In those days, as in the present, there was situated, somewhere or
other in the garden, farm, or podere of every Italian villa, sometimes
hid among the fig-trees, olives, or mulberries, sometimes planted
close to one of the gates of the inclosing walls, a neat farm-house,
the abode of the contadino, who dwelt there usually in much more
happiness and security than attended his lords and masters in their
more magnificent abodes. It is true that occasionally a little
violence might be brought down upon the heads of the family, by any
extraordinary beauty in a daughter or a niece, or any very ferocious
virtue upon the parents' part; but, sooth to say, I fear me much that,
since the times of Virginius, Italian fathers have not looked with
very severe eyes upon affairs of gallantry between their daughters and
men of elevated station, nor have the young ladies themselves been
very scrupulous in accepting the attentions of well-born cavaliers.
The inconveniences resulting from such adventures apart, the life of
an Italian peasant was far more safe and far more happy in those days
than the life of a noble or a citizen, and Sismondi has justly pointed
out that they were more contented with their lot, and had more cause
for content, than any other class in the land. No very heavy exactions
pressed upon them; their lords were generally just, and even generous;
and it rarely happened that they saw their harvests wasted even by the
wandering bands, whose leaders wisely remembered that they and their
soldiers must depend upon those harvests for support.
The house of a contadino has less changed than almost any other
building in Italy. There was always a certain degree of taste
displayed in its construction, and there was always one room a good
deal larger than any of the rest, with plenty of air blowing through
it, to which, when the sun shone too strongly under the porch, any of
the family could retire _per pigliar la fresca_. It was in this large
room at the farm, in the gardens of the villa, that, at an early hour
of the day which succeeded the death of Buondoni, a strange sight
might be seen. The door was locked and barred, and from time to time
each of those within--and there were several--turned a somewhat
anxious, fearful look towards it or to the windows, as if they were
engaged in some act for which they desired no witnesses. Two women, an
old and a young one, stood at the head of a long table; a second girl
was seen at the side; a young man was near the other end, holding a
large, heavy bucket in his hand; and at some distance from all the
rest, with his arms folded on his chest and somewhat gloomy
disapproving brow, was the contadino himself, gazing at what the
others were about, but taking no part therein himself.
The object, however, of most interest lay upon the table. It was
apparently the corpse of a man from thirty-five to forty years of age,
dressed in the garb of a retainer of some noble house. His long black
hair flowed wildly from his head, partly soiled with dust, partly
steeped with water. His dress also was wet, and the collar of his coat
as well as that of his vest seemed to have been torn rudely open. He
had apparently died a violent death: the face was of a dark waxen
yellow, and the tongue, which protruded from the mouth, had been
bitten in violent agony between the teeth. Round his neck, and
extending upwards towards the left ear, was a dark red mark,
significant of the manner of his death.
"Here, Giulo, here!" cried the elder woman, "pour the water over him
again. His eyes roll in his head. He is coming to!"
"Ah, Marie! what a face he makes," exclaimed one of the girls,
shutting out the sight with her hands.
"Poor fools! you will do more harm than good," murmured the contadino;
"let the man pass in peace! I would sooner spend twenty lire in masses
for his soul than bring him back to trouble the world any more."
"Would you have us act like tigers or devils, you old iniquity?" asked
his wife, shaking three fingers at him. "The life is in the poor man
yet. Shall we let him go out of the world without unction or
confession, for fear of what these French heretics may do to us?"
"Besides, Madonna Bianca had him cut down to save his life," cried the
girl who stood nearest his head. "You would fain please her, I trow,
father. I heard her myself pray for him to be cut down, and she will
be glad to hear we have recovered him. It was that which made me run
away for Giulio as soon as the order was given."
While this dialogue was going on, the young man, Giulio, had poured
the whole bucket of water over the recumbent body on the table,
dashing it on with a force which might well have driven the soul out
of a living man, but which, on this occasion, seemed to have the very
opposite effect of bringing spirit into a dead one. Suddenly the
eyelids closed over the staring eyes; there was a shudder passed over
the whole frame; the fingers seemed to grasp at some fancied object on
the table, and at length respiration returned, at first in fitful
gasps, but soon with regular and even quiet action. The eyes then
opened again, and turned from face to face with some degree of
consciousness; but they closed again after a momentary glance around,
and he fell into what seemed a heavy sleep, distinguished from that
still heavier sleep into which he had lately lain by the equable
heaving of the chest.
