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The Betrothed

by Alessandro Manzoni · English · Gutenberg #35155 · 968,311 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Betrothed

Author: Alessandro Manzoni


        
Release date: February 3, 2011 [eBook #35155]
                Most recently updated: December 11, 2022

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BETROTHED ***




THE BETROTHED

From the Italian of

ALESSANDRO MANZONI


[Illustration: _The street was deserted before him; but,
behind him, the terrible cry still resounded.
“Seize him! stop him! a poisoner!”_]







London:
Richard Bentley,
(_Successor to H. Colburn_)
Cumming, Dublin. Bell and Bradfute, Edinburgh.
Galignani, Paris.
1834


    [Illustration: THE BETROTHED.

    _So saying, he passed his arm around the neck
    of the Unknown, who after resisting a moment,
    yielded, quite vanquished by this impulse of
    kindness, and fell on the neck of the Cardinal
    in an agony of repentance._]




STANDARD NOVELS.

Nº XLIII.

“No kind of literature is so generally attractive as Fiction. Pictures
of life and manners, and Stories of adventure, are more eagerly received
by the many than graver productions, however important these latter may
be. APULEIUS is better remembered by his fable of Cupid and Psyche than
by his abstruser Platonic writings; and the Decameron of BOCCACCIO has
outlived the Latin Treatises, and other learned works of that author.”


THE BETROTHED.

Complete in One Volume.


London:
Richard Bentley, 8. New Burlington Street
(Successor to Henry Colburn):
Bell, and Bradfute, Edinburgh;
and Cumming, Dublin.

1834.

London:
Printed by A. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square.




CRITICAL REMARKS on MANZONI’S BETROTHED:

BY THE COUNT O’MAHONY. [Translated from the Italian.]


To publish a novel, to analyse, to eulogise it, and recommend its
perusal to the good and pious, will appear no doubt very extraordinary,
and offend the prejudices of many who have agreed among themselves to
consider a novel, whoever may be its author, and whatever may be its
subject, form, and design, as a pestilent production. If you ask them
why? “Because,” they will reply—“because it is a novel!” The answer is
as wise as it is peremptory and decisive, and we will spare ourselves
the useless trouble of replying to arguments so profound and powerful.
We will, however, submit a few serious reflections to minds of a less
elevated order, were it only to prove that we can talk reasonably, even
on the subject of novels.

Certainly, if we are understood to designate by the appellation of
_Novel_, the written dreams and extravagant imaginations of a corrupt
mind and depraved heart, where illusions are substituted for realities,
vice transformed into virtue, crime justified by the passions that lead
to its perpetration, and fallacious pictures presented of an ideal
world, or criminal apologies for a world too real; if, we say, such are
the novels to be condemned and proscribed, none more than ourselves will
be disposed to confirm the sentence. The unhappy influence which
productions like these have exerted over the minds of youth, and above
all, the ravages which their multiplication has within a few years
produced, is a fact acknowledged by all, by those who have escaped the
contagion of their perusal, as well as by those whom that perusal has
injured. With respect to this, the wise and the good are unanimous in
their testimony and their anathemas; it is one of those self-evident
truths, about which an Englishman or a German might still elaborate many
a learned dissertation, but of which we shall take no further notice,
certain that we should only repeat much less forcibly and eloquently,
that which a thousand writers or orators have said before us.

But there is another point of view under which we must consider novels,
or rather the works so called, but which bear, to those which morals and
good taste reprobate, no other resemblance than the name. These are, it
is true, unhappily few in number, and therefore have not been classed by
themselves, but have been comprehended in the common appellation, and
included in the general proscription; like an honest man, who, bearing
the same name as a rogue, partakes with him the odium of his reputation.
But this is an injustice for which we are disposed to claim reparation.

Every work of imagination, in which the author causes ideal personages
to speak, think, and act, according to his pleasure, has been
stigmatised as a _Novel_. But, if we allow this rigorous definition, the
apologue, so dear to the moralist, is a _Novel_, and deserving of
proscription. We will go further; the parable, which also creates its
characters and invents their words and actions, is a _novel_! But who
would dare to call them so? Who would dare profane by this name, those
profound allegories, those holy fables, so excellent in truth, and so
replete with instruction, which God himself has related to man? Finally,
if we peruse the works of the most austere philosophers, and the most
severe moralists, without excepting ecclesiastical writers, we shall
find among them all, pictures of fancy or ideal histories of imaginary
persons, fiction serving as a veil, or rather (we must acknowledge it)
as an apology for truth.

Now, we ask, by what unjust caprice would we condemn in the novelist
that which we admire and applaud in the moralist and philosopher; or
rather, by what title do we interdict to the former the right of being
equally philosophical and moral with the latter? If man were without
weaknesses and society without imperfections, truth would prevail of
itself, and in order to be loved and obeyed, it would need only to be
shown in its unadorned purity and undisguised nakedness. But, from the
beginning of the world, pride has precipitated man into darkness.
Corrupt and blind, a jealous susceptibility is developed in his
character, which continually increases in proportion to his blindness
and corruptions,—that is to say, the deeper he is plunged in darkness,
the more he dreads the light, and it is but by degrees, and under
various disguises, that we can hope ultimately to make him endure its
full blaze.

Besides, fiction, under divers forms, such as fables, apologues, novels,
allegories, and tales, constitutes a large portion of the literature of
every nation; to this we may add the utility, nay, even the necessity of
disguising truth, in order to make it acceptable to our imperfection;
and more than all, the good frequently resulting from these modest
productions ought to stimulate those on whom Heaven has bestowed the
same kind of talent, to employ it in exposing vice and reforming the
corruptions of society.

But if the imperfection and weakness of our hearts render fiction
necessary to us, a similar necessity results from the languor and
inaction of our minds: for in proportion to the extent of public
corruption, individual application of the mind to severe and serious
study diminishes. Insensibly all continued exercise of the powers of his
understanding becomes irksome to man, and he finally considers thought
and _ennui_ to be synonymous terms. This is, without doubt, a deplorable
and alarming symptom of the decline of society; but we are obliged to
confess its existence, and, not possessing the power of changing, we
must submit to its caprices and satisfy its necessities.

Now, whether from instinct or observation, writers appear for some years
past to have generally understood the demands of the age; and throughout
Europe, men of distinguished talents have employed themselves in
answering them. It might be said that Germany, England, Switzerland, and
Italy, have formed as it were a literary alliance, which will probably
endure longer than their _political alliance_. As to France, her
attention has for fifteen years been attracted to literature as well as
to politics; but she has thought it sufficient for her glory to
translate foreign books, and for her prosperity to translate foreign
constitutions.[1]

      [1] In this assertion we do not agree with the critic.
      France, in common with other European nations, has
      unquestionably manifested much curiosity regarding
      foreign literature, and has availed herself of its
      treasures; but, by the original works of her own
      writers, the advantage has been reciprocated,
      particularly in the novels lately produced in Paris by
      such men as M. de Vigny and M. Victor Hugo. The “Notre
      Dame de Paris” of the latter has attained an European
      celebrity, and has accordingly been incorporated in
      the present series of “Standard Novels.”—_English
      Ed._

However this may be, the new taste for foreign literature is remarkable.
Numerous works of imagination have appeared simultaneously of an
elevated style and uncommon erudition. The choice, and we may add the
gravity, of the subjects, the importance of the action, the extent of
the developements, and the fidelity of the descriptions, stamp them with
a peculiar character, and oblige us to assign to their authors a
distinct rank among novel writers. Although unequal in merit, they may
be arranged into two classes. The one, beholding how history was
neglected, has endeavoured to restore its influence by reviving our
ancient chronicles, and presenting to us in an elegant undress, the same
characters from whom we avert our eyes, in the magnificent and stiff
accompaniments of their historical costume. The other, less numerous,
but, in our opinion, much more happily inspired, afflicted by the cold
indifference with which the most excellent works on morals and politics
are received, or by the insulting contempt which discards them
altogether, has undertaken to allure and amuse the prejudices of the
age, in order to correct them. In an imaginary picture, they have
specially devoted themselves to describe the great springs of human
action, and to bring prominently forward those traits of character,
those inflexible criticisms on society, which under such a form will
attract attention, when every direct and serious admonition would be
rejected. Now, it is to this class of novel writers that Alessandro
Manzoni essentially belongs.

And here, a great difficulty presents itself; a work of which the action
is so simple, that an analysis of it might be given in half a page, and
yet so rich in beauties, that a volume might be written in its praise;
between these two extremes, the middle path is not easy to find. For, if
we should content ourselves with stating that two villagers, who were
betrothed, and about to be united, had been separated by the menaces of
a rich and titled robber, calumniated, betrayed by a seeming friend, and
aided by the unlooked-for benevolence of an enemy; again persecuted by
the tyranny of the great, and then almost immolated by the tyranny of
the people, and finally delivered by the pestilence itself; if, we
repeat, we confine ourselves to this exposition, we shall have presented
to our readers the abstract of the work; but shall we have given them a
single idea of its beauties?

If, on the contrary, we would enter on an examination of the characters,
and follow them in their developement, what a task we impose on
ourselves! For here, what beauty! what truth! what originality! The
character of Don Abbondio alone would furnish matter for extensive
remark, as it is assuredly one of the most profoundly comic creations of
the genius of romance. A coward by nature, and selfish from habit,
entering the ecclesiastical order only to find in it powerful protection
against future enemies, and a refuge against present terrors, during his
whole life he pursues, without a single deviation, the tyrannical
vocation of _fear_. Ever disturbed by the apprehension of being
disturbed, and giving himself prodigious trouble in order to secure his
tranquillity, the care of his repose takes from him all repose. “_A
friend to all_,” is his device, and “_Be quiet_,” his habitual reply.
For him, the evil committed in secret is preferable to the good which
might excite dangerous remark. However, at the bottom of his heart, he
still esteems the good and virtuous; as to the wicked, he caresses, and
where there is necessity, flatters them; in every controversy, he deems
the strongest party to be in the right, but his fear of mistake often
prevents him from deciding which _is_ the strongest. In discussions
where he is personally involved, he acts not less prudently; he does not
grant concessions, he does more, he freely offers them, as by so doing
he saves the honour of his authority. Indeed, he does not drop a word
nor risk a gesture, of which he has not previously weighed the
consequences. So that by calculation and foresight, he is prepared for
all, except the performance of duty under circumstances of peril and
difficulty; to this he closes his ears and his eyes, and thus
compromises with the world and his conscience.

And here, let us add, that if any of our readers discover, in this
character, the intention, or even the possibility, of an application
injurious to religion, they understand but little the mind of the
author, which is constantly animated by the most ardent faith, and
imbued, we may say, with its highest inspirations. The curate Abbondio
appears before us chiefly to give greater relief to the sublime figures
of the friar Christopher, and the holy archbishop of Milan, and to
furnish materials for scenes between these three characters, where the
weakness, the cowardice, and the selfishness of the one serves to
brighten, by contrast, the courage, devotion, and heroism of the others.
It is an eminently philosophical conception to portray three men
entering the priesthood from such different motives, in the course of
their long lives, disclosing faithfully in their actions, the sources of
their primitive choice. A lesson indeed! from which we may learn what
religion can do with men, when they obey its laws and devote themselves
to its service, and what men can do with religion, when they subject it
to their caprices, or prostitute it to their interests.

But it is in the conversion of the formidable Unknown, that religion
appears in all its power, and its pontiff in all the majesty of his
benevolence. The interview between these two persons, the one the
terror, the other the beloved of his country; the proud criminal
humbling himself before the most humble of the just; the former
preserving in his profound humiliation the traces of his habitual
wickedness and pride, and the latter, with humility equally profound,
the majestic authority of unsullied virtue. This scene, conceived and
executed with equal genius, combines within itself the deepest interest,
and the highest beauty.

As an illustration of the ingenuity and discernment of the author, we
will offer one remark further; he has placed before us two wicked men;
the one a subaltern robber, a libertine of the second rank, a swaggerer
in debauch, vainer of his vices than jealous of his pleasures. The other
a superior genius, who has measured how far man could descend in crime,
and himself reached its depths, where he governs human corruption as its
sovereign, committing no act of violence without leaving the impression
of his unlimited power and inexorable will. One of these is to be
converted; which will it be? The least guilty? No; coward in vice, where
would he find courage to repent? He will die hardened and impenitent. It
is the grand criminal who will be drawn from the abyss, for he has
descended into it with all his power, and it will need a repentance
proportioned to the measure of his iniquities to restore him to the
favour of his God. There is evinced in this developement, great
knowledge of the human heart, and a very striking revelation of the
mysterious dealings of a just and compassionate God.

We find the same sagacity of observation in other parts of the work; it
appears under an altogether original form in the episode of Gertrude;
irresistibly conducted to the cloister, notwithstanding her
insurmountable repugnance, when she could by a single word free herself
from such a condemnation, dooming her own self to a sacrifice she
detests; yielding without having been conquered; the slave of her very
liberty, and the victim to a voluntary fatality! It is not in a rapid
sketch that we can give an idea of this singular and altogether novel
character. To appreciate its excellence, we must give an attentive
perusal.

But Alessandro Manzoni is not only a skilful painter of individual
portraits, he excels also in grand historical representations. In that
of the plague at Milan, and the famine preceding it, his manner becomes
bolder, his touch more free and majestic, without, however, losing any
of its exquisite delicacy. When he represents an entire people rebelling
against hunger, or vanquished by disease and death, we deeply feel the
horror of the picture, at the same time that an occasional smile is
elicited by the comic genius of the artist, which exercises itself even
amidst the agonies of famine and pestilence, so that, through the grand
design of the exhibition, the delicate touches of the pencil are still
visible, and individual character perceptible through the very depths of
bold and general description; it is Van Dyck painting on the reverse of
one of Michael Angelo’s pictures.

We will not take leave of this interesting production without indulging
ourselves in one more observation, which is, that in this succession of
adventures, where appear, by turns or simultaneously, two robber chiefs
and their followers, an unbridled soldiery, a people in rebellion,
famine, and pestilence, all the evil specially resulting to the
virtuous, is the consequence of the cowardice of a single man! What a
lesson may we derive from such a _Novel_!




THE BETROTHED.




CHAPTER I.


That branch of the Lake of Como, which turns toward the south between
two unbroken chains of mountains, presenting to the eye a succession of
bays and gulfs, formed by their jutting and retiring ridges, suddenly
contracts itself between a headland to the right and an extended sloping
bank on the left, and assumes the flow and appearance of a river. The
bridge by which the two shores are here united, appears to render the
transformation more apparent, and marks the point at which the lake
ceases, and the Adda recommences, to resume, however, the name of _Lake_
where the again receding banks allow the water to expand itself anew
into bays and gulfs. The bank, formed by the deposit of three large
mountain streams, descends from the bases of two contiguous mountains,
the one called St. Martin, the other by a Lombard name, _Resegone_, from
its long line of summits, which in truth give it the appearance of a
saw; so that there is no one who would not at first sight, especially
viewing it in front, from the ramparts of Milan that face the north, at
once distinguish it in all that extensive range from other mountains of
less name and more ordinary form. The bank, for a considerable distance,
rises with a gentle and continual ascent, then breaks into hills and
hollows, rugged or level land, according to the formation of the
mountain rocks, and the action of the floods. Its extreme border,
intersected by the mountain torrents, is composed almost entirely of
sand and pebbles; the other parts of fields and vineyards, scattered
farms, country seats, and villages, with here and there a wood which
extends up the mountain side. Lecco, the largest of these villages, and
which gives its name to the district, is situated at no great distance
from the bridge, upon the margin of the lake; nay, often, at the rising
of the waters, is partly embosomed within the lake itself; a large town
at the present day, and likely soon to become a city. At the period of
our story, this village was also fortified, and consequently had the
honour to furnish quarters to a governor, and the advantage of
possessing a permanent garrison of Spanish soldiers, who gave lessons in
modesty to the wives and daughters of the neighbourhood, and toward the
close of summer never failed to scatter themselves through the
vineyards, in order to thin the grapes, and lighten for the rustics the
labours of the vintage. From village to village, from the heights down
to the margin of the lake, there are innumerable roads and paths: these
vary in their character; at times precipitous, at others level; now sunk
and buried between two ivy-clad walls, from whose depth you can behold
nothing but the sky, or some lofty mountain peak; then crossing high and
level tracts, around the edges of which they sometimes wind,
occasionally projecting beyond the face of the mountain, supported by
prominent masses resembling bastions, whence the eye wanders over the
most varied and delicious landscape. On the one side you behold the blue
lake, with its boundaries broken by various promontories and necks of
land, and reflecting the inverted images of the objects on its banks; on
the other, the Adda, which, flowing beneath the arches of the bridge,
expands into a small lake, then contracts again, and holds on its clear
serpentining course to the distant horizon: above, are the ponderous
masses of the shapeless rocks; beneath, the richly cultivated acclivity,
the fair landscape, the bridge; in front, the opposite shore of the
lake, and beyond this, the mountain, which bounds the view.

Towards evening, on the 7th day of November, 1628, Don Abbondio, curate
of one of the villages before alluded to (but of the name of which, nor
of the house and lineage of its curate, we are not informed), was
returning slowly towards his home, by one of these pathways. He was
repeating quietly his office; in the pauses of which he held his closed
breviary in his hand behind his back; and as he went, with his foot he
cast listlessly against the wall the stones that happened to impede his
path; at the same time giving admittance to the idle thoughts that
tempted the spirit, while the lips of the worthy man were mechanically
performing their function; then raising his head and gazing idly around
him, he fixed his eyes upon a mountain summit, where the rays of the
setting sun, breaking through the openings of an opposite ridge,
illumined its projecting masses, which appeared like large and variously
shaped spots of purple light. He then opened anew his breviary, and
recited another portion at an angle of the lane, after which angle the
road continued straight for perhaps seventy paces, and then branched
like the letter Y into two narrow paths; the right-hand one ascended
towards the mountain, and led to the parsonage (_Cura_); that on the
left descended the valley towards a torrent, and on this side the wall
rose out to the height of about two feet. The inner walls of the two
narrow paths, instead of meeting at the angle, ended in a little chapel,
upon which were depicted certain long, sinuous, pointed shapes, which,
in the intention of the artist, and to the eyes of the neighbouring
inhabitants, represented flames, and amidst these flames certain other
forms, not to be described, that were meant for souls in purgatory;
souls and flames of a brick colour, upon a ground of blackish grey, with
here and there a bare spot of plaster. The curate, having turned the
corner, directed, as was his wont, a look toward the little chapel, and
there beheld what he little expected, and would not have desired to see.
At the confluence, if we may so call it, of the two narrow lanes, there
were two men: one of them sitting astride the low wall; his companion
leaning against it, with his arms folded on his breast. The dress, the
bearing, and what the curate could distinguish of the countenance of
these men, left no doubt as to their profession. They wore upon their
heads a green network, which, falling on the left shoulder, ended in a
large tassel, from under which appeared upon the forehead an enormous
lock of hair. Their mustachios were long, and curled at the extremities;
the margin of their doublets confined by a belt of polished leather,
from which were suspended, by hooks, two pistols; a little powder-horn
hung like a locket on the breast; on the right-hand side of the wide and
ample breeches was a pocket, out of which projected the handle of a
knife, and on the other side they bore a long sword, of which the great
hollow hilt was formed of bright plates of brass, combined into a
cypher: by these characteristics they were, at a glance, recognised as
individuals of the class of bravoes.

This species, now entirely extinct, flourished greatly at that time in
Lombardy. For those who have no knowledge of it, the following are a few
authentic records, that may suffice to impart an idea of its principal
characteristics, of the vigorous efforts made to extirpate it, and of
its obstinate and rank vitality.

As early as the 8th of April, 1583, the most illustrious and most
excellent lord Don Charles of Arragon, Prince of Castelvetrano, Duke of
Terranova, Marquis of Avola, Count of Burgeto, High Admiral and High
Constable of Sicily, Governor of Milan, and Captain General of His
Catholic Majesty in Italy, “fully informed of the intolerable misery
which the city of Milan has endured, and still endures, by reason of
bravoes and vagabonds,” publishes his decree against them, “declares and
designates all those comprehended in this proclamation to be regarded as
bravoes and vagabonds,——who, whether foreigners or natives, have no
calling, or, having one, do not follow it,——but, either with or
without wages, attach themselves to any knight, gentleman, officer, or
merchant,——to uphold or favour him, or in any manner to molest
others.” All such he commands, within the space of six days, to leave
the country; threatens the refractory with the galleys, and grants to
all officers of justice the most ample and unlimited powers for the
execution of his commands. But, in the following year, on the 12th of
April, the said lord, having perceived “that this city still continues
to be filled with bravoes, who have again resumed their former mode of
life; their manners unchanged, and their number undiminished,” puts
forth another edict still more energetic and remarkable, in which, among
other regulations, he directs “that any person whatsoever, whether of
this city or from abroad, who shall, by the testimony of two witnesses,
be shown to be regarded and commonly reputed as a bravo, even though no
criminal act shall have been proved against him, may, nevertheless, upon
the sole ground of his reputation, be condemned by the said judges to
the rack for examination; and although he make no confession of guilt,
he shall, notwithstanding, be sentenced to the galleys for the said term
of three years, solely for that he is regarded as, and called a bravo,
as above-mentioned;” and this “because His Excellency is resolved to
enforce obedience to his commands.”

