Читать книгу The Betrothed - Alessandro Manzoni - Страница 9

“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.