The mother and the two girls looked on rejoicing, and Giulio, too, had
a well-satisfied look, for such are the powers of that wonderful
quality called vanity, that as it was under his hand the man
recovered, he attributed his resuscitation entirely to his own skill;
and had his patient been the devil himself come to plague him and all
the world, good Giulio would have glorified himself upon the triumph
of his exertions. And well he might; for, unfortunately, as this world
goes, men glory as much over their success in bad as in good actions,
judging not the merit of deeds by their consequences, even where those
consequences are self-evident. Success, success is all that the world
esteems. It is the gold that will not tarnish--the diamond whose
lustre no breath can dim.
The old contadino, however, was even less pleased with the result of
his family's efforts than he had been with the efforts themselves.
"Satan will owe us something," he muttered, "for snatching from him
one of his own, and he is a gentleman who always pays his debts. By my
faith, I will go up and tell the count what has chanced. I do not
choose to be blamed for these women's mad folly. Better let him know
at once, while the fellow is in such a state that a pillow over his
mouth will soon put out the lighted flame they have lighted in him--if
my lord pleases."
"What are you murmuring there, you old hyena?" asked his gentle wife.
"Oh, nothing, nothing, good dame," replied the husband; "'twas only
the fellow's grimaces made me sick, and I must out into the podere.
C--e! I did not think you would have succeeded so well with the poor
devil. I hope he'll soon be able to jog away from here; for, though he
may move and talk again--and I dare say he will--I shall always look
upon him as a dead man, notwithstanding. Suppose, now, that it should
not be his own soul that has come back into him, wife, but some bad
spirit, that all your working and water--I am sure it was not holy
water--has brought back into his poor, miserable corpse!"
"Jesu Maria! do not put such thoughts into my head, Giovanozzo,"
exclaimed the old lady with a look of horror; "but that cannot be,
either, for I made Giulio put some salt into the water, and the devil
can never stand that; so go along with you. You cannot frighten me. Go
and try to get back your senses, for you seem to have lost them, good
man."
The contadino was glad to get away unquestioned; and, unlocking the
door, he issued forth from his house. At first he did not turn his
steps toward the villa, but took a path which led down to the river.
At the distance of some hundred or hundred and fifty yards, however,
where the trees screened him from his own dwelling, he looked round to
see that none of his family followed, and then turned directly up the
little rise. When near the terrace he saw a man coming down the steps
toward him, and suddenly paused; but a moment's observation showed him
that he need have no alarm. The person who approached was no other
than Antonio, between whom and the good peasant a considerable
intimacy had sprung up since Lorenzo Visconti had been at the Villa
Rovera. Would you taste the best wine on an estate, or eat the
sweetest fig of the season, make friends with the contadino and his
family; and, perhaps acting on this maxim, Antonio had often been down
to pass an hour or two with Giovanozzo, and enliven the whole
household with his jests.
"The very man," said the contadino to himself; "he'll tell me just
what I ought to do. He has travelled, and seen all manner of things.
He is just the person. Signor Antonio, good morning to your
excellency! What is in the wind to-day?"
"Nothing but a strong scent of dead carrion that I can smell,"
answered Antonio.
"Well," said the contadino, with a grin, "I do not wonder, for
there's carrion down at our house, and the worst carrion a man think
of, for it's not only dead carrion, but live carrion, too."
"Alive with maggots. I take you," answered Antonio; "that is a shallow
conceit, Giovanozzo. It hardly needs an ell yard to plumb that."
"Nay, nay you are not at the bottom of it yet," replied the peasant;
"it is alive and dead, and yet no maggots in it."
"Then the maggots are in thy brain," answered Antonio. "But speak
plainly, man, speak plainly. If you keep hammering my head with
enigmas, I shall have no brains left to understand your real meaning."
"Well, then, signor," said the contadino, gravely, "I want advice."
"And, like a wise man, come to me," replied his companion; "mine is
the very shop to find it; I have plenty always on hand for my
customers, never using any of it myself, and receiving it fresh daily
from those who have it to spare. What sort of advice will you have,
Giovanozzo? the advice interested or disinterested--the advice
fraternal or paternal--the advice minatory, or monitory, or
consolatory--the advice cynical or philosophical?"
"Nay, but this is a serious matter, signor," answered the contadino.
"Then you shall have serious advice," answered Antonio. "Proceed. Lay
the case before me in such figures as may best suit its condition, and
I will try and fit my advice thereunto as tight as a jerkin made by a
tailor who loves cabbage more than may consist with the ease of his
customers."