One would suppose that at the sound of such denunciations from so
powerful a source, all the bravoes must have disappeared for ever. But
testimony, of no less authority, obliges us to believe directly the
reverse. This testimony is the most illustrious and most excellent lord
Juan Fernandez de Velasco, Constable of Castile, High Chamberlain of His
Majesty, Duke of the city of Freas, Count of Haro and Castelnuovo, Lord
of the house of Velasco, and of that of the Seven Infanti of Lara,
Governor of the State of Milan, &c. On the 5th of June, 1593, he also,
fully informed “how great an injury to the common weal, and how
insulting to justice, is the existence of such a class of men,” requires
them anew to quit the country within six days, repeating very nearly the
same threats and injunctions as his predecessor. On the 23d of May,
then, 1598, “having learnt, with no little displeasure, that the number
of bravoes and vagabonds is increasing daily in this state and city, and
that nothing is heard of them but wounds, murders, robberies, and every
other crime, to the commission of which these bravoes are encouraged by
the confidence that they will be sustained by their chiefs and
abettors,” he prescribes again the same remedies, increasing the dose,
as is usual in obstinate disorders. “Let every one, then,” he concludes,
“carefully beware that he do not, in any wise, contravene this edict;
since, in place of experiencing the mercy of His Excellency, he shall
prove his rigour and his wrath—he being resolved and determined that
this shall be a final and peremptory warning.”

But this again did not suffice; and the illustrious and most excellent
lord, the Signor Don Pietro Enriquez de Acevedo, Count of Fuentes,
Captain and Governor of the State of Milan, “fully informed of the
wretched condition of this city and state, in consequence of the great
number of bravoes that abound therein, and resolved wholly to extirpate
them,” publishes, on the 5th of December, 1600, a new decree, full of
the most rigorous provisions, and “with firm purpose that in all rigour,
and without hope of remission, they shall be wholly carried into
execution.”

We are obliged, however, to conclude that he did not, in this matter,
exhibit the same zeal which he knew how to employ in contriving plots
and exciting enemies against his powerful foe, Henry IV., against whom
history attests that he succeeded in arming the Duke of Savoy, whom he
caused to lose more towns than one; and in engaging in a conspiracy the
Duke of Biron, whom he caused to lose his head. But as regards the
pestilent race of bravoes, it is very certain they continued to increase
until the 22d day of September, 1612; on which day the most illustrious
and most excellent lord Don Giovanni de Mendoza, Marchese de la
Hynojosa, gentleman, &c., Governor, &c., thought seriously of their
extirpation. He addressed to Pandolfo and Marco Tullio Malatesti,
printers of the Royal Chamber, the customary edict, corrected and
enlarged, that they might print it, to accomplish that end. But the
bravoes still survived, to experience, on the 24th December, 1618, still
more terrific denunciations from the most illustrious and most excellent
lord, Don Gomez Suarez de Figueroa, Duke of Feria, Governor, &c.; yet,
as they did not fall even under these blows, the most illustrious and
most excellent lord Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova, under whose government
we are made acquainted with Don Abbondio, found himself obliged to
republish the usual proclamation against the bravoes, on the 5th day of
October, 1627, that is, a year, a month, and two days previous to the
commencement of our story.

Nor was this the last publication; but of those that follow, as of
matters not falling within the period of our history, we do not think it
proper to make mention. The only one of them to which we shall refer, is
that of the 13th day of February, 1632, in which the most illustrious
and most excellent lord, the Duke of Feria, for the second time
governor, informs us, “that the greatest and most heinous crimes are
perpetrated by those styled bravoes.” This will suffice to prove that,
at the time of which we treat, the bravoes still existed.

It appeared evident to Don Abbondio that the two men above mentioned
were waiting for some one, and he was alarmed at the conviction that it
was for himself; for on his appearance, they exchanged a look, as if to
say, “’tis he.” Rising from the wall, they both advanced to meet him. He
held his breviary open before him, as though he were employed in reading
it; but, nevertheless, cast a glance upward in order to espy their
movements. Seeing that they came directly toward him, he was beset by a
thousand different thoughts. He considered, in haste, whether between
the bravoes and himself there were any outlet from the road, and he
remembered there was none. He took a rapid survey of his conduct, to
discover if he had given offence to any powerful or revengeful man; but
in this matter, he was somewhat reassured by the consoling testimony of
his conscience. The bravoes draw near, and kept their eyes upon him. He
raised his hand to his collar, as if adjusting it, and at the same time
turned his head round, to see if any one were coming; he could discover
no one. He cast a glance across the low stone wall upon the fields; no
one! another on the road that lay before him; no one, except the
bravoes! What is to be done? Flight was impossible. Unable to avoid the
danger, he hastened to encounter it, and to put an end to the torments
of uncertainty. He quickened his pace, recited a stanza in a louder
tone, did his utmost to assume a composed and cheerful countenance, and
finding himself in front of the two gallants, stopped short. “Signor
Curate,” said one of them, fixing his eyes upon him,—

“Your pleasure, sir,” suddenly raising his eyes from his book, which he
continued to hold open before him.

“You intend,” pursued the other, with the threatening and angry mien of
one who has detected an inferior in an attempt to commit some villany,
“you intend to-morrow to unite in marriage Renzo Tramaglino and Lucy
Mondella.”

“That is,” said Don Abbondio with a faltering voice, “that is to
say—you gentlemen, being men of the world, are very well aware how
these things are managed: the poor curate neither meddles nor
makes—they settle their affairs amongst themselves, and then—then,
they come to us, as if to redeem a pledge; and we—we are the servants
of the public.”

“Mark now,” said the bravo in a low voice, but in a tone of command,
“this marriage is not to take place, neither to-morrow, nor at any other
time.”

“But, my good sirs,” replied Don Abbondio, with the mild and gentle tone
of one who would persuade an impatient listener, “but, my good sirs,
deign to put yourselves in my situation. If the thing depended on
myself—you see plainly, that it does not in the least concern——”

“Hold there,” said the bravo, interrupting him, “this matter is not to
be settled by prating. We neither know nor care to know any more about
it. A man once warned—you understand us.”

“But, fair sirs, you are too just, too reasonable——”

“But,” interrupted the other comrade, who had not before spoken, “but
this marriage is not to be performed, or (with an oath) he who performs
it will not repent of it, because he’ll not have time” (with another
oath).

“Hush, hush,” resumed the first orator, “the Signor Curate knows the
world, and we are gentlemen who have no wish to harm him if he conducts
himself with judgment. Signor Curate, the most illustrious Signor Don
Roderick, our patron, offers you his kind regards.” As in the height of
a midnight storm a vivid flash casts a momentary dazzling glare around
and renders every object more fearful, so did this _name_ increase the
terror of Don Abbondio: as if by instinct, he bowed his head
submissively, and said—

“If it could but be suggested to me.”

“Oh! suggested to _you_, who understand Latin!” exclaimed the bravo,
laughing; “it is for you to manage the matter. But, above all, be
careful not to say a word concerning the hint that has been given you
for your good; for if you do, ehem!—you understand—the consequences
would be the same as if you performed the marriage ceremony. But say,
what answer are we to carry in your name to the most illustrious Signor
Don Roderick?”

“My respects——”

“Speak more clearly, Signor Curate.”

“That I am disposed, ever disposed, to obedience.” And as he spoke the
words he was not very certain himself whether he gave a promise, or only
uttered an ordinary compliment. The bravoes took, or _appeared_ to take
them, in the more serious sense.

“’Tis very well; good night, Signor Curate,” said one of them as he
retired, together with his companion. Don Abbondio, who a few minutes
before would have given one of his eyes to avoid the ruffians, was now
desirous to prolong the conversation.

“Gentlemen——” he began, as he shut his book. Without again noticing
him, however, they passed on, singing a loose song, of which we will not
transcribe the words. Poor Don Abbondio remained for a moment, as if
spell-bound, and then with heavy and lagging steps took the path which
led towards his home. The reader will better understand the state of his
mind, when he shall have learned something more of his disposition, and
of the condition of the times in which it was his lot to live.

Don Abbondio was not (as the reader may have perceived) endowed with the
courage of a lion. But from his earliest years he had been sensible that
the most embarrassing situation in those times was that of an animal,
furnished with neither tusks nor talons, at the same time having no wish
to be devoured. The arm of the law afforded no protection to a man of
quiet, inoffensive habits, who had no means of making himself feared.
Not that laws and penalties were wanting for the prevention of private
violence: the laws were most express; the offences enumerated, and
minutely particularised; the penalties sufficiently extravagant; and if
that were not enough, the legislator himself, and, a hundred others to
whom was committed the execution of the laws, had power to increase
them. The proceedings were studiously contrived to free the judge from
every thing that might prevent his passing sentence of condemnation; the
passages we have cited from proclamations against the bravoes, may be
taken as a faithful specimen of these decrees. Notwithstanding this, or,
it may be, in _consequence_ of this, these proclamations, reiterated and
reinforced from time to time, served only to proclaim in pompous
language the impotence of those who issued them; or, if they produced
any immediate effect, it was _that_ of adding to the vexations which the
peaceful and feeble suffered from the disturbers of society. Impunity
was organised and effected in so many ways as to render the
proclamations powerless. Such was the consequence of the sanctuaries and
asylums; and of the privileges of certain classes, partly acknowledged
by the legal power, partly tolerated in silence, or feebly opposed; but
which, in _fact_, were sustained and guarded by almost every individual
with interested activity and punctilious jealousy. Now this impunity,
threatened and assailed, but not destroyed, by these proclamations,
would naturally, at every new attack, employ fresh efforts and devices
to maintain itself. The proclamations were efficient, it is true, in
fettering and embarrassing the honest man, who had neither power in
himself nor protection from others; inasmuch as, in order to reach every
person, they subjected the movements of each private individual to the
arbitrary will of a thousand magistrates and executive officers. But he,
who before the commission of his crime had prepared himself a refuge in
some convent or palace where bailiffs never dared to enter; or who
simply wore a livery, which engaged in his defence the vanity or the
interest of a powerful family; such a one was free in his actions, and
could laugh to scorn every proclamation. Of those very persons whose
part it was to ensure the execution of these decrees, some belonged by
birth to the privileged class, others were its clients and dependants;
and as the latter as well as the former had, from education, from habit,
from imitation, embraced its maxims, they would be very careful not to
violate them. Had they however, been bold as heroes, obedient as monks,
and devoted as martyrs, they could never have accomplished the execution
of the laws, inferior as they were in number to _those_ with whom they
must engage, and with the frequent probability of being abandoned, or
even sacrificed, by him who, in a moment of theoretical abstraction,
might require them to act. But, in addition to this, their office would
be regarded as a base one in public opinion, and their name stamped with
reproach. It was therefore very natural that, instead of risking, nay,
throwing away, their lives in a fruitless attempt, they should sell
their inaction, or, rather, their connivance, to the powerful; or, at
least, exercise their authority only on those occasions when it might be
done with safety to themselves; that is, in oppressing the peaceable and
the defenceless.

The man who acts with violence, or who is constantly in fear of violence
from others, seeks companions and allies. Hence it happened that, during
these times, individuals displayed so strong a tendency to combine
themselves into classes, and to advance, as far as each one was able,
the power of that to which he belonged. The clergy was vigilant in the
defence and extension of its immunities; the nobility, of its
privileges; the military, of its exemptions; the merchants and artisans
were enrolled in companies and fraternities; the lawyers were united in
leagues, and even the physicians formed a corporation. Each of these
little oligarchies had its own appropriate power,—in each of them the
individual found the advantage of employing for himself, in proportion
to his influence and dexterity, the united force of numbers. The more
honest availed themselves of this advantage merely for their defence;
the crafty and the wicked profited by it to assure themselves of success
in their rogueries, and impunity from their results. The strength,
however, of these various combinations was far from being equal; and,
especially in the country, the wealthy and overbearing nobleman, with a
band of bravoes, and surrounded by peasants accustomed to regard
themselves as subjects and soldiers of their lord, exercised an
irresistible power, and set all laws at defiance.

Don Abbondio, neither noble, rich, nor valiant, had from early youth
found himself alone and unaided in such a state of society, like an
earthen vessel thrown amidst iron jars; he therefore readily obeyed his
parents, who wished him to become a priest. He did, to say the truth,
not regard the obligations and the noble ends of the ministry to which
he dedicated himself, but was only desirous to secure the means of
living, and to connect himself with a powerful and respected class. But
no class provided for the individual, or secured his safety, _further_
than to a certain point; none rendered it unnecessary for him to adopt
for himself a system of his own. The system of Don Abbondio consisted
chiefly in shunning all disputes; he maintained an unarmed neutrality in
all the contests that broke out around him;—between the clergy and the
civil power, between persons in office and nobles and magistrates,
bravoes and soldiers, down to the squabbles of the peasantry themselves,
terminated by the fist or the knife. By keeping aloof from the
overbearing, by affecting not to notice their acts of violence, by
bowing low and with the most profound respect to all whom he met, the
poor man had succeeded in passing over sixty years without encountering
any violent storms; not but that he also had some small portion of gall
in his composition; and this continual exercise of patience exacerbated
it to such a degree, that, if he had not had it in his power
occasionally to give it vent, his health must have suffered. But as
there were a few persons in the world connected with himself whom he
knew to be powerless, he could, from time to time, discharge on them his
long pent-up ill-humour. He was, moreover, a severe censor of those who
did not regulate their conduct by his example, provided he could censure
without danger. According to his creed, the poor fellow who had been
cudgelled had been a little imprudent; the murdered man had always been
turbulent; the man who maintained his right against the powerful, and
met with a broken head, must have been somewhat wrong; which is,
perhaps, true enough, for in all disputes the line can never be drawn
so finely as not to leave a little wrong on both sides. He especially
declaimed against those of his confraternity, who, at their own risk,
took part with the oppressed against a powerful oppressor. “This,” he
said, “was to purchase trouble with ready money, to kick at snarling
dogs, and an intermeddling in profane things that lowered the dignity of
the sacred ministry.” He had, in short, a favourite maxim, that an
honest man, who looked to himself and minded his own affairs, never met
with any rough encounters.

From all that has been said, we may imagine the effect the meeting just
described must have had upon the mind of poor Don Abbondio. Those fierce
countenances, the threats of a lord who was well known not to speak
idly, his plan of quiet life and patient endurance disconcerted in an
instant, a difficulty before him from which he saw no possibility of
extrication; all these thoughts rushed confusedly through his mind. “If
Renzo could be quietly dismissed with a refusal, all would be well; but
he will require reasons—and what can I say to him? he too has a head of
his own; a lamb, if not meddled with—but once attempt to cross him——
Oh!—and raving after that Lucy, as much enamoured as—— Young idiots!
who, for want of something else to do, fall in love, and must be
married, forsooth, thinking of nothing else, never concerning themselves
about the trouble they bring upon an honest man like me. Wretch that I
am! Why should those two scowling faces plant themselves exactly in my
path, and pick a quarrel with me? What have I to do in the matter? Is it
I that mean to wive? Why did they not rather go and speak—— Ah! truly,
that which is to the purpose always occurs to me after the right time:
if I had but thought of suggesting to them to go and bear their
message——” But here he was disturbed by the reflection, that to repent
of not having been the counsellor and abettor of evil, was too
iniquitous a thing; and he therefore turned the rancour of his thoughts
against the individual who had thus robbed him of his tranquillity. He
did not know Don Roderick, except by sight and by report; his sole
intercourse with him had been to touch chin to breast, and the ground
with the corner of his hat, the few times he had met him on the road.
He had, on more than one occasion, defended the reputation of that
Signor against those who, in an under-tone, with sighs and looks raised
to heaven, had execrated some one of his exploits. He had declared a
hundred times that he was a respectable cavalier. But at this moment he,
in his own heart, readily bestowed upon him all those titles to which he
would never lend an ear from another. Having, amidst the tumult of these
thoughts, reached the entrance of his house, which stood at the end of
the little glebe, he unlocked the door, entered, and carefully secured
it within. Anxious to find himself in society that he could trust, he
called aloud, “Perpetua, Perpetua,” advancing towards the little parlour
where she was, doubtless, employed in preparing the table for his
supper. Perpetua was, as the reader must be aware, the housekeeper of
Don Abbondio; an affectionate and faithful domestic, who knew how to
obey or command as occasion served; to bear the grumbling and whims of
her master at times, and at others to make him bear with hers. These
were becoming every day more frequent; she had passed the age of forty
in a single state; the consequences, _she_ said, of having refused all
the offers that had been made her; her _female friends_ asserted that
she had never found any one willing to take her.

“Coming,” said Perpetua, as she set in its usual place on the little
table the flask of Don Abbondio’s favourite wine, and moved slowly
toward the parlour door: before she reached it he entered, with steps so
disordered, looks so clouded, and a countenance so changed, that an eye
less practised than that of Perpetua could have discovered at a glance
that something unusual had befallen him.

“Mercy on me! What is it ails my master?”

“Nothing, nothing,” said Don Abbondio, as he sank upon his easy chair.

“How, nothing! Would you have me believe that, looking as you do? Some
dreadful accident has happened.”

“Oh! for the love of Heaven! When I say nothing, it is either nothing,
or something I cannot tell.”

“That you cannot tell, not even to me? Who will take care of your
health? Who will give you advice?”

“Oh! peace, peace! Do not make matters worse. Give me a glass of my
wine.”

“And you will still pretend to me that nothing is the matter?” said
Perpetua, filling the glass, but retaining it in her hand, as if
unwilling to present it except as the reward of confidence.

“Give here, give here,” said Don Abbondio, taking the glass with an
unsteady hand, and hastily swallowing its contents.

“Would you oblige me then to go about, asking here and there what it is
has happened to my master?” said Perpetua, standing upright before him,
with her hands on her sides, and looking him steadfastly in the face, as
if to extract the secret from his eyes.

“For the love of Heaven, do not worry me, do not kill me with your
pother; this is a matter that concerns—concerns my life.”

“Your life!”

“My life.”

“You know well, that, when you have frankly confided in me, I have
never——”

“Yes, forsooth, as when——”

Perpetua was sensible she had touched a false string; wherefore,
changing suddenly her note, “My dear master,” said she, in a moving tone
of voice, “I have always had a dutiful regard for you, and if I now wish
to know this affair, it is from zeal, and a desire to assist you, to
give you advice, to relieve your mind.”

The truth is, that Don Abbondio’s desire to disburden himself of his
painful secret was as great as that of Perpetua to obtain a knowledge of
it; so that, after having repulsed, more and more feebly, her renewed
assaults; after having made her swear many times that she would not
breathe a syllable of it, he, with frequent pauses and exclamations,
related his miserable adventure. When it was necessary to pronounce the
dread name of him from whom the prohibition came, he required from
Perpetua another and more solemn oath: having uttered it, he threw
himself back on his seat with a heavy sigh, and, in a tone of command,
as well as supplication, exclaimed,—

“For the love of Heaven!”—

“Mercy upon me!” cried Perpetua, “what a wretch! what a tyrant! Does he
not fear God?”

“Will you be silent? or do you want to ruin me completely?”

“Oh! we are here alone, no one can hear us. But what will my poor master
do?”

“See there now,” said Don Abbondio, in a peevish tone, “see the fine
advice you give me. To ask of me, what I’ll do? what I’ll do? as if you
were the one in difficulty, and it was for me to help you out!”

“Nay, I could give you my own poor opinion; but then—”

“But—but then, let us know it.”

“My opinion would be, that, as every one says our archbishop is a saint,
a man of courage, and not to be frightened by an ugly phiz, and who will
take pleasure in upholding a curate against one of these tyrants; I
should say, and do say, that you had better write him a handsome letter,
to inform him as how——”

“Will you be silent! will you be silent! Is this advice to offer a poor
man? When I get a pistol bullet in my side—God preserve me!—will the
archbishop take it out?”

