A Cavalier of this city, called Dorido, a young man of an illustrious family, an engaging person and great bravery, fell in love with a young lady of the name, of Clorinia, who was about seventeen years old, virtuous, beautiful, and of equal rank. The relations of this charming girl brought her up with so much care, that they would not allow her to make any connection by which her virtue might be at all endangered. She was hardly ever suffered even to approach her latticed window, lest some misfortune should be the consequence, as no one could gaze upon her extreme beauty with impunity: either her father or her mother, or her brother Valerio, attended her every where, and watched her every action. Some months ago, Dorido having accidentally obtained a sight of her, became violently enamoured: but could declare his love by no other means than by casting empassioned glances towards the window of her chamber when she happened to be there, as he passed by the house. If the homage of his eyes was not always remarked by the object of it, at least it was sometimes noticed; at all events, it was practised often enough to produce the wished for effect.
Clorinia at first was satisfied with looking at the Cavalier without being seen; but soon she felt a wish that he should see her also, without knowing why she wished it, and answering by little and little to his amorous looks, she at last conceived a passion in the same way in which she had inspired it,—I mean by appearing at her lattice. Dorido soon guessed that he had made on her all the impression he desired, and since he was denied more, indulged himself in the transports of believing himself beloved. Nevertheless, he sought to reap a more solid satisfaction from his conquest. He contrived to form an acquaintance with Valerio, and succeeded so well as to attach him in such a degree, that they were inseparable. Valerio could no longer live without his friend Dorido; they were always together, sometimes at one house, sometimes at another. This gave Dorido an opportunity of sometimes seeing his charmer, and even speaking to her, but never alone. The eyes of the lovers alone communicated to each other the secrets of their hearts. This state of affairs, however, did not last for ever. Clorinia made her maid Scintila the confidante of her passion; this old woman, who had wit, and wished to serve her mistress, called upon Dorido, and having met with him: “noble Cavalier,” said she, “you need not attempt to disguise the truth from me, I know the state of your heart. You love Clorinia, and I am much mistaken if your love is not returned. You are both dying with impatience for an interview, and I cannot see your situation without pity; I shall never rest till I have procured you the satisfaction you both so ardently desire.” The lover, transported with joy at these words, thanked the Duenna for her good will, assuring her that she should not find him ungrateful if she succeeded. Then making use of so excellent an opportunity, he wrote a very passionate billet, which he conjured her to convey to the amiable sister of Valerio. Scintila returned immediately to her mistress, to acquaint her with the step she had taken, and presented her with Dorido’s letter. Clorinia blamed her for taking charge of it—but soon forgave her: and nothing was now thought of but how to manage the interview with the lovers. The lady raised so many difficulties, that she would have relinquished it altogether, if the old woman, who was more ingenious, had not hit upon a plan they both approved of. Scintila’s bedchamber was on the ground floor; and adjoining to her room there was another, which was filled with old and useless furniture: this room was lighted only by a small window defended by two strong bars of iron, through which there was only room sufficient for a hand to pass. This window, which was about five or six feet from the ground, looked into a lane or blind alley quite uninhabited; and the place appeared exactly suited to lovers, who were satisfied to limit their happiness to conversation only. The old woman, as soon as she saw her young mistress disposed to speak with Dorido through this little window, hastened to inform the Cavalier, who on the ensuing night at eleven o’clock placed himself at a convenient spot. He approached the bars, where he found Scintila expecting him; who requested him to wait patiently until the servants were gone to bed. He did not languish long in suspense: the wished for moment soon arrived. Clorinia came trembling to the window, at which her lover presented himself in speechless agitation. As they both now loved for the first time, they were agitated at the sight of each other, and the excess of their feelings at first prevented them from speaking; but love has more than one language. The lady passed one of her beautiful hands between the bars of the window, and the lover clasping it with ardor, covered it with a thousand kisses. At last, by degrees, they broke silence, and indulged in passionate protestations of eternal love. Their souls were so entirely occupied by the pleasure of seeing each other, that they would have suffered daylight to find them together, if the old woman had not interrupted their conversation to warn them that it was time to separate. Before he would retire, Dorido entreated his mistress to allow him to return the next night at the same hour to the window, and the lady could not resolve to refuse him this favour. At last they separated, equally delighted with the conversation they had just had with each other, and filled with impatience for another interview. Dorido especially was too much agitated to be able to take any rest, or, to speak more correctly, he was miserable until the time of his return to the window. You may easily suppose he did not fail to be punctual; his mistress, finding no obstacle to her design, appeared again at the same place, and their meeting was the second time less embarrassed by timidity than the first. The Cavalier, who had a great deal of wit, said a thousand fine things to his mistress, who replied to them in as lively a manner. This conversation lasted for three hours, and their discourse was mingled with innocent caresses; so that the second interview pleased them both as much as the first. The prudent Scintila was again obliged to separate them. Again and again they accused her of cruelty, not reflecting, that though she disturbed their pleasures, it was only with a view to render them more lasting; for, in fact, they continued to enjoy their stolen interviews with so much secrecy and good management, that not a soul living knew of them but the old woman and one other person.
