For Prince and People: a tale of old Genoa

Chapter I. In

the cities of Italy, three hundred years ago, life was an exciting and precarious affair. The ambitions and rivalries ofthe nobles, their indefatigable efforts to weaken their equals and crush their inferiors, filled the lives of their followers, who shared their dangers and reaped benefit from their success, with the spirit of restlessness and strife ; but in the scattered villages hidden away among the mountains, the years rolled smoothly by, scarcely reached by a whisper of the din and conflict in the distant world. Though Ceriana was not so far removed from Genoa that a traveller might not now and again bring tidings of the great doings there, the villagers were well content with their small daily round, and had no desire to tempt fortune in a wider sphere; where they were born, there would they live and die, after the manner of their fathers.

But Oberto was not a native of Ceriana. He knew little more about himself, but that, at least, was certain ; and, in a * A measure, it accounted for his turbulence and discontent. One day, late in December of the year 1 546, he was on his knees upon a grassy terrace above the village, picking up olives, and his face was hot and red. It is true that the Italian sun burns fiercely even in December, but he was too well accustomed to its rays to heed it, and there were other causes for his flushed countenance. The picking of olives is not an arduous task to a strong lad of sixteen, though it may strain and cramp the rheumatic limbs of the aged crones who generally undertake it ; but Oberto needed an outlet for a great deal of superfluous energy, and he pounced upon handfuls of the fruit, and flung them into the sack with much vehemence and sundry angry grunts and mutterings.

A mule-path led up among the terraces, but there the olive trees grew thickly, and, had he kept silence, Padre Niccolo, who was painfully toiling up the stony track, would have passed unconscious of his presence. It must be confessed that Oberto was in no mood for priestly exhortations, but his voice had made itself audible, and the Priest (not unwilling to take a moment's breathing-space upon the level) stepped aside and approached him. "Ave," he said, solemnly. Oberto turned and, seeing the Priest, stood up, his face even redder than before, for he was conscious that his shirt was torn, a defect es pecially noticeable to any one approaching from behind. Padre Niccolo was quite unconscious of it ; he' was too well accustomed to such things, for his flock were not possessed of a superfluity of this world's goods, and, on work ing days, cared little for appearances.

The Priest, however, was not alone ; holding his hand, and standing beside him, was a girl. She was a very pretty girl, the prettiest in Ceriana, though far less able for hard work than were her fellows. She was too different from them to arouse their jealousy. The lads would never shout compliments to her as she passed ; many indeed would rise and lift their caps in sheepish token of respect, although she was a native of the valley, and often to be seen with a heavy pitcher or a laden basket upon her slender shoulders. She was a special favourite with the Priest, for the same calamity that had driven him from the world had robbed her of home and kindred. Six teen years before, a grievous famine had decimated the population of Genoa, and Biansia's father, who was steward to the Count Adorno, lord of the district, had been sent thither with his family to negotiate the sale of corn.

As often happened, a plague succeeded to the famine, and the people, weakened by starvation, succumbed in hun dreds ; Biansia's parents were among the victims. A certain merchant, Signor Niccolo Amici, dwelt in the same building with the luckless steward. In the same week he too was bereft of wife and children, and, being a man of strong and deep affections, the blow fell heavily; he lost his hold on life, and turned for refuge to the Church. But, ere he took the vows which would for ever circumscribe his will, he carried the helpless infant, whom chance had thrown in his way, back to her birthplace, and left her in the charge of a good hearted widow, one Monna Lucia, who was worthy of the trust reposed in her. When, seven years later, he was assigned the cure of Ceriana, he reconciled himself to what, at first, seemed like a living burial, by the thought that it would now be possible for him to watch the rearing of the child, whose early destiny had been so strangely linked with the crisis of his own.