“Ah! pistol bullets are not given away like sugarplums; and it were
woful if those dogs should bite every time they bark. If a man knows how
to show his teeth, and make himself feared, they hold him in respect: we
should not have been brought to such a pass, if you had stood upon your
rights. Now, all come to us (by your good leave) to——”

“Will you be silent?”

“Certainly; but it is true though, that when the world sees one is
always ready, in every encounter, to lower——”

“Will you be silent? Is this a time for such idle talk?”

“Well, well, you’ll think of it to-night; but in the meantime do not be
the first to harm yourself; to destroy your own health: eat a mouthful.”

“I’ll think of it,” murmured Don Abbondio; “certainly I’ll think of it.
I _must_ think of it;” and he arose, continuing—“No! I’ll take nothing,
nothing; I’ve something else to do. But, that this should have fallen
upon me——”

“Swallow at least this other little drop,” said Perpetua, as she poured
the wine. “You know it always restores your stomach.”

“Oh! there wants other medicine than that, other medicine than that,
other medicine than that——”

So saying, he took the light, and muttering, “A pretty business this! To
an honest man like me! And to-morrow, what is to be done?” with other
like exclamations, he went towards his bedchamber. Having reached the
door, he stopped a moment, and before he quitted the room, exclaimed,
turning towards Perpetua, with his finger on his lips—“For the love of
Heaven, be silent!”




CHAPTER II.


It is related that the Prince of Condé slept soundly the night preceding
the battle of Rocroi; but then, he was greatly fatigued, and moreover
had made every arrangement for the morrow. It was not thus with Don
Abbondio; he only knew the morrow would be a day of trouble, and
consequently passed the night in anxious anticipation. He could not for
a moment think of disregarding the menaces of the bravoes, and
solemnising the marriage. To confide to Renzo the occurrence, and
consult with him as to the means—God forbid!—He remembered the warning
of the bravo, “not to say one word”—otherwise, _ahem!_ and this
dreadful _ahem_ of the bravo resounded in the ears of Don Abbondio; so
that he already repented of his communication to Perpetua. To fly was
impossible—and where _could_ he fly? At the thought, a thousand
obstacles presented themselves.—After long and painful deliberation, he
resolved to endeavour to gain time, by giving Renzo some fanciful
reasons for the postponement of the marriage. He recollected that in a
few days more the time would arrive, during which marriages were
prohibited. “And if I can keep this youngster at bay for a few days, I
shall then have two months before me; and in two months who can tell
what may happen?” He thought of various pretexts for his purpose; and
though they were rather flimsy, he persuaded himself that his authority
would give them weight, and that his experience would prevail over the
mind of an ignorant youth. “We will see,” said he to himself: “he thinks
of his love, but I think of myself; I am, therefore, the party most
interested; I must call in all my cunning to assist me. I cannot help
it, young man, if you suffer; I must not be the victim.” Having somewhat
composed his mind with this determination, he at length fell asleep. But
his dreams, alas! how horrible—bravoes, Don Roderick, Renzo, roads,
rocks, cries, bullets.

The arousing from sleep, after a recent misfortune, is a bitter moment;
the mind at first habitually recurs to its previous tranquillity, but is
soon depressed by the thought of the contrast that awaits it. When alive
to a sense of his situation, Don Abbondio recapitulated the plans of the
night, made a better disposal of them, and after having risen, awaited
with dread and impatience the moment of Renzo’s arrival.

Lorenzo, or as he was called, Renzo, did not make him wait long; at an
early hour he presented himself before the curate with the joyful
readiness of one who was on this day to espouse her whom he loved. He
had been deprived of his parents in his youth, and now practised the
trade of a weaver of silk, which was, it might be said, hereditary in
his family. This trade had once been very lucrative; and although now on
the decline, a skilful workman might obtain from it a respectable
livelihood. The continual emigration of the tradesmen, attracted to the
neighbouring states by promises and privileges, left sufficient
employment for those who remained behind. Besides, Renzo possessed a
small farm, which he had cultivated himself when otherwise unoccupied;
so that, for one of his condition, he might be called wealthy: and
although the last harvest had been more deficient than the preceding
ones, and the evils of famine were beginning to be felt; yet, from the
moment he had given his heart to Lucy, he had been so economical as to
preserve a sufficiency of all necessaries, and to be in no danger of
wanting bread. He appeared before Don Abbondio gaily dressed, and with a
joyful countenance. The mysterious and perplexed manner of the curate
formed a singular contrast to that of the handsome young man.

“What is the matter now?” thought Renzo; but without waiting to answer
his own question, “Signor Curate,” said he, “I am come to know at what
hour of the day it will be convenient for you that we should be at the
church?”

“Of what day do you speak?”

“How! of what day? do you not remember that this is the day appointed?”

“To-day?” replied Don Abbondio, as if he heard it for the first time,
“to-day? to-day? be patient, I cannot to-day——”

“You cannot to-day? why not?”

“In the first place I am not well——”

“I am sorry for it; but we shall not detain you long, and you will not
be much fatigued.”

“But then—but then——”

“But then, what, sir?”

“There are difficulties.”

“Difficulties! How can that be?”

“People should be in our situation, to know how many obstacles there are
to these matters; I am too yielding, I think only of removing
impediments, of rendering all things easy, and promoting the happiness
of others. To do this I neglect my duty, and am covered with reproaches
for it.”

“In the name of Heaven, keep me not thus in suspense, but tell me at
once what is the matter?”

“Do you know how many formalities are required before the marriage can
be celebrated?”

“I must, indeed, know something of them,” said Renzo, beginning to grow
angry, “since you have racked my brains with them abundantly these few
days back. But are not all things now ready? have you not done all there
was to do?”

“All, all, you expect; but be patient, I tell you. I have been a
blockhead to neglect my duty, that I might not cause pain to others;—we
poor curates—we are, as may be said, ever between a hawk and a buzzard.
I pity you, poor young man! I perceive your impatience, but my
superiors——Enough, I have reasons for what I say, but I cannot tell
all—we, however, are sure to suffer.”

“But tell me what this other formality is, and I will perform it
immediately.”

“Do you know how many obstacles stand in the way?”

“How can I know any thing of obstacles?”

“Error, conditio, votum, cognatis, crimen, cultus disparitas, vis,
ordo.... Si sit affinis....”

“Oh! for Heaven’s sake—how should I understand all this Latin?”

“Be patient, dear Renzo; I am ready to do——all that depends on me.
I—I wish to see you satisfied—I wish you well—— And when I think
that you were so happy, that you wanted nothing when the whim entered
your head to be married——”

“What words are these, Signor?” interrupted Renzo, with a look of
astonishment and anger.

“I say, do be patient—I say, I wish to see you happy. In short—in
short, my dear child, I have not been in fault; I did not make the laws.
Before concluding a marriage, we are required to search closely that
there be no obstacles.”

“Now, I beseech you, tell me at once what difficulty has occurred?”

“Be patient—these are not points to be cleared up in an instant. There
_will_ be nothing, I hope; but whether or not, we must search into the
matter. The passage is clear and explicit,—‘antiquam matrimonium
denunciet——’”

“I’ll not hear your Latin.”

“But it is necessary to explain to you——”

“But why not do this before? Why tell me all was prepared? Why wait——”

“See there now! to reproach me with my kindness! I have hastened every
thing to serve you; but—but there has occurred——well, well, I
know——”

“And what do you wish that I should do?”

“Be patient for a few days. My dear child, a few days are not eternity;
be patient.”

“For how long a time then?”

“We are coming to a good conclusion,” thought Don Abbondio. “Come,” said
he, gently, “in fifteen days I will endeavour——”

“Fifteen days! Oh! this is something new. To tell me now, on the very
day you yourself appointed for my marriage, that I must wait fifteen
days! Fifteen,” resumed he, with a low and angry voice.

Don Abbondio interrupted him, earnestly seizing his hand, and with an
imploring tone beseeching him to be quiet. “Come, come, don’t be angry;
for the love of Heaven! I’ll see, I’ll see if in a week——”

“And what shall I say to Lucy?” said Renzo, softening.

“That it has been a mistake of mine.”

“And to the world?”

“Say also it is my fault; that through too great haste I have made some
great blunder: throw all the blame on me. Can I do more than this? Come
in a week.”

“And then there will be no further difficulties?”

“When I say a thing——”

“Well, well, I will be quiet for a week; but be assured, I will be put
off with no further excuses:—for the present, I take my leave.” So
saying, he departed, making a bow to Don Abbondio less profound than
usual, and giving him a look more expressive than respectful.

With a heavy heart he approached the house of his betrothed, his mind
dwelling on the strange conversation which had just taken place. The
cold and embarrassed reception of Don Abbondio, his constrained and
impatient air, his mysterious hints, all combined to convince him there
was still something he had not been willing to communicate. He stopped
for a moment, debating with himself whether he should not return and
compel him to be more frank; raising his eyes, however, he beheld
Perpetua entering a little garden a few steps distant from the house. He
called to her, quickened his pace, and detaining her at the gate,
endeavoured to enter into discourse with her.

“Good day, Perpetua; I expected to have received your congratulations
to-day.”

“But it must be as God pleases, my poor Renzo.”

“I want to ask a favour of you: the Signor Curate has offered reasons I
cannot comprehend; will you explain to me the true cause why he is
unable or unwilling to marry us to-day?”

“Oh! you think then that I know the secrets of my master.”

“I was right in supposing there was a mystery,” thought Renzo. “Come,
come, Perpetua,” continued he, “we are friends; tell me what you
know,—help a poor young man.”

“It is a bad thing to be born poor, my dear Renzo.”

“That is true,” replied he, still more confirmed in his
suspicions—“that is true; but it is not becoming in the clergy to
behave unjustly to the poor.”

“Hear me, Renzo; I can tell you nothing, because—I know nothing. But I
can assure you my master would not wrong you or any one; and he is not
to blame.”

“Who then is to blame?” asked Renzo, carelessly, but listening intently
for a reply.

“I have told you already I know nothing. But I may be allowed to speak
in defence of my master; poor man! if he has erred, it has been through
too great kindness. There are in this world men who are overpowerful,
knavish, and who fear not God.”

“Overpowerful! knavish!” thought Renzo; “these cannot be his
superiors.”—“Come,” said he, with difficulty concealing his increasing
agitation, “come, tell me who it is.”

“Ah! you would persuade me to speak, and I must not, because—I know
nothing. I will keep silence as faithfully as if I had promised to do
so. You might put me to the torture, and you could not draw any thing
from me. Adieu! it is lost time for both of us.”

Thus saying, she re-entered the garden hastily, and shut the gate. Renzo
turned very softly, lest at the noise of his footsteps she might discern
the road he took: when fairly beyond her hearing, he quickened his
steps, and in a moment was at the door of Don Abbondio’s house; he
entered, rushed towards the little parlour where he had left him, and
finding him still there, approached him with a bold and furious manner.

“Eh! eh! what has happened now?” said Don Abbondio.

“Who is this powerful personage?” said Renzo, with the air of one
resolved to obtain an explicit answer; “who is he that forbids me to
marry Lucy?”

“What! what! what!” stammered Don Abbondio, turning pale with surprise.
He arose from his chair, and made an effort to reach the door. But
Renzo, who expected this movement, was upon his guard; and locking the
door, he put the key in his pocket.

“Ah! will you speak now, Signor Curate? Every one knows the affair but
myself; and, by heavens! I’ll know it too. Who is it, I say?”

“Renzo, Renzo, for the love of charity, take care what you do; think of
your soul.”

“I must know it at once—this moment.” So saying, he placed his hand on
his dagger, but perhaps without intending it.

“Mercy!” exclaimed Don Abbondio, in a stifled voice.

“I _must_ know it.”

“Who has told you?”

“Come, no more excuses. Speak plainly and quickly.”

“Do you mean to kill me?”

“I mean to know that which I have a right to know.”

“But if I speak, I die. Must I not preserve my life?”

“Speak, then.”

The manner of Renzo was so threatening and decided, that Don Abbondio
felt there was no possibility of disobeying him. “Promise me—swear,”
said he, “never to tell——”

“Tell me, tell me quickly his name, or——”

At this new adjuration, the poor curate, with the trembling look of a
man who feels the instrument of the dentist in his mouth, feebly
articulated, “Don——”

“Don?” replied Renzo, inclining his ear towards him, eager to hear the
rest. “Don?”

“Don Roderick!” muttered he hastily, trembling at the sound that escaped
his lips.

“Ah! dog!” shouted Renzo; “and how has he done it? what has he said to
you to——”

“What? what?” said Don Abbondio, in an almost contemptuous tone, already
gaining confidence by the sacrifice he had made. “I wish you were like
myself, you would then meddle with nothing, and certainly you would not
have had so many whims in your head.” He, however, related in terrible
colours the ugly encounter; his anger, which had hitherto been subdued
by fear, displayed itself as he proceeded; and perceiving that Renzo,
between rage and astonishment, remained motionless, with his head bent
down, he continued in a lively manner, “You have made a pretty business
of it, indeed! You have rendered me a notable service. Thus to attack an
honest man, your curate, in his own house! in a sacred place! You have
done a fine thing, truly. To wrest from my mouth, that which I
concealed, from prudence, for your own good. And now that you know it,
what will you do? When I gave you good advice this morning, I had
judgment for you and me; but believe me, this is no jesting matter, no
question of right or wrong, but superior power. At all events, open the
door; give me the key.”

“I may have been to blame,” replied Renzo with a softened voice, but in
which might be perceived smothered anger towards his concealed enemy, “I
may have been to blame, but if you had been in my situation——” He
drew the key from his pocket, and advanced towards the door.

“Swear to me,” said Don Abbondio with a serious and anxious face.

“I may have been to blame—forgive me,” replied Renzo, moving to depart.

“Swear first,” said Don Abbondio, holding him tremblingly by the arm.

“I may have been to blame,” said Renzo, freeing himself from his grasp,
and immediately springing out of the room.

“Perpetua! Perpetua!” cried Don Abbondio, after having in vain called
back the fugitive. Perpetua did not answer. The poor man was so
overwhelmed by his innumerable difficulties, his increasing
perplexities, and so apprehensive of some fresh attack, that he
conceived the idea of securing to himself a safe retreat from them all,
by going to bed and giving out that he had a fever. His malady, indeed,
was not altogether imaginary; the terror of the past day, the anxious
watching of the night, the dread of the future, had combined to
produce really the effect. Weary and stupified, he slumbered in his
large chair, muttering occasionally in a feeble but passionate voice,
“Perpetua.”—Perpetua arrived at last with a great cabbage under her
arm, and with as unconcerned a countenance as if nothing had happened.
We will spare the reader the reproaches, the accusations, and denials
that passed between them; it is sufficient that Don Abbondio ordered
Perpetua to bolt the door, not to put her foot outside, and if any one
knocked, to reply from the window that the curate was gone to bed with a
fever. He then slowly ascended the stairs and put himself really in bed,
where we will leave him.

Renzo, meanwhile, with hurried steps, and with a mind unsettled and
distracted as to the course he should pursue, approached his home. Those
who injure others are guilty, not only of the evils they commit, but
also of the effects produced by these evils on the characters of the
injured persons. Renzo was a quiet and peaceful youth, but now his
nature appeared changed, and his thoughts dwelt only on deeds of
violence. He would have run to the house of Don Roderick to assault him
there; but he remembered that it was a fortress, furnished with bravoes
within, and well guarded without; that only those known to be friends
and servants could enter without the minutest scrutiny; and that not
even a tradesman could be seen there without being examined from head to
foot; and he, above all, would be, alas! but too well known. He then
imagined himself placed behind a hedge, with his arquebuss in his hand,
waiting till Roderick should pass by alone; rejoicing internally at the
thought, he pictured to himself an approaching footstep; the villain
appears, he takes aim, fires, and he falls; he exults a moment over his
dying struggles, and then escapes for his life beyond the confines! And
Lucy? This name recalled his wiser and better thoughts: he remembered
the last instructions of his parents; he thought of God, the Holy
Virgin, and the Saints; and he tremblingly rejoiced that he had been
guilty of the deed only in imagination. But how many hopes, promises,
and anticipations did the idea of Lucy suggest? And this day so ardently
desired! How announce to her the dreadful news? And then, what plan to
pursue? How make her his own in spite of the power of this wicked lord?
And now a tormenting suspicion passed through his mind. Don Roderick
must have been instigated to this injury by a brutal passion for Lucy!
And she! He could not for a moment endure the maddening thought that she
had given him the slightest encouragement. But was she not informed of
his designs? Could he have conceived his infamous purpose, and have
advanced so far towards its completion, without her knowledge? And Lucy,
his own beloved, had never uttered a syllable to him concerning it!

These reflections prevailing in his mind, he passed by his own house,
which was situated in the centre of the village, and arrived at that of
Lucy, which was at the opposite extremity. It had a small court-yard in
front, which separated it from the road, and which was encircled by a
low wall. Entering the yard, Renzo heard a confused murmur of voices in
the upper chamber; he rightly supposed it to be the wedding company,
and he could not resolve to appear before them with such a countenance.
A little girl, who was standing at the door, ran towards him, crying
out, “The bridegroom! the bridegroom!” “Hush, Betsy, hush,” said Renzo,
“come hither; go to Lucy, and whisper in her ear—but let no one hear
you—whisper in her ear, that I wish to speak with her in the lower
chamber, and that she must come at once.” The little girl hastily
ascended the stairs, proud of having a secret commission to execute.
Lucy had just come forth, adorned from the hands of her mother, and
surrounded by her admiring friends. These were playfully endeavouring to
steal a look at the blooming bride; while she, with the timidity of
rustic modesty, attempted to conceal her blushing countenance with her
bending arm, from beneath which a smiling mouth nevertheless appeared.
Her black tresses, parted on her white forehead, were folded up in
multiplied circles on the back of her head, and fastened with pins of
silver, projecting on every side like the rays of the sun: this is still
the custom of the Milanese peasantry. Around her throat she had a
necklace of garnets, alternated with beads of gold filagree; she wore a
boddice embroidered in flowers, the sleeves tied with ribands; a short
petticoat of silk, with numerous minute plaits; crimson stockings, and
embroidered silk slippers. But beyond all these ornaments was the modest
and beautiful joy depicted on her countenance; a joy, however, troubled
by a slight shade of anxiety. The little Betsy intruded herself into the
circle, managed to approach Lucy, and communicated her message. “I shall
return in a moment,” said Lucy to her friends, as she hastily quitted
the room. On perceiving the altered and unquiet appearance of Renzo,
“What is the matter?” said she, not without a presentiment of evil.

“Lucy,” replied Renzo, “all is at a stand, and God knows whether we
shall ever be man and wife!”

“How!” said Lucy, alarmed. Renzo related briefly the history of the
morning; she listened with anguish: when he uttered the name of Don
Roderick, “Ah!” exclaimed she, blushing and trembling, “has it then come
to this?”

“Then you knew!” said Renzo.

“Too well,” replied Lucy.

“What did you know?”

“Do not make me speak now, do not make me weep! I’ll call my mother and
dismiss the company. We must be alone.”

As she departed, Renzo whispered, “And you have never spoken of it to
me!”

“Ah, Renzo!” replied Lucy, turning for a moment to gaze at him.

He understood well what this action meant; it was as if she had said,
“Can you doubt me?”

Meanwhile the good Agnes (so the mother of Lucy was called) had
descended the stairs, to ascertain the cause of her daughter’s
disappearance. She remained with Renzo; while Lucy returned to the
company, and, assuming all the composure she could, said to them, “The
Signor Curate is indisposed, and the wedding cannot take place to-day.”
The ladies departed, and lost no time in relating amongst the gossips of
the neighbourhood all that had occurred, while they made particular
enquiries respecting the reality of Don Abbondio’s sickness. The truth
of this cut short the conjectures which they had already begun to
intimate by brief and mysterious hints.




CHAPTER III.


Lucy entered the lower room as Renzo was sorrowfully informing Agnes of
that, to which she as sorrowfully listened. Both turned towards her from
whom they expected an explanation which could not but be painful; the
suspicions of both were, however, excited in the midst of their grief,
and the displeasure they felt towards Lucy differed only according to
their relative situation. Agnes, although anxious to hear her daughter
speak, could not avoid reproaching her—“To say nothing to thy mother!”

“Now, I will tell you all,” said Lucy, wiping her eyes with her apron.

“Speak, speak!” cried at once her mother and her lover.

