IT was eight o’clock next morning when M. Goefle awoke. Probably he had
not rested as well as usual during the night, for he was habitually an
early riser, and was quite scandalized to find himself abed at such
an hour. It is true that he had reckoned upon little Nils to wake
him, but Nils was still sound asleep, and, after several attempts to
arouse him, M. Goefle concluded to let him lie as long as he chose.
This was not ill-temper on the part of the doctor of laws, but simply
complete despair of obtaining any service from his valet-de-chambre.
Resigning himself to necessity, therefore, he lighted his own fire,
and then proceeded, like a methodical man as he was, by the light of
a candle, which somehow seemed to be asleep standing, to shave, and
to comb and curl his wig as carefully, and as well too, as if all his
conveniences had been at hand. Lastly, having completed his toilet, all
except his coat, which was ready to slip on in case of need, he wound
up his watch, looked out at the sky, saw that there was not yet the
least trace of sunrise, put on his dressing-gown, and, opening the
two intermediate doors, prepared to put things in order in his saloon,
the bear-room, intending to go to work there, quietly and comfortably,
until breakfast-time.
But as he approached the stove, holding up his hand between his eyes
and the flickering light of his candle, he started to see a human
figure lying down between the stove and himself, the body sunk into the
large arm-chair, the head lying over backwards upon the stuffed back,
and the legs, thrust at a level with the body, into the large opening
for hot air just above the grate of the stove.
“Hallo! What a sleeping beauty!” exclaimed the advocate; “he has really
a superb face!” and he stopped to look at Cristiano, who was sleeping
peacefully and profoundly. “It is some young gentleman or other who
has run away to this old place from the noise and confusion of the new
chateau, as I did. Well, I hoped I should be alone in this cursed hole,
at any rate; but, if I can’t, I must make up my mind to have company,
I suppose. Fortunately this young man looks agreeable. The poor fellow
must have been very careful, for he made not the least noise, and did
not hunt at all for any better bed than that arm-chair, which must be
breaking him in two across the loins!”
Then M. Goefle touched lightly the cheek of Cristiano, who motioned as
if driving off a fly, but did not wake up.
“He is warm enough, at any rate,” said the lawyer again. “That’s a
capital furred cloak--just like my travelling-cloak; why, it’s exactly
like it! Where is mine, by the way? Oh, I see; he found it on the
chair, and just put it on. Faith, he was quite right. I should have
made him perfectly welcome to it; indeed, I would have given him the
other bed in my room, and Master Nils should have been obliging enough
to sleep on the sofa. I am sorry the young man thought it necessary
to be so particular! Really altogether too particular, I must say! A
well-bred fellow, too, that’s evident; and careful of his toilet, for
he took his coat off when he went to sleep; that’s a mark of a good,
steady character. Let’s see what can be our young friend’s profession:
a black coat--quite like my own best dress-coat--so very like it that
it _is_ mine, for there’s my own handkerchief perfumed with musk,
and--ah! he has been using my invitation to the ball. And my white
gloves! where are my white gloves? On the floor!--just where they ought
to be, too, for they are entirely spoiled. Ah, ah, my fine fellow, you
are not so ceremonious as I thought! indeed, I can venture to assert
that you make yourself very much at home. You lose your baggage, or you
don’t take the trouble to unpack, and you help yourself to whatever you
think proper out of mine. Young people play such tricks on one another,
I know. I remember a certain ball at Christiania, where I danced all
night in poor Stangstadius’s clothes, and he had to lie abed until
I came back--and all next day too, for I let them carry me off. But
nonsense! we were young then. At my age it will not do to allow that
sort of fun--to other people. Hallo, hallo, monsieur! Wake up! Give
me my breeches and silk stockings! God pardon me, what a quantity of
stitches the young animal has started in dancing! And he won’t even
condescend to open his eyes!”
As he made these observations in rapid succession, M. Goefle at last
espied the clothes that Cristiano had laid off the evening before,
and which, overcome by sleep at his return, he had left upon another
chair. The threadbare trousers, the equally worn Venetian cloak, and
the famous corded Tyrolian hat, launched M. Goefle upon a new sea of
conjectures. Could this handsome young man, with his distinguished face
and well-shaped hands, be some mere Bohemian, a bear-leader perhaps,
a travelling pedler, a wandering singer? An Italian singer, possibly?
No; his face was unmistakably a Dalecarlian one. A conjurer--perhaps a
good deal too skilful in the line of his profession? No; for M. Goefle
found his purse all safe in his trunk, and the sleeper’s face was
an extremely honest one. He slept the sleep of innocence, too, most
assuredly.
What was to be supposed, and what was to be done? The lawyer scratched
his head. Possibly this wretched costume was a disguise which the
young man had assumed to conceal himself while running about to play
the Don Juan under the balcony of some pretty visitor at the new
chateau. But finding none of his guesses satisfactory, M. Goefle
finally set to work in earnest to awaken his visitor, shaking him
repeatedly, and bawling into his ear, “Here, here, hallo! I say! Come,
neighbor, wake up!” and such other exclamations as impatient people use
for the benefit of obstinate sleepers.
Cristiano at last opened his eyes, looked fixedly at M. Goefle without
seeing him, and with a truly Olympian calmness shut them again.
“Ah, there you go again,” said the lawyer, “off to dream-land!”
“What is it? What’s the matter? Does the aurora borealis last yet?”
asked Cristiano, whose half sleep was evidently cradled in pleasant
dreams.
“Where can you get an aurora borealis at this time of day?” asked M.
Goefle; “it’s just before sunrise.”
“The sun? What is the use of talking about the sun in the middle of
a ball?” asked Cristiano, in the coaxing voice of a sleeper who is
begging to be let alone.
“Yes, that’s it; the ball, my coat, the sun, my small-clothes, the
aurora borealis,” replied M. Goefle, “all very logical and well
connected in your dreams, no doubt, my good friend, but I want you to
give a better account of yourself, and I shall keep on shaking you
until you can make out a more satisfactory case than that.”
Good-natured Cristiano submitted to the shaking with incomparable
meekness. The habit he had acquired of sleeping on the first board he
came to, whether at sea in all sorts of weather or on the road in all
sorts of vehicles, rendered even the vigorous rocking which the lawyer
was bestowing upon him rather agreeable than otherwise; it was just
sufficient to make him pleasantly conscious that he was in a state of
repose. Gradually, however, the idea made its way into his mind, of
ascertaining what place he was in. He opened his eyes, looked at the
stove, turned about and gazed, as if to question the sombre walls of
the room.
“Deuce take me!” he exclaimed, “if I know where I am. But, after all,
what difference does it make? Here to-day, somewhere else to-morrow!
Such is life!”