His priestly office had grown more absorbing as the years passed, but he still retained a special interest in Biansia, and, when he went upon his pastoral rounds he was well pleased to chance upon the child among the olive-woods, and have his way be guiled by her prattle. The Priest made it his business to be intimately acquainted with every member of his flock, but his conscience did not forbid him to have favourites, and, though the general opinion was against his choice, it could not be denied that Oberto, the most quarrelsome and unpopular boy in the valley, held the first place in his regard. He looked at the slight, active figure standing before him in the sunshine, and sighed, thinking of the two merry little fellows who had died in Genoa ; but Oberto, with the egot ism of youth, believed the sigh to be a tribute to his own misdeeds, and hung his head yet lower.

" Thou art angry, my son," said the Priest. Oberto dug his heel into the soft earth viciously. His feet were bare, but foot-gear being the exception in Ceriana, he took no shame for that. Padre Niccolo watched him and said nothing; he was blessed with a great faculty of patience, which served him in good stead with his im petuous congregation. Oberto felt the grave, sad eyes upon him and looked up suddenly. " It is unfair," he said. " I am taller than the others, fleeter than they : our vineyards yield more grapes, our olives are more plentiful ; and yet I may not hold my own among them, because I have no father and no kin. It was but now a messenger from the castle chose me to do some service for the Count, and afterwards as I was coming hither, Pietro Toscano waylaid me and beat me with his stick, because, forsooth, he deemed I had supplanted Carlo, and he, being so strong a man, could work his vengeance thus.

But I will grow as strong a man as he some day, and teach him that, though I may have no kin, I still can fight my battles for myself." The boy's wrath was so violent, that, while he told his tale, he had forgotten the nature of his audience, and raised his voice and clenched his fist as if to fell his enemies upon the spot ; but, as he ceased, and met the Father's eye, his own were bent upon the ground again, and he stood rebuked although no word was spoken. " My son," the Priest said, at length, " I know that it is true that thou art stronger than thy fellows, swifter to run and leap, more skil ful in thy handiwork, and in thy nature the devil hath built up a mighty wall of pride. Bethink thee then, that it is for thy good that thou should'st bear this cross of namelessness which goads and pricks thee now at every turn.

Were it not for this, with which thy fellows, knowing the pain they cause, taunt thee when thou hast won some prize from them, thou wouldst be so uplifted and bound up in this world's joys, that higher things would pass thee all unheeded. Believe me, lad, all things that come to us, do we but meet them rightly, are for our future peace and happiness." And so, murmuring a Latin benediction, the good Father proceeded on his way with a fervent inward prayer for the unruly spirit of his favourite. Padre Niccolo was still young in years, but a great gulf of sorrow and self-repression divided him from the fiery instincts of his earlier days. He could not, therefore, be ex pected to understand the very small effect his mild libation of oil could have on the troubled waters of Oberto's grievances.

It is very easy for maturity to scoff at the sorrows of youth ; but though they may seem slight enough in themselves, a touch from the whip of adversity is more maddening to a young spirit than a heavy blow in later years. Oberto was in no way soothed by the priestly exhortations. He stood upon the terrace star ing in front of him and nursing his wounded pride, so that the mountains and the sunshine and the dancing olive leaves, seemed to be mocking him. Presently there came a light touch on his shoulder. "Oberto," Biansia whispered, timidly, "I am so sorry. There are things one does not understand ; but, though one cannot com fort, one can be sorry for one's friends." He would have answered, but she fled away, so that he only caught a glimpse of her flutter ing skirt as she ran up the path after the Priest.

The boy sat down upon the grass and rested his chin on his open hands. The world no longer laughed at his troubles ; he could imagine sympathy in the rustling trees, and compassion in the sunshine. Padre Niccolo for once had failed in his peaceful office ; but Biansia seldom failed in anything, and, thanks to her, Oberto could reflect calmly on the events of the morning. It was Innocent's Day, and the villagers had assembled devoutly for mass in the church. Afterwards, on the steps outside, Carlo Tos cano, being full two years Oberto's senior, had presumed to boast himself the swifter, and the contention, which inevitably arose on such a weighty subject, resulted in a race which was to settle the matter once and for all. Oberto, as was predicted by the wiser among his play mates, easily outstripped his rival, and was accordingly recognized as the fleetest runner in the valley, a position more likely to win him enemies than friends.