“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed Lucy, “that it should come to this!”—and with
a voice interrupted by tears, she related that a few days previously, as
she returned from weaving, and was loitering behind her companions, Don
Roderick came up with her, in company with another gentleman; that the
former sought to engage her in idle conversation; that she quickened her
pace, without lending him an ear, and rejoined her companions; in the
mean while she heard the other gentleman laugh, and Don Roderick say,
“I’ll lay a wager with you.” The day following, on their return, they
met them again, but Lucy kept in the midst of her companions, with her
head down; the other gentleman burst into laughter, and Don Roderick
said, “We will see, we will see.” “Happily for me,” continued Lucy,
“this day was the last of the weaving. I related the adventure
immediately——”

“To whom didst thou relate it?” asked Agnes quickly, indignant at the
idea of any one being preferred before her as a confidant.

“To Father Christopher, in confession, mamma,” replied Lucy, in a tone
of apology. “I told him all, the last time you and I went to the church
of the convent; you may perhaps recollect my contrivances for delay on
that morning, until there should pass some villagers in whose company we
might go into the street; because I was so afraid——”

The indignation of Agnes subsided at once, at the mention of a name so
revered as Father Christopher’s. “Thou didst well, my child,” said she;
“but why not tell it also to thy mother?”

For this, Lucy had had two very good reasons; the one, a desire not to
disturb and frighten her mother with a circumstance she could not have
prevented; the other, the dread of placing a secret, which she wished to
be buried in her own bosom in danger of becoming known to all the
village: of these two reasons she only alleged the first.

“And could I,” said she, turning to Renzo, in a gentle and reproachful
voice, “could I speak to you of this?—Alas! that you should know it
now!”

“And what did the Father say to you?” asked Agnes.

“He told me to endeavour to hasten my nuptials, and in the mean while to
keep myself within doors; to pray much to God; and he hoped that if Don
Roderick should not see me, he would cease to think of me. And it was
then,” continued she, turning again towards Renzo, without, however,
raising her eyes, and blushing deeply, “it was then that I compelled
myself, at the risk of appearing very forward, to request you to
conclude the marriage before the appointed time. Who can tell what you
must have thought of me? But I did it for the best, and from advice—and
this morning I little thought——” She could articulate no longer, and
burst into a flood of tears.

“Ah! the scoundrel! the villain!” exclaimed Renzo, pacing the room in a
violent paroxysm of rage. He stopped suddenly before Lucy, regarded her
with a countenance agitated by various passions, and said, “This is the
last wicked deed this wretch will perform.”

“Ah! no, Renzo, for the love of Heaven!” cried Lucy; “no, no, for the
love of Heaven! There is a God who watches over the oppressed; but do
you think he will protect us if we do evil?”

“No, no, for the love of Heaven!” repeated Agnes.

“Renzo,” said Lucy, with a more resolved and tranquil air, “you have a
trade, and I know how to work: let us go away into some distant place,
that he may hear of us no more.”

“Ah, Lucy! but we are not yet man and wife! If we were married, then,
indeed——” Lucy relapsed into tears, and all three remained silent; the
deep despondency of their countenances formed a mournful contrast to the
festive character of their dress.

“Hear me, my children; listen to me,” said Agnes, after a few moments;
“I came into the world before you, and I know it a little better than
you do. The devil is not so frightful as they paint him. To us poor
people the skeins appear more entangled, because we do not know where
to look for the end; but sometimes advice from a learned man——I know
what I mean to say.—Do as I tell you, Renzo; go to Lecco; find the
Doctor _Azzecca Garbugli_[2]; relate to him——But you must not call him
by this name—it is a nick-name. Say to the doctor——what do they call
him? Oh dear! I can’t think of his real name, every one calls him
_Azzecca Garbugli_. Well, well, find this tall, stiff, bald doctor, with
a red nose, and a face as red——”

      [2] Seek quarrel.

“I know the man by sight,” said Renzo.

“Well, very well,” continued Agnes, “there’s a man for you! I have seen
more than one troubled wretch who did not know which way to turn
himself; I have known him remain an hour with the Doctor _Azzecca
Garbugli_ (be careful you don’t call him so), and go away laughing at
himself for his uneasiness. Take with you these fowls; I expected to
have wrung their necks, poor little things! for the banquet of to-night;
however, carry them to him, because one must never go empty-handed to
these gentlemen. Relate to him all that has happened, and he will tell
you at once that which would never enter our heads in a year.”

Renzo and Lucy approved of this advice; Agnes, proud of having given it,
with great complacency took the poor fowls one by one from the coop,
tied their legs together as if she were making a nosegay, and consigned
them to his hands. After having exchanged words of hope, he departed,
avoiding the high road and crossing the fields, so as not to attract
notice. As he went along, he had leisure to dwell on his misfortunes,
and revolve in his mind his anticipated interview with the Doctor
_Azzecca Garbugli_. I leave the reader to imagine the condition of the
unfortunate fowls swinging by the legs with their heads downwards in the
hands of a man agitated by all the tumults of passion; and whose arm
moved more in accordance with the violence of his feelings, than with
sympathy for the unhappy animals whose heads became conscious of sundry
terrific shocks, which they resented by pecking at one another,—a
practice too frequent with companions in misfortune.

He arrived at the village, asked for the house of the doctor, which
being pointed out to him, he proceeded thither. On entering, he
experienced the timidity so common to the poor and illiterate at the
near approach to the learned and noble; he forgot all the speeches he
had prepared, but giving a glance at the fowls, he took courage. He
entered the kitchen, and demanded of the maid servant, “If he could
speak with the Signor Doctor?” As if accustomed to similar gifts, she
immediately took the fowls out of his hand, although Renzo drew them
back, wishing the doctor to know that it was he who brought them. The
doctor entered as the maid was saying, “Give here, and pass into the
study.” Renzo bowed low to him; he replied with a kind “Come in, my
son,” and led the way into an adjoining chamber. This was a large room,
on the three walls of which were distributed portraits of the twelve
Cæsars, while the fourth was covered with a large bookcase of old and
dusty books; in the middle stood a table laden with memorials, libels,
and proclamations, with three or four seats around; on one side of it
was a large arm-chair with a high and square back, terminated at each
corner by ornaments of wood in the fashion of horns; the nails which had
fallen out here and there from its leathern covering, left the corners
of it at liberty to roll themselves up in all directions. The doctor was
in his morning gown, that is, enveloped in a faded toga, which had
served him long since to appear in at Milan, on some great occasion. He
closed the door, and encouraged the young man with these words: “My son,
tell me your case.”

“I wish to speak a word to you in confidence.”

“Well, say on,” replied the doctor, as he seated himself in the
arm-chair. Renzo stood before the table twirling his hat in his hand,
and began, “I wish to know from one as learned as yourself——”

“Tell me the affair just as it is,” interrupted the doctor, “in as few
words as possible.”

“You must pardon me, Signor Doctor; we poor people know not how to speak
to such as you are. I wish then to know——”

“Bless the people! they are all alike; instead of relating facts, they
ask questions; and that because their own opinions are already settled!”

“Excuse me, Signor Doctor. I wish, then, to know if there is a
punishment for threatening a curate, to prevent him from performing a
marriage ceremony?”

“I understand,” said the doctor, who in truth had _not_ understood—“I
understand.” And suddenly assuming an air of seriousness and importance,
“A serious case, my son—a case contemplated. You have done well to come
to me; it is a clear case, noticed in a hundred proclamations, and in
one, of the year just elapsed, by the actual governor. You shall see,
you shall see! Where can it be?” said he, plunging his hand amidst the
chaos of papers; “it must surely be here, as it is a decree of great
importance. Ah! here it is, here it is!” He unfolded it, looked at the
date, and with a serious face exclaimed, “Fifteenth of October, 1627.
Yes, yes, this is it; a new edict; these are those which cause
terror—Do you know how to read, my son?”

“A little, Signor Doctor.”

“Well now, come behind me, and you will see for yourself.”

Holding the proclamation extended before him, he began to read,
stammering rapidly over some passages, and pausing distinctly with great
expression on others, according to the necessity of the case.

“_Although by the proclamation published by order of the Signor Duke di
Feria, on the 14th of December, 1620, and ratified by the most
illustrious, and most excellent lord, Signor Gonsalez Fernandez de
Cordova,_ &c. &c.—_had by extraordinary and rigorous remedies provided
against the oppressions, exactions, and other tyrannical acts committed
against the devoted vassals of His Majesty; the frequency of the
excesses, however,_ &c. &c., _has arrived at such a point that His
Excellency is under the necessity,_ &c. &c.—_wherefore, with the
concurrence of the Senate and Convention,_ &c. &c.—_has resolved to
publish the present decree.” “And from the tyrannical acts which the
skill of many in the villages, as well as in the cities._”—“Do you
hear”—umph—“_exact and oppress the weak in various ways, making
violent contracts of purchase, of rent,_ &c.”—“Where is it? Ah! here it
is, listen, listen,”—“_who, whether matrimony follow or not_.”

“Ah! that’s my case!” said Renzo.

“Listen, listen, here is more; now we will find the punishment.”
Umph—“_that they leave the place of their abode_, &c. &c.—_that if one
pays a debt he must not be molested_.” “All this has nothing to do with
us. Ah! here it is!” “_the priest refusing to do that to which he is
obliged by his office_,”—“Eh?”

“It appears the proclamation was made purposely for me.”

“Ah! is it not so? listen, listen.” “_And other similar oppressions
which flow from the vassals, nobility, middle and lower classes._” “None
escape, they are all here—it is like the valley of Jehoshaphat. Hear
now the penalty.” “_For all these and other similar evil deeds, which
having been prohibited, it is nevertheless necessary to exact with
rigour_, &c.—_His Excellency, not annulling, orders and commands, that
whoever the offenders be, they shall be subjected to pecuniary and
corporal punishment—to banishment, the galleys, or to death_,” “a mere
trifle!” “_at the will of His Excellency, or of the Senate. And from
this there is no escape_, &c. &c.” “And see here the signature,”
“_Gonsalez Fernandez de Cordova_;” “and lower down,” “_Platonas_;” “and
here again”—“_Videt Ferrar_,” “nothing is wanting.” Whilst the doctor
was reading, Renzo had kept his eyes on the paper, seeking to ascertain
for himself its real meaning. The doctor, perceiving his new client more
attentive than dismayed, marvelled greatly. “He must be enrolled as one
of the bravoes,” said he to himself; “Ah! ah!” exclaimed he, addressing
Renzo, “you have shaved off the long lock! Well, well, it was prudent;
but placing yourself in my hands, you need not have done so. The case is
a serious one—you can have no idea how much resolution is required to
conduct these matters wisely.”

To understand this mistake of the doctor’s, it should be known, that the
bravoes by profession used to wear a long lock of hair, which they
pulled over the face as a mask in enterprises that required prudence as
well as strength. The proclamation had not been silent with regard to
this custom.

“_His Excellency commands, that whosoever shall wear hair of such a
length as to cover the forehead to the eyebrows, will incur the penalty
of a fine of three hundred crowns; in case of incapability of payment,
three years in the galleys for the first offence; and for the second, in
addition to the aforesaid, greater punishments still, at the will of His
Excellency._” The long lock had become a distinctive mark of the loose
and disorderly.

“Indeed, indeed,” replied Renzo, “I have never worn a long lock in my
life.”

“I can do nothing,” replied the doctor, shaking his head, with a knowing
and rather impatient smile, “nothing, if you do not trust me. He who
utters falsehoods to the doctor is a fool who will tell the truth to the
judge. It is necessary to relate things plainly to the lawyer, but it
rests with us to render them more intricate. If you wish me to help you,
you must tell all from beginning to end, as to your confessor: you must
name the person who commissioned you to do the deed; doubtless he is a
person of consequence; and, considering this, I will go to his house to
perform an act of duty. I will not betray you at all, be assured; I will
tell him I come to implore his protection for a poor calumniated youth;
and we will together use the necessary means to finish the affair in a
satisfactory manner. You understand; in securing himself, he will
likewise secure you. If, however, the business has been all your own, I
will not withdraw my protection: I have extricated others from worse
difficulties; provided you have not offended a person of
_consequence_;—you understand—I engage to free you from all
embarrassment, with a little expense—you understand. As to the curate,
if he is a person of judgment, he will keep his own counsel; if he is a
fool, we will take care of him. One may escape clear out of every
trouble; but for this, a _man_, a _man_ is necessary. Your case is a
very, very serious one—the edict speaks plainly; and if the thing
rested between you and the law, to be candid, it would go hard with you.
If you wish to pass smoothly—money and obedience!”

Whilst the doctor poured forth this rhapsody, Renzo had been regarding
him with mute astonishment, as the countryman watches the juggler, whom
he sees cramming his mouth with handful after handful of tow; when, lo!
he beholds immediately drawn forth from the same mouth a never-ending
line of riband. When at last he perceived his meaning, he interrupted
him with, “Oh! Signor Doctor, how you have misunderstood me! the matter
is directly the reverse; I have threatened no one—not I—I never do
such things; ask my companions, all of them, and they will tell you I
never had any thing to do with the law. The injury is mine, and I have
come to you to know how I can obtain justice, and am well satisfied to
have seen this proclamation.”

“The devil!” exclaimed the doctor, opening wide his eyes; “what a cock
and a bull story you have made! So it is; you are all alike: is it
possible you can’t tell a plain fact?”

“But, Signor Doctor, you must pardon me, you have not given me time; now
I will tell you all. Know, then, that I was to have been married
to-day”—and here his voice trembled—“was to have been married to-day
to a young person to whom I have been some time betrothed; to-day was
the day fixed upon by the Signor Curate, and every thing was in
readiness. The Signor Curate began to make excuses—and—not to weary
you—I compelled him to tell me the cause; and he confessed that he had
been forbidden, on pain of death, to perform the ceremony. This powerful
Don Roderick——”

“Eh!” hastily interrupted the doctor, contracting his brow and wrinkling
his red nose, “away with you; what have I to do with these idle stories?
Tell them to your companions, and not to one of my condition. Begone; do
you think I have nothing to do but listen to tales of this sort——”

“I protest——”

“Begone, I say; what have I to do with your protestations? I wash my
hands from them!” and pacing the room, he rubbed his hands together, as
if really performing that act. “Hereafter learn when to speak; and do
not take a gentleman by surprise.”

“But hear me, hear me,” vainly repeated Renzo.

The doctor, still growling, pushed him towards the door, set it wide
open, called the maid, and said to her, “Return this man immediately
what he brought, I will have nothing to do with it.” The woman had never
before been required to execute a similar order, but she did not
hesitate to obey; she took the fowls and gave them to Renzo with a
compassionate look, as if she had said, “You certainly have made some
very great blunder.” Renzo wished to make apologies; but the doctor was
immovable. Confounded, therefore, and more enraged than ever, he took
back the fowls and departed, to render an account of the ill success of
his expedition.

At his departure, Agnes and Lucy had exchanged their nuptial robes for
their humble daily habits, and then, sorrowful and dejected, occupied
themselves in suggesting fresh projects. Agnes expected great results
from Renzo’s visit to the doctor; Lucy thought that it would be well to
let Father Christopher know what had happened, as he was a man who would
not only advise, but assist whenever he could serve the unfortunate;
Agnes assented, but how was it to be accomplished? the convent was two
miles distant, and at this time _they_ certainly could neither of them
hazard a walk thither. Whilst they were weighing the difficulties, some
one knocked at the door, and they heard a low but distinct _Deo
Gracias_. Lucy, imagining who it was, hastened to open it; and, bowing
low, there entered a capuchin collector of contributions, with his
wallet swung over his left shoulder. “Oh! brother Galdino!” said Agnes.
“The Lord be with you,” said the brother; “I come for your contribution
of nuts.”

“Go, get the nuts for the fathers,” said Agnes. Lucy obeyed; but before
she quitted the room, she gave her mother a kind and impressive look, as
much as to say, “Be secret.”

The capuchin, looking significantly at Agnes, said, “And the wedding? It
was to have taken place to-day; what has happened?”

“The curate is sick, and we are obliged to defer it,” replied the dame,
in haste; “but what success in the contributions?” continued she,
anxious to change the subject, which she would willingly have prolonged,
but for Lucy’s earnest look.

“Very poor, good dame, very poor. This is all,” said he, swinging the
wallet from his shoulder—“this is all; and for this I have been obliged
to knock at ten doors.”

“But the year is a scarce one, brother Galdino, and when we have to
struggle for bread, our alms are necessarily small.”

“If we wish abundance to return, my good dame, we must give alms. Do you
not know the miracle of the nuts, which happened many years ago in our
convent of Romagna?”

“No, in truth; tell me.”

“Well you must know, then, that in this convent there was one of our
fathers who was a saint; he was called Father Macario. One winter’s day,
passing by a field of one of our patrons,—a worthy man he was,—he saw
him standing near a large nut tree, and four peasants with their axes
raised to level it to the ground. ‘What are you doing to the poor tree?’
demanded father Macario. ‘Why, father, it is unfruitful, and I am about
to cut it down.’ ‘Do not do so, do not do so,’ said the father; ‘I tell
you that next year it will bear more nuts than leaves.’ The master
ordered the workmen to throw at once the earth on the roots which had
been already bared; and, calling after the Father Macario, said, ‘Father
Macario, the half of the crop shall be for the convent.’ The prediction
was noised about, and every one went to look at the tree. In fact, when
spring arrived, there were flowers in abundance, and afterwards nuts in
abundance! But there was a greater miracle yet, as you shall hear. The
owner, who, before the nut season, was called hence to enjoy the fruits
of his charity, left a son of a very different character from himself.
Now, at the time of harvest, the collector went to receive his appointed
portion; but the son affected entire ignorance, and presumptuously
replied, he never had understood that the capuchins knew how to make
nuts. Now guess what happened then. One day he had invited to dinner
some friends, and, making merry, he amused them with the story of the
nuts; they desired to visit his granary, to behold his abundance; he led
the way, advanced towards the corner where they had been placed,
looked—and what do you think he saw?—a heap of dry nut leaves! Was not
this a miracle? And the convent gained, instead of suffering loss; the
profusion of nuts bestowed upon it in consequence was so great, that one
of our patrons, compassionating the poor collector, gave him a mule to
assist in carrying them home. And so much oil was made, that it was
freely given to the poor; like the sea, which receives waters from every
part, and distributes abundantly to the rivers.”

Lucy now reappeared with her apron so loaded with nuts, that she could
with difficulty support the burthen. Whilst Friar Galdino untied his
wallet to receive them, Agnes cast an astonished and displeased glance
at her for her prodigality; she returned it with a look which seemed to
say, “I will satisfy you.” The friar was liberal of thanks, and,
replacing his wallet, was about to depart, when Lucy called him back. “I
wish you to do me a service,” said she; “I wish you to say to Father
Christopher that I have a great desire to speak with him, and request
him to have the goodness to come hither immediately, as it is impossible
for me to go to the convent.”

“Willingly; an hour shall not elapse before Father Christopher shall be
informed of your wish.”

“I rely on you.”

“Trust me,” said he, “I will be faithful,” and moved off, bending under
the increased weight of his wallet. We must not suppose, from the
readiness with which Lucy sent this request to Father Christopher, and
the equal readiness of Father Galdino to carry it, that the father was a
person of no consequence; on the contrary, he was a man of much
authority amongst his companions, and throughout all the neighbourhood.
To serve the feeble, and to be served by the powerful; to enter the
palace and the hut; to be at one time a subject of pastime, and at
another regarded with profound respect; to seek alms, and to bestow
them;—to all these vicissitudes a capuchin was well accustomed. The
name of _Friar_, at this period, was uttered with the greatest respect,
and with the most bitter contempt; of both of which sentiments, perhaps,
the capuchins were, more than any other order, the objects. They
possessed no property, wore a coarser habit than others, and made a more
open profession of humility; they therefore exposed themselves, in a
greater degree, to the veneration or the scorn which might result from
the various characters among men.

The Friar Galdino being gone, “Such a quantity of nuts!” exclaimed
Agnes, “and in a year of scarcity!”—“I beg pardon,” replied Lucy; “but
if we had been as penurious as others in our charity, who can tell how
long the friar would have been in reaching home, or, amongst all the
gossipings, whether he would have remembered——”

“True, true, it was a good thought; and besides, charity always produces
good fruit,” said Agnes, who, with all her defects, was a kind-hearted
woman, and would have sacrificed every thing she had in the world for
the sake of her child, in whom she had reposed all her happiness.

