“Nino mio,” I began,
“I saw the contessina last night. She is
in a very dramatic and desperate situation. But
she greets you, and looks to you to save her from
her troubles.” Nino’s face was calm,
but his voice trembled a little as he answered:
“Tell me quickly, please, what the troubles
are.”
“Softly I will tell
you all about it. You must know that your friend
Benoni is a traitor to you, and is here. Do not
look astonished. He has made up his mind to marry
the contessina, and she says she will die rather than
take him, which is quite right of her.”
At the latter piece of news Nino sprang from his chair.
“You do not seriously mean that
her father is trying to make her marry Benoni?”
he cried.
“It is infamous, my dear boy; but it is true.”
“Infamous! I should think
you could find a stronger word. How did you learn
this?” I detailed the circumstances of our meeting
on the previous night. While I talked Nino listened
with intense interest, and his face changed its look
from anger to pity, and from pity to horror.
When I had finished, he was silent.
“You can see for yourself,”
I said, “that the case is urgent.”
“I will take her away,”
said Nino, at last. “It will be very unpleasant
for the count. He would have been wiser to allow
her to have her own way.”
“Do nothing rash, Nino mio.
Consider a little what the consequences would be if
you were caught in the act of violently carrying off
the daughter of a man as powerful as Von Lira.”
“Bah! You talk of his power
as though we lived under the Colonnesi and the Orsini,
instead of under a free monarchy. If I am once
married to her, what have I to fear? Do you think
the count would go to law about his daughter’s
reputation? Or do you suppose he would try to
murder me?”
“I would do both, in his place,”
I answered. “But perhaps you are right,
and he will yield when he sees that he is outwitted.
Think again, and suppose that the contessina herself
objects to such a step.”
“That is a different matter.
She shall do nothing save by her own free will.
You do not imagine I would try to take her away unless
she were willing?” He sat down again beside
me, and affectionately laid one hand on my shoulder.
“Women, Nino, are women,” I remarked.
“Unless they are angels,” he assented.
“Keep the angels for Paradise,
and beware of taking them into consideration in this
working-day world. I have often told you, my
boy, that I am older than you.”
“As if I doubted that!” he laughed.
“Very well. I know something
about women. A hundred women will tell you that
they are ready to flee with you; but not more than
one in the hundred will really leave everything and
follow you to the end of the world when the moment
comes for running away. They always make a fuss
at the last and say it is too dangerous, and you may
be caught. That is the way of them. You
will be quite ready with a ladder of ropes, like one
of Boccaccio’s men, and a roll of banknotes for
the journey, and smelling-salts, and a cushion for
the puppy dog, and a separate conveyance for the maid,
just according to the directions she has given you;
then, at the very last, she will perhaps say that she
is afraid of hurting her father’s feelings by
leaving him without any warning. Be careful,
Nino!”
“As for that,” he answered,
sullenly enough, “if she will not, she will
not; and I would not attempt to persuade her against
her inclination. But unless you have very much
exaggerated what you saw in her face, she will be
ready at five minutes’ notice. It must be
very like hell up there in that castle, I should think.”
“Messer Diavolo, who rules over
the house, will not let his prey escape him so easily
as you think.”
“Her father?” he asked.
“No; Benoni. There is no
creature so relentless as an old man in pursuit of
a young woman.”
“I am not afraid of Benoni.”
“You need not be afraid of her
father,” said I, laughing. “He is
lame, and cannot run after you.” I do not
know why it is that we Romans laugh at lame people;
we are sorry for them, of course, as we are for other
cripples.
“There is something more than
fear in the matter,” said Nino, seriously.
“It is a great thing to have upon one’s
soul.”
“What?” I asked.
“To take a daughter away from
her father without his consent, or at least
without consulting him. I would not like to do
it.”
“Do you mean to ask the old
gentleman’s consent before eloping with his
daughter? You are a little donkey, Nino, upon
my word.”
“Donkey, or anything else you
like, but I will act like a galantuomo.
I will see the count, and ask him once more whether
he is willing to let his daughter marry me. If
not, so much the worse; he will be warned.”