And so the whole affair would have ended, but that, for good or evil as events will prove, the contest had an uninvited witness, no less a person than Ottavio Carbone, steward to Messer Barnaba Adorno, lord of the district of Ceriana. As it chanced, Carbone had been entrusted by his master with the task of choosing a lad among the villagers for the performance of a certain service of considerable importance ; and on the previous evening he had questioned Pietro Toscano, and hinted at his intention of recommending Carlo. A prompt offer of wine or wood might have settled the business on the spot; but Pietro was both poor and prudent, and would not part with his substance if he saw a chance of gaining what he needed otherwise. Carbone was, in fact, searching for Toscano when his attention was arrested by the race, and something in the appearance of the winner caught his fancy and caused him to change his mind.

He descended from the terrace where he had watched the contest, and approached the rivals, who were now surrounded by a group of comrades, all talking and gesticulating eagerly. They were silent at the sight of him, for Carbone assumed the dignity of the master he represented in the village. Carlo Toscano alone could boast the faintest personal acquaintance with the great man, and this reflection restored his wounded self-esteem. Carbone, however, paid not the smallest heed to him, but pressing through the group, which fell back to make way for him, he laid a patronizing hand on Oberto's shoulder. "You run well, my lad," he said. " What is your _ >> name r "Oberto," was the brief reply. " What more, varlet ? Speak out ! I do not give my interest lightly." The boy's face flushed ; something within him rebelled against his questioner's assump tion, and he wrenched his shoulder from the detaining grasp.

" I know no other name," he said shortly. The whims of human nature set calculation at naught. The Toscanos, father and son, bowed down and grovelled to the rich man's servant, and Carbone loved their adulation ; yet he was attracted by the brusque, defiant manner of Oberto, and straightway the Toscano interest was put aside. Whether pride or common sense would have directed Oberto's course at that moment it is difficult to say. Carlo Toscano saved him from the decision, and brought himself before the notice of the public. "Oberto is the son of Monna Agnese, your worship," he volun teered; "her further name, or his, we know not. Sixteen years since, she came to the little house among the olives, no man can say from whence or why. Doubtless she has her secrets, but for Oberto, — he knows no more than we."

Carbone eyed Oberto curiously while Carlo spoke. He was tall for his age, and slight, built more for swiftness and activity than strength. To a casual observer there was a strong resemblance between the boys of the valley, due no doubt to frequent intermarri ages ; but Oberto was plainly of a different stock. As he stood among them, with head thrown back, glancing defiantly at Toscano, with the determination not to show the bitter pain of every word, he looked, — just what indeed he was — a very Ishmael in that small community, holding his own solely by right of his watchful eye and dauntless spirit. No other boy in Ceriana would have paid much heed to the mystery that hung about him, there were, doubtless, drawbacks to having no strong-armed kinsman to defend one's interests in a greedy world, but there began and ended the defects of the position.

Unfortunately Oberto had less philosophy in this respect ; it goaded him to madness that his name, his kin, his very birthplace should be shrouded in secrecy, and, as the years passed, he rebelled more and more fiercely against his lot. Carbone was not endowed with special pene tration, but he could see that this boy was not quite as other boys, and, knowing that his master had in view some special business, this fact was in itself a recommendation. Carlo Toscano little guessed how his presumption had benefited his rival to his own injury. " My friend," said Carbone, with decision, " to-day at sunset you will present yourself at the castle. His Excellency may have work for you or he may not ; that will be as it will be ; for me, my part is done." Toscano swelled with uncontrollable wrath. " And me, your worship, and me ?

