may be in haste to proceed on its march, so that they may not gain information of this place being disposed like a garrison. They would ask for nothing better; an assault is mere play to them, and putting every one to the sword like going to a wedding. Oh, poor me! perhaps I can secure a place of safety on one of these precipices. I will never be taken in battle! I will never be taken in battle! I never will!” “If you are even afraid of being defended——” returned Perpetua; but Don Abbondio sharply interrupted her. “Be quiet, and take care not to relate this conversation. Remember you must always keep a pleasant countenance here, and appear to approve all that you see.” At Malanotte they found another company of armed men. Don Abbondio took off his hat and bowed profoundly, saying to himself, “Alas, alas! I am really in a camp.” They here quitted the carriage to ascend the pass on foot, the curate having in haste paid and dismissed the driver. The recollection of his former terrors in this very place increased his present forebodings of evil, by mingling themselves with his reflections, and enfeebling more and more his understanding. Agnes, who had never before trod this path, but who had often pictured it to her imagination, was filled with different but keenly painful remembrances. “Oh, signor curate,” cried she, “when I think how my poor Lucy passed this very road.” “Will you be quiet, foolish woman?” cried Don Abbondio in her ear. “Are these things to speak of in this place? Are you ignorant that we are on his lands? It is fortunate no one heard you. If you speak in this manner——” “Oh,” said Agnes, “now that he is a saint——” “Be quiet,” repeated Don Abbondio: “think you we can tell the saints all that passes through our brains? Think rather of thanking him for the kindness he has done you.” “Oh, as to that I have already thought of it; do you think I have no manners, no politeness?” “Politeness, my good woman, does not consist in telling people things they don't like to hear. Have a little discretion, I pray you. Weigh well your words, speak but little, and that only when it is indispensable. There is no danger in silence.” “You do much worse with all your——” began Perpetua. But “Hush,” said Don Abbondio, and, taking off his hat, he bowed profoundly. The Unknown was coming to meet them, having recognised the curate approaching. “I could have wished,” said he, “to offer you my house on a more agreeable occasion; but, under any circumstances, I esteem myself happy in serving you.” “Confiding in the great kindness of your illustrious lordship, I have taken the liberty to trouble you at this unhappy time; and, as your illustrious lordship sees, I have also taken the liberty to bring company with me. This is my housekeeper——” “She is very welcome.” “And this is a female to whom your lordship has already rendered great benefits. The mother of—of——” “Of Lucy,” said Agnes. “Of Lucy!” cried the Unknown, turning to Agnes; “rendered benefits! I! Just God! It is you who render benefits to me by coming hither; to me—to this dwelling. You are very welcome. You bring with you the blessing of Heaven!” “Oh, I come rather to give you trouble.” Approaching him nearer, she said, in a low voice, “I have to thank you——” The Unknown interrupted her, asking with much interest concerning Lucy. He then conducted his new guests to the castle. Agnes looked at the curate, as if to say, “See if there is any need of your interfering between us with your advice.” “Has the army arrived in your parish?” said the Unknown to Don Abbondio. “No, my lord, I would not wait for the demons. Heaven knows if I should have escaped alive from their hands, and been able to trouble your illustrious lordship!” “You may be quite at ease; you are now in safety; they will not come here. If the whim should seize them, we are ready to receive them.” “Let us hope they will not come,” said Don Abbondio. “And on that side,” added he, pointing to the opposite mountains, “on that side, also, wanders another body of troops; but—but——” “It is true. But, doubt not, we are ready for them also.” “Between two fires!” thought Don Abbondio, “precisely between two fires! Where have I suffered myself to be led? And by two women! And this lord appears to delight in such business! Oh, what people there are in the world!” When they entered the castle, the Unknown ordered Agnes and Perpetua to be conducted to a room, in the quarter assigned to the women, which was three of the four wings of the second court, in the most retired part of the edifice. The men were accommodated in the wings of the other court to the right and left; the body of the building was filled, partly with provisions, and partly with the effects that the refugees brought with them. In the quarter devoted to the men was a small apartment destined to the ecclesiastics who might arrive. The Unknown accompanied Don Abbondio thither, who was the first to take possession of it. Our fugitives remained three or four and twenty days in the castle, in the midst of continual bustle and alarm. Not a day passed without some reports; at each account, the Unknown, unarmed as he was, led his band beyond the precincts of the valley to ascertain the extent of the peril; it was a singular thing, indeed, to behold him, without any personal defence, conducting a body of armed men. Not to encroach too far on the benevolence of the Unknown, Agnes and Perpetua employed themselves in performing services in the household. These occupations, with occasional conversations with the acquaintances they had formed at the castle, enabled them to pass away the time with less weariness. Poor Don Abbondio, who had nothing to do, was notwithstanding prevented from becoming listless and inactive by his fears: as to the dread of an attack, it was in some measure dissipated, but still the idea of the surrounding country, occupied on every side by soldiers, and of the numerous consequences which might at any moment result from such a state, kept him in perpetual alarm. All the time he remained in this asylum he never thought of going beyond the defences; his only walk was on the esplanade; he surveyed every side of the castle, observing attentively the hollows and