"Well, let us sit down on this bank," said Giovanozzo, "for it is a
matter which requires much consideration and--"
"Like a hen's egg, requires to be sat upon," interrupted Antonio.
"Well, in this also I will gratify you, signor. Now to your tale."
"Why, you must know," proceeded the contadino, "that this morning, an
hour or two ago, just when I was coming up from the well, I saw Judita
and Margarita, with Giulio, carrying something heavy into the house.
It took all their strength, I can tell you, though the man was not a
big man, after all."
"A man!" exclaimed Antonio; "was it a man they were carrying?"
"Nothing short of a man," replied Giovanozzo.
"And yet a short man too," said Antonio. "Was he a dead man?"
"Yes and no," replied the peasant; "he was dead then, but he is alive
now. But just listen, signor. It seems that a whole troop of these
Frenchmen came down this way at an early hour, on their way to Pavia,
and that they halted at the gates; but before they halted, they saw a
man on horseback, standing at the little turn-down to Signor Manini's
podere; and that, as soon as he saw them, he tried to spur away, but
their spurs were sharper than his; so they caught him and brought him
back. Then, some hours after, up comes another party, and they held a
sort of council over him, and confronted him with two or three other
prisoners, and then strung him up to the branch of the great
mulberry-tree. But presently some one came out of the villa and
ordered him to be cut down, and as soon as that was done they all rode
away, leaving him there lying on the road. That is what Giulio told
me, for he was looking over the wall all the time."
"Dangerous peeping, Signor Giovanozzo," said Antonio solemnly; "but
what did the lad do, then?"
"Why, he would have let him lie quiet enough, if he had had his own
way," replied the contadino, "for Giulio is a discreet youth. He takes
after me in the main, and knows when to let well enough alone, when
his mother and his sisters are not at his heels; but the good _madre_
you know--" and here he added a significant grimace, which finished
the sentence. "However," he continued, "Margarita, who is tiring-woman
to the young contessa, came running out of the villa, and told Giulio
that it was Bianca Maria's orders to see if there was any life in the
man, and try to save him. So they looked at him together, and fancied
they saw his face twitch, and then they called Judita and carried him
down into the house."
"And then?" asked Antonio.
"Why, then they sluiced him with cold water, and poured Heaven knows
what all down his throat, or into his mouth, at least."
"And then?" said Antonio, again.
"Why, then he began to wake up," replied the contadino, "and now he is
snoring on a table down below, and I dare say he will be all the
better for his hanging."
"He might have been so, if Giulio had not been too near," answered
Antonio, drily, and then fell into a fit of thought.
"I am sure the devil has something to do with it," said Giovanozzo, in
an inquiring tone.
"Beyond doubt," replied Antonio, solemnly; "but whether in the hanging
or the resuscitation, who shall say? However, I will go down and see
the gentleman. Do you know who he is?"
"One of Signor Buondoni's men, I fancy," replied the peasant. "We hear
the signor was killed last night on the terrace, and I was thinking to
come up and see the corpse. He must lay out handsomely, for he was a
fine-looking man. I saw him by the moonlight just when he came to the
gates yester-evening. I hope you do not think our people will be
blamed by the old count for whatever we have done."
"Oh, no," replied Antonio, "you have done right well; though, if you
had killed the one and not saved the other, you might have done
better. Now let us go down to your house."
They walked some hundred yards in silence, and then Antonio said
abruptly, "I wonder what is the good man's name. One of my old
playfellows was in Buondoni's service, I hear. What like is he,
Giovan'?"
"Why he is little and thin," answered the contadino, "with a big beard
like a German's, and a sharp face. His muzzle is much like a
hedgehog's, only he is as yellow as a lemon."
"That has to do with the hanging," answered Antonio. "I have seen
many a man hanged when I was in France. The late king, who was no way
tender, did a good deal in that way, and most of those he strung up
were very yellow when they were cut down. I should have thought it
would have turned them blue, but it was not so. However, I think I
know this gentleman, and if so, must have a talk with him before he
goes forth into the wicked world again. I would fain warn him, as a
friend, against bad courses, which, though (as he must have found)
they often lead to elevated places, are sure to end in a fall, and
sometimes in a broken neck. But here we are before your house,
Giovanozzo, and there goes Giulio, seeking you, I expect. Let him go,
man--let him go. I wish you would send Margarita one way after him and
Judita the other, and then get up a little quarrel with your amiable
wife, for I must positively speak with this gentleman alone, and may
bestow some time upon him."