" he ex claimed. Carbone surveyed him with an air of superb indifference that would not have disgraced the Count himself. " And you, my friend ! Pray, who are you ? " he said ; and his audience tittered joyfully, for Carlo was a bully born and bred. Thus did it come to pass that the spirit moved Pietro Toscano to waylay his son's supplanter among the olive terraces, and thrash him soundly with his staff, being a more than commonly muscular individual, and well able to overcome the resistance of a lad of sixteen. Oberto's anger rose again at the thought of it. He stood up and shook himself; then he remembered Biansia and grew cooler. After all, there is no shame in a beating from a full-grown man of twice one's size ; the pain was nothing, and doubtless his mother could mend the great rents in his Saint's-day shirt.

If his bones were stiff to-morrow, he could keep a smiling face, and none would know it ; take the world cheerfully and it is no bad place after all !

Chapter II. The

village of Ceriana is built half up the side of a long valley which winds north ward from the sea ; the houses lean ominously inward, and the paths, which are by courtesy termed streets, are steep and very narrow. The population lived within ear-shot of each other. The open square around the fountain was the playground of men and children, parlour and workroom to the women, a general meeting-place for all. Their own houses were not attractive ; it was no wonder that they chose the free air in preference, and if they lost the privacy and comfort of a home, they did not miss it. Oberto was as familiar with the square as any of his companions. Padre Niccolo had taught him to read and write in the front room of the house by the church, and afterwards he had played on the gravel by the fountain, and dabbled in the water, till the depressing effects of study were dispelled.

His mother did not live in Ceriana, and did not gossip among the women seated on '3 the parapet. Monna Agnese's little cottage stood on the opposite side of the valley, and she seldom went very far from its dark thresh old. She worked sometimes in the strip of garden that surrounded it, and, on rare occasions, would wander down the stony path to the sea, which was many miles away, and come back in the dark weary and haggard, and more silent than usual. It was some years since the last of these expeditions, but Oberto often wondered about them, for he had never been allowed to know their object, or bear her company. As a rule she was to be found sitting spinning in the shadow of her poor dwelling, and she was thus employed when her son reached home on that memorable December day. She raised her eyes at the sound of his step and came forward to meet him.

She was still a handsome woman, tall and slight and fragile in appearance, so that the common peasant's dress she wore sat ill upon her, and it was plain that Nature had not moulded her either in face or figure for the rough manual labour commonly performed by the women of Ceriana. The set jaw and defiant air that distinguished the son were more developed in the mother's face ; but there was a scared expression in her eyes from which his were wholly free, and she was scarcely ever known to smile. " News, mother, news ! " he cried as he reached her. The chronic look of fear in her face became intensified. " What news, my son ? " she said, and her voice trembled. He told her of Carbone's message, but did not trouble to recount his meetingwith Toscano. Having heard him, she went back to her spinning-stool in silence, and sat, with folded hands, gazing vacantly before her.

Oberto flung himself at her feet, feeling it a cause for self-congratulation that Pietro could by no means know how his shoulders ached, or what relief it was to rest them for a time on the soft ground. Presently his mother spoke. " Oberto," she said, " be wary ! Life is always hard ; to such as you it is often cruel. Who knows what task Messer Adorno may entrust you with ? Were it not better to content yourself with poverty and quiet than to tempt Fortune to blight your days at their very outset ? " Oberto was astounded to see that her eyes were full of tears ; his mother never wept in his presence ; but even her emotion did not daunt him. " This is not life at all, mother," he answered. " 'Tis true the days go by, but 'tis with women's toil and children's games, and I shall be a man so soon.