This other person was a young man of rank, named Horatio, a native of this city. He also loved Clorinia, having by chance seen her at her lattice, and had revealed his love to her by signs, but finding them very badly received, he concluded that he had a rival who was more happy, and judged that rival to be Dorido, as he was united in so strict a friendship with Valerio. To clear up his well founded suspicions, he sought out Dorido, who was one of his friends, to whom he spoke in these words, “My dear Dorido, I am come to ask a favour of you, and I conjure you not to refuse me; my happiness depends upon it. You are continually with Valerio; you very often visit at his house, and I cannot help thinking that you are in love with his sister: if I am mistaken in my conjectures, oblige me by declaring it. You are too well deserving the heart of that lady, for me to dispute it with you.” “You love Clorinia then,” exclaimed Dorido, a little ruffled; “I confess that I am quite charmed with her,” replied Horatio, “but nevertheless I do you justice, and agree that you deserve better than I, the happiness of being her husband.”—“Let us speak without flattery,” interrupted Dorido. “I should doubtless consider myself highly honoured in becoming the husband of Clorinia; but I frankly confess to you, that I have no design to marry her.” “Is it possible,” cried Horatio, eagerly, “that you do not mean to marry her? ah! my friend, how different are my intentions from yours. My highest ambition is to unite my fate with hers; your views should yield to mine: sacrifice the mad hopes you have conceived. I expect this effort from your friendship and your virtue.” “You might add,” said Dorido, “that I owe it to the family of Clorinia; yes,” continued he, “I will leave the field open to you; and if Valerio’s sister should accept your addresses and consent to give you her hand, I will cease to be your rival. I will do more, I will speak in your favour, and I assure you that in that case it shall not be my fault if your wishes be not fulfilled.” Horatio was so well satisfied with this speech, that he testified his gratitude to Dorido, without thinking that his promise was only conditional, and therefore that he ought to mistrust it. He made no reflection of this kind, but even requested Dorido to use his good offices in his behalf with Clorinia. Dorido could not but be touched at the frankness of Horatio; and being generous enough to prefer the happiness of his friend to his own inclinations, as his views were purer, he resolved to do all in his power to wean his affections from this lady. In fact the very next time he saw her, he addressed her thus: “You are not ignorant, Madam, that Horatio is added to the number of your slaves, but I am doubtful whether you know how truly he adores you. Learn then that he thinks only of you, and that to receive your hand is the only wish of his heart.” “I am charmed to hear it,” replied Clorinia; “my reception of him shall convince you how little I wish for any other lover but Dorido.” “I well know,” replied the Cavalier, “the value of preference so glorious for me, but I should think that I abused your goodness, if I was not capable of some self-denial; Horatio has many good qualities, and when you know him better you will not be sorry, perhaps, if your friends should second his wishes.” “How!” cried the lady, “to hear you is enough to make me believe that you would make me miserable; is it possible that you can wish me to reply to the tenderness of Horatio?” “Never,” answered Dorido; “I have no such thought: I only wished to convince you that if you feel any inclination for Horatio, and your friends approve of his addresses, my heart would in vain rebel; that I would sacrifice myself to the happiness of my rival, to shew you how entirely devoted I am to all your wishes.” “I fear,” replied she, “that the victim would be as submissive as you represent him, and that your love for me is not quite so sincere as you profess it to be. “But,” continued she, “I do not pretend to put you to the trial. Dorido shall be my first lover and my last: upon this assurance you may rely: let Horatio persevere as much as he pleases in his love for me, he will never be more successful. I will confess to you that I was acquainted with his passion, which I learnt from his gestures before my window, and have been so little pleased by it, that I have conceived a dislike for him, which almost borders on hatred.”