Renzo entered at this moment, with an angry and mortified countenance.
“Pretty advice you gave me!” said he to Agnes. “You sent me to a fine
man, indeed! to one truly who aids the distressed!” And he briefly
related his interview with the doctor. The dame, astonished at the
issue, endeavoured to prove that the advice was good, and that the
failure must have been owing to Renzo himself. Lucy interrupted the
debate, by informing him of her message to Father Christopher: he seized
with avidity the new hopes inspired by the expectation of assistance
from so holy a man. “But if the father,” said he, “should not extricate
us from our difficulties, I will do it myself by some means or other.”
Both mother and daughter implored him to be patient and prudent.

“To-morrow,” said Lucy, “Father Christopher will certainly be here, and
he will no doubt suggest to us some plan of action which we ourselves
would not have thought of in a year.”

“I hope so,” said Renzo; “but if not, I will obtain redress, or find
another to do it for me; for surely there must be justice to be had in
the world.”

Their mournful conversation might have continued much longer, but
approaching night warned him to depart.

“Good night!” said Lucy mournfully, to Renzo, who could hardly resolve
to go.

“Good night!” replied he, yet more sadly.

“Some saint will watch over us,” said she. “Be patient and prudent.” The
mother added some advice of the like nature. But the disappointed
bridegroom, with a tempest in his heart, left them, repeating the
strange proposition—“Surely, there’s justice in the world.” So true is
it that, under the influence of great misfortune, men no longer know
what they say.




CHAPTER IV.


The sun had not yet risen above the horizon, when Father Christopher
left the convent of Pescarenico, to go to the cottage where he was so
anxiously expected. Pescarenico is a small hamlet on the left bank of
the Adda, or, rather, of the Lake, a few steps below the bridge; a group
of houses, inhabited for the most part by fishermen, and adorned here
and there with nets spread out to dry. The convent was situated (the
building still subsists) at a short distance from them, half way between
Lecco and Bergamo.

The sky was clear and serene. As the sun rose behind the mountain, its
rays brightened the opposite summits, and thence rapidly spread
themselves over the declivities and valleys; a light autumn breeze
played through the leaves of the mulberry trees, and brought them to the
ground. The vineyards were still brilliant with leaves of various hues;
and the newly made nets appeared brown and distinct amid the fields of
stubble, which were white and shining with the dew. The scene was
beautiful; but the misery of the inhabitants formed a sad contrast to
it. At every moment you met pale and ragged beggars, some grown old in
the trade, others youthful, and induced to it from extreme necessity.
They passed quietly by Father Christopher, and although they had nothing
to hope from him, since a capuchin never touches money, they bowed low
in thanks for the alms they had received, or might hereafter receive at
the convent. The spectacle of the labourers scattered in the fields was
still more mournful; some were sowing thinly and sparingly their seed,
as if hazarding that which was too precious; others put the spade into
the earth with difficulty, and wearily turned up the clods. The pale and
sickly child was leading the meagre cattle to the pasture ground, and as
he went along plucked carefully the herbs found in his path, as food for
his family. This melancholy picture of human misery increased the
sadness of Father Christopher, who, when he left the convent, had been
filled with presentiments of evil.

But why did he feel so much for Lucy? And why, at the first notice, did
he hasten to her with as much solicitude as if he had been sent for by
the Father Provincial. And who was this Father Christopher? We must
endeavour to satisfy all these enquiries.

Father Christopher, of ——, was a man nearer sixty than fifty years of
age. His head was shaven, with the exception of the band of hair allowed
to grow round it like a crown, as was the custom of the capuchins; the
expression of his countenance was habitually that of deep humility,
although occasionally there passed over it flashes of pride and
inquietude, which were, however, succeeded by a deeper shade of
self-reproach and lowliness. His long grey beard gave more character to
the shape of the upper part of his head, on which habitual abstinence
had stamped a strong expression of gravity. His sunken eyes were for the
most part bent to the earth, but brightened at times with unexpected
vivacity, which he ever appeared to endeavour to repress. His name,
before entering the convent, had been Ludovico; he was the son of a
merchant of ——, who, having accumulated great wealth, had renounced
trade in the latter part of his life, and having resolved to live like a
gentleman, he studied every means to cause his former mode of life to
be forgotten by those around him. He could not, however, forget it
himself; the shop, the goods, the day-book, the yard measure, rose to
his memory, like the shade of Banquo to Macbeth, amidst the pomp of the
table and the smiles of his parasites; whose continual effort it was to
avoid any word which might appear to allude to the former condition of
the host. Ludovico was his only child: he caused him to be nobly
educated, as far as the laws and customs permitted him to do so; and
died, bequeathing him a splendid fortune. Ludovico had contracted the
habits and feelings of a gentleman, and the flatterers who had
surrounded him from infancy had accustomed him to the greatest deference
and respect. But he found the scene changed when he attempted to mingle
with the nobility of the city; and that in order to live in their
company he must school himself to patience and submission, and bear with
contumely on every occasion. This agreed neither with his education nor
his disposition. He retired from them in disgust, but unwillingly,
feeling that such should naturally have been his companions; he then
resolved to outdo them in pomp and magnificence, thereby increasing the
enmity with which they had already regarded him. His open and violent
nature soon engaged him in more serious contests: he sincerely abhorred
the extortions and injuries committed by those to whom he had opposed
himself; he therefore habitually took part with the weak against the
powerful, so that by degrees he had constituted himself the defender of
the oppressed, and the vindicator of their wrongs. The office was
onerous; and fruitful in evil thoughts, quarrels, and enmities against
himself. But, besides this external warfare, he perhaps suffered still
more from inward conflicts; for often, in order to compass his objects,
he was obliged to adopt measures of circumvention and violence, which
his conscience disapproved. He was under the painful necessity of
keeping in pay a band of ruffians for his own security, as well as to
aid him in his enterprises; and for these purposes he was necessarily
obliged to select the boldest, that is, the vilest, and to live with
vagabonds from a love of justice; so that, disgusted with the world and
its conflicts, he had many times seriously thought of entering some
monastery, and retiring from it for ever. Such intentions were more
strongly entertained on the failure of some of his enterprises, or the
perception of his own danger, or the annoyance of his vicious
associates, and would probably have still continued _intentions_, but
for one of the most serious and terrible events of his hazardous mode of
life.

He was walking one day through the streets of the city, accompanied by a
former shopman, who had been transformed by his father into a steward,
followed by two bravoes. The name of the shopman was Christopher; he was
a man about fifty years of age, devoted to the master whom he had tended
in infancy, and upon whose liberality he supported himself, his wife,
and a large family of children. Ludovico saw a gentleman approaching at
a distance, with whom he had never spoken in his life, but whom he hated
for his arrogance and pride, which hatred the other cordially returned.
He had in his train four bravoes; he advanced with a haughty step, and
an expression of insolence and disdain on his countenance. It was
Ludovico’s right, being on the left side, to pass nearest the wall,
according to the custom of the day, and every one was tenacious of this
privilege. As they met they stopped face to face, like two figures on a
bass relief, neither of them being disposed to yield to the other. The
gentleman, eyeing Ludovico proudly and imperiously, said, with a
corresponding tone of voice, “Pass on the outside.”

“Pass there yourself,” replied Ludovico, “the street is mine.”

“With persons of your condition the street is always mine.”

“Yes, if your arrogance were a law to others.”

The attendants of each stood still, with their hands on their daggers,
prepared for battle. The passers-by retreated to a distance to watch the
event.

“Pass on, vile mechanic, or I will teach you the civility due to a
gentleman.”

“You lie; I am not vile.”

“Ha! Do you give me the lie? If you were a gentleman I would soon settle
matters with my sword.”

“You are a coward also, or you would not hesitate to support by deeds
the insolence of your words.”

“Throw this rascal in the dirt,” said the gentleman, turning to his
followers.

“Let us see who will dare to do so,” said Ludovico, stepping back and
laying his hand on his sword.

“Rash man,” cried the other, unsheathing his own, “I will break this in
pieces when it shall have been stained with your base blood.”

They rushed violently on each other; the servants of both sprang to the
defence of their masters. The combat was unequal in numbers, and also
unequal from Ludovico’s desire to defend himself rather than to wound
his enemy; whilst the latter intended nothing less than murder. Ludovico
was warding off the dagger of one of the bravoes, after having received
a slight scratch on the cheek, when his enemy thrust at him from behind;
Christopher, seeing his master’s peril, went to his assistance; upon
this the anger of the enraged cavalier was turned against the shopman,
and he thrust him through the heart with his sword. Ludovico, as if
beside himself at the sight, buried his weapon in the breast of the
murderer, who fell almost at the same instant with the poor Christopher!
The attendants of the gentleman, beholding him on the ground, took to
flight; and Ludovico found himself alone, in the midst of a crowd, with
two bodies lying at his feet.

“What has happened? One—two—he has been thrust through the body. Who
is killed? A nobleman.—Holy Virgin! what destruction! who seeks,
finds.—A moment pays all.—What a wound!—It must have been a serious
affair!—And this unfortunate man!—Mercy! what a spectacle!—Save, save
him.—It will go hard with him also.—See how he is wounded—he is
covered with blood!—Escape, poor man, escape; do not let yourself be
taken.” These words expressed the common suffrage, and with advice came
also assistance; the affair had taken place near a church of the
capuchins, an asylum impenetrable to the officers of justice. The
murderer, bleeding and stupified, was carried thither by the crowd; the
brotherhood received him from their hands with this recommendation, “He
is an honest man who has made a proud rascal cold; but he did it in his
own defence.”

Ludovico had never before shed blood, and although in these times murder
was a thing so common that all ceased to wonder at it, yet the
impression which he received from the recollection of the dying (dying
through his instrumentality,) was new and indescribable; a revelation of
feelings hitherto unknown. The fall of his enemy, the alteration of
those features, passing in a moment from angry threatenings to the
solemn stillness of death; this was a spectacle which wrought an
instantaneous change in the soul of the murderer. Whilst they were
carrying him to the convent he had been insensible to what was passing;
returning to his senses, he found himself in a bed of the infirmary, in
the hands of a friar who was dressing his wounds. Another, whose
particular duty it was to administer comfort to the dying, had been
called to the scene of combat. He returned in a short time, and
approaching Ludovico’s bed, said, “Console yourself; he has died in
peace, has forgiven you, and hoped for your forgiveness.” At these words
the soul of Ludovico was filled with remorse and sorrow. “And the
other?” asked he anxiously.

“The other had expired before I arrived.”

In the mean time the avenues and environs of the convent swarmed with
people; the officers of justice arrived, dispersed the crowd, and placed
themselves in ambush at a short distance from the gates, so that no one
could pass through them unobserved. A brother of the deceased and some
of his family appeared in full armour with a large attendance of
bravoes, and surrounded the place, watching with a threatening aspect
the bystanders, who did not dare say, he is safe, but they had it
written on their faces.

Scarcely had Ludovico recalled his scattered thoughts, when he asked for
a father confessor, prayed him to seek out the widow of Christopher, to
ask forgiveness in his name for having been (however involuntarily) the
cause of her affliction, and to assure her that he would take the care
of her family on himself. Reflecting further on his own situation, his
determination was made to become a friar. It seemed as if God himself
had willed it, by placing him in a convent at such a conjuncture. He
immediately sent for the superior of the monastery, and expressed to him
his intention. He replied to him, that he should be careful not to form
a resolution precipitately, but that, if he persisted, he would be
accepted. Ludovico then sent for a notary, and made a donation of all
his estate to the widow and family of Christopher.

The resolution of Ludovico happened opportunely for his hosts, who felt
themselves embarrassed concerning him. To send him from the monastery,
and thus expose him to justice and the vengeance of his enemies, was not
to be thought of a moment; it would be the same as a renunciation of
their privileges, a discrediting of the convent amongst the people; and
they would draw upon themselves the animadversion of all the capuchins
of the universe for this relinquishment of the rights of the order, this
defiance of the ecclesiastical authorities, who then considered
themselves the guardians of these rights. On the other hand, the family
of the deceased, rich, and powerful in adherents, were determined on
vengeance, and disposed to consider as enemies whoever should place
obstacles to its accomplishment. History declares, not that they grieved
much for the dead, or that a single tear was shed for him amongst his
whole race, but that they were urged on by scenting the blood of his
opponent. But Ludovico, by assuming the habit of a capuchin, removed all
difficulties: to a certain degree he made atonement; imposed on himself
penitence; confessed his fault; withdrew from the contest; he was, in
short, an enemy who laid down his arms. The relations of the deceased
could, if they pleased, believe and boast that he had become a friar
through despair and dread of their revenge. And at all events, to reduce
a man to dispossess himself of his wealth, to shave his head, to walk
bare-footed, to sleep on straw, and to live on alms, might appear a
punishment competent to the offence.

The superior presented himself before the brother of the deceased with
an air of humility; after a thousand protestations of respect for his
illustrious house, and of desire to comply with its wishes as far as was
practicable, he spoke of the repentance and resolution of Ludovico,
politely hoping that the family would grant their accordance; and then
insinuating, mildly and dexterously, that, agreeable or not agreeable,
the thing would take place. After some little vapouring, he agreed to it
on one condition; that the murderer of his brother should depart
immediately from the city. To this the capuchin assented, as if in
obedience to the wishes of the family, although it had been already so
determined. The affair was thus concluded to the satisfaction of the
illustrious house, of the capuchin brotherhood, of the popular feeling,
and, above all, of our generous penitent himself. Thus, at thirty years
of age, Ludovico bade farewell to the world; and having, according to
custom, to change his name, he took one which would continually recall
to him his crime,—thus he became _Friar Christopher_!

Hardly was the ceremony of assuming the habit completed, when the
superior informed him he must depart on the morrow to perform his
noviciate at ——, sixty miles’ distance. The noviciate bowed
submissively. “Permit me, father,” said he, “before I leave the scene of
my crime, to do all that rests with me now to repair the evil; permit me
to go to the house of the brother of him whom I have murdered, to
acknowledge my fault, and ask forgiveness; perhaps God will take away
his but too just resentment.”

It appeared to the superior that such an act, besides being praiseworthy
in itself, would serve still more to reconcile the family to the
monastery. He therefore bore the request himself to the brother of the
murdered man; a proposal so unexpected was received with a mixture of
scorn and complacency. “Let him come to-morrow,” said he, and appointed
the hour. The superior returned to Father Christopher with the desired
permission.

The gentleman reflected that the more solemn and public the apology was,
the more it would enhance his credit with the family and the world; he
made known in haste to the members of the family, that on the following
day they should assemble at his house to receive a common satisfaction.
At mid-day the palace swarmed with nobility of either sex; there was a
blending of veils, feathers, and jewels; a heavy motion of starched and
crisped bands; a confused entangling of embroidered trains. The
antechambers, the courts, and the street, were crowded with servants,
pages, and bravoes.

Father Christopher experienced a momentary agitation at beholding all
this preparation, but recovering himself, said, “It is well; the deed
was committed in public, the reparation should be public.” Then, with
his eyes bent to the earth, and the father, his companion, at his elbow,
he crossed the court, amidst a crowd who eyed him with unceremonious
curiosity; he entered, ascended the stairs, and passing through another
crowd of lords, who made way for him at his approach, he advanced
towards the master of the mansion, who stood in the middle of the room
waiting to receive him, with downcast looks, grasping with one hand the
hilt of his sword, and with the other pressing the cape of his Spanish
cloak on his breast. The countenance and deportment of Father
Christopher made an immediate impression on the company; so that all
were convinced that he had not submitted to this humiliation from fear
of man. He threw himself on his knees before him whom he had most
injured, crossed his hands on his breast, and bending his head,
exclaimed, “I am the murderer of your brother! God knows, that to
restore him to life I would sacrifice my own; but as this cannot be, I
supplicate you to accept my useless and late apology, for the love of
God!”

All eyes were fixed in breathless and mute attention on the novice, and
on the person to whom he addressed himself; there was heard through the
crowd a murmur of pity and respect; the angry scorn of the nobleman
relaxed at this appeal, and bending towards the kneeling supplicant,
“Rise,” said he, with a troubled voice. “The offence—the deed
truly—but the habit you wear—not only this—but on your own
account—rise, father!—my brother—I cannot deny it—was a cavalier—of
a hasty temper. Do not speak of it again. But, father, you must not
remain in this posture.” And he took him by the arm to raise him. Father
Christopher, standing with his eyes still bent to the ground, continued,
“I may, then, hope that you have granted me your pardon. And if I obtain
it from you, from whom may I not expect it? Oh! if I could hear you
utter the word!”

“Pardon!” said the nobleman; “I pardon you with all my heart, and
all——” turning to the company——“All! all!” resounded at once through
the room.

The countenance of the father expanded with joy, under which, however,
was still visible an humble and profound compunction for the evil, which
the remission of men could not repair. The nobleman, entirely
vanquished, threw his arms around his neck, and the kiss of peace was
given and received.

Loud exclamations of applause burst from the company; and all crowded
eagerly around the father. In the meanwhile the servants entered,
bearing refreshments; the master of the mansion, again addressing Father
Christopher, said, “Father, afford me a proof of your friendship by
accepting some of these trifles.”

“Such things are no longer for me,” replied the father; “but if you will
allow me a loaf of bread, as a memorial of your charity and your
forgiveness, I shall be thankful.” The bread was brought, and with an
air of humble gratitude he put it in his basket. He then took leave of
the company; disentangled himself with difficulty from the crowd in the
antechambers, who would have kissed the hem of his garment, and pursued
his way to the gate of the city, whence he commenced his pedestrian
journey towards the place of his noviciate.

It is not our design to write the history of his cloistral life; we will
only say, he executed faithfully the offices ordinarily assigned to him,
of preaching, and of comforting the dying; but beyond these, “the
oppressor’s wrongs, the proud man’s contumely,” aroused in him a spirit
of resistance which humiliation and remorse had not been able entirely
to extinguish. His countenance was habitually mild and humble, but
occasionally there passed over it a shade of former impetuosity, which
was with difficulty restrained by the high and holy motives which now
predominated in his soul. His tone of voice was gentle as his
countenance; but in the cause of justice and truth, his language assumed
a character of solemnity and emphasis singularly impressive. One who
knew him well, and admired his virtues, could often perceive, by the
smothered utterance or the change of a single word, the inward conflict
between the natural impetus and the resolved will, which latter never
failed to gain the mastery.

If one unknown to him in the situation of Lucy had implored his
assistance, he would have granted it immediately; with how much more
solicitude, then, did he direct his steps to the cottage, knowing and
admiring her innocence, trembling for her danger, and experiencing a
lively indignation at the persecution of which she had become the
object. Besides, he had advised her to remain quiet, and not make known
the conduct of her persecutor, and he felt or feared that his advice
might have been productive of bad consequences. His anxiety for her
welfare, and his inadequate means to secure it, called up many painful
feelings, which the good often experience.

But while we have been relating his history, he arrived at the dwelling;
Agnes and her daughter advanced eagerly towards him, exclaiming in one
breath, “Oh! Father Christopher, you are welcome.”




CHAPTER V.


Father Christopher perceived immediately, from the countenances of Lucy
and her mother, that some evil had occurred. “Is all well with you?”
said he. Lucy replied by a flood of tears. “Quiet yourself, poor child,”
continued he; “and do you,” turning to Agnes, “tell me what is the
matter.” Whilst the good dame proceeded with the melancholy relation, he
experienced a variety of painful emotions. The story being done, he
buried his face in his hands, and exclaimed, “Oh, blessed God! how
long?”—He then turned to Lucy; “Poor child! God has, indeed, visited
you,” said he.

“You will not abandon us, father?” said Lucy, sobbing.

“Abandon you!” replied he. “How should I dare ask the protection
of Almighty God for myself, if I abandoned _you_! You, so
defenceless!—you, whom he has confided to me! Take courage! He will
assist you—His eye beholds you—He can even make use of a feeble
instrument like myself to confound a ——. Let us think what can be
done.”

Thus saying, he grasped his beard and chin with his hand, as if to
concentrate more completely the powers of his mind. But the more clearly
he perceived the pressing nature of the case, the more uncertain and
dangerous appeared every mode of meeting it. To endeavour to make Don
Abbondio sensible of a failure in duty? This appeared hopeless; fear was
more powerful with him than either shame or duty. To inform the cardinal
archbishop, and invoke his authority? That would require time; and, in
the meanwhile, what was to be done? To resist Don Roderick? How?
Impossible! The affair being one of a private nature, he would not be
sustained by the brethren of his order: he would, perhaps, be raising a
storm against himself; and, what was worse, by a useless attempt render
the condition of Lucy more hopeless and deplorable. After many
reflections he came to the conclusion to go to Don Roderick himself, and
to endeavour by prayers and representations of the punishments of the
wicked in another state, to win him from his infamous purpose. At least
he might at the interview discover something of his intentions, and
determine his measures accordingly. At this moment Renzo, who, as the
reader will readily imagine, could not long be absent at so interesting
a crisis, appeared at the door of the room; the father raised his head
and bowed to him affectionately, and with a look of intense pity.