“Please to take the trouble, at least,” said the lawyer, “to observe in
whose company you are.”
Well satisfied with this dignified command, M. Goefle waited for the
surprise, or terror, or confusion, which were to appear in the face of
the delinquent, but in vain. Cristiano rubbed his eyes, looked upon him
with a smile, and observed in the most affable manner:
“A very good face, yours, sir! What do you want of me?”
“What do I want of you?” exclaimed M. Goefle, with some indignation; “I
want my fur cloak, my cap, my waistcoat, my shirt, my slippers;--I want
everything of mine that you have clothed and ornamented your lovely
person with.”
“Bah! bah! What makes you think so? You are dreaming, my good man!”
said the adventurer, raising himself to a sitting posture, and looking
with astonishment upon his borrowed wardrobe. Then, laughing, as he
began confusedly to remember the night’s transactions, he continued:
“Upon my word, Monsieur Goefle--it is that very respectable and eminent
gentleman to whom I have the honor of speaking, is it not?”
“I have every reason to believe so, monsieur. Well, then?--”
“Well, then,” replied Cristiano, rising promptly and removing the
doctor’s cap from his own head, with perfect courtesy, “I have to beg
a thousand pardons--though at the same time I do not merit a single
one. Please to consider, sir--I am a young man, and just at this moment
quite destitute. A romantic notion led me to the ball last night, and I
found no decent clothes within my reach except these, which Providence
seemed to have sent on purpose. I am perfectly cleanly, and in perfect
health; and moreover, if you should object to wear the clothes after
me, I shall be able to-morrow to pay you for them, whatever price you
choose to value them at.”
“A good joke that would be! Do you take me for a tailor?”
“By no means; but I should be extremely pained to be thought a thief.
That is not my character at all.”
“Faith, I see that you are an honest young fellow--but you are very
thoughtless. Still, even if I were inclined to be angry, the thing is
done, and can’t be helped. I see very well that your health is good,
for, by Jove, you have a magnificent color! And what hair! Ah, my fine
fellow, I recognize the perfume of my hair-powder! But how the devil
did you get into the ball-room without an invitation? for your style of
travelling-dress does not indicate--”
“That I belong in good society, you were going to say? Oh, say so! I am
not all susceptible on that point.”
“But, after all, I don’t know anything about it. The clothes don’t make
the man. You have a very aristocratic hand. Come--out with it! Who
are you? If there’s a romance, I’m fond of romantic stories; and if
there’s a secret--well, your face pleases me, and I promise to be as
discreet--as discreet as a lawyer--more could not be said.”
“I do not doubt your discretion, Monsieur Goefle,” said Cristiano, “and
besides, I have no secrets that I need hesitate to reveal to a man of
sense and character; but I give you notice that my story is rather
long, and the stove is almost entirely cold. And to tell you the truth,
although I had a very good supper last night, my appetite always wakes
up as soon as I do; and I already feel some twinges.”
“How do you suppose I feel, then?” said the lawyer; “for I am always in
the habit of taking my tea in bed, as soon as I wake. That blockhead of
an Ulphilas has abandoned me altogether. There are the very same dishes
on the table that were there last night.”
“Thanks to me, then, Monsieur Goefle; for I recognize the same ham and
fish that I purloined out of the kitchen of your friend M. Ulph--what
is his name?”
“Ulph; for Ulphilas. Yes, that is quite correct. Hereabouts, they
abridge all names. They make monosyllables of them all, apparently for
fear that otherwise, when they called anybody, half of his name should
freeze in the air. If I am indebted to you for my supper, then, I must
conclude that this said Ulph would have let me perish of hunger--he!
he!--in this very room, about which there is already one story of the
kind. Perhaps the rascal meant to leave me to the same fate, so as to
make sure that the room should deserve its reputation.”
“Is it the Baroness Hilda who starved to death here, Monsieur Goefle?”
“Ah, you have heard of it, then? It is only a story, thank God! Let us
think about our breakfast. I will call some one.”
“No, Monsieur Goefle. Ulph will certainly come immediately. Besides,
if you want anything more, let me go and get it. There’s nothing like
choosing your own bill of fare; but this bear’s ham, or boar’s ham,
this smoked tongue and roast game, which you hardly began on last
night--don’t they appeal to you any longer this morning?”
“Of course they do--of course; and there’s more here now than we two
can eat. Well, as the table is set, shall we take breakfast, hey?”
“That will suit me exactly; but allow me to step into a corner and make
my toilette--or rather to unmake it, for I am still--”
“In my clothes? I see that well enough. Well, as you are in them, stay
there. Only, take the pelisse off and put the coat on, or you will be
smothered while you are eating.”
Cristiano first refurnished the stove with fuel, and lighted it. Then,
having washed his hands and face with much care and neatness in a
corner of the room, he took his place, and began to carve the cold
meats in a style that showed him to be a master of the art.
“It’s curious,” remarked M. Goefle; “you have what they would call in
France the manner of a perfect gentleman, and yet that old coat of
yours there--”
“Indicates misfortune, and not poverty,” answered the adventurer,
quietly. “Eight days ago I was very decently equipped, and could have
appeared at the ball without any embarrassment.”
“Very possibly,” said M. Goefle, seating himself, and beginning to make
good use of his handsome teeth; “just as it is quite possible that
you are getting ready for one more of those romances that travelling
adventurers excel in. It is all the same to me, if it is amusing.”
“Come,” said Cristiano, laughing, “in what language shall I recite my
tale?”
“Faith, in Swedish, as that is your own language. You are a Swede, and
a Dalecarlian too; I see that plainly enough, by your face.”
“But I am not Swedish, though; Icelandic, rather.”
“Rather? are you not sure?”
“Not the least in the world. Therefore, as Latin is the universal
language, if you please--”
And Cristiano continued in elegant and correct Latin, speaking it with
the greatest facility.
“Very well done, indeed!” said the advocate, who had listened kindly
and attentively; “but your Italian pronunciation hinders me a little in
following your Latin.”
“Probably there would be the same difficulty in Greek and German,”
suggested Cristiano, changing first to the dead, and then to the
living, language, with equal ease and correctness, and interspersing
with his discourse quotations enough to prove that he was versed in
both ancient and modern literature.
“Bravo!” cried the doctor; “you are a highly educated young fellow, I
see. And French--do you know that also?”
“French and English, at your service,” said Cristiano. “I was taught
them all; and my own preference led me to the study of languages.”
“Well, then, speak French,” said M. Goefle, who was hardly less of a
polyglot than Cristiano. “I love Italy, but I adore France. She is our
ally, useful or not; and, above all, she is the antagonist of Russia,
which I hold in execration.”