After these words, Dorido did not dare to mention Horatio again, as he perceived very plainly that the topic was extremely disagreeable to Clorinia. He changed the conversation for the rest of the time they were together, and the night was passed in mutual protestations of eternal love. On the next day Dorido received a visit from Horatio. “Well my friend,” said the latter, “have you seen Clorinia,—did anything fall from her lovely lips which could be interpreted in my favour?” “I am very sorry,” replied the other, “that I cannot give you a very flattering account; you have but little room to hope; I extolled your merit,—I pointed out the splendor of the alliance,—I represented you as much more in love with her than perhaps you really are,—but the cruel beauty silenced me by declaring that she could not reply to your love, and that the soft bonds of Hymen should never unite her fate with yours.” At these words, Horatio turned pale and fell into a profound reverie, while Dorido sympathising in his grief like a true friend, pointed out to him that he ought to relinquish his pretensions rather than attempt to constrain the inclinations of Clorinia, and that there were in Rome many other ladies equally amiable, who would do more justice to his merit. “To conclude, my dear Horatio,” added he, “I am sure I have given you no cause to be dissatisfied with me. I would willingly have yielded the sister of Valerio to you, provided she had been at all inclined to favour your passion. I would have made this sacrifice to friendship. Can you now refuse to abandon a conquest that you are by no means sure to gain?” Horatio then broke silence, and replied to his friend: “Far from reproaching you, I must consider myself under a great obligation to you for the service you have fruitlessly attempted to render me, in pleading my cause. I confess that it is more reasonable that I should renounce my pretensions to a hand which I am not able to obtain, than that you should relinquish a heart which you already possess—farewell my friend, I will spare no pains to enable me to profit by your advice, and form an attachment elsewhere.” He quitted Dorido as he concluded these words, and with an air which persuaded him, that, struck by the force of his arguments, he intended to employ his utmost endeavours to conquer his passion for a woman whose ingratitude convinced him that he loved her too well. But his intentions were far different. He looked upon Dorido as a traitor. “He is a false friend,” said he to himself: “far from saying any thing to Clorinia in my favor, he has only spoken to my disadvantage; however, be that as it may, I am resolved to persevere; I will ask her in marriage through my father, who will be more ready to serve me than my rival was.” Thus Horatio resolved to impart his passion to his father, who approved of his choice, and promised to interpose in his behalf, undertaking to speak to Clorinia’s father on the subject; which he did soon afterwards. The two old men had a long conversation together; and the result was that a marriage was agreed upon, provided that the lady should show no repugnance to it; as her father was resolved not to constrain her inclinations. But as soon as a marriage with Horatio was proposed to her, she testified so much aversion for that gentleman, that they lost all hopes of her ever being more favourably inclined towards him, and every thing was consequently broken off. How pitiable is the situation of that man whose love tyrannizes over his reason! Horatio, seeing that his passion was despised, and his rival triumphant, felt all his love changed into hate: he now considered Clorinia only as an object of detestation; and refusing to listen to the voice of reason, he desired nothing more ardently than an opportunity to avenge himself at once on the lady and her favored lover. He employed a faithful servant of his own to watch them, and having by this means discovered the time and place of their nocturnal meetings, he conceived one of the most cruel and horrible designs that ever entered into the heart of man. One night he took care to be in the lane before the arrival of Dorido, and approached the grated window where the sister of Valerio had already placed herself. The darkness of the night caused her to mistake him for the lover she expected, and she addressed him with so much kindness that Horatio became still more irritated than ever. The traitor took care not to speak lest he should betray himself, but seizing with his left hand one of the hands of Clorinia, which that lady, in her mistake, had extended to him through the grating, he suddenly severed it from her arm with a very sharp knife which he held in his right hand: after which he speedily retreated from the lane, highly delighted with the success of his scheme. Figure to yourself the deplorable spectacle which presented itself to the relations of Clorinia, when, attracted to the spot by the cries of Scintila, they rushed half undressed into the room where the unfortunate lady lay stretched on the floor senseless, and weltering in her blood. But when they perceived the loss of her hand, the unfortunate parents fainted on the spot, and it was not without difficulty that they were recalled to life by the exertions of Valerio and the servants, who were aroused by the noise.