“Have they told you, father?” enquired he, with a troubled voice.

“Yes, my son; and on that account I am here.”

“What do you say of the villain?”

“What do I say of _him_? I say to _you_, dear Renzo, that you must
confide in God, and He will not abandon you.”

“Blessed words!” exclaimed the youth: “you are not one of those who
wrong the poor. But the curate and this doctor——”

“Do not torment yourself uselessly: I am but a poor friar; but I repeat
to you that which I have already said to Lucy and her mother—poor as I
am, I will never abandon you.”

“Oh! you are not like the friends of the world—rascals—when I was in
prosperity, abundant in protestations; ready to shed their blood for me,
to sustain me against the devil! Had I an enemy, they would soon put it
out of his power to molest me! And now, to see them withdraw
themselves!” He was interrupted in his vituperations by the dark shade
which passed over the countenance of his auditor; he perceived the
blunder he had made, and attempting to remedy it, became perplexed and
confused. “I would say—I did not at all intend—that is, I meant to
say——”

“What did you mean to say? You have already begun to mar my undertaking.
It is well that thou art undeceived in time. What! thou didst seek
friends! and what friends! they could not have aided thee, had they been
willing. And thou didst not apply to the only friend who can and will
protect thee;—dost thou not know that God is the friend of all who
trust in Him? dost thou not know that to spread the talons does little
good to the weak? and even if——” at these words he grasped forcibly
Renzo’s arm; his countenance, without losing his wonted authority,
displayed an affecting remorse; his eyes were fixed on the ground; and
his voice became slow and sepulchral: “and even if that little should be
gained, how terribly awful! Renzo, will you confide in me?—that I
should say in me! a worm of the dust! will you not confide in God?”

“Oh! yes!” replied Renzo; “He only is the Lord.”

“Promise me, then, that you will not meet or provoke any one; that you
will suffer yourself to be guided by me.”

“I promise,” said Renzo.

Lucy drew a long breath, as if relieved from a weight, and Agnes was
loud in applauses.

“Listen, my children,” resumed Father Christopher: “I will go myself
to-day to speak to this man: if God touches his heart through my words,
well; if not, _He_ will provide some other remedy. In the mean time keep
yourselves quiet and retired; this evening, or to-morrow at the latest,
you shall see me again.” Having said this, he departed amidst thanks and
blessings.

He arrived at the convent in time to perform his daily duty in the
choir, dined, and then pursued his way towards the den of the wild beast
he had undertaken to tame.

The palace of Don Roderick stood by itself, on the summit of one of the
promontories that skirt the coast; it was three or four miles distant
from the village; at the foot of the promontory nearest the lake, there
was a cluster of decayed cottages inhabited by peasantry belonging to
Don Roderick. This was the little capital of his little kingdom. As you
cast a glance within their walls, you beheld suspended to them various
kinds of arms, with spades, mattocks, and pouches of powder, blended
promiscuously. The persons within appeared robust and strong, with a
daring and insulting expression of countenance, and wearing a long lock
of hair on the head, which was covered with net-work. The aged, that had
lost their teeth, seemed ready to show their gums at the slightest call:
masculine women, with sinewy arms, seemed disposed to use them with as
much indifference as their tongues; the very children exhibited the same
daring recklessness as the parent stock. Friar Christopher passed
through the hamlet, ascending a winding path which conducted him to the
little esplanade in the front of the castle. The door was shut, which
was a sign that the chief was dining and did not wish to be disturbed.
The few windows that looked on the road were small and decayed by time;
they were, however, secured by large iron bars; and the lowest of them
were more than ten feet from the ground. A profound silence reigned
within, and a traveller might have believed the mansion deserted, but
for the appearance of four animals, two alive and two dead, in front of
the castle. Two large vultures, with their wings expanded, were nailed
each at the posts of the gate; and two bravoes, extended at full length
on the benches on either side, were keeping guard until their master
should have finished his repast. The father stopped, as if willing also
to wait. “Father, father, come on,” said one, “we do not make the
capuchins wait here; we are the friends of the convent; I have been
within its walls when the air on the outside of them was not very
wholesome for me; it was well the fathers did not refuse me admittance.”
So saying, he gave two strokes with the knocker: at the sound, the howls
of mastiffs were heard from within; and in a few moments there appeared
an aged domestic. On seeing the father, he bowed reverently, quieted the
animals with his voice, introduced the guest into a narrow court, and
closed the gate. Then escorting him into a saloon, and regarding him
with an astonished and respectful look, said, “Is not this—the Father
Christopher of Pescarenico?”

“The same.”

“And here!”

“As you see, good man.”

“It must be to do good,” continued he, murmuring between his teeth;
“good can be done every where.” He then guided him through two or three
dark halls, and led the way to the banqueting room: here was heard a
confused noise of plates, and knives and forks, and discordant voices.
Whilst Father Christopher was urging the domestic to suffer him to
remain in some other apartment until the dinner should be finished, the
door opened. A certain Count Attilio, a cousin of the noble host, (of
whom we have already spoken, without giving his name,) was seated
opposite: when he saw the bald head and habit of the father, and
perceived his motion to withdraw, “Ho! father,” cried he, “you sha’n’t
escape us; reverend father, forward, forward!” Don Roderick seconded
somewhat unwillingly this boisterous command, as he felt some
presentiment of the object of his visit. “Come, father, come in,” said
he. Seeing there was no retreating, Father Christopher advanced,
saluting the nobleman and his guests.

An honest man is generally fearless and undaunted in presence of the
wicked; nevertheless, the father, with the testimony of a good
conscience and a firm conviction of the justice of his cause, with a
mixture of horror and compassion for Don Roderick, felt a degree of
embarrassment in approaching him. He was seated at table, surrounded by
guests; on his right was Count Attilio, his colleague in libertinism,
who had come from Milan to visit him. To the left was seated, with
respectful submissiveness, tempered, however, with conscious security,
the _podestà_ of the place,—he whose duty it was, according to the
proclamation, to cause justice to be done to Renzo Tramaglino, and to
inflict the allotted penalty on Don Roderick. Nearly opposite to the
_podestà_ sat our learned Doctor _Azzecca Garbugli_, with his black cap
and his red nose; and over against him two obscure guests, of whom our
story says nothing beyond a general mention of their toad-eating
qualities.

“Give a seat to the father,” said Don Roderick. A servant presented a
chair, and the good father apologised for having come at so inopportune
an hour. “I would speak with you alone on an affair of importance,”
added he, in a low tone, to Don Roderick.

“Very well, father, it shall be so,” replied he; “but in the meanwhile
bring the father something to drink.”

Father Christopher would have refused, but Don Roderick, raising his
voice above the tumult of the table, cried, “No, by Bacchus, you shall
not do me this wrong; a capuchin shall never leave this house without
having tasted my wine, nor an insolent creditor without having tasted
the wood of my forests.” These words produced a universal laugh, and
interrupted for a moment the question which was hotly agitated between
the guests. A servant brought the wine, of which Father Christopher
partook, feeling the necessity of propitiating the host.

“The authority of Tasso is against you, respected Signor _Podestà_,”
resumed aloud the Count Attilio: “this great man was well acquainted
with the laws of knighthood, and he makes the messenger of Argantes,
before carrying the defiance of the Christian knights, ask permission
from the pious Bouillon.”

“But that,” replied vociferously the _podestà_, “that is poetical
licence merely: an ambassador is in his nature inviolable, by the law of
nations, _jure gentium_; and moreover, the ambassador, not having spoken
in his own name, but merely presented the challenge in writing——”

“But when will you comprehend that this ambassador was a daring fool,
who did not know the first——”

“With the good leave of our guests,” interrupted Don Roderick, who did
not wish the argument to proceed farther, “we will refer it to the
Father Christopher, and submit to his decision.”

“Agreed,” said Count Attilio, amused at submitting a question of
knighthood to a capuchin; whilst the _podestà_ muttered between his
teeth, “Folly!”

“But, from what I have comprehended,” said the father, “it is a subject
of which I have no knowledge.”

“As usual, modest excuses from the father,” said Don Roderick; “but we
will not accept them. Come, come, we know well that you came not into
the world with a cowl on your head; you know something of its ways.
Well, how stands the argument?”

“The facts are these,” said the Count Attilio——

“Let me tell, who am neutral, cousin,” resumed Don Roderick. “This is
the story: a Spanish knight sent a challenge to a Milanese knight; the
bearer, not finding him at home, presented it to his brother, who,
having read it, struck the bearer many blows. The question is——”

“It was well done; he was perfectly right,” cried Count Attilio.

“There was no right about it,” exclaimed the _podestà_. “To beat an
ambassador—a man whose person is sacred! Father, do _you_ think this
was an action becoming a knight?”

“Yes, sir; of a knight,” cried the count, “I think I know what belongs
to a knight. Oh! if it had been an affair of fists, that would have
been quite another thing, but a cudgel soils no one’s hands.”

“I am not speaking of this, Sir Count; I am speaking of the _laws_ of
knighthood. But tell me, I pray you, if the messengers that the ancient
Romans sent to bear defiance to other nations, asked permission to
deliver the message; find, if you can, a writer who relates that such
messenger was ever cudgelled.”

“What have the ancient Romans to do with us? a people well enough in
some things, but in others, far, far behind. But according to the laws
of modern knighthood, I maintain that a messenger, who dared place in
the hands of a knight a challenge without having previously asked
permission, is a rash fool who deserves to be cudgelled.”

“But answer me this question——”

“No, no, no.”

“But hear me. To strike an unarmed person is an act of treachery.
_Atqui_ the messenger _de quo_ was without arms. _Ergo_——”

“Gently, gently, Signor _Podestà_.”

“How? gently.”

“Gently, I tell you; I concede that under other circumstances this might
have been called an act of treachery, but to strike a low fellow! It
would have been a fine thing truly, to say to him, as you would to a
gentleman, Be on your guard! And you, Sir Doctor, instead of sitting
there grinning your approbation of my opinion, why do you not aid me to
convince this gentleman?”

“I,” replied the doctor in confusion; “I enjoy this learned dispute, and
am thankful for the opportunity of listening to a war of wit so
agreeable. And moreover, I am not competent to give an opinion; his most
illustrious lordship has appointed a judge—the father.”

“True,” said Don Roderick; “but how can the judge speak when the
disputants will not keep silence?”

“I am dumb,” said the Count Attilio. The _podestà_ made a sign that he
would be quiet.

“Well! father! at last!” said Don Roderick, with comic gravity.

“I have already said, that I do not comprehend——”

“No excuses! we must have your opinion.”

“If it must be so,” replied the father, “I should humbly think there was
no necessity for challenges, nor bearers, nor blows.”

The guests looked in wonder at each other.

“Oh! how ridiculous!” said the Count Attilio. “Pardon me, father; but
this is exceedingly ridiculous. It is plain you know nothing of the
world.”

“He?” said Don Roderick; “he knows as much of it as you do, cousin. Is
it not so, father?”

Father Christopher made no reply; but to himself he said, “submit
thyself to every insult for the sake of those for whom thou art here.”

“It may be so,” said the count; “but the father——how is the father
called?”

“Father Christopher,” replied more than one.

“But, Father Christopher, your reverend worship, with your maxims you
would turn the world upside down—without challenges! without blows!
Farewell, the point of honour! Impunity to ruffians! Happily, the thing
is impossible.”

“Stop, doctor,” cried Don Roderick, wishing to divert the dispute from
the original antagonists. “You are a good man for an argument; what have
you to say to the father?”

“Indeed,” replied the doctor, brandishing his fork in the air—“indeed I
cannot understand how the Father Christopher should not remember that
his judgment, though of just weight in the pulpit, is worth nothing—I
speak with great submission—on a question of knighthood. But perhaps he
has been merely jesting, to relieve himself from embarrassment.”

The father not replying to this, Don Roderick made an effort to change
the subject.

“Apropos,” said he, “I understand there is a report at Milan of an
accommodation.”

There was at this time a contest regarding the succession to the dukedom
of Mantua, of which, at the death of Vincenzo Gonzaga, who died without
male issue, the Duke de Nevers, his nearest relation, had obtained
possession. Louis XIII., or rather the Cardinal de Richelieu, wished to
sustain him there; Philip IV., or rather the Count d’Olivares, commonly
called the Count Duke, opposed him. The dukedom was then a fief of the
empire, and the two parties employed intrigue and importunity at the
court of the Emperor Ferdinand II. The object of one was to obtain the
investiture of the new duke; of the other, the denial of his claim, and
also assistance to oblige him to relinquish it.

“I rather think,” said the Count Attilio, “that the thing will be
arranged satisfactorily. I have reasons——”

“Do not believe it, count, do not believe it,” added the _podestà_; “I
have an opportunity of knowing, because the Spanish keeper of the
castle, who is my friend, and who is the son of a dependant of the Count
Duke, is informed of every thing.”

“I tell you I have discoursed on the subject daily at Milan; and I know
from good authority that the pope, exceedingly interested as he is for
peace, has made propositions——”

“That may be, the thing is in order; his Holiness does his duty; a pope
should always endeavour to make peace between Christian princes; but the
Count Duke has his own policy, and——”

“And, and, and, do you know, Signor _Podestà_, how much thought the
emperor now gives to it? Do you believe there is no place but Mantua in
the world! There are many things to provide for, signor, mind. Do you
know, for instance, how far the emperor can trust this Prince of
Valdistano, or di Vallistai, as they call him; and if——”

“His name, in the German language,” interrupted the magistrate, “is
Wallenstein, as I have heard it uttered many times by the Spanish keeper
of the castle. But be of good courage——”

“Do you dare teach me,” replied the count. Here Don Roderick whispered
to him to cease contradiction, as there would be no end to it. He
obeyed; and the _podestà_, like a vessel unimpeded by shoals, continued
with full sails the course of his eloquence. “Wallenstein gives me but
little anxiety; because the Count Duke has his eye every where; and if
Wallenstein carries matters with a high hand, he will soon set him
right. He has his eye every where, I say, and unlimited power; and if it
is his policy that the Signor Duke of Nevers should not take root in
Mantua, he will never flourish there, be assured. It makes me laugh to
see the Signor Cardinal de Richelieu contend with an Olivares. The Count
Duke, gentlemen,” pursued he, with the wind still in his favour, and
much wondering at not meeting with opposition, “the Count Duke is an old
fox—speaking with due respect—who would make any one lose his track:
when he appears to go to the right, it would be safest to follow him to
the left: no one can boast of knowing his designs; they who are to
execute them, they who write the despatches, know nothing of them. I
speak from authority, for the keeper of the castle deigns to confide in
me. The Count Duke knows well enough how the pot boils in all the courts
in Europe; and these politicians have hardly laid a plan, but he begins
to frustrate it. That poor man, the Cardinal Richelieu, attempts and
dissembles, toils and strives; and what does it all produce? When he has
dug the mine, he finds a countermine already prepared by the Count
Duke——”

None can tell when the magistrate would have cast anchor, if Don
Roderick had not interrupted him. “Signor _Podestà_,” said he, “and you,
gentlemen, a bumper to the Count Duke, and you shall then judge if the
wine is worthy of the personage.” The _podestà_ bowed low in gratitude
for an honour he considered as paid to himself in part for his eloquent
harangue.

“May Don Gaspero Guzman, Count de Olivares, Duke of St. Lucar, live a
thousand years!” said he, raising his glass.

“May he live a thousand years!” exclaimed all the company.

“Help the father,” said Don Roderick.

“Excuse me,” replied he, “I could not——”

“How!” said Don Roderick; “will you not drink to the Count Duke? Would
you have us believe that you hold to the Navarre party?”

This was the contemptuous term applied to the French interest at the
time of Henry IV.

There was no reply to be made to this, and the father was obliged to
taste the wine. All the guests were loud in its praise, except the
doctor, who had kept silence. “Eh! doctor,” asked Don Roderick, “what
think _you_ of it?”

“I think,” replied the doctor, withdrawing his ruddy and shining nose
from the glass, “that this is the Olivares of wines: there is not a
liquor resembling it in all the twenty-two kingdoms of the king our
master, whom God protect! I maintain that the dinners of the most
illustrious Signor Don Roderick exceed the suppers of Heliogabalus, and
that scarcity is banished for ever from this palace, where reigns a
perpetual and splendid abundance.”

“Well said! bravo! bravo!” exclaimed with one voice the guests; but the
word _scarcity_, which the doctor had accidentally uttered, suggested a
new and painful subject. All spoke at once:—“There is no famine,” said
one, “it is the speculators who——”

“And the bakers, who conceal the grain. Hang them!”

“That is right; hang them, without mercy.”

“Upon fair trial,” cried the magistrate.

“What trial?” cried Attilio, more loudly; “summary justice, I say. Take
a few of them who are known to be the richest and most avaricious, and
hang them.”

“Yes, hang them! hang them! and there will be grain scattered in
abundance.”

Thus the party continued absorbing the wine, whose praises, mixed with
sentences of economical jurisprudence, formed the burthen of the
conversation; so that the loudest and most frequent words were, _Nectar,
and hang ’em_.

Don Roderick had, from time to time, during this confusion, looked at
the father: perceiving him calmly, but firmly, awaiting his leisure for
the interview which had been promised him, he relinquished the hope of
wearying him by its postponement. To send away a capuchin, without
giving him an audience, was not according to his policy; and since it
could not be avoided, he resolved to meet it at once: he rose from the
table, excused himself to his guests, and saying proudly, “At your
service, father,” led the way to another room.




CHAPTER VI.


“In what can I serve you?” said Don Roderick, as soon as they entered
into the room. Such were his words, but his manner said plainly,
“Remember before whom thou standest, weigh well thy words, and be
expeditious.”

There were no means more certain to impart courage to Father Christopher
than arrogance or pride. He had stood for a moment in some
embarrassment, passing through his fingers the beads of the rosary that
hung suspended from his girdle; but he soon “resumed new courage, and
revived,” at the haughty air of Don Roderick. He had, however,
sufficient command over himself to reply with caution and humility. “I
come to supplicate you to perform an act of justice: some wicked persons
have, in the name of your lordship, frightened a poor curate, and have
endeavoured to prevent his fulfilling his duty towards an innocent and
unoffending couple. You can by a word confound their machinations, and
impart consolation to the afflicted. You can—and having it in your
power—conscience, honour——”

“Speak to me of conscience, when I ask your advice on the subject; and
as to my honour, know that I only am the guardian of it, and that
whoever dares to meddle with it is a rash man.”

Friar Christopher, warned by these words that the intention of Don
Roderick was to turn the conversation into a dispute, so as to win him
from his original purpose, determined to bear whatever insult might be
offered him, and meekly replied, “It was certainly not my intention to
say any thing to displease you: correct me, reprove me; but deign to
listen to me. By the love of Heaven, by that God before whom we must all
appear, I charge thee, do not obstinately refuse to do justice to the
innocent and oppressed! Think that God watches over them, that their
imprecations are heard above, and——”

“Stop,” interrupted Don Roderick, rudely. “The respect I bear to your
habit is great; but if any thing could make me forget it, it would be to
see it worn by one coming as a spy into my house.”

These words spread an indignant glow over the face of the father; but
swallowing them as a bitter medicine, he resumed: “You do not believe
that I am such; you feel in your heart that I am here on no vile or
contemptible errand. Listen to me, Signor Don Roderick; and Heaven grant
that the day may never arrive, when you shall repent of not having
listened to me! Listen to me, and perform this deed of justice and
benevolence. Men will esteem you! God will esteem you! you have much in
your power, but——”

“Do you know,” again interrupted Don Roderick with warmth, but with
something like remorse, “that when the whim takes me to hear a sermon, I
can go to church? But, perhaps,” continued he, with a forced smile of
mockery, “you are putting regal dignity on me, and giving me a preacher
in my own palace.”

“And to God princes are responsible for the reception of his messages;
to God you are responsible; he now sends into your palace a message by
one of his ministers, the most unworthy——”

“In short, father,” said Don Roderick, preparing to go, “I do not
comprehend you: I suppose you have some affair of your own on hand; make
a confidant of whom you please; but use not the freedom of troubling a
gentleman any farther.”

“Don Roderick, do not say _No_ to me; do not keep in anguish the heart
of an innocent child! a word from you would be sufficient.”

“Well,” said Don Roderick, “since you think I have so much in my power,
and since you are so much interested——”

“Yes!” said Father Christopher, anxiously regarding him.