“Great heavens! so do I. I am anti-Russian ever since I came into
Sweden; and especially since last evening. But now, doctor, permit me
to beg you not to take me for a pedant. The reason that I ventured to
display my poor acquirements before a Professor of the Faculty of Lund
is, that when you saw me carving that ham rather skilfully, you asked,
in your own mind, whether I was not an ex-steward or butler from a good
family, discharged in disgrace, and on the lookout for victims.”
“There now! Did you really guess that that idea was passing through my
mind? Well, I confess it; and I see now that if you have been employed
in good families, it has by no means been in a lackey’s place.”
“Oh, _Mon Dieu_, monsieur!” answered Cristiano; “lackey or
professor, it is very much the same thing with some people, except the
difference of a grade more or less.”
“Oh no! not in Sweden, my friend; the devil! no indeed; not here.”
“I know it, monsieur. Your people are fond of profound studies, and the
promotion of knowledge is nowhere more nobly encouraged; but in other
countries it often happens--”
Here Cristiano was interrupted by the entrance of Ulphilas with
breakfast. Seeing the table already set, he halted in stupid
astonishment.
“You see, blockhead,” cried M. Goefle, gayly, guessing the reason of
his surprise, “my kobold has waited on me in your place; and it’s well
for me he did, for you have left me entirely alone this twelve hours.”
Ulph, or Ulf--for there is sufficient authority for either form of
the word--tried to excuse himself; but the consolation which he had
sought in the bottle the evening before had entirely obscured his
faculties, and he found it very hard to give any reasons for his
neglect. As a general thing, Ulph became comfortable enough in his
mind by day-break, and for the five hours or thereabouts following
the late sunrise of winter, he was no more cowardly or awkward than
other people. His excessive libations had, no doubt, an effect upon
his dull brains at all times; but as he could nevertheless perform his
domestic duties with the proper mechanical regularity, this was neither
troublesome to others nor disquieting to himself. On the present
occasion, he stammered, in the Dalecarlian dialect, some words of
stupid surprise at seeing the dishes displayed upon the table, and an
unknown individual seated with the doctor.
“Come,” said the doctor, “wait upon this gentleman as you do upon
myself. He is a friend of mine whom I have accommodated in my lodging.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ulph, “I have nothing to say against that; but the
thing is that the horse--”
“Horse yourself!” exclaimed Cristiano, who had already picked up
somewhere a few words of Dalecarlian, and who saw himself threatened by
a terrible revelation.
“Yes, sir, horse myself,” replied Ulph, with resignation. “But the
sleigh--”
“What about the sleigh?” said the doctor; “have you cleaned it? Have
you rubbed down my horse?”
The word _horse_ again striking Cristiano’s ear, he turned towards
Ulph, and looked at him, aside, with such a terrific expression, that
the poor stupefied fellow, quite losing his self-command, stammered in
reply:
“Yes, yes, sir; horse, sleigh. It’s all right.”
“Very well, then, go on with the breakfast,” said the doctor,
reassured. “Give us the tobacco, Ulph, and let the tea-kettle alone. We
will make the tea for ourselves.”
As Ulph accordingly turned to the stove to set down the tea-kettle,
Cristiano stepped after him, as if to superintend the operation, and
turning towards him, said in his ear, in Dalecarlian, and with another
terrifying glance:
“Horse, sleigh, new chateau--quick!”
Upon this Ulph took it into his head that in his drunkenness he must
have received some orders which he had not executed; so he hurried off,
put on his skates, and went over to the new chateau to look for Loki
through the noisy stables, overcrowded with grooms and horses.
Our doctor of laws did not eat so gluttonously as the doctor of
sciences, Stangstadius. He took his time, and savored and passed
judgment upon every dish, according to the great principles which
govern the application of the culinary art to the lofty needs of
the choicer class of stomachs. At the end of a further half hour of
conversation, with experiments, on the subject, he and Cristiano, as
they looked at each other, perceived each a rosy reflection upon the
other’s face.
“There it is at last!” said the doctor; “the sun is just coming above
the horizon.”
He looked at his watch.
“A quarter before ten,” he observed. “Come, this Mora watch does
very well. See, this is of home manufacture. Our Dalecarlians make
everything. They make all their own tools, from the simplest to the
most complicated. But don’t put out the candle, it will be convenient
while we are smoking; and besides, in the winter, I like to watch the
doubtful, fantastic mingling of the sunlight and the artificial light
struggling together in the room. Why, the clock’s striking! You wound
it up last evening, then?”
“Certainly. Did you not observe it?”
“I did not observe anything. I was sleeping while standing up, or else
I was dreaming. Perhaps it is only a dream that I came in here and took
supper. No matter. Can you make tea?”
“No; but coffee to perfection.”
“Very well, make some. I will take charge of the tea.”
“Are you fond of such an insipid, melancholy drink?”
“Yes,--diluted with a full third of brandy or old rum.”
“Ah, that makes a difference! Doctor, I am surprised at finding here a
table as well spread as if at Paris or London.”
“Well, why not? Are we at the end of the world? It is only six hours’
sail to Prussia, where they live just as they do in Paris.”
“Yes; but off at the furthest end of this province, sixty or seventy
leagues away inland, and in so poor a country--”
“So poor! Do you think a country must be poor because it is not well
adapted to tillage? You forget that, amongst us, wealth lies under the
ground, not above it; and that the mines of Dalecarlia are the very
treasury of Sweden. You have noticed that this region, bordering on
Norway, is thinly peopled, and you have concluded that it would not
support a larger population. Let me tell you that if the government
only knew how to develop its resources, and had the power to do so, our
mineral wealth would afford the means of increasing a hundredfold our
prosperity, and the number of our inhabitants. One day, things will go
better with us, if we can only escape, on the one hand, from the claws
of England, whose intrigues oppress us, and, on the other, from the
pincers of Russia, who paralyzes us with her threats. In the meanwhile,
my son, understand that if there are poor people amongst us, it is
not the fault of this good land of God’s, so much calumniated by the
ignorance, indifference, or false notions of the men who inhabit it.
People here complain of the severity of the winter and the hardness of
the rocks. But there is a warm heart down underneath in the earth! Dig
down anywhere, yes, I guarantee you, anywhere, and you will come upon
some of the innumerable veins of valuable metals that ramify throughout
beneath our feet. With those metals we can buy all the rarities, all
the luxuries, all the productions of Europe, if we only have arms
enough to lift the wealth to the surface of the ground. We complain
of the earth, when it is men who are wanting. It is she who ought to
complain of us, rather!”
“God forbid that I should speak ill of Sweden, my dear Monsieur Goefle!
I only say that there are great areas of land lying uncultivated
and waste, and that what few inhabitants there are, are so frugal
that the traveller can find nothing at all to eat except gruel and
milk;--healthful food, no doubt, but not much calculated to stimulate
the imagination or to give energy to the character.”