The father and mother being a little recovered, began to doubt as well as their son, whether Clorinia were not to blame in this lamentable affair. This was a mystery which Scintila could easily have elucidated, if she had not thought it more advisable to defer this explanation until a more convenient opportunity; so that they now thought only of saving Clorinia’s life if possible. Valerio instantly withdrew to his chamber, where he dressed himself with all expedition, in order that he might go himself, and bring a very skilful surgeon, who was a friend of his; while the father, after he had enjoined the strictest secrecy to all his servants on the subject of this disastrous affair, endeavoured with their assistance to staunch the blood of his daughter, by wrapping up in linen the arm which had been so cruelly mangled.
Valerio was soon ready; he went out and first of all hastened into the lane, to see if he could by the light of a lantern which he ordered a servant to carry before him, discover the lost hand: but Horatio had carried it away with him, and nothing was to be seen beneath the little window but a track of blood running down the wall. The wretched brother of Clorinia felt all his grief renewed at this sight; but as he proceeded, he met and recognised Dorido, who was hastening towards the lane with all the feelings of a happy lover. “Ah, my friend!” cried Valerio to him in a mournful voice, “whither are you going? I see that you are unacquainted with the tragic catastrophe that has just occurred. Oh wretched Clorinia!” “Gracious Heaven,” cried her unfortunate lover, “what misfortune do you deplore,—what has happened?” “A misfortune,” answered Valerio, “which our family ought to conceal from all mankind; but I will not hide any thing from you; I ought even to inform you of it as a friend who will not refuse to assist me in discovering the assassin of my unhappy sister.” These last words pierced Dorido’s heart; in a faint and trembling voice he enquired what was the matter. Valerio told him in a few words, and requested him to accompany him to the surgeon, but Dorido refused, saying to him, with an air which shewed the fury that began to animate him; “No no, Valerio, I shall employ my time better; there is no occasion to engage ourselves both on the same errand, when there is so much more to be done. Do you alone undertake to conduct the surgeon to your house, while I seek for the barbarian who could commit a crime which no one can hear of without trembling. If I can discover this perfidious wretch, let him expect a chastisement worthy of his treason. In a word,” added he, “leave me to revenge you; I feel as acutely as you the misfortune of Clorinia.” Upon this the two friends separated. Dorido returned homewards, vowing to listen only to his anger in the revenge which he purposed to take upon Horatio; for he could suspect no one but him of having committed this action. As soon as he arrived at home, he shut himself up in his chamber that he might freely lament the loss of his mistress. “My dear Clorinia,” cried he, “my rival, envious of your love for me, has deceived you in the darkness of this fatal night: you have mistaken him for your Dorido; I am then the unhappy cause of the misfortune which has happened to you. Were it not for me, you still would have been living in perfect peace with your father. It is I who have assassinated you; but your death shall but little precede my own. No sooner shall I have sacrificed Horatio to your ashes, than I also will join you in eternal darkness. Oh that it were permitted to thee to see and rejoice in the just vengeance which I will inflict on the wretch who has dared to deprive thee of thy innocent hand!”
Thus did Dorido bewail his mistress’s fate until day-break, when he repaired to her house, where every one was in the greatest distress and agitation. Valerio and his father seemed to be doubly afflicted at the sight of him, and they embraced each other almost drowned in tears. “Oh Dorido, my son,” said the old man, “my daughter is at the point of death, having lost so great a quantity of blood as alone would be sufficient to terminate her existence. Was there ever so unfortunate a father? Who can have been capable of committing so horrible an act? What punishment can console us under our present affliction?” “Sir,” answered Dorido, “suspend we our lamentations for a while, and let us think of one thing only which concerns us all. The author of this misery must perish; I will inflict on him an adequate punishment. But before I execute a revenge on him which shall astonish and horrify posterity, I must make myself what I now am not. Receive me, therefore, for your son-in-law; it will be more for the honour of us all that it should be said that Clorinia was avenged by her husband, than by her father’s friend.”
Both father and son accepted Dorido’s proposal most willingly. In fact, it was very honourable towards them, and very necessary to prevent the disadvantageous reports which might be circulated respecting their misfortune. The old man went himself to acquaint Clorinia with it, who, debilitated as she was from her extreme illness, shed tears of joy, and exclaimed, with transport, that “were she but the wife of Dorido, she could die contented.” She requested to be allowed to speak to him; and as she had then but little fever, it was considered that this consolation might be allowed her without danger; but no sooner did he appear at her bed-side, than she fainted from extreme joy. She was soon restored to her senses; but the surgeon, fearful of a relapse, would not permit the lovers to converse together. They were obliged, therefore, to express their thoughts by looks instead of words. Dorido, finding that his presence seemed to console the invalid, would not leave her the whole of the day. In the evening a priest and notary arrived, and the marriage was celebrated before three relations, who had been sent for as witnesses.
