Читать книгу The Betrothed - Alessandro Manzoni - Страница 8

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, he 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.