“Well, advise her to come, and place herself under my protection; she
will want for nothing, and no one shall disturb her, as I am a
gentleman.”

At such a proposal, the indignation of the friar, which had hitherto
been restrained with difficulty, loudly burst forth. All his prudence
and patience forsook him: “Your protection!” exclaimed he, stepping
back, and stretching forth both his hands towards Don Roderick, while he
sternly fixed his eyes upon him, “your protection! You have filled the
measure of your guilt by this wicked proposal, and I fear you no
longer.”

“Dare you speak thus to me?”

“I dare; I fear you no longer; God has abandoned you, and you are no
longer an object of fear! Your protection! this innocent child is under
the protection of God; you have, by your infamous offer, increased my
assurance of her safety. Lucy, I say; see with what boldness I pronounce
her name before you; Lucy——”

“How! in this house——”

“I compassionate this house; the wrath of God is upon it! You have acted
in open defiance of the great God of heaven and earth; you have set at
naught his counsel; you have oppressed the innocent; you have trampled
on the rights of those whom you should have been the first to protect
and defend. The wrath of God is upon you! A day will come!”

“Villain!” said Don Roderick, who at first was confounded between rage
and astonishment; but when he heard the father thundering forth this
prediction, a mysterious and unaccountable dread took possession of his
soul. Hastily seizing his outstretched arm, and raising his voice in
order to drown the maledictions of the monk, he cried aloud, “Depart
from me, rash villain, cowled spy!”

These words instantly cooled the glowing enthusiasm of Father
Christopher. The ideas of insult and injury in his mind had long been
habitually associated with those of suffering and silence. His usual
habits resumed their sway, and he became calm; he awaited what farther
might be said, as, after the strength of the whirlwind has passed, an
aged tree naturally recomposes its branches, and receives the hail as
Heaven sends it.

“Villain! scoundrel! talk to your equals,” said Don Roderick; “but thank
the habit you bear for saving you from the chastisement which is your
due. Begone this instant, and with unscathed limbs, or we shall see.”
So saying, he pointed imperiously to an opposite door. The friar bowed
his head, and departed, leaving Don Roderick to measure with hasty and
agitated steps the field of battle.

When he had closed the door behind him, the father perceived a man
stealing softly away through another, and he recognised him as the aged
domestic who had been his guide to the presence of Don Roderick. Before
the birth of that nobleman, he had been in the service of his father,
who was a man of a very different character. At his death, the new
master expelled all the domestics, with the exception of this one, whom
he retained on account of two valuable qualifications; a high conception
of the dignity of the house, and a minute knowledge of the ceremonial
required to support that dignity. The poor old man had never dared even
to hint disapprobation of the daily proceedings at the castle before the
signor, but he would sometimes venture to allow an exclamation of grief
and disapproval to escape him before his fellow servants, who were
infinitely diverted by his simple honesty, and his warm love of the good
old times. His censures did not reach his master’s ears unaccompanied by
a relation of the raillery bestowed upon them, so that he became an
object of general ridicule. On the days of formal entertainment,
therefore, the old man was a person of great importance.

Father Christopher bowed to him as he passed by him, and pursued his
way; but the old man approached him with a mysterious air, and made a
sign that he should follow him into a dark passage, where, speaking in
an under tone, he said, “Father! I have heard all, and I want to speak
to you.”

“Speak at once, then, good man.”

“Here! oh no! Woe be to us if the master suspect it! But I shall be able
to discover much, and I will endeavour to come to-morrow to the
convent.”

“Is there any base plot?”

“There is something hatching, certainly; I have long suspected it; but
now I shall be on the look out, and I will come at the truth. These are
strange doings—I live in a house where——But I wish to save my soul.”

“God bless you!” said the friar, placing his hands on his head, as he
bent reverently towards him; “God reward you! Do not forget then to come
to-morrow.”

“I will not,” replied the domestic; “but go, now, for the love of
Heaven, and do not betray me.”

So saying, he looked cautiously on all sides, and led the way through
the passage into a large hall, which fronted the court-yard, and
pointing to the door, silently bade him “Farewell.”

When once in the street, and freed from this den of depravity, the
father breathed more freely; he hastened down the hill, pale in
countenance, and agitated and distressed by the scene he had witnessed,
and in which he had taken so leading a part. But the unlooked-for
proffer of the servant came like a cordial. It seemed as if Heaven had
sent a visible sign of its protection—a clue to guide him in his
intricate undertaking—and in the very house where it was least likely
to be found. Occupied with these thoughts, he raised his eyes towards
the west, and beheld the sun declining behind the mountain, and felt
that he had but a few minutes in which to reach the monastery, without
violating the absolute law of the capuchins, that none of the
brotherhood should remain beyond the walls after sunset.

Meanwhile, in the cottage of Lucy there had been plans agitated of which
it is necessary to inform the reader. After the departure of the father,
they had continued some time in silence; Lucy, with a heavy heart,
prepared the dinner; Renzo, wavering and anxious, knew not how to
depart; Agnes was apparently absorbed with her reel, but she was really
maturing a thought, which she in a few moments thus declared:—

“Listen, my children. If you will have the necessary courage and
dexterity; if you will confide in your mother; I pledge myself to free
you from perplexity, sooner than Father Christopher could do, although
he is the best man in the world.” Lucy looked at her mother with an
expression of astonishment rather than confidence, in a promise so
magnificent. “Courage! dexterity!” cried Renzo, “say, say, what can I
do?”

“Is it not true,” said Agnes, “that if you were married, your chief
difficulty would be removed, and that for the rest we would easily find
a remedy!”

“Undoubtedly,” said Renzo, “if we were married—The world is before us;
and at a short distance from this, in Bergamo, a silk weaver is received
with open arms. You know how often my cousin Bartolo has solicited me to
go there, and enter into business with him; how many times he has told
me that I should make a fortune, as he has done; and if I never listened
to his request, it was—because my heart was here. Once married, we
would all go together, and live happily far from the clutches of this
villain, far from the temptation to do a rash deed. Is it not so, Lucy?”

“Yes,” said Lucy, “but how——”

“As I said,” resumed Agnes, “courage and dexterity, and the thing is
easy.”

“Easy!” exclaimed they, in wonder.

“Easy,” replied Agnes, “if you are prudent. Hear me patiently, and I
will endeavour to make you comprehend my project. I have heard it said
by persons who knew, and moreover I have seen one instance of it myself,
that a curate’s _consent_ is not necessary to render a marriage ceremony
lawful, provided you have his presence.”

“How so?” asked Renzo.

“You shall hear. There must be two witnesses, nimble and cunning. You go
to the curate; the point is to catch him unexpectedly, that he may have
no time to escape. You say, ‘Signor Curate, this is my wife;’ Lucy says,
‘Signor Curate, this is my husband;’ you must speak so distinctly that
the curate and the witnesses hear you, and the marriage is as inviolable
as if the pope himself had celebrated it. When the words are once
uttered, the curate may fret, and fume, and scold; it will be of no use,
you are man and wife.”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed Lucy.

“Do you think,” said Agnes, “that the thirty years I was in the world
before you, I learned nothing? The thing is as I tell you.”

The fact was truly such as Agnes represented it; marriages contracted
in this manner were at that time held valid. Such an expedient was,
however, not recurred to, but in cases of great necessity, and the
priests made use of every precaution to avoid this compulsive
co-operation.

“If it be true, Lucy!” said Renzo, regarding her attentively, with a
supplicating expression.

“_If_ it be true!” exclaimed Agnes. “Do you think I would say that which
is _not_ true? Well, well, get out of the difficulty as you can, I wash
my hands from it.”

“Ah, no! do not abandon us!” said Renzo; “I mean not to suggest a doubt
of it. I place myself in your hands; I look to you as to a mother.”

The momentary anger of Agnes vanished.

“But why, mamma,” said Lucy, in her usual modest tone, “why did not
Father Christopher think of this?”

“Think you that it did not come into his mind?” replied Agnes; “but he
would not speak of it.”

“Why?” exclaimed they, both at once.

“Why?—because, if you must know it, the friars do not approve of it.”

“If it is not right,” said Lucy, “we must not do it.”

“What!” said Agnes, “do you think I would advise you to do that which is
not right? If, against the advice of your parents, you were going to
marry a rogue—but, on the contrary, I am rejoiced at your choice, and
he who _causes_ the disturbance is the only villain; and the curate——”

“It is as clear as the sun,” said Renzo.

“It is not necessary to speak of it to Father Christopher,” continued
Agnes. “Once over, what do you think he will say to you? ‘Ah! daughter,
it was a great error; but it is done.’ The friars must talk thus; but,
believe me, in his heart he will be well content.”

Lucy made no reply to an argument which did not appear to her very
powerful; but Renzo, quite encouraged, said, “If it be thus, the thing
is done.”

“Softly,” said Agnes; “there is need of caution. We must procure the
witnesses; and find means to present ourselves to the curate
unexpectedly. He has been two days concealed in his house; we must make
him remain there. If he suspects your intention, he will be as cunning
as a cat, and flee as Satan from holy water.”

Lucy here gained courage to offer her doubts of the propriety of such a
course. “Until now we have lived with candour and sincerity,” said she;
“let us continue to do so; let us have faith in God, and God will aid
us. Father Christopher said so: let us listen to his advice.”

“Be guided by those who know better than you do,” said Agnes gravely.
“What need of advice? God tells us, ‘Help thyself, and I will help
thee.’ We will tell the father all about it, when it is over.”

“Lucy,” said Renzo, “will you fail me now? Have we not done all that we
could do, like good Christians? Had not the curate himself fixed the day
and the hour? And whose is the blame if we are now obliged to use a
little management? No, you will not fail me. I go at once to seek the
witnesses, and will return to tell you my success.” So saying, he
hastily departed.

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.”

“Agreed.”

“But,” said Renzo, “you must be silent and talk to no one about it.”

“Need you tell me that?” said Tony; “you know me.”

“The curate has some foolish reason for putting off my marriage, and I
wish to hasten it. I am told that the parties going before him with two
witnesses, and the one saying, _This is my wife_, and the other, _This
is my husband_, that the marriage is lawful. Do you understand me?”

“You wish me to go as a witness?”

“Yes.”

“And you will pay the twenty-five livres?”

“Yes.”

“Done; I agree to it.”

“But we must find another witness.”

“I have found him already,” said Tony. “My simpleton of a brother,
Jervase, will do whatever I tell him; but you will pay him with
something to drink?”

“And to eat,” replied Renzo. “But will he be able?”

“I’ll teach him; you know I was born with brains for both.”

“To-morrow.”

“Well.”

“Towards evening.”

“Very well.”

“But be silent,” said Renzo.

“Poh!” said Tony.

“But if thy wife should ask thee, as without doubt she will?”

“I am in debt to my wife for lies already; and for so much, that I don’t
know if we shall ever balance the account. I will tell her some idle
story or other to set her heart at rest.” With this good resolution he
departed, leaving Renzo to pursue his way back to the cottage. In the
meanwhile Agnes had in vain solicited Lucy’s consent to the measure; she
could not resolve to act without the approbation of Father Christopher.
Renzo arrived, and triumphantly related his success. Lucy shook her
head, but the two enthusiasts minded her not. They were now determined
to pursue their plan, and by authority and entreaties induce her finally
to accede to it.

“It is well,” said Agnes, “it is well, but you have not thought of every
thing.”

“What have I not thought of?” replied Renzo.

“Perpetua! You have not thought of Perpetua. Do you believe that she
would suffer Tony and his brother to enter? How then is it probable she
would admit you and Lucy?”

“What shall we do?” said Renzo, pausing.

“I will tell you. I will go with you; I have a secret to tell her, which
will engage her so that she will not see you. I will take her aside, and
will touch such a chord—you shall see.”

“Bless you!” exclaimed Renzo, “I have always said you were our best
support.”

“But all this will do no good,” said Agnes, “if we cannot persuade Lucy,
who obstinately persists that it is sinful.”

Renzo made use of all his eloquence, but Lucy was not to be moved. “I
know not what to say to your arguments,” replied she. “I perceive that
to do this, we shall degrade ourselves so far as to lie and deceive. Ah!
Renzo, let us not so abase ourselves! I would be your wife” (and a blush
diffused itself over her lovely countenance), “I would be your wife, but
in the fear of God—at the altar. Let us trust in Him who is able to
provide. Do you not think He will find a way to help us, far better than
all this deception? And why make a mystery of it to Father Christopher?”

The contest still continued, when a trampling of sandals announced
Father Christopher. Agnes had barely time to whisper in the ear of Lucy,
“Be careful to tell him nothing,” when the friar entered.




CHAPTER VII.


“Peace be with you!” said the friar as he entered. “There is nothing
more to hope from man: so much the greater must be our confidence in
God; and I’ve already had a pledge of his protection.” None of the three
entertained much hope from the visit of Father Christopher: for it would
have been not only an unusual, but an absolutely unheard-of fact, for a
nobleman to desist from his criminal designs at the mere prayer of his
defenceless victim. Still, the sad certainty was a painful stroke.

The women bent down their heads; but in the mind of Renzo anger
prevailed over disappointment. “I would know,” cried he, gnashing his
teeth, and raising his voice as he had never done before in the presence
of Father Christopher, “I would know what reasons this dog has given,
that my wife should not _be_ my wife?”

“Poor Renzo!” said the father, with an accent of pity, and with a look
which greatly enforced moderation; “poor Renzo! if those who commit
injustice were always obliged to give a reason for it, things would not
be as they are!”

“He has said, then, the dog! that he will not, because he will not?”

“He has not even said _so_, poor Renzo! There would be something gained,
if he would make an open confession of his iniquity.”

“But he has said something; _what_ has this firebrand of hell said?”

“I could not repeat his words. He flew into a passion at me for my
suspicions, and at the same time confirmed me in them: he insulted me,
and then called himself offended; threatened, and complained. Ask no
farther. He did not utter the name of Lucy, nor even pretend to know
you: he affected to intend nothing. In short, I heard enough to feel
that he is inexorable. But confidence in God! Poor children! be patient,
be submissive! And thou, Renzo! believe that I sympathise with all that
passes in thy heart.—But _patience_! It is a poor word, a bitter word
to those who want faith; but, Renzo, will you not let God work? Will you
not trust Him? Let Him work, Renzo; and, for your consolation, know that
I hold in my hand a clue, by which I hope to extricate you from your
distress. I cannot say more now. To-morrow I shall not be here; I shall
be all day at the convent employed for you. Renzo, if thou canst, come
there to me; but, if prevented by any accident, send some trusty
messenger, by whom I can make known to you the success of my endeavours.
Night approaches; I must return to the convent. Farewell! Faith and
courage!” So saying, he departed, and hastened by the most abrupt but
shortest road, to reach the convent in time, and escape the usual
reprimand; or, what was worse, the imposition of some penance, which
might disenable him, for the following day, from continuing his efforts
in favour of his protégés.

“Did you hear him speak of a clue which he holds to aid us?” said Lucy;
“it is best to trust in him; he is a man who does not make rash
promises.”

“He ought to have spoken more clearly,” said Agnes; “or at least have
taken me aside, and told me what it was.”

“I’ll put an end to the business; I’ll put an end to it,” said Renzo,
pacing furiously up and down the room.

“Oh! Renzo!” exclaimed Lucy.

“What do you mean?” said Agnes.

“What do I mean? I mean to say that he may have a hundred thousand
devils in his soul, but he is flesh and blood notwithstanding.”

“No, no, for the love of Heaven!” said Lucy, but tears choked her voice.

“It is not a theme for jesting,” said Agnes.

“For jesting?” cried Renzo, stopping before her, with his countenance
inflamed by anger; “for jesting! you will see if I am in jest.”

“Oh! Renzo!” said Lucy, sobbing, “I have never seen you thus before!”

“Hush, hush!” said Agnes, “speak not in this manner. Do you not fear
the law, which is always to be had against the poor? And, besides, how
many arms would be raised at a word!”

“I fear nothing,” said Renzo; “the villain is well protected, dog that
he is! but no matter. Patience and resolution! and the time will come.
Yes! justice shall be done! I will free the country! People will bless
me! Yes, yes.”

The horror which Lucy felt at this explicit declaration of his purpose
inspired her with new resolution. With a tearful countenance, but
determined voice, she said to Renzo, “It can no longer be of any
consequence to you, that I should become yours; I promised myself to a
youth who had the fear of God in his heart; but a man who had
once——were you safe from the law, were you secure from vengeance, were
you the son of a king——”

“Well!” cried Renzo, in a voice of uncontrollable passion, “well! I
shall not have you, then; but neither shall he; of _that_ you may——”

“For pity’s sake, do not talk thus; do not talk so fiercely!” said Lucy
imploringly.

“You to implore me!” said he, somewhat appeased. “You! who will do
nothing for _me_! What proof do you give me of your affection? Have I
not supplicated in vain? Have I been able to obtain——”

“Yes, yes,” replied Lucy, hastily, “I will go to the curate’s to-morrow;
now, if you wish it. Only be yourself again; I will go.”

“Do you promise me?” said Renzo, softening immediately.

“I promise.”

“Well, I am satisfied.”

“God be praised!” said Agnes, much relieved.

“I have promised you,” said Lucy, with an accent of timid reproach, “but
you have also promised me to refer it to Father Christopher.”

“Ha! will you now draw back?” said Renzo.

“No, no,” said Lucy, again alarmed, “no, no, I have promised, and will
perform. But you have compelled me to it by your own impetuosity. God
forbid that——”

“Why will you prognosticate evil, Lucy? God knows we wrong no person.”

“Well, well,” said Lucy, “I will hope for the best.”

Renzo would have wished to prolong the conversation, in order to allot
to each their several parts for the morrow, but the night drew on, and
he reluctantly felt himself compelled to depart.

The night was passed, by all three, in that state of agitation and
trouble which always precedes an important enterprise whose issue is
uncertain. Renzo returned early in the morning, and Agnes and he busied
themselves in concerting the operations of the evening. Lucy was a mere
spectator; but although she disapproved these measures in her heart, she
still promised to do the best she could.

“Will you go to the convent, to speak to Father Christopher, as he
desired you last night?” said Agnes to Renzo.

“Oh! no,” replied he, “the father would soon read in my countenance that
there was something on foot; and if he interrogated me, I should be
obliged to tell him. You had better send some one.”

“I will send Menico.”

“Yes, that will do,” replied Renzo, as he hurried off to make farther
arrangements.

Agnes went to a neighbouring house to obtain Menico, a smart lad of
twelve years of age, who, by the way of cousins and sisters-in-law, was
a sort of nephew to the dame. She asked and obtained permission of his
parents to keep him all day “for a particular service.” She took him
home, and after giving him breakfast, told him he must go to
Pescarenico, and show himself to Father Christopher, who would send him
back with a message.

“_Father Christopher_, you understand; that nice old man, with a white
beard; him they call the Saint.”

“I know him, I know him!” said Menico: “he speaks so kindly to the
children, and often gives them pictures.”

“Yes! that is he; and if, Menico, if he tells you to wait near the
convent until he has an answer ready, don’t stray away; don’t go to the
lake to throw stones in the water with the boys; nor to see them fish,
nor——”

“Poh! aunt, I am no longer a baby.”

“Well, behave well, and when you return with the answer, I will give you
these new _parpagliole_.”[3]

      [3] A sort of coin.

During the remainder of this long morning, several strange things
occurred, calculated to infuse suspicion into the already troubled minds
of Lucy and her mother. A mendicant, but not in rags like others of his
kind, and with a dark and sinister countenance, narrowly observing every
object around him, entered to ask alms. A piece of bread was presented
to him, which he received with ill-dissembled indifference. Then, with a
mixture of impudence and hesitation, he made many enquiries, to which
Agnes endeavoured to return evasive replies. When about to depart, he
pretended to mistake the door, and went through the one that led to the
stairs. They called to him, “Stay, stay! where are you going, good man?
this way.” He returned, excusing himself with an affectation of
humility, to which he felt it difficult to compose his hard and stern
features. After him, they saw pass, from time to time, other strange
people. One entered the house, under pretence of asking the road;
another stopped before the gate, and glanced furtively into the room, as
if to avoid suspicion. Agnes went often to the door of the house during
the remainder of the day, with an undefined dread of seeing some one
approach who might cause them alarm. These mysterious visitations,
however, ceased towards noon, but they had left an impression of
impending evil on their minds, which they felt it impossible altogether
to suppress.