“There you completely deceive yourself again, my dear fellow! This
region may be called the very head and heart of Sweden; an enthusiastic
head, full of strange poetry, and sublime or graceful imaginations;
an ardent and generous heart, where the main artery of patriotism is
throbbing. Are you familiar with its history?”
“Yes indeed! Gustavus Vasa, Gustavus Adolphus, Charles XII., all the
Swedish heroes, have always found men in the heart of these mountains,
though all the rest of the nation might be enslaved or corrupted. It is
this glorious nook of the earth, this Switzerland of the north, that in
every great crisis has supplied loyalty, energy, and salvation to the
country.”
“Very well said! Well then, admit that the national gruel and barren
and icy rocks may bring forth and train up poets and heroes!”
As he said this, the doctor of laws drew his soft wadded dressing-gown
around him, and poured into his boiling hot and well-sweetened cup of
tea, a half-glass of the best quality of rum. Cristiano was enjoying
the flavor of an exquisite cup of Mocha, and they both burst out
laughing at their enthusiasm for the cold of the mountains and the
gruel of hovels.
“Ah!” said M. Goefle, becoming serious again, “the fact is, we are
degenerate men. We must have our stimulants and tonics nowadays. That
proves that the most accomplished or the most famous of us all is
inferior to the lowest peasant of these savage mountains. But will
not that animal of an Ulphilas bring us any tobacco? That fellow is a
perfect brute!”
Cristiano laughed again, and M. Goefle, perceiving the inconsistency of
eulogizing sobriety and equality just at that moment, allowed himself
to be appeased, especially when he espied the tobacco-jar at his elbow.
Ulph had brought it, with his usual mechanical precision, and had
omitted to say so, from his utter lack of spontaneity.
“Well, come,” said M. Goefle--extending himself in the arm-chair
for more commodious digestion, and smoking a magnificent Turkish
pipe, whose bowl he rested upon a projection of the stove, while
Cristiano, sometimes standing, sometimes sitting, sometimes astride
his chair, smoked his short travelling-pipe with more speed and less
tranquillity--“come, my problematic comrade, tell me this true history
of yours, if you can.”
“Here it is, then,” said Cristiano. “My name is--or at least I go by
the name of Cristiano del Lago!”
“Chrétien du Lac? Christian of the Lake? Why so romantic a name?”
“Ah, there you have me! _Chi lo sa?_ Who knows? as they say in my
country. It is altogether a romance, no doubt, without a word of truth
in it. I will tell it to you as it was told to me.
“In some country--I don’t know what--by the side of a lake whose name
I have never known, a lady--ugly or handsome, rich or poor, noble or
plebeian--either in consequence of a legitimate connection or of an
unfortunate mischance--gave birth to an infant whose existence, it
seems, it was very necessary to conceal. By means of a cord and a
basket--these details were told me with much precision--this lady, or
her confidential companion, lowered the poor little new-born child
into a boat, waiting below either by chance, or in pursuance of some
arrangement made secretly. As to the lady, I have never met any one
who could inform me what became of her; and where should I have made
inquiries? As to the child, it was carried away secretly, I do not
know whither, and maintained, I do not know how, until old enough to
be weaned, when it was carried away again, I don’t know by whom, into
another country--”
“I don’t know what!” said M. Goefle, laughing. “Your statements are a
little vague. I should be a good deal troubled with such evidence, to
gain your cause.”
“My cause?”
“Yes; I am supposing that you are going to law to recover your name,
your rights, your inheritance.”
“Oh, make yourself easy about that, Monsieur Goefle,” replied
Cristiano; “you will never have a cause to plead for me. I have none
of the ordinary foolishness of adventurers of mysterious birth, who
assume, at the very least, to be the sons of kings, and who spend
their whole lives in hunting all over the world for their illustrious
relatives, without remembering that they, most probably, would find
it more inconvenient than agreeable to be recognized. For my part, if
I happen to be of a noble family I don’t know it, and I don’t trouble
myself about it. My adopted parents entertained this same indifference,
or rather they inspired me with it.”
“And who were your adopted parents?”
“I have never known, and I have no recollection who the persons were
who received me from the window into the boat, who kept me at nurse,
and who carried me into Italy. They may all have been of the same
family--perhaps it was one and the same person--I can’t tell anything
at all about it. My only real adopted parents were Signor Goffredi,
an antiquary and professor of ancient history at Perugia, and his
excellent wife, Sophia Goffredi, whom I loved like a mother.”
“But where and from whom did these good people receive you? They must
have told you--”
“They never knew. They had a small fortune, and having no children,
they had several times shown a desire to adopt some poor orphan. One
evening, in carnival time, a man in a mask presented himself to them,
and took from under his cloak the individual who now has the honor to
address you, but who has not the least recollection in the world of the
occurrence, and could give no explanation of it at the time; inasmuch
as he then spoke a language that nobody could understand.”
“But,” interrupted the advocate, who was listening to this story with
the same attention that he would have bestowed upon the progress of a
cause in court, “what was the tenor of the words used by the masked
person who presented you to Professor Goffredi and his wife?”
“Here they are, as they were repeated to me: ‘I come from a distance--a
great distance. I am poor, and have been obliged to spend part of
the money given me with this child, in travelling. I thought myself
bound to do this, for I had been ordered to carry him far away, very
far, from his and my own country. Here is the rest of the money. I
have heard that you were looking for a child to adopt, and I know you
will bring him up happy and well-educated. Will you receive this poor
orphan?’”
“The professor did receive it?”
“He accepted the child and refused the money. ‘If I want a child to
bring up,’ he said, ‘it is my duty to provide for him; not his for me!’”
“And had he not curiosity enough to inform himself--?”
“He could obtain no information except on one point--whether or no
the child was likely to be reclaimed. He wanted to feel that it was
wholly his; for he did not wish to become attached to the little
creature, and then some day or other have it taken away. The unknown
swore to him that no one would ever reclaim me; ‘and,’ he added, ‘the
proof is that I have brought him more than five hundred leagues, for
the express purpose of causing every trace of him to be lost. The
child,’ he continued, ‘would be in the utmost danger, even here, if
his whereabouts should be discovered. Ask me no questions, therefore,
I shall not answer them!’ And he insisted upon leaving with them the
small sum in question, which amounted to two or three hundred sequins.”
“Italian money?”
“Foreign gold coins of various countries, as if the unknown had crossed
the whole of Europe, and had taken pains to convert his money into all
sorts of pieces, so as to disappoint search or supposition.”