Clorinia was much better the two following days, and the surgeon seemed to entertain some hopes of her life; but he was deceived. On the third day the fever returned with such increased violence, that he pronounced her dissolution to be at hand. Dorido, now giving her up for dead, no longer delayed the execution of his vengeance. He went in search of Horatio to every place in which he was likely to find him; and having met him, he was most profuse in his compliments, and, as though he knew nothing of what had happened, invited him to sup at his house. Horatio, who had committed this barbarous action in the most private manner, and who as yet had not heard the affair whispered either in the City or in Clorinia’s neighbourhood, imagined that Dorido could not yet have heard of it, and suspecting no ill design, went to sup with him as he had frequently done before. They both sat down to table, and began to eat and drink. Dorido had caused some lethargic drugs to be mixed with Horatio’s wine; so that that gentleman soon fell into a sort of trance, during which Dorido and his two servants bound his hands and feet, and having slung a rope round his neck, with another rope they bound him to a pillar in the parlour, after having carefully shut every door in the house. In this condition they chafed his nose and temples with some strong spirits and restored him to his senses.
When the wretched Horatio found himself so extremely fast bound that he could not stir, he soon perceived the danger which threatened him, and, hoping to soften his rival’s anger, he confessed his crime, and implored his mercy in terms the most pathetic that his fear of death could inspire him with. Useless were his prayers! he had to appease an enemy who was inexorable, a husband who beheld his dying wife before his eyes! Dorido, so far from being moved by his entreaties, cut off both his hands himself, and bade his servants to strangle him, ordering them afterwards to carry his corpse at midnight to the top of the street, with his two hands tied to his neck. As for himself, not being able to support the loss of his wife, he left Rome this morning. It is not known whither he has directed his steps; and I am just informed that Clorinia died a few hours after his departure.
The Neapolitan gentleman here concluded his story, which much affected the Ambassador and his company, who deplored the lady’s untimely fate. They pitied Dorido also; but all concluded by observing that in the conduct of both the gentlemen there was manifested a spirit of vengeance which savoured very little of Christianity.
The day subsequent to this sad catastrophe, which was the general subject of conversation in Rome, I took my leave of that city, well mounted, but poorer, alas! than I imagined. Assuming a consequential air, and anticipating much pleasure, I proceeded towards Sienna, where I imagined my friend Pompey would be most anxiously expecting me. Having arrived there, I repaired straightway to his house.
He was at home, and received me in a civil manner, though not without evident embarrassment. “Signor Pompey,” said I, embracing him, “your friend Guzman can scarcely express his extreme joy at being at length introduced to your personal acquaintance.” My very name seemed to astonish him. “How,” answered he with surprise, “can you be that Guzman to whom I am under so many and such great obligations?” I was almost frozen by these words, for I knew they could portend no good. “For what possible reason,” cried I with emotion, “can you be so much astonished at seeing me?” “You will soon know that to your cost,” replied the merchant. “I see plainly that I have been duped, and that you are in reality that Guzman d’Alfarache whom I expected.”
These words were like a thunder-bolt to me, and I instantly foresaw that some accident had happened to my property. Impatient to discover the truth, I intreated Pompey to explain himself more clearly. “Well then,” said he, “you must know that there has passed through Sienna a cavalier calling himself gentleman to the Spanish Ambassador, who came hither from Rome, followed by two servants, on his road to Florence with despatches from his master. This spark introduced himself to me as the Guzman d’Alfarache who had been of so much service to me in my late law-suit, and he had in his possession the keys of your trunks.” I thought I should have fallen into convulsions even at these words, but a more circumstantial detail of the whole adventure drove me almost to madness. I requested to be allowed to inspect my trunks. He conducted me immediately to the chamber prepared for my reception, and pointing out two large ones, “There are the two that are left behind,” said he; “but even these have been in their power as well as the third.” I sighed bitterly when I recollected that my gold and jewels were in the one that was missing. I failed not, however, to open the others, and should have been somewhat appeased if the thieves, satisfied with having my money, had not meddled with my clothes; but no such consolation was in store for me.
