Читать книгу The Betrothed - Alessandro Manzoni - Страница 10

“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.”

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.