“The Goffredis reminded him that he was poor; he had said so, and his
whole appearance showed it. It was only just, they thought, that he
should be rewarded for taking such a long journey, and fulfilling so
faithfully his orders about my removal. These offers he refused with
obstinacy, and austerely. He departed very abruptly, saying, to prevent
further questions, that he would return next day. He did not return,
however; nothing further was ever heard of him; and so I remained
intrusted, or, more properly, abandoned, thank God, to the care of M.
and Madame Goffredi.”
“But the history of the lake, the window and the boat--where the deuce
did you get that?”
“Wait a moment. When I was five or six years old--I was apparently
three or four when I made my entry into Perugia under the cloak of the
man in the mask--I had a fall, and was for a time thought to be dead.
It was not very serious, after all. But among the friends of my adopted
family who came to inquire after me, there slipped in a little Jew,
whether baptized or not I do not know, who lived in Perugia, and traded
with visitors, in objects of art and antiquity. My parents disliked
him because he was a Jew; for in Italy, as here, a strong prejudice
prevails against that people. This Jew inquired about me anxiously, and
even insisted on seeing me, so as to be satisfied as to my condition.
“A year afterwards, we spent the summer in the country, and on our
return to the city, he came again to obtain further information about
me, and to see with his own eyes whether I had grown, and was well.
My parents were extremely surprised at this, and insisted on knowing
why he took so much interest in me. They threatened to exclude him
from the house unless he gave a satisfactory account of the matter;
for they were already fond of me, and were afraid that this Jew might
mean to carry me off. Upon this he confessed, or pretended, that he had
chanced to receive at his house the man in the mask, on the day of his
arrival in the city, and had extracted certain confidential disclosures
from him about me. These disclosures, vague, improbable, and utterly
useless, were the statements with which I began my story. Probably they
are not entitled to any credit whatever. My adoptive mother paid very
little attention to them, but thinking the adventure somewhat romantic,
she gave me the surname of del Lago, which I have for a long time used
as my real name.”
“But the baptismal name, Christian, Christin, Christiern, Chrétien,
Cristiano, who gave you that?”
“The man in the mask, without adding any other.”
“Did this man speak Italian?”
“Very imperfectly. His difficulty in explaining himself added not a
little to the mystery about me.”
“But what sort of accent had he?”
“Professor Goffredi had occupied himself with the dead languages only.
His wife, like himself a highly educated person, knew a good deal
about living languages, but she found it impossible to decide to what
nationality this man’s accent belonged.”
“And the little Jew, what did he think?”
“If he had any opinion about it, he never thought proper to tell it.”
“Were your parents quite sure he was not himself the man in the mask?”
“Quite certain. The man in the mask was of middle size, while the Jew
was not five feet high. Nor had their voices or accents anything of
similarity. I see, Monsieur Goefle, that, like my poor friends the
Goffredis, you are asking yourself all sorts of questions about me; but
what difference would it make, let me ask you, even if you could answer
them?”
“Very true; what difference would it make?” answered M. Goefle.
“Perhaps you may not be worth the pains I have been taking this hour
past to put you in the way of discovering your family. It is from a
professional habit of mind: let us say no more about it; particularly
as in all that you have told me there is not a single definite fact to
serve as the basis for framing ingenious and learned deductions. Wait,
however;--what was done with the money of the man in the mask?”
“My good parents, imagining that it may have been the hire of a
kidnapper, or the reward of some other crime, and believing, therefore,
that it could not bring me good fortune, hastened to deposit it in the
box for the poor in the cathedral of Perugia.”
“But you mentioned that you yourself spoke some language when you were
brought there.”
“Certainly; but I quickly forgot it, as there was no one for me to
talk to in it. I only know that a German philologist, who was visiting
us next year, tried to unravel the mystery, at which time I had a
good deal of trouble to remember a few words of this old language of
mine. The linguist said it was a northern dialect, and somewhat like
Icelandic; but my black hair seemed in a measure to invalidate that
conclusion. The attempt to discover the facts was given up. My adoptive
mother wished to make me forget all about any other country or family.
You may easily suppose she had little difficulty in accomplishing her
object.”
“One question more,” said M. Goefle. “I cannot feel thoroughly
interested in a story until I am well possessed of the beginning of
it. These recollections, that faded of themselves so naturally, and
which your friends tried, moreover, to help you lose--does there remain
absolutely nothing of them?”
“There is something, but so vague that I cannot tell whether it is not
merely a dream. It is a recollection of a strange, wild country, even
grander in its features than this around me.”
“A cold country?”
“That I do not know. Children seldom feel the cold, and I was never
very sensitive to it.”
“What else was there in your dream? Sunshine? snow?”
“I don’t know. Tall trees, herds of cows, I think.”
“Tall trees--that is not Iceland. And what do you remember of the
journey to Italy?”
“Absolutely nothing. I believe my companion, or companions, were
strangers to me when we set out.”
“Well, go on with your story.”
“That is, I will begin it, Monsieur Goefle; for, so far, I have only
been telling you the mysterious circumstances with which, as the
poets say, my cradle was surrounded. I will begin with the first
clearly-defined recollection in my mind. This is--pray do not be
scandalized--an ass.”
“An ass? A quadruped or a biped?”
“A real ass with four legs; a flesh-and-blood ass. He was the favorite
animal of Sophia Goffredi for riding, and was called _Nino_, the
diminutive of Giovanni. I was so fond of him, that I have called the
one I now use to carry my baggage by the name of Jean, in remembrance
of him who was the joy of my early childhood.”
“Ah, you have an ass? It must have been he who visited me last evening.”
“And it was you who had him put in the stable?”
“Exactly. You seem to love asses.”
“Fraternally. Indeed, I have been thinking for a quarter of an hour
that mine has, perhaps, not had his breakfast. Ulph will be afraid of
him. Perhaps he has driven him out of the chateau. The poor fellow may
be wandering about in the ice and snow at this very moment, awakening
the insensible echoes with his plaintive voice. I beg pardon, Monsieur
Goefle, but I must leave you for a moment and look after my ass.”
“You are a queer fellow,” said M. Goefle. “Well, be quick, and give an
eye to my horse at the same time. He’s worth more than your ass--no
offence to you. But are you going out to the stable in my dress-coat
and silk stockings?”
“I shall be back in a moment.”
“No, no, my boy, that won’t do at all. Besides, you will catch cold.
Take my furred boots and pelisse, and be quick!”
Cristiano thankfully obeyed, and found Jean in very good case, coughing
less than on the day before, and eating contentedly in company with
Loki, whom Ulph had brought back from the new chateau.