In justice to Pompey, I must acknowledge that he was not less afflicted than myself when I informed him that I had been robbed of two thousand crowns. After all, however, his affliction may have been principally caused by the fear that I should hold him accountable for the loss of my property, whatever he might be able to urge in his own justification. So far from thinking of making him uneasy on this point, however, I tried all in my power to conceal the grief which consumed me. It appeared to me that a man who wished to assume the carriage of a gentleman ought not to shew much vexation at the loss of his clothes. Nevertheless, I was really half distracted, and Heaven knows I had reason enough, not being in possession of another coat except the one I had on, nor any linen but two shirts in my portmanteau.
In vain did I rack my brain with conjectures as to who could be the person who had taken the impression of my keys. I knew not whom to suspect. As for Sayavedra, I esteemed him too sincerely to entertain the slightest mistrust of him. It was not Pompey’s fault, however, if I was so long in discovering the thief; for as, in his relation of this affair, he described the person of the false Guzman, he gave me an exact portrait of Sayavedra; the figure, the hair, the voice, and the manners, were all his. So prejudiced was I in his favour, that I should have thought it quite a crime to have suspected him on account of the resemblance. I will say more: though I remembered that I had left him alone in my chamber when the carrier of Sienna came to look at my boxes, my respect for Sayavedra was proof against the recollection of even this circumstance.
While my host and I were making very useless reflections upon my loss, a servant came to tell us that supper was ready. We accordingly went down into the parlour, and sat down to table with gloomy faces, and without much inclination to eat. Pompey, perceiving that this vexatious affair had completely taken away my appetite, said to me, “Signor Guzman, your property is not so entirely lost as to render its recovery quite hopeless. I have not been idle; the Bargello[A], who is a friend of mine, has undertaken the pursuit of the thieves; and I assure you I place great reliance on his exertions. He will return this evening or to-morrow, and I trust he will be the bearer of good news.” “I hope so too,” answered I; “but, between ourselves, I don’t think that much confidence ought to be placed in persons of that kind: especially in an affair where restitution is to be made.”
[A] The Translator has not been able to meet with the word “Bargello” in either of the best Spanish Dictionaries; but presumes that it must signify a Magistrate, or perhaps inferior Officer of Justice.
Though the table was covered with well-dressed dishes and excellent wine, we were so little inclined to eat or drink, that supper was soon over. As I pretended to be very much fatigued, my host conducted me to my chamber, and soon withdrew, to my great satisfaction, for I found his conversation very tiresome. I spent part of the night in pacing my chamber absorbed in meditation: and did not retire to rest till near day-break; when my mind was so overwhelmed and fatigued with the different thoughts that agitated it by turns, that at last I fell asleep. My slumbers were soon disturbed; a loud noise on the staircase awoke me suddenly, and I heard several persons vociferating at the same time, “The thief is taken! the thief is taken!”
I drew back the bed-curtains, being scarcely able to believe my ears, and I was going to rise, that I might know what to think of it; when in rushed the merchant’s whole family, wife, children, and servants, all speaking together, and repeating what I had heard before: I requested the wife to explain the meaning of all this. “It means,” said she “that the Bargello is expected in the course of an hour, with one of the thieves in his custody: he sent one of his attendants forward to give Pompey notice of it, who is dressing himself that he may wait upon you.” My host was not slow in bringing this man before me, to whom I put some questions, and he informed me, “that the thief who was taken was he who had sustained the character of Guzman.”
This news revived me a little, and I began to flatter myself, that I should recover at least a part of my effects, since we had apprehended the thief. Pompey also indulged the same hopes, and the whole family evinced the greatest joy at this fortunate event. I gave a pistole to the man who had ridden all the way at full gallop to bring me the news; and hastened to dress myself, that I might recognize the scoundrel who had personated me. Pompey also prepared to accompany me, that he might speak to the magistrates in my favour.
While we were conversing on the subject, a servant came to inform us, that the Bargello was at the door on horseback, and that his myrmidons were conveying the thief to prison. The merchant sent a request to the Provost that he would alight and favour us with his company up stairs.