To explain to the reader the true character of these suspicious
wanderers, we must recur to Don Roderick, whom we left alone, in the
hall of his palace, at the departure of Father Christopher. The more he
reflected on his interview with the friar, the more was he enraged and
ashamed, that he should have dared to come to him with the rebuke of
Nathan to David on his lips. He paced with hurried steps through the
apartment, and as he gazed at the portraits of his ancestors, warriors,
senators, and abbots, which hung against its walls, he felt his
indignation at the insult which had been offered him increase. A
base-born friar to speak thus to one of noble birth! He formed plans of
vengeance, and discarded them, without his being willing to acknowledge
it to himself. The prediction of the father again sounded in his ears,
and caused an unaccustomed perplexity. Restless and undetermined, he
rang the bell, and ordered a servant to excuse him to the company, and
to say to them, that urgent business prevented his seeing them again.
The servant returned with the intelligence that the guests had departed.
“And the Count Attilio?” asked Don Roderick.

“He has gone with the gentlemen, my lord.”

“Well; six followers to accompany me; quickly. My sword, cloak, and hat.
Be quick.”

The servant left the room, and returned in a few moments with a rich
sword, which his master girded on; he then threw the cloak around his
shoulders, and donned his hat with its waving plumes with an air of
proud defiance. He then passed into the street, followed by six armed
ruffians, taking the road to Lecco. The peasantry and tradesmen shrunk
from his approach; their profound and timid salutations received no
notice from him; indeed, he acknowledged but by a slight inclination of
the head those of the neighbouring gentry, whose rank, however, was
incontestably inferior to his own. Indeed, the only man whose
salutations he condescended to return upon an equal footing was the
Spanish governor. In order to get rid of his _ennui_, and banish the
idea of the monk and his imprecations, he entered the house of a
gentleman, where a party was met together, and was received with that
apparent cordiality which it is a necessary policy to manifest towards
the powerful who are held in fear. On his return at night to his palace,
he found Count Attilio seated at supper. Don Roderick, full of thought,
took a chair, but said little.

Scarcely was the table cleared, and the servants departed, when the
count, beginning to rally his dull companion, said, “Cousin, when will
you pay me my wager?”

“San Martin’s day has not yet passed.”

“Well, you will have to pay it; for all the saints in the calendar may
pass, before you——”

“We will see about that!” said Don Roderick.

“Cousin, you would play the politician, but you cannot deceive me; I am
so certain that I have won the wager, that I stand ready for another.”

“Why!”

“Why? because the father—the father—in short, this friar has converted
you.”

“One of your fine imaginations, truly!”

“Converted, cousin, converted, I tell you; I rejoice at it; it will be a
fine spectacle to see you penitent, with your eyes cast down! And how
flattering to the father! he don’t catch such fish every day. Be
assured, he will bring you forward as an example to others; your actions
will be trumpeted from the pulpit!”

“Enough, enough!” interrupted Don Roderick, half annoyed, and half
disposed to laugh. “I will double the wager with you, if you please.”

“The devil! perhaps _you_ have converted the father!”

“Do not speak of him; but as to the wager, San Martin will decide.” The
curiosity of the count was aroused; he made many enquiries, which Don
Roderick evaded, referring him to the day of decision.

The following morning, when he awoke, Don Roderick was “himself again.”
The various emotions that had agitated him after his interview with the
father, had now resolved themselves into the simple desire of revenge.
Hardly risen, he sent for Griso.—“Something serious,” muttered the
servant to whom the order was given; as this _Griso_ was nothing less
than the leader of the _bravoes_ to whom was intrusted the most
dangerous and daring enterprises, who was the most trusted by the
master, and the most devoted to him, from gratitude and interest. This
man had been guilty of murder; he had fled from the pursuit of justice
to the palace of Don Roderick, who took him under his protection, and
thus sheltered him from the pursuit of the law. He, therefore, stood
pledged to the performance of any deed of villany that should be imposed
on him.

“Griso,” said Don Roderick, “you must show your skill in this
emergency. Before to-morrow, this Lucy must be in this palace.”

“It shall never be said that Griso failed to execute a command from his
illustrious protector.”

“Take as many men as are necessary, and dispose of them as appears to
you best; only let the thing succeed. But be careful that no harm be
done to her.”

“Signor, a little fright—we cannot do less.”

“Fright—may be unavoidable. But touch not a hair of her head; and,
above all, treat her with the greatest respect. Do you hear?”

“Signor, I could not take a flower from the bush, and carry it to your
Highness, without touching it; but I will do only what is absolutely
necessary.”

“Well; I trust thee. And—how wilt thou do it?”

“I was thinking, signor. It is fortunate that her cottage is at the
extremity of the village; we have need of some place of concealment; and
not far from her house there is that old uninhabited building in the
middle of the fields, that one—but, your Highness knows nothing of
these matters—which was burnt a few years ago, and, not having been
repaired, is now deserted, except by the witches, who keep all cowardly
rascals away from it; so that we may take safe possession.”

“Well; what then?”

Here Griso went on to propose, and Don Roderick to approve, until they
had agreed upon the manner of conducting the enterprise to the desired
conclusion, without leaving a trace of the authors of it: and also upon
the manner of imposing silence, not only upon poor Agnes, but also upon
the more impatient and fiery Renzo.

“If this rash fellow fall in your way by chance,” added Don Roderick,
“you had best give him, on his shoulders, something he will remember; so
that he will be more likely to obey the order to remain quiet, which he
will receive to-morrow. Do you hear?”

“Yes, yes, leave it to me,” said Griso, as, with an air of importance,
he took his leave.

The morning was spent in reconnoitring,—the mendicant of whom we have
spoken was Griso; the others were the villains whom he employed, to
gain a more perfect knowledge of the scene of action. They returned to
the palace to arrange and mature the enterprise;—all these mysterious
movements were not effected without rousing the suspicions of the old
domestic, who, partly by listening, and partly by conjecture, came to
the knowledge of the concerted attempt of the evening. This knowledge
came a little too late, for already a body of ruffians were laying in
wait in the old house. However, the poor old man, although well aware of
the dangerous game he played, did not fail to perform his promise; he
left the palace on some slight pretence, and hurried to the convent.
Griso and his band left shortly after, and met at the old building,—the
former had previously left orders at the palace, that, at the approach
of night, there should be a litter brought thither,—he then despatched
three of the bravoes to the village inn; one to remain at its entrance
to observe the movements on the road, and to give notice when the
inhabitants should have retired to rest; the other two to occupy
themselves within as idlers, gaming and drinking. Griso, with the rest
of the troop, continued in ambush, on the watch.

All this was going forward, and the sun was about to set, when Renzo
entered the cottage, and said to Lucy and her mother, “Tony and Jervase
are ready; I am going with them to sup at the inn; at the sound of the
‘Ave Maria,’ we will come for you; take courage, Lucy, all depends on a
moment.”

“Oh, yes,” said Lucy, “courage;” with a voice that contradicted her
words.

When Renzo and his companions arrived at the inn, they found the door
blockaded by a sentinel, who, leaning on one side of it, with his arms
folded on his breast, occupied half its width; at the same time rolling
his eagle eyes first to the right and then to the left, displaying
alternately their blacks and their whites. A flat cap of crimson velvet,
placed sideways, covered the half of the _long lock_, which, parted on a
dark forehead, was fastened behind with a comb. He held in his hand a
club; his arms, properly speaking, were concealed beneath his garments.
When Renzo evinced a desire to enter, he looked at him fixedly without
moving; of this, the young man, wishing to decline all conversation,
took no notice, but, beckoning to his companions to follow his example,
slid between the figure and the door-post. Having gained an entrance, he
beheld the other two bravoes with a large mug between them, seated at
play; they stared at him with a look of enquiry, making signs to each
other, and then to their comrade at the door. This was not unobserved by
Renzo, and his mind was filled with a vague sentiment of suspicion and
alarm. The innkeeper came for his orders; which were, “a private room,
and supper for three.”

“Who are those strangers?” asked he of the landlord, when he came in to
set the table.

“I do not know them,” replied he.

“How! neither of them?”

“The first rule of our trade,” said he, spreading the cloth, “is, not to
meddle with the affairs of others; and, what is wonderful, even our
women are not curious. It is enough for us that customers pay well; who
they are, or who they are not, matters nothing. And now, I will bring
you a dish of polpette, the like of which you have never eaten.”

When he returned to the kitchen, and was employed in taking the polpette
from the fire, one of the bravoes approached, and said, in an under
tone, “Who are those men?”

“Good people of this village,” replied the host, pouring the mince-meat
into a dish.

“Well; but what are their names? Who are they?” insisted he, in a rough
voice.

“One is called Renzo,” replied the host; “esteemed a good youth, and an
excellent weaver of silk. The other is a peasant, whose name is Tony; a
jovial fellow,—it is a pity he has no more money, for he would spend it
all here. The other is a simpleton, who eats when they feed him. By your
leave——” So saying, he slipped past him, with the dish in his hand,
and carried it to the place of its destination.

“How do you know?” said Renzo, continuing the conversation from the
point at which it had been dropped, “how do you know that they are
honest men, when you are not acquainted with them?”

“From their actions, my good fellow; men are known by their actions. He
who drinks wine without criticising it; he who shows the face of the
king on the counter without prattling; he who does not quarrel with
other customers, and, if he has a blow or two to give, goes away from
the inn, so that the poor host need not suffer from it; _he_ is an
honest man. But what the devil makes you so inquisitive, when you are
engaged to be married, and should have other things in your head? And
with this mince-meat before you, which would make the dead revive?” So
saying, he returned to the kitchen.

The supper was not very agreeable; the two guests would have lingered
over the unusual luxury; but Renzo, preoccupied, and troubled and uneasy
at the singular appearance of the strangers, longed for the hour of
departure. He conversed in brief sentences, and in an under tone, so
that he might not be overheard by them.

“What an odd thing it is,” blundered Jervase, “that Renzo wishes to be
married, and has needed——” Renzo looked sternly at him. “Keep silence,
you beast!” said Tony to him, accompanying the epithet with a cuff.
Jervase obeyed, and the remainder of the repast was consumed in silence.
Renzo observed a strict sobriety, in order to keep his companions under
some restraint. Supper being over, he paid the reckoning, and prepared
to depart: they were obliged to pass the three men again, and encounter
a repetition of their eager gaze. When a few steps distant from the inn,
Renzo, looking back, perceived that he was followed by the two whom he
had left seated in the kitchen. He stopped; observing this, they stopped
also, and retraced their steps.

If he had been near enough, he would have heard a few words of strange
import; “It would be a glorious thing,” said one of the scoundrels,
“without reckoning the cash, if we could tell at the palace how we had
flattened their ribs,—without the direction, too, of Signor Griso.”

“And spoil the whole work,” added the other; “but see! he stops to look
at us! Oh! if it were only later! But let us turn back, not to create
suspicion. People are coming on all sides; let us wait till they go to
their rests.”

Then was heard in the village the busy hum of the evening, which
precedes the solemn stillness of the night; then were seen women
returning from their daily labour, with their infants on their backs,
and leading by the hand the older children, to whom they were repeating
the evening prayers; men with their spades, and other instruments of
culture, thrown over their shoulders. At the opening of the cottage
doors, was discerned the bright light of the fires, kindled in order to
prepare their meagre suppers; in the street there were salutations given
and returned, brief and mournful observations on the poverty of the
harvest, and the scarcity of the year; and at intervals was heard the
measured strokes of the bell which announced the departure of the day.

When Renzo saw that the two men no longer followed him, he continued his
way, giving instructions, in a low voice, from time to time, to his two
companions. It was dark night when they arrived at the cottage of Lucy.

    “Between the acting of a dreadful thing
    And the first motion, all the interim is
    Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream.”

Lucy endured many hours the anguish of such a dream; and Agnes, even
Agnes, the author of the plot, was thoughtful and silent. But, in the
moment of action, new and various emotions pass swiftly through the
mind: at one instant, that which had appeared difficult becomes
perfectly easy; at another, obstacles present themselves which were
never before thought of, the imagination is filled with alarm, the limbs
refuse their office, and the heart fails at the promise it had given
with such security. At the gentle knock of Renzo, Lucy was seized with
such terror, that, at the moment, she resolved to suffer any thing, to
endure a separation from him for ever, rather than execute her
resolution; but when, with an assured and encouraging air, he said, “All
is ready; let us begone,” she had neither heart nor time to suggest
difficulties. Agnes and Renzo placed her between them, and the
adventurous company set forward. Slowly and quietly they took the path
that led around the village,—it would have been nearer to pass directly
through it, to Don Abbondio’s house, but their object was to avoid
observation. Upon reaching the house, the lovers remained concealed on
one side of it, Agnes a little in advance, so as to be prepared to speak
to Perpetua as soon as she should make her appearance. Tony, with
Jervase, who did nothing, but _without_ whom nothing could be done,
courageously knocked at the door.

“Who is there, at this hour?” cried a voice from the window, which they
recognised to be that of Perpetua. “No one is sick, that I know of. What
is the matter?”

“It is I,” replied Tony, “with my brother; we want to speak with the
curate.”

“Is this an hour for Christians?” replied Perpetua, briskly. “Come
to-morrow.”

“Hear me; I will come, or not, as I choose; I have received I can’t tell
how much money, and I have come to balance the small account that you
know of. I have here twenty-five fine new pieces; but if he cannot see
me,—well—I know how and where to spend them.”

“Wait, wait. I will speak to you in a moment. But why come at this
hour?”

“If you can change the hour, I am willing; as for me, I am here, and, if
you don’t want me to stay, I’ll go away.”

“No, no, wait a moment; I will give you an answer.” So saying, she
closed the window. As soon as she disappeared, Agnes separated herself
from the lovers, saying to Lucy, in a low voice, “Courage, it is but a
moment.” She then entered into conversation with Tony at the door, that
Perpetua, on opening it, might suppose she had been accidentally passing
by, and that Tony had detained her.




CHAPTER VIII.


“Carneades! who was he?” said Don Abbondio to himself, seated in his
large chair, with a book open before him. “Carneades! this name I have
either heard or read of; he must have been a man of study, a scholar of
antiquity; but who the devil _was_ he?” Now, it should be known, that it
was Don Abbondio’s custom to read a little every day, and that a curate,
his neighbour, who had a small library, furnished him with books, one
after the other, as they came to hand. That with which he was at this
moment engaged, was a panegyric on St. Carlos, delivered many years
before in the cathedral of Milan. The saint was there compared for his
love of study to Archimedes; which comparison the poor curate well
understood, inasmuch as this did not require, from the various anecdotes
related of him, an erudition very extensive. But the author went on to
liken him also to Carneades, and here the poor reader was at fault. At
this moment, Perpetua announced the visit of Tony.

“At such an hour?” said Don Abbondio.

“What do you expect? They have no discretion. But if you do not shoot
the bird flying——”

“Who knows if I shall ever be able to do it?” continued he. “Let him
come in. But are you very sure that it is Tony?”

“The devil!” said Perpetua, as she descended, and, opening the door,
demanded, “Where are you?”

Tony appeared, in company with Agnes, who accosted Perpetua by name.

“Good evening, Agnes,” said she; “whence come you at this hour?”

“I come from——,” naming a neighbouring village. “And do you know,” she
continued, “that I have been delayed on your account?”

“On my account!” exclaimed she; and turning to the two brothers, said,
“Go in, and I will follow you.”

“Because,” resumed Agnes, “a gossiping woman of the company said—would
you believe it?—obstinately persisted in saying, that you were never
engaged to Beppo Suolavecchia, nor to Anselmo Lunghigna, because they
would not have you. I maintained that you had refused them both——”

“Certainly I did. Oh! what a liar! oh! what a great liar! Who was it?”

“Don’t ask me; I don’t wish to make mischief.”

“You must tell me; you must tell me. Oh! what a lie!”

“So it was; but you can’t believe how sorry I felt not to know all the
story, that I might have confuted her.”

“It is an infamous lie,” said Perpetua. “As to Beppo, every one
knows——”

In front of Don Abbondio’s house, there was a short and narrow lane,
between two old cottages, which opened at the farther end into the
fields. Agnes drew Perpetua thither, as if for the purpose of talking
with her more freely. When they were at a spot, from which they could
not see what passed before the curate’s house, Agnes coughed loudly.

This was the concerted signal, which, being heard by Renzo, he, with
Lucy on his arm, crept quietly along the wall, approached the door,
opened it softly, and entered the passage, where the two brothers were
waiting their approach. They all ascended the stairs on tiptoe; the
brothers advanced towards the door of the chamber; the lovers remained
concealed on the landing.

“_Deo gratias_,” said Tony, in a clear voice.

“Tony, eh? come in,” replied the voice from within. Tony obeyed, opening
the door just enough to admit himself and brother, one at a time. The
rays of light, which shone unexpectedly through this opening on the
darkness by which Renzo and Lucy were protected, made the latter tremble
as if already discovered. The brothers entered, and Tony closed the
door; the lovers remained motionless without; the beating of poor Lucy’s
heart might be heard in the stillness.

Don Abbondio was, as we have said, seated in his arm chair, wrapped in
a morning-gown, with an old cap on his head, in the fashion of a tiara,
which formed a sort of cornice around his face, and shaded it from the
dim light of a little lamp. Two thick curls which escaped from beneath
the cap, two thick eyebrows, two thick mustachios, a dense tuft along
his chin, all quite grey, and studding his sun-burnt and wrinkled
visage, might be compared to snowy bushes projecting from a rock by
moonlight.

“Ah! ah!” was his salutation, as he took off his spectacles and placed
them on his book.

“Does the curate think I have come at too late an hour?” said Tony,
bowing: Jervase awkwardly followed his example.

“Certainly, it is late; late on all accounts. Do you know that I am
ill?”

“Oh! I am sorry.”

“Did you not hear that I was sick, and could not be seen? But why is
this boy with you?”

“For company, Signor Curate.”

“Well; let us see.”

“Here are twenty-five new pieces, with the image of St. Ambrose on
horseback,” said Tony, drawing forth a little bundle from his pocket.

“Give here,” said Don Abbondio; and taking the bundle, he opened it,
counted the money, and found it correct.

“Now, sir, you will give me the necklace of my Teela.”

“Certainly,” replied Don Abbondio; and going to an old press, he drew
forth the pledge, and carefully returned it.

“Now,” said Tony, “you will please to put it in black and white?”

“Eh!” said Don Abbondio, “how suspicious the world has become! Do you
not trust me?”

“How! Sir. If I trust you! you do me wrong. But since my name is on your
book on the side of debtor——”

“Well, well,” interrupted Don Abbondio; and seating himself at the
table, he began to write, repeating, with a loud voice, the words as
they came from his pen. In the meanwhile, Tony, and, at a sign from him,
Jervase, placed themselves before the table, in such a manner as to
deprive the writer of a view of the door; and, as if from heedlessness,
moved their feet about on the floor, as a signal to those without, and
also for the purpose of drowning the noise of their footsteps; of this
Don Abbondio, occupied in writing, took no notice. At the grating sounds
of the feet Renzo drew Lucy trembling into the room, and stood with her
behind the brothers. Don Abbondio, having finished writing, read it over
attentively, folded the paper, and reaching it to Tony, said, “Will you
be satisfied now?” Tony, on receiving it, retired on one side, Jervase
on the other, and, behold, in the midst, Renzo and Lucy! Don Abbondio,
affrighted, astonished, and enraged, took an immediate resolution; and
while Renzo was uttering the words, “Sir Curate, in the presence of
these witnesses, this is my wife,” and the poor Lucy had begun, “And
this is——” he had snatched from the table the cloth which covered it,
throwing on the ground books, pen, ink, and paper, and in haste letting
fall the light, he threw it over and held it wrapped around the face of
Lucy, at the same time roaring out, “Perpetua! Perpetua! treachery!
help!” The wick, dying in the socket, sent a feeble and flickering light
over the figure of Lucy, who, entirely overcome, stood like a statue,
making no effort to free herself. The light died away, and left them in
darkness; Don Abbondio quitted the poor girl, and felt cautiously along
the wall for a door that led to an inner chamber; having found it, he
entered, and locked himself in, crying out, “Perpetua! treachery! help!
out of the house! out of the house!” All was confusion in the apartment
he had quitted; Renzo, groping in the dark to find the curate, had
followed the sound of his voice, and was knocking at the door of the
room, crying, “Open, open; don’t make such an outcry;” Lucy calling to
Renzo, in a supplicating voice, “Let us go, let us go, for the love of
God!” Tony, creeping on all fours, and feeling along the floor for his
receipt, which had been dropped in the tumult; the poor Jervase, crying
and jumping, and endeavouring to find the door on the stairs, so as to
escape with whole bones.

In the midst of this turmoil, w

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