precipices, to ascertain if there were any practicable passage by which he might seek escape in case of imminent danger. Every day there were various reports of the march of the soldiers; some newsmongers by profession gathered greedily all these reports, and spread them among their companions. On such a day, such a regiment arrived in such a territory; the next day they would ravage such another, where, in the mean time, another detachment had been plundering before them. An account was kept of the regiments that passed the bridge of Lecco, as they were then considered fairly out of the country. The cavalry of Wallenstein passed, then the infantry of Marrados, then the cavalry of Anzalt, then the infantry of Brandenburgh, and, finally, that of Galasso. The flying squadron of Venetians also removed, and the country was again free from invaders. Already the inhabitants of the different villages had begun to quit the castle; some departed every day, as after an autumn storm the birds of heaven leave the leafy branches of a great tree, under whose shelter they had sought and obtained protection. Our three friends were the last to depart, as Don Abbondio feared, if he returned so soon to his house, to find there some loitering soldiers. Perpetua in vain repeated, that the longer they delayed, the greater opportunity they afforded to the thieves of the country to take possession of all that might have been left by the spoilers. On the day fixed for their departure, the Unknown had a carriage ready at Malanotte, and, taking Agnes aside, he made her accept a bag of crowns, to repair the damage she would find at home; although she protested she was in no need of them, having still some of those he had formerly sent her. “When you see your good Lucy,” said he, “(I am certain that she prays for me, as I have done her much evil,) tell her that I thank her, and that I trust in God that her prayer will return in blessings on herself.” They finally departed; they stopped for a few moments at the house of the tailor, where they heard sad relations of this terrible march,—the usual story of violence and plunder. The tailor's family, however, had remained unmolested, as the army did not pass that way. “Ah, signor curate!” said the tailor, as he was bidding him farewell, “here is a fine subject to appear in print!” After having proceeded a short distance, our travellers beheld melancholy traces of the destruction they had heard related. Vineyards despoiled, not by the vintager, but as if by a tempest; vines trampled under foot; trees wounded and lopped of their branches; hedges destroyed; in the villages, doors broken open, window-frames dashed in, and streets filled with different articles of furniture and clothing, broken and torn to pieces. In the midst of lamentations and tears, the peasants were occupied in repairing, as well as they could, the damage done; while others, overcome by their miseries, remained in a state of silent despair. Having passed through these scenes of complicated woe, they at last succeeded in reaching their own dwellings, where they witnessed the same destruction. Agnes immediately occupied herself in reducing to order the little furniture that was left her, and in repairing the damage done to her doors and windows; but she did not forget to count over in secret her crowns, thanking God in her heart, and her generous benefactor, that in the general overthrow of order and safety she at least had fallen on her feet. Don Abbondio and Perpetua entered their house without being obliged to have recourse to keys. In addition to the miserable destruction of all their furniture, whose various fragments impeded their entrance, the most horrible odours for a time drove them back; and when these obstacles were at last surmounted, and the rooms were entered, they found indignity added to mischief. Frightful and grotesque figures of priests, with their square caps and bands, were drawn with pieces of coal upon the walls in all sorts of ridiculous attitudes. “Ah, the hogs!” cried Perpetua.—“Ah, the thieves!” exclaimed Don Abbondio. Hastening into the garden, they approached the fig-tree, and beheld the earth newly turned up, and, to their utter dismay, the tomb was opened, and the dead was gone. Don Abbondio scolded Perpetua for her bad management, who was not slack in repelling his complaints. Both pointing backwards to the unlucky hiding place, at length returned to the house, and set about endeavouring to purify it of some of its accumulated filth, as at such a time it was impossible to procure assistance for the purpose. With money lent them by Agnes, they were in some measure enabled to replace their articles of furniture. For some time this disaster was the source of continual disputes between Perpetua and her master; the former having discovered that some of the property, which they supposed to have been taken by the soldiers, was actually in possession of certain people of the village, she tormented him incessantly to claim it. There could not have been touched a chord more hateful to Don Abbondio, since the property was in the hands of that class of persons with whom he had it most at heart to live in peace. “But I don't wish to know these things,” said he. “How many times must I tell you that what has happened has? Must I get myself into trouble again, because my house has been robbed?” “You would suffer your eyes to be pulled from your head, I verily believe,” said Perpetua; “others hate to be robbed, but you, you seem to like it.” “This is pretty language to hold, indeed! Will you be quiet?” Perpetua kept silence, but continually found new pretexts for resuming the conversation; so that the poor man was obliged to suppress every complaint at the loss of such or such a thing, as she would say, “Go and find it at such a person's house, who has it, and who would not have kept it until now if he had not known what kind of a man he had to deal with.” But here we will leave poor Don Abbondio, having more important things to speak of than his fears, or the misery of a few villagers from a transient disaster like this. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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