The Bargello, as great a scoundrel as ever was born, marched in with an air of triumph. First of all he related to us the intrepid manner in which he had secured the thief, and made me quite impatient by long digressions which did little honour to his modesty. I interrupted his heroic recital, to inquire what was of most importance to me to know, namely, whether he could give me any information respecting my money. “As for the money,” said he, with an air of great nonchalance, “he had about him but five and twenty pistoles: which is not much to be wondered at. Though he played the chief character in the piece, he is not at the head of the gang. That honour belongs to a certain Alexander Bentivoglio, of whom I have heard but too often: and who may yet some day fall into my clutches; however,” continued he, “console yourself: the scoundrel who is the cause of your misfortune is in our power, and I promise you that he shall be hung.” I could scarcely repress my rage at this impertinent discourse. I fairly wished them all at the devil together. The Provost who talked to me in that manner,—his man who had cost me a pistole,—and the merchant who, by his imprudence, had placed me in this embarrassing situation. I began to be angry in good earnest. The Bargello perceiving that so far from thinking of rewarding him as he expected, I was highly dissatisfied, took his leave very much displeased with my Lordship; and telling Pompey that if he had known that I should have received his services so ungratefully, he should not have taken much trouble about the affair.
As soon as he was gone, Pompey called for his cloak, and expressed an intimation of going to solicit the judges. As for me, I had a great curiosity to see the thief who was in prison, and having repaired thither, it was with no small astonishment that I recognized Sayavedra; though he had been accurately described to me. He threw himself at my feet the moment he saw me. He was as pale as death, and earnestly begged me to pardon him. “My dear Signor Don Guzman,” cried he, drowned in tears, “have pity on a wretch who sincerely repents having betrayed you.” He was going on in this strain, for he had prepared a long harangue to excite my pity; but I did not allow him time to say more. I loaded him with reproaches; but even while I thus reviled him I felt my anger growing weaker every moment. All the feelings of indignation which agitated me gave way insensibly to emotions of pity, which I should have been weak enough to have suffered him to perceive, had I not hastened from the presence of a traitor, who would at least have been condemned to the galleys, if the administrators of justice in Sienna had acted with a little wholesome severity.
The judges of that period however, as you will soon perceive, acted as a thousand others have done before them, and ten thousand since. The next day they sent to me one of their clerks to propose that I should bind myself to prosecute the prisoner. I answered that I should be very ready to do it, provided that they would engage that my lost property should be restored to me; but that otherwise I would not: that I did not wish for the death of the offender, and that hanging him would not at all replenish my purse; in short that I wished for nothing but my money and my clothes, and that I had given up all hopes of them, since they were in too good hands for me to have any chance of regaining them. The clerk had no sooner reported to the judges what I said, than considering that there was no more spoil to be gleaned from this affair, except the pistoles which they had taken from the thief they had secured, they satisfied themselves with condemning him to the pillory for two or three hours, and perpetual banishment from Sienna. These upright magistrates urged in defence of so mild a punishment, that as the culprit had no marks of branding on his shoulders, it was a proof that he had never been guilty before, and that consequently he deserved some indulgence. A pretty reason this for suffering a professed thief to escape! And is it not a most judicious arrangement to banish him from the country where he had robbed? It was as if they had said to him, “Go friend, and rob elsewhere.”
I did not yet know what punishment the judges intended to impose on Sayavedra, and I was at dinner with Pompey, when one his servants, who had heard the sentence pronounced, rushed into the room quite out of breath, and cried out with as much apparent satisfaction, as if he had announced the restoration of my property: “Huzza! Signor Don Guzman, the thief who has robbed you, is condemned to the Pillory and the iron collar, and he is just now going to be fastened into it. It will be your own fault if you do not witness his punishment.” I regretted at this moment that this fool was not my own servant, and that I was not at liberty to knock his teeth down his throat for it; for if ever I was tempted to strike a man, it was upon this occasion. I was obliged however to endure this mortification, as well as the cold treatment which I experienced from that time from my host. He changed all at once from one extreme to the other, and looked upon me only as a stranger who incommoded him, and whom he wished to get rid of.
