Читать книгу The Betrothed - Alessandro Manzoni - Страница 6

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; 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—”

“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.