There is no place for me in Ceriana ; if the Signor Count has employment for me elsewhere, surely you would not have me say him nay ? " Monna Agnese made no reply ; she was very white, and her lips trembled. Suddenly she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. Oberto was on his feet in an instant. " Mother," he cried, " what is it ? " " Ah, my son," she sobbed, "I am afraid for you ! For me, too, once the world seemed bright, and gay, and hopeful ; but it is cruel. If it should break my darling's heart, as mine was broken, then shall I say that Heaven it self is barren of all pity ! " Oberto was perplexed. His mother kept her sorrows to herself, and he was so accustomed to her brooding melancholy that his sympathy was not active. Moreover, he feared her ; even as a little child he had not looked to her for tenderness.

Other children had soft caresses, varied by frequent blows and rough abuse, lavished upon them freely, but such attentions had never fallen to his share. He had not known her anything but silent, cold, and hard, and therefore had no clue to the passionate affection which was stored in her inmost heart. "Mother," he said, reluctantly, "if you would have me tell the Count I cannot leave the valley, I will do your bidding." At first she made no sign of hearing him. Her thin figure shook with the violence of her sobs, so that it was painful to witness. In vain he tried to soothe her, till, at length, finding his efforts worse than useless, he turned away and stood some paces off in front of her, waiting till she regained composure. His own mood was not a cheerful one. As he had climbed the homeward path he had built wonderful castles in the air, to which Count Barnaba was to give him entrance ; he had tinted them with vivid rose-colour, ignoring the possibility of any shadows, and now he saw them crumbling into dust.

He was not old enough to find solace in philosophy; even the very probable idea that Adorno only required some ordinary service in his woods or vineyards brought him no comfort, and his heart was sore. " Oberto," said his mother's voice behind him, " your shirt is rent and blood-stained. How is this ? " Her storm of tears was checked, and though her voice was weak, it had regained its customary firmness. Oberto faced round quickly, but made no answer. "Tell me," she said. There was no alternative but to obey. He described the wrath of the Toscanos, and the cause of it, as briefly as he could, but it was some time before she spoke. "Then it would seem the world is also cruel at Ceriana!" was her only comment. B She went back to her spinning, and Oberto, feeling hungry, though he was well aware that food was scarce, penetrated into the dark recesses of the dwelling, and brought out a long stick of coarse bread and some chestnuts, roasted overnight, and now dry and husky.

Monna Agnese shook her head when he proffered these dainties ; she did not live the active fresh-air life he did, and was accustomed to let meal-times slip by unheeded. The satisfaction of his hunger softened the boy's troubles in some degree, but it could not remove them. At sunset he must make his appearance at the castle, and already it was long past midday. He wished his mother would say something : the certainty of dis appointment was preferable to such suspense; but she only went on spinning till the hum of the wheel set all his nerves on edge. He could not settle to any occupation ; Italian boys take excitement less stoically than English ones, and many exciting things had come to pass that morning. He sat cross legged on the grass and watched the sun slowly sinking. It would take him more than an hour to reach the castle, and the sun was nearly at its journey's end.

He sprang suddenly to his feet. "Mother," he said, " I will do what you bid me. If the Signor Count would have me leave the valley, shall I say him nay?" " My son," said Monna Agnese, " I have told you the world is cruel, but we cannot avoid its cruelty. Go then, and find what life is for yourself, and may the Blessed Virgin spare you some of its sorrows." It may thus be noted that the Toscano family had, all unwittingly, done Oberto more than one good turn that day.

Chapter III. The

way to the castle of Count Barnaba Adorno was rough. Valleys must needs be crossed and hills surmounted, but climbing was second nature to Oberto, and his feet were winged with hope. The sun was just about setting when he stood before the great arched entrance and demanded admittance. Apparently the gate-keeper had been warned of his coming, for he passed through un challenged and stood within the courtyard, uncertain how to proceed. A great dog barked at him fiercely, but being heavily chained the sole effect of its remonstrance was to attract the notice of a well-clad lackey, who approached Oberto and asked his business. " Ottavio Carbone bade me wait upon the Count," he said, trying to disguise his awe at the magnificence surrounding him. "You were bidden at sunset, and that time is not yet come," the man replied ; " but I will take you to the Signor Count and you can wait his pleasure."