“Look here, Nino,” I said,
astonished at the idea. “I have taught you
a little logic. Suppose you meant to steal a horse
instead of a woman. Would you go to the owner
of the horse, with your hat in your hand, and say,
’I trust your worship will not be offended if
I steal this horse, which seems to be a good animal
and pleases me’; and then would you expect him
to allow you to steal his horse?”
“Sor Cornelio, the case is not
the same. Women have a right to be free, and
to marry whom they please; but horses are slaves.
However, as I am not a thief, I would certainly ask
the man for the horse; and if he refused it, and I
conceived that I had a right to have it, I would take
it by force and not by stealth.”
“It appears to me that if you
meant to get possession of what was not yours, you
might as well get it in the easiest possible way,”
I objected. “But we need not argue the
case. There is a much better reason why you should
not consult the count.”
“I do not believe it,” said Nino, stubbornly.
“Nevertheless, it is so.
The Contessina di Lira is desperately unhappy,
and if nothing is done she may die. Young women
have died of broken hearts before now. You have
no right to endanger her life by risking failure.
Answer me that, if you can, and I will grant you are
a cunning sophist, but not a good lover.”
“There is reason in what you
say now,” he answered. “I had not
thought of that desperateness of the case which you
speak of. You have seen her.” He buried
his face in his hand, and seemed to be thinking.
“Yes, I have seen her, and I
wish you had been in my place. You would think
differently about asking her father’s leave to
rescue her.” From having been anxious to
prevent anything rash, it seemed that I was now urging
him into the very jaws of danger. I think that
Hedwig’s face was before me, as it had been
in reality on the previous evening. “As
Curione said to Cæsar, delay is injurious to anyone
who is fully prepared for action. I remember
also to have read somewhere that such waste of time
in diplomacy and palavering is the favourite resource
of feeble and timid minds, who regard the use of dilatory
and ambiguous measures as an evidence of the most
admirable and consummate prudence.”
“Oh, you need not use so much
learning with me,” said Nino. “I assure
you that I will be neither dilatory nor ambiguous.
In fact, I will go at once, without even dusting my
boots, and I will say, Give me your daughter, if you
can; and if you cannot, I will still hope to marry
her. He will probably say ‘No,’ and
then I will carry her off. It appears to me that
is simple enough.”
“Take my advice, Nino.
Carry her off first, and ask permission afterwards.
It is much better. The real master up there is
Benoni, I fancy, and not the count. Benoni is
a gentleman who will give you much trouble. If
you go now to see Hedwig’s father, Benoni will
be present at the interview.” Nino was
silent, and sat stretching his legs before him, his
head on his breast. “Benoni,” I continued,
“has made up his mind to succeed. He has
probably taken this fancy into his head out of pure
wickedness. Perhaps he is bored, and really wants
a wife. But I believe he is a man who delights
in cruelty, and would as lief break the contessina’s
heart by getting rid of you as by marrying her.”
I saw that he was not listening.
“I have an idea,” he said
at last. “You are not very wise, Messer
Cornelio, and you counsel me to be prudent and to be
rash in the same breath.”
“You make very pretty compliments,
Sor Nino,” I answered, tartly. He put out
his hand deprecatingly.
“You are as wise as any man
can be who is not in love,” he said, looking
at me with his great eyes. “But love is
the best counsellor.”
“What is your idea?” I asked, somewhat
pacified.
“You say they ride together
every day. Yes very good. The
contessina will not ride to-day, partly because she
will be worn out with fatigue from last night’s
interview, and partly because she will make an effort
to discover whether I have arrived to-day or not.
You can count on that.”
“I imagine so.”
“Very well,” he continued;
“in that case, one or two things will happen:
either the count will go out alone, or they will all
stay at home.”
“Why will Benoni not go out with the count?”
“Because Benoni will hope to
see Hedwig alone if he stays at home, and the count
will be very glad to give him the opportunity.”
“I think you are right, Nino.
You are not so stupid as I thought.”