Ulph was looking at the ass in stupid wonderment. He was beginning to
recover a little from his drunkenness, and to suspect that it was not
a horse that he had so quietly groomed in the morning. Cristiano, who
had learned on the previous evening, while hunting after his supper,
what a superstitious poltroon he had to deal with, addressed him at
once in Italian, accompanying his remarks with fierce looks and absurd
and terrifying gestures. In this fantastic style, he ordered the poor
fellow to respect the ass like a mythological divinity, and threatened
him with the most fearful punishment in case of disobedience. Ulph, in
a great fright, retired in silence, after saluting both the ass and
his master, his brain full of indistinct notions that he could not
carry forward to any intelligible conclusion, but which the spirituous
indulgences of the coming evening would be sure to develop into new
alarms and imaginations more and more strange.
“Very well,” continued Cristiano, returning and resuming his pipe,
his story, and his position astride of a chair, in the bear-room;
“Madame Goffredi’s ass was my first friend. I believe no donkey in
the world, not even my own, ever had such beautiful ears and such an
agreeable gait. Perhaps, Monsieur Goefle, the reason I think so is,
that the first time that quiet pace and those two long ears attracted
the attention of my poor little undeveloped mind, I was at the same
moment instinctively impressed by one of the most beautiful sights
in the universe. It was on the shore of a lake. Lakes, you see, play
an important part in my life. But what a lake this was! The lake of
Perugia--the ancient lake Thrasymene! Were you never in Italy, Monsieur
Goefle?”
“No, very much to my regret. But as to lakes, we have some here in
Sweden that would make your Italian ones look like wash-basins.”
“I have nothing to say against your lakes. I have already seen a number
of them. Very likely they are beautiful in summer, and even in winter,
with their _mjelgars_--is not that the name of those immense
avalanches of earth that slide down to the water’s edge with their
green trees standing, their rocks and strange fractures?--I admit that
they are very remarkable. The hoar-frost and ice that cover so many
strange forms, and make a wreath of diamonds out of the smallest blade
of grass; these inextricable net-works of brambles that might be taken
for immense and elaborate pieces of work in cut-glass; the glorious red
sunlight over it all; the jagged peaks above, glittering like shafts of
sapphire against the purple of the morning--yes, I confess the grandeur
of all this scenery. Even what I can see out of this window is a
picture which dazzles me. Dazzles: that is the word; and that is really
the only criticism I have to offer upon it. It excites me--carries me
beyond myself. Enthusiasm is good, no doubt; but is there nothing else
in life? Has not man an immense need for repose, for contemplation,
without any sense of effort; for that sort of soft, delicious revery
that we call _far niente_? Well, it is down in the south, at such
a place as lake Thrasymene, that one feels a glorious consciousness of
mere vegetating. It was there that I grew up in perfect quiet, without
any violent changes; a poor little weed, transplanted, from some
unknown region, to those shores, blessed by the sunshine, shaded by the
ancient faint-hued olive-trees, and, as it were, bathed always in warm
fluid gold.
“We had--it is a sad _we_--a little country-house, or _villetta_, on
a small stream called the Sanguineto, or Bloody Brook; in memory, it
is said, of the blood that once ran down its bed from the field of the
famous battle of Thrasymene. Here we passed all the pleasant summer
weather in a delicious rural paradise. There were no more corpses in
the stream; the waters of the Sanguineto were as clear as crystal.
However, my dear adoptive father used to be absorbed by his quaint
occupation of searching for bones, medals, and remains of armor, of
which great quantities are still found among the grass and flowers
along the shore of the lake. His wife, who adored him--and with good
reason--always accompanied him; and I, by this time a great careless
boy, whom also, in their loving kindness, they adored--I used to roll
about on the warm sand, or ride dreaming along on my dear mother’s lap,
rocked by Nino’s even pace.
“Gradually I came to perceive and understand the splendor of the days
and nights in that lovely country. The lake is immense. Not that it
covers so much space as even the smallest of yours, but grandeur is not
the same as dimension. The curves of its outlines are so grand, and its
atmosphere is so soft, that its luminous distances give an impression
of infinity. I cannot remember, without emotion, certain sunrises
and sunsets that I have seen there, over that broad mirror, filled
with reflections of headlands crowded with tall, thick trees, and of
distant islets, showing as white as alabaster among the rosy waves.
And at night, what myriads of stars hung quivering in the tranquil
water! How lovely were the mists that climbed the silvery slopes, and
how mysterious the harmonies that seemed to creep unobtrusively along
the shores, with the slight ebb and flow of that great mass of waters
that seemed afraid of disturbing the sleep of the flowers! With you,
you must confess, Monsieur Goefle, that nature is violent, even in
its winter’s repose. In your mountains everything carries the marks
of the perpetual floods of your spring and autumn. But there, all the
terrestrial outlines are certain of preservation for a long time, and
every plant of maturing in the place where it was born. In breathing
such an air, we breathe in with it some similar kindliness of instinct;
the eternal happiness of nature diffuses itself in the soul without
overpowering or confounding it.”
“You have a poetical vein in you, evidently,” said M. Goefle; “but are
not the people of that beautiful country dirty, idle, and voluntarily
wretched?”
“Poverty is always half the fault of the government and half of the
governed; the blame is never all on one side. I suppose that may be
what prevents improvement. But in such a pleasant climate, the poverty
produced by indolence finds an excuse in the sensuous pleasure of
contemplative existence. In my youth I felt keenly this intoxicating
charm of the south, and I appreciated it all the more because I felt
also, from time to time, an excess of feverish energy, as if I had
really been born five hundred leagues away, in those cold regions where
mind exerts more authority over matter.”
“Then you were not altogether indolent yourself?”
“I believe I was not indolent at all, for my parents desired me to
become a learned man, and, out of affection for them, I made great
efforts to acquire knowledge. But I felt much more inclined towards
the natural sciences, arts, and philosophy, than to the difficult
and minute researches of the learned M. Goffredi. I thought his line
of study rather useless, and was quite unable to experience such
a delirium of joy as he felt when we had succeeded in determining
the purpose of some ancient landmark or deciphering some Etruscan
inscription. In other matters he left me perfectly free to follow my
own preferences, and I lived with him in the pleasantest relations
that it is possible to imagine. Indulge me in a few details about this
period of my life, from infancy to youth--the time when the faculties
of my soul were awakening within me.
“Perugia is a university city, a poetical place--one of the old
Italian centres of beauty and learning. It is rich in antiquities and
monuments of all periods; it has some fine libraries, an academy of
fine arts, collections, and so forth. The city itself is beautiful
and picturesque; it includes more than a hundred churches and fifty
monasteries, all rich in pictures, manuscripts, etc. The Piazza
del Duomo is a remarkable place, having on one side a rich Gothic
cathedral, a fountain by Giovanni de Pisa, a chef-d’œuvre, and other
monuments of different ages, and on the other a great palace in the
Venetian style. This is a proud and strange relic of the thirteenth
or fourteenth century, of a sombre red, finished with black ornaments
in iron, and with its doors and windows pierced with that fantastic
irregularity of design which has gone so entirely out of vogue since
the introduction of the correct lines and pure taste introduced by the
renaissance.