JO Oberto followed him accordingly through shadowy archways and echoing galleries which led at length into a vast hall, where, in a high backed elbow-chair covered with bearskins, the great man took his ease. On his right stood two or three companions, or dependants of a better class than servants, who shared his sports, and flattered him when he seemed in a fitting mood. Close behind him on the other side, and stooping forward when occasion offered to whisper in his ear, was Ottavio Carbone, and in these strange surroundings Oberto was glad to see even his sly visage. In the centre of the hall, facing the Count, two vagrant minstrels plied their trade for his entertainment, and at the farther end a group of servants were dimly visible, peering through a doorway to listen to the music. Oberto's companion evidently intended to take advantage of the silence and go straight to the Count, but Ottavio motioned him back with an authoritative gesture, and, just then, the minstrels burst forth into one of their wild melodies accompanied by the twanging of guitars.

Oberto listened spell-bound. In the square at Ceriana he had sometimes heard these wandering singers, and welcomed the sight of them in expectation of mild amusement. But either these particular specimens were exceptionally gifted, or else the impression was intensified by outward circumstances, for all his private hopes and anxieties vanished in the storm of feeling that the music roused. The swelling cadences that told of war and patriotism, or the soft tinkling of the love-song which succeeded, stirred in him longings for he knew not what, something so far above and beyond his daily life that he found it hard to keep to the stiff respectful attitude that was requisite in the great man's presence. Perhaps, on rare occasions, it is granted us to catch a glimpse of futurity, though it be only in a momentary impression ; and thus, when a great change comes, our faculties are readier to meet it.

As he stood among the shadows of the darkening hall, Oberto knew himself upon the threshold of a new experience which should remove him far from the ken of all his old companions. Conjuring up a dreamland crowded with strange and glorious figures, and echoing with the sound of clashing arms, he was lost in its delights and mysteries, when a nudge from his companion recalled the thought of mundane things, and he became aware that the music was over, and that his patron was beckoning him impatiently. " This is the lad, your Excellency," Carbone said, as he obeyed the summons. They stood facing each other, the lord of the district and the peasant boy. Adorno was a heavy man : his beard was long ; overhanging brows kept his eyes always in shadow ; his face was fat and pale, and wore a habitual scowl of discontent, due doubtless to his banishment from Genoa, where his father had been Doge, and where his thoughts and longings persistently returned.

Oberto, who knew nothing of the Count's misdeeds or their penalty, did not like his looks. " Bring me a torch," commanded the great man. A page ran forward with the light, and, at his master's bidding, held it in such wise that it fell full on Oberto's face. Adorno gazed at him in thoughtful silence, then, with a muttered imprecation on his own folly, he rose to his feet, and, motioning back all other attendance but the peasant lad's, he led the way to a small chamber that opened from the hall. A heavy curtained door clanged sharply after them, showing that the Count intended no eavesdroppers to this interview. He sat heavily down on a settle, leaning against the high wainscot at his back. A great fire was kindled on the hearth, and lighted tapers fixed above it, concentrating all the light on one spot.

It was here that the Count placed Oberto, that every change in his face would be visible, while he himself remained in shadow. " You come, at Carbone's bidding, to offer me your services," said Adorno, "is it not so ?" " Your Excellency is now and always right." " Do you hold yourself entirely at my disposal, to go whither 1 may bid you, to nreserve any trust that I confide in you, faithfully ? " " I am at your Excellency's service." " Mark me, then ! Should you betray me, being once employed by me, whether by temptation of gain or fear of death, my vengeance will most unfailingly overtake you, and my vengeance is heavy ! " The menace in his tone aroused Oberto's resentment. " I have elected to serve your Excellency," he said. "I am honoured by your Excellency's confidence, but I shall not prove the worthier of it from fear of punishment."