“In war,” continued the
boy, “a general gains a great advantage by separating
his adversary’s forces. If the count goes
out alone, I will present myself to him in the road,
and tell him what I want.”
“Now you are foolish again.
You should, on the contrary, enter the house when
the count is away, and take the signorina with you
then and there. Before he could return you would
be miles on the road to Rome.”
“In the first place, I tell
you once and for all, Sor Cornelio,” he said,
slowly, “that such an action would be dishonourable,
and I will not do anything of the kind. Moreover,
you forget that, if I followed your advice, I should
find Benoni at home, the very man from whom
you think I have everything to fear. No; I must
give the count one fair chance.” I was
silent, for I saw he was determined, and yet I would
not let him think I was satisfied.
The idea of losing an advantage by
giving an enemy any sort of warning before the attack
seemed to me novel in the extreme; but I comprehended
that Nino saw in his scheme a satisfaction to his conscience,
and smelled in it a musty odour of forgotten knight-errantry
that he had probably learned to love in his theatrical
experiences. I had certainly not expected that
Nino Cardegna, the peasant child, would turn out to
be the pink of chivalry and the mirror of honour.
But I could not help admiring his courage, and wondering
if it would not play him false at the perilous moment.
I did not half know him then, though he had been with
me for so many years. But I was very anxious to
ascertain from him what he meant to do, for I feared
that his bold action would make trouble, and I had
visions of the count and Benoni together taking sudden
and summary vengeance on myself.
“Nino,” I said, “I
have made great sacrifices to help you in finding
these people,” I would not tell him
I had sold my vineyard to make preparations for a
longer journey, though he has since found it out, “but
if you are going to do anything rash I will get on
my little ass and ride a few miles from the village
until it is over.” Nino laughed aloud.
“My dear professor,” he
said, “do not be afraid. I will give you
plenty of time to get out of the way. Meanwhile,
the contessina is certain to send the confidential
servant of whom you speak to give me instructions.
If I am not here, you ought to be, in order to receive
the message. Now listen to me.”
I prepared to be attentive and to
hear his scheme. I was by no means expecting
the plan he proposed.
“The count may take it into
his head to ride at a different hour, if he rides
alone,” he began. “I will therefore
have my mule saddled now, and will station my man a
countryman from Subiaco and good for any devilry in
some place where he can watch the entrance to the house,
or the castle, or whatever you call this place.
So soon as he sees the count come out he will call
me. As a man can ride in only one of two directions
in this valley, I shall have no trouble whatever in
meeting the old gentleman, even if I cannot overtake
him with my mule.”
“Have you any arms, Nino?”
“No. I do not want weapons
to face an old man in broad daylight; and he is too
much of a soldier to attack me if I am defenceless.
If the servant comes after I am gone, you must remember
every detail of what he says, and you must also arrange
a little matter with him. Here is money, as much
as will keep any Roman servant quiet. The man
will be rich before we have done with him. I
will write a letter which he must deliver; but he
must also know what he has to do.
“At twelve o’clock to-night
the contessina must positively be at the door of the
staircase by which you entered yesterday. Positively do
you understand? She will then choose for herself
between what she is suffering now and flight with
me. If she chooses to fly, my mules and my countryman
will be ready. The servant who admits me had better
make the best of his way to Rome, with the money he
has got. There will be difficulties in the way
of getting the contessina to the staircase, especially
as the count will be in a towering passion with me,
and will not sleep much. But he will not have
the smallest idea that I shall act so suddenly, and
he will fancy that when once his daughter is safe
within the walls for the night she will not think of
escaping. I do not believe he even knows of the
existence of this staircase. At all events, it
appears, from your success in bribing the first man
you met, that the servants are devoted to her interests
and their own and not at all to those of her father.”
“I cannot conceive, Nino,”
said I, “why you do not put this bold plan into
execution without seeing the count first, and making
the whole thing so dangerous. If he takes alarm
in the night he will catch you fast enough on his
good horses before you are at Trevi.”
“I am determined to act as I
propose,” said Nino, “because it is a
thousand times more honourable, and because I am certain
that the contessina would not have me act otherwise.