“I felt a passionate admiration for what I may call the dramatic
physiognomy of this old palace, though M. Goffredi despised it as
belonging to a period of barbarism. He admired only the antique, and
such modern periods as are inspired by the antique. For my part, I
plainly confess that all these masterpieces of exactly the same school,
ancient and modern, sometimes tried very severely my power of admiring.
This predetermined preference of the Italians for always going over
that same old ground again, and their obstinate neglect of exactly the
period when the national character was most freely expressing itself,
between the absolutism of the emperors and that of the popes, had
become so consecrated by public opinion, that you will pass there for
a Vandal if you allow yourself to use any other than the recognized
standards of excellence.[5]
“I was natural and spontaneous in my character, and accordingly I was
often reproved in consequence of my love for what was indiscriminately
called ‘The Gothic’--that is, everything not pertaining to the ages of
Pericles, Augustus, or Raphael. It was with some effort, indeed, that
my adoptive father could bring himself to admire the last of these
three. His only enthusiasm was for the ruins of Rome; and when he took
me thither he was surprised and scandalized to hear me say that I saw
nothing there to make me forget the royal imaginativeness and effective
grouping of our own Piazza del Duomo, with its great red and black
palace, its assemblage of varied splendors, and its narrow, crooked
streets, that suddenly plunge under gloomy arcades, with a sort of air
of tragic mystery.
“I was by this time fifteen or sixteen years old, and began to be able
to explain my tastes and ideas. I managed to make my father understand
that it was a matter of necessity for me to be absolutely independent
in all that related to taste and feeling. I could not help admiring and
enjoying all efforts of genius and of invention. I found it impossible
to imprison my views within a system, an epoch, or a school. In a word,
I must have liberty to adore the universe, God, and that divine spark
which He has given to man, wherever visible in the works of nature or
of art.
“‘Thus,’ I said to him, ‘I love the beautiful sunshine and the gloomy
night; our own austere Perugino and the impetuous Michael Angelo; the
mighty substructures of the Romans, and the delicate pierced work of
the Saracens. I love our own quiet lake Thrasymene, and the furious
cataract of Terni. I love your beloved Etruscans and all your sublime
ancients, but I also love the Greco-arabic cathedrals; I love equally
the monumental fountain of Trevi, and the little brook that runs
between two rocks in the depths of some rural solitude. Everything that
is new seems to me worthy of interest and of attention; everything is
dear to me that at any time seizes hold of my heart or of my thoughts.
Feeling these impulses to admire whatever is beautiful or sublime,
and even whatever is merely charming or agreeable, I have a great
repugnance for a devotion confined to certain forms of the beautiful
exclusively.
“‘But,’ I continued, ‘if you are convinced that in this I am in a
wrong road, that the impulse which I feel--the desire for development
in all directions--is dangerous, a symptom of an ill-regulated mental
action, I will do my best to repress it, and throw myself entirely into
whatever course of study you may mark out for me. I desire, above all
things, to be what you wish me to be; but, my dear father, before you
cut my wings, please to make yourself certain that there is nothing
worth preserving in all this vain plumage.’
“M. Goffredi, though exclusively devoted to a very narrow range of
studies, was the most generous character I ever met. He reflected
much about the matter, and often consulted his wife, a woman of the
divinest susceptibilities. Sophia Goffredi was what the Italians
call a _letterata_; not a _femme de lettres_, as that term
is generally understood in France, but a woman at once cultivated,
charming, inspired, erudite, simple. She loved me so tenderly that she
believed me a prodigy; and these two excellent friends decided with one
accord that my wishes must be regarded, and that at any rate they would
not extinguish my fire until they were certain whether it was a flame
from heaven, or a mere blaze of straw.
“What gave them confidence in me was, that this disposition of mine to
permit my mind to pursue its own impulses in every direction, did not
originate in inconstancy of character. I was warm-hearted, and felt
kindly disposed towards all my fellow-creatures, and yet I was not
disposed to waste my life with all manner of company. My attachments
were exclusively for the two persons who had adopted me, and whom I
preferred to all others. Their society was my greatest, I may say my
only pleasure, apart from the various studies that had captivated me.
“It was decided, then, that my mind should be at my own disposal,
particularly as, all things considered, it was a pretty good mind;
and I was not obliged to confine myself rigorously to the university
course. I was allowed to take my own way, and to give free career to
the enormous facility with which I was gifted. Was this an error? I
cannot think so. It is true that I might have been restricted to one
specialty, which would have cased me up forever in some one corner of
art or science, where I should never have known privation; but how many
intellectual enjoyments should I have lost! And who can tell whether
what are called practical ideas, and my own personal interests, if
forced upon my attention in this way, might not have withered all the
religion of my heart and my conscience? You will see shortly that
Sophia Goffredi had no reason to regret having allowed me to be myself.
“My first conviction was that I was born for literature. Sophia
trained me to write both in prose and verse, and while still a child,
I composed several romances and comedies in rhyme, which our circle of
friends were so kind, or so simple, as to admire. I might have become
very conceited, for I was excessively spoiled by all our visitors; but
Sophia used often to tell me that the day when one is satisfied with
one’s self is the last day of improvement; and this simple warning
saved me from the foolishness of self-admiration. And besides, I very
soon saw that in order to produce anything worth while in literature,
I must know a great many things, or else I should merely float in a
sea of empty phrases. I read enormously; but my studies in history and
natural science caused me to entirely lose sight of myself; and instead
of gathering booty like a bee, to make honey and wax, I simply coursed
to and fro through the vast field of human knowledge, merely for the
pleasure of knowing and understanding.
“It was while thus engaged that I felt such a powerful impulse towards
the natural sciences, and that my desire to devote my life to this
pursuit became a vocation more definitely resolved upon in my mind than
the former one. With this ardor for understanding, was joined a similar
ardor for observing; and I might say that there awoke in me two
distinct persons: one seeking to discover the secrets of creation for
the love of science, that is, for the sake of humanity; and the other
seeking to enjoy the varied beauties of creation as a poet--that is, to
some extent, for his own pleasure.
“From that moment, I was possessed by the idea of making long voyages.
