Disappointment sharpens the wit; and Renzo, who, in the straightforward path he had hitherto travelled, had not been required to subtilise much, now conceived a plan which would have done honour to a lawyer. He went directly to the house of one Anthony, and found him in his kitchen, employed in stirring a polenta of wheat, which was on the fire, whilst his mother, brother, and his wife, with three or four small children, were seated at the table, eagerly intent on the earthen pan, and awaiting the moment when it should be ready for their attack. But, on this occasion, the pleasure was wanting which the sight of dinner usually produces in the aspect of the labourer who has earned it by his industry. The size of the polenta was proportioned to the scantiness of the times, and not to the number and appetite of the assailants: and in casting a dissatisfied look on the common meal, each seemed to be considering the extent of appetite likely to survive it. Whilst Renzo was exchanging salutations with the family, Tony poured out the pudding on the pewter trencher prepared for its reception, and it appeared like a little moon within a large circumference of vapour. Nevertheless, the wife of Tony said courteously to Renzo, “Will you be helped to something?” This was a compliment that the peasants of Lombardy, however poor, paid to those who were, from any accident, present at their meals.
“I thank you,” replied Renzo; “I only came to say a few words to Tony; and, Tony, not to disturb your family, we can go and dine at the inn, and we shall then have an opportunity to converse.” The proposal was as agreeable as it was unexpected. Tony readily assented to it, and departed with Renzo, leaving to his family his portion of the polenta. They arrived at the inn, seated themselves at their ease in a perfect solitude, since the penury of the times had driven away the daily frequenters of the place. After having eaten, and emptied a bottle of wine, Renzo, with an air of mystery, said to Tony, “If you will do me a small service, I will do you a great one.”
“Speak, speak, command me,” said Tony, filling his glass; “I will go through fire to serve you.”
“You are twenty-five livres in debt to the curate, for the rent of his field, that you worked last year.”
“Ah! Renzo, Renzo! why do you mention it to me now? You’ve spoiled your kindness, and put to flight my good wishes.”
“If I speak to you of your debt,” said Renzo, “it is because I intend to give you the means of paying it.”
“Do you really?”
“Really; would this content you?”
“Content me! that it would, indeed; if it were only to be freed from those infernal shakings of the head the curate makes me every time I meet him. And then always, ‘Tony, remember; Tony, when shall we see each other for this business?’ When he preaches, he fixes his eyes on me in such a manner, I am almost afraid he will speak to me from the pulpit. I have wished the twenty-five livres to the devil a thousand times: and I was obliged to pawn my wife’s gold necklace, which might be turned into so much polenta. But——”
“But, if you will do me a small favour, the twenty-five livres are ready.”