She will also see for herself that flight is best;
for I am sure the count will make a scene of some
kind when he comes home from meeting me. If she
knows she can escape to-night she will not suffer
from what he has to say; but she will understand that
without the prospect of freedom she would suffer very
much.”
“Where did you learn to understand
women, my boy?” I asked.
“I do not understand women in
general,” he answered, “but I understand
very well the only woman who exists for me personally.
I know that she is the soul of honour, and that at
the same time she has enough common sense to perceive
the circumstances of the situation.”
“But how will you make sure
of not being overtaken?” I objected, making
a last feeble stand against his plan.
“That is simple enough.
My countryman from Subiaco knows every inch of these
hills. He says that the pass above Fillettino
is impracticable for any animals save men, mules,
and donkeys. A horse would roll down at every
turn. My mules are the best of their kind, and
there are none like them here. By sunrise I shall
be over the Serra and well on the way to Ceprano,
or whatever place I may choose for joining the railroad.”
“And I? Will you leave
me here to be murdered by that Prussian devil?”
I asked, in some alarm.
“Why, no, padre mio.
If you like, you can start for Rome at sunset, or
as soon as I return from meeting the count; or you
can get on your donkey and go up the pass, where we
shall overtake you. Nobody will harm you, in
your disguise, and your donkey is even more surefooted
than my mules. It will be a bright night, too,
for the moon is full.”
“Well, well, Nino,” said
I at last, “I suppose you will have your own
way, as you always do in the world. And if it
must be so, I will go up the pass alone, for I am
not afraid at all. It would be against all the
proprieties that you should be riding through a wild
country alone at night with the young lady you intend
to marry; and if I go with you there will be nothing
to be said, for I am a very proper person, and hold
a responsible position in Rome. But for charity’s
sake, do not undertake anything of this kind again ”
“Again?” exclaimed Nino,
in surprise. “Do you expect me to spend
my life in getting married, not to say
in eloping?”
“Well, I trust that you will
have enough of it this time.”
“I cannot conceive that when
a man has once married the woman he loves he should
ever look at another,” said Nino, gravely.
“You are a most blessed fellow,” I exclaimed.
Nino found my writing materials, which
consisted of a bad steel pen, some coarse ruled paper,
and a wretched little saucer of ink, and began writing
an epistle to the contessina. I watched him as
he wrote, and I smoked a little to pass the time.
As I looked at him I came to the conclusion that to-day,
at least, he was handsome. His thick hair curled
about his head, and his white skin was as pale and
clear as milk. I thought that his complexion
had grown less dark than it used to be, perhaps from
being so much in the theatre at night. That takes
the dark blood out of the cheeks. But any woman
would have looked twice at him. Besides, there
was, as there is now, a certain marvellous neatness
and spotlessness about his dress; but for his dusty
boots you would not have guessed he had been travelling.
Poor Nino. When he had not a penny in the world
but what he earned by copying music, he used to spend
it all with the washerwoman, so that Mariuccia was
often horrified, and I reproved him for the extravagance.
At last he finished writing, and put
his letter into the only envelope there was left.
He gave it to me, and said he would go out and order
his mules to be ready.
“I may be gone all day,”
he said, “and I may return in a few hours.
I cannot tell. In any case, wait for me, and
give the letter and all instructions to the man, if
he comes.” Then he thanked me once more
very affectionately, and having embraced me he went
out.
I watched him from the window, and
he looked up and waved his hand. I remember it
very distinctly just how he looked.
His face was paler than ever, his lips were close
set, though they smiled, and his eyes were sad.
He is an incomprehensible boy he always
was.
I was left alone, with plenty of time
for meditation, and I assure you my reflections were
not pleasant. O love, love, what madness you drive
us into, by day and night! Surely it is better
to be a sober professor of philosophy than to be in
love, ever so wildly, or sorrowfully, or happily.
I do not wonder that a parcel of idiots have tried
to prove that Dante loved philosophy and called it
Beatrice. He would have been a sober professor,
if that were true, and a happier man. But I am
sure it is not true, for I was once in love myself.