While absorbed in studying the collections and museums of Perugia, I
was dreaming of the antipodes; and the sight of a little stone or dried
flower would carry me in imagination to the summits of lofty mountains,
or across vast oceans. I thirsted to see the great cities, the centres
of enlightenment, the scientific men of my time, and great and precious
scientific collections. Sophia Goffredi had taught me French, German,
and a little Spanish. I felt, likewise, the necessity of learning
the northern languages, so as not to be a stranger in any part of
Europe. I learned English, Dutch, and particularly Swedish, with
extreme rapidity. My pronunciation, however, was defective; or rather,
I had none. I did not try to master the characteristic music--so to
speak--of languages which I could not hear spoken; but relied upon the
correctness of my ear, and my facility in catching accents, for quickly
mastering the spoken use of any language when necessary. The event has
shown that these expectations were quite justified; I only need fifteen
days to speak, without any foreign accent, a language which I have
studied only in books.
“While I was thus learning languages, I was also studying drawing
and a little painting; in order to be able to fix permanently my
travelling recollections, by sketches of sites, remarkable plants,
costumes, monuments,--in short, all that would have to be retained in
the memory alone, if the hand had not the power to delineate the mental
conception. Besides, I studied good writers, for the sake of enabling
myself to narrate clearly and rapidly; for I had often been displeased
at the obscure and confused style of books of travels. And so well did
I use my time, Monsieur Goefle, that at eighteen, I was well prepared,
in virtue of my knowledge, activity, power of labor, and faculty of
observation, to become at least a useful, if not an actually scientific
man. That was the happiest time of my life, the purest and sweetest.
Ah, if it could have lasted a few years longer, I should have been a
different man!
“M. Goffredi was buried in his antiquarian researches, and did not
directly superintend my education. He, however, from time to time,
reviewed my studies with me, and observed me with care, and when he
was satisfied that I was not losing my time and labor, he became quite
confident in my judgment. He had at first been tempted to dissuade me
from trying too many things at once; but when he was satisfied that
all my various acquisitions found their places in good order in my
mind, he began to dream with me and for me everything that I dreamed
myself. He had himself travelled before his marriage, and he was even
now projecting another archæological tour, to reach certain points not
yet explored. He was thinking the more seriously of this plan, since
receiving a small inheritance that had recently fallen to him, and
which enabled him to resign his professorship at the university. He
had been for ten years employed on a work which he could not complete
without visiting the coast of Africa and some of the Greek Islands.
I should mention that his way of working was painful and slow, for
his style lacked clearness, and there was also perhaps some want of
clearness of thought in his way of presenting his reasonings, however
ingenious in themselves. He was a genius without talent.
“He was pleased with the manner in which I wrote up some pages of his
work for him, and resolved to take me with him, and have me write it
all out after we came home. I was almost wild with delight when he
communicated this design to me; but my joy was quickly changed to
sadness at the idea of leaving alone at home my adoptive mother, that
excellent woman whose whole life was devoted to us, and I asked to
remain with her.
“She was grateful to me for this, but suggested, by way of satisfying
all three of us, the plan of going herself--a proposition which was
received with enthusiasm. Our preparations for departure were now made
as joyfully as if for a feast. Ah, everything smiled upon us! _La
Sofia_--you know that with us the _le_ or _la_ is a superlative of
admiration, and not a term of contempt--was accustomed to long walks.
In the country she used to go everywhere with us. She was active,
courageous, and enthusiastic, and was never the least hindrance to us.
If we were ever weary or discouraged, she raised our spirits, and put
us into good humor, by her gayety and energy. She was still young and
strong, and the angelic tenderness and goodness of her smile made you
forget all about the plainness of her features. Her husband loved her
devotedly; and as for her, nobody could have convinced her that Silvio
Goffredi was not a demigod, despite his lameness, his prematurely
rounded shoulders, and his fabulous absence of mind. But how pure and
generous was the soul hidden by that frail body, and those timid and
irresolute manners! His disinterestedness as to money was admirable,
and a proof of it was this very work, for which he was sacrificing his
employment and his habits. He was aware that such books cost more than
they bring, especially in Italy; and he calculated upon no gain from
this one; yet it was the glory, the purpose, the dream of his whole
life.
“My poor mother was the most impatient to start of any of us, and she
felt an absolute confidence in our good fortune. It was decided that we
should begin by visiting some of the islands of the Archipelago.
“I must ask leave to pass rapidly over what follows; the recollection
is most painful. In crossing part of the Apennines on foot, my poor
father received a slight wound in the leg, from striking it against a
rock. Notwithstanding our urgency, he neglected the wound, and insisted
on walking during the following days. The weather was terribly hot.
When we reached the coast of the Adriatic, where we were to embark,
he found himself obliged to rest for some days, and we succeeded in
inducing him to allow a surgeon to visit him. But what was our terror
to find that mortification had commenced! We were at a mere village,
far away from all competent aid. Our country surgeon, who was little
more than a mere barber, spoke unconcernedly of amputating the leg.
Would it have saved him, or hastened his death? In so horrible a
dilemma, my mother and I knew not what to resolve. My father, with
heroic courage, decided to have the leg taken off, and spoke of
travelling about the world with a wooden leg. We dared not subject him
to the knife of a butcher. I determined to hasten to Venice--it was
only fifty leagues distant. I obtained a horse, set out, broke him down
by night, abandoned him, bought another, and continued my journey. I
reached the city exhausted, but alive. I applied to one of the first
surgeons of Venice, and induced him to return with me by agreeing to
pay him a sum equal to the whole of Sophia’s property. We took a boat
and returned by sea, with a speed that filled me with hope and joy.
Ah, monsieur! if I should live a thousand years, the memory of that
terrible day would, I believe, be as bitter as it is now. I found
Silvio Goffredi dead, and Sophia Goffredi insane.”
“Poor fellow!” said M. Goefle, as the great tears fell from Cristiano’s
eyes.
“Well, well,” said the latter, hastily wiping them away, “it will not
do to be surprised by emotions of that kind. It shows that one has too
forcibly driven them out of his mind, and they revenge themselves for
it once for all, when they can seize their rights.
“The skilful physician whom I had brought with me could neither cure
my mother, nor give me any hope that she would ever be cured. He was
only able, by studying the character of her insanity, to instruct me
how to deal with its more violent attacks. It would be requisite to
comply with all her desires, no matter how unreasonable, and, in other
matters, to assume over her the sort of influence, and even authority,
which a father exerts over his child.
“I carried her back to Perugia, along with the body of our poor friend,
which we had embalmed, in order to deposit it in the mausoleum which
his wife was imagining for him on the shore of lake Thrasymene. What
I suffered at thus bringing back my father dead, and my mother insane,
to the place from which we had so joyously departed not three weeks
before, it is impossible for me to express. When we went, Sophia was
laughing and singing all the way. On our return, also, she laughed
and sang; but how mournful was the music, and how heart-breaking
the laughter! I had to lead her along, to reason with her, to amuse
and persuade her as one does a child--this woman, who had been so
intelligent and strong; who but yesterday I relied upon as my guide and
support; for, Monsieur Goefle, I was hardly nineteen years old.