Is it possible! you will say. What the Pompey to whom you had been so serviceable, and who in his letters professed himself so sincerely obliged,—could this very Pompey repay you with ingratitude? alas it was but too true. He assumed all at once a cool and distant air, and gave me to understand by his behaviour, that he desired my absence. This conduct was owing in a great measure to my telling him that I should not return to Rome for some time. He concluded from this, that I should not have it in my power to render him any further service, and in all probability, as we should have no continued connexion between us, he was quite indifferent as to whether I was dissatisfied with him or not. He even went so far as to ask me without ceremony when I intended to proceed on my journey. I answered him that I should set out the next day; upon which he replied with a distant air, that he was sorry to part with me so soon, though he never made the slightest motion to press me to stay any longer. I was not a little vexed to think of having taken so much pains to oblige a man who felt so little gratitude, that far from offering me any assistance to make me some amends for what he had caused me to lose, he was so unfeeling as to count the minutes with impatience until I was out of his house. So that the first thing I did the next morning was to take leave of Signor Pompey, and I took care by my manner towards him, to let him see the opinion I entertained of his conduct.
I was so anxious to escape from Sienna, that clapping spurs to my horse, I disappeared like lightning from the eyes of the ungrateful Pompey. After proceeding some miles, I perceived at a distance a man on foot, who appeared exactly to resemble my thief Sayavedra. In fact it was he, who, in pursuance of his sentence of banishment, was hastening to quit the territory of Sienna, to exercise his talents in some other place.
I could not help feeling an emotion of pity, at the sight of this miserable wretch; and thinking less of his treachery than of the infinite assistance he had rendered me in the hog adventure, I could not refrain from speaking to him. He also had recognised me, and when I came near him, ran up to me bathed in tears, and, clasping my knees, he entreated me a thousand times to pardon his ingratitude and his perfidy. He added, that he wished with all his soul, to expiate his crime, to be my slave for life; and that if I would receive him, I might rely on his oath, that he would be the most faithful servant in the world. After I had reflected on this proposal, I thought I had better accept it.
Do you not blame me, friendly reader, for encumbering myself with an attendant whose character I was aware of, and who had already robbed me, and would not fail to give me another specimen of his skill the first opportunity? I know by my own experience, that evil propensities are not so soon got rid of; but now that from my own poverty I had nothing to lose, honesty did not appear to me to be an indispensable requisite in a servant. In the profession that I foresaw I should soon be obliged to follow, I should I knew have occasion for a virtuoso, and Sayavedra was one exactly for my purpose.
I took him, therefore, into my service; and I had as good reason afterwards to congratulate myself on having renewed my acquaintance with him, as I had before to regret that I had ever known him. He soon convinced me, when we arrived at the inn where we intended to sleep, that I had acted most wisely in attaching him to me. He was always on the alert to contribute in every way to my convenience, and I could not sufficiently admire the attention with which he endeavoured to anticipate my every desire. In short, his extreme zeal, good understanding, and spirits, conspired to console me considerably for the loss of my goods. Very early the next morning we set out again, one on horseback and the other on foot, and proceeded to Florence, which I had heard so highly spoken of. Praised, however, as it had been to me, the magnificence of its buildings amazed me exceedingly. Sayavedra, who observed my astonishment, said to me with a smile, “it appears to me, that you are somewhat agreeably surprised at the sight of this city.” “In truth, you have guessed rightly,” replied I, “I am completely charmed with it; I did not think there was another Rome in the world.” “And yet,” replied he, “you see nothing of its beauties to what may be seen. Some of the houses here, which might pass for as many palaces, are ornamented within with some of the most beautiful works of architecture. Florence may with great truth be called the eighth wonder of the world; since it is the flower of flowers, and the flower of all Italy.” Sayavedra then related to me the History of Florence, from the time of the civil wars of Catiline.
My squire Sayavedra, who was well acquainted with the town, from having lived there some time, conducted me to one of the best inns, where he was pleased to make me pass for a Spanish gentleman, named Don Guzman, and nephew to the Ambassador from Spain to Rome. With the greatest effrontery he communicated my quality to the landlord in confidence. Being without baggage, and having only one horse between us, seemed to belie his assertions; but to throw something like the appearance of probability on his story, he said that we had been obliged to set out in great haste, and that we expected a servant to follow us instantly with our trunks. Although the inn was full of gentlemen of the first importance, I was shewn into one of the best rooms, the landlord having been given to understand that I had come to Florence on an affair of consequence, and that I should probably make a long stay; this caused him to behave in the most respectful manner to me.
The next day, the prudent Sayavedra was of opinion that we ought to buy a large chest, and give out that it contained our most valuable property, though intending to fill it at our leisure with whatever fortune might be pleased to send us. I approved of his idea, and charged him to make the purchase immediately.
END OF VOL. II.
London: Printed by J. Nichols and Son,
25, Parliament-street, Westminster.