I promessi sposi. English

by Alessandro Manzoni

  CHAPTER II.

  It is related that the Prince of Conde slept soundly the night precedingthe battle of Rocroi; but then, he was greatly fatigued, and moreoverhad made every arrangement for the morrow. It was not thus with DonAbbondio; he only knew the morrow would be a day of trouble, andconsequently passed the night in anxious anticipation. He could not fora moment think of disregarding the menaces of the bravoes, andsolemnising the marriage. To confide to Renzo the occurrence, andconsult with him as to the means--God forbid!--He remembered the warningof the bravo, "not to say one word"--otherwise, _ahem!_ and thisdreadful _ahem_ of the bravo resounded in the ears of Don Abbondio; sothat he already repented of his communication to Perpetua. To fly wasimpossible--and where _could_ he fly? At the thought, a thousandobstacles presented themselves.--After long and painful deliberation, heresolved to endeavour to gain time, by giving Renzo some fancifulreasons for the postponement of the marriage. He recollected that in afew days more the time would arrive, during which marriages wereprohibited. "And if I can keep this youngster at bay for a few days, Ishall then have two months before me; and in two months who can tellwhat may happen?" He thought of various pretexts for his purpose; andthough they were rather flimsy, he persuaded himself that his authoritywould give them weight, and that his experience would prevail over themind of an ignorant youth. "We will see," said he to himself: "he thinksof his love, but I think of myself; I am, therefore, the party mostinterested; I must call in all my cunning to assist me. I cannot helpit, young man, if you suffer; I must not be the victim." Having somewhatcomposed his mind with this determination, he at length fell asleep. Buthis dreams, alas! how horrible--bravoes, Don Roderick, Renzo, roads,rocks, cries, bullets.

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

  Lorenzo, or as he was called, Renzo, did not make him wait long; at anearly hour he presented himself before the curate with the joyfulreadiness of one who was on this day to espouse her whom he loved. Hehad been deprived of his parents in his youth, and now practised thetrade of a weaver of silk, which was, it might be said, hereditary inhis family. This trade had once been very lucrative; and although now onthe decline, a skilful workman might obtain from it a respectablelivelihood. The continual emigration of the tradesmen, attracted to theneighbouring states by promises and privileges, left sufficientemployment for those who remained behind. Besides, Renzo possessed asmall farm, which he had cultivated himself when otherwise unoccupied;so that, for one of his condition, he might be called wealthy: andalthough the last harvest had been more deficient than the precedingones, and the evils of famine were beginning to be felt; yet, from themoment he had given his heart to Lucy, he had been so economical as topreserve a sufficiency of all necessaries, and to be in no danger ofwanting bread. He appeared before Don Abbondio gaily dressed, and with ajoyful countenance. The mysterious and perplexed manner of the curateformed a singular contrast to that of the handsome young man.

  "What is the matter now?" thought Renzo; but without waiting to answerhis own question, "Signor Curate," said he, "I am come to know at whathour of the day it will be convenient for you that we should be at thechurch?"

  "Of what day do you speak?"

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

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

  "You cannot to-day? why not?"

  "In the first place I am not well----"

  "I am sorry for it; but we shall not detain you long, and you will notbe much fatigued."

  "But then--but then----"

  "But then, what, sir?"

  "There are difficulties."

  "Difficulties! How can that be?"

  "People should be in our situation, to know how many obstacles there areto these matters; I am too yielding, I think only of removingimpediments, of rendering all things easy, and promoting the happinessof others. To do this I neglect my duty, and am covered with reproachesfor it."

  "In the name of Heaven, keep me not thus in suspense, but tell me atonce what is the matter?"

  "Do you know how many formalities are required before the marriage canbe celebrated?"

  "I must, indeed, know something of them," said Renzo, beginning to growangry, "since you have racked my brains with them abundantly these fewdays back. But are not all things now ready? have you not done all therewas to do?"

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

  "But tell me what this other formality is, and I will perform itimmediately."

  "Do you know how many obstacles stand in the way?"

  "How can I know any thing of obstacles?"

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

  "Oh! for Heaven's sake--how should I understand all this Latin?"

  "Be patient, dear Renzo; I am ready to do----all that depends on me.I--I wish to see you satisfied--I wish you well---- And when I thinkthat you were so happy, that you wanted nothing when the whim enteredyour head to be married----"

  "What words are these, Signor?" interrupted Renzo, with a look ofastonishment and anger.

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

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

  "Be patient--these are not points to be cleared up in an instant. There_will_ be nothing, I hope; but whether or not, we must search into thematter. The passage is clear and explicit,--'antiquam matrimoniumdenunciet----'"

  "I'll not hear your Latin."

  "But it is necessary to explain to you----"

  "But why not do this before? Why tell me all was prepared? Why wait----"

  "See there now! to reproach me with my kindness! I have hastened everything to serve you; but--but there has occurred----well, well, Iknow----"

  "And what do you wish that I should do?"

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

  "For how long a time then?"

  "We are coming to a good conclusion," thought Don Abbondio. "Come," saidhe, gently, "in fifteen days I will endeavour----"

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

  Don Abbondio interrupted him, earnestly seizing his hand, and with animploring tone beseeching him to be quiet. "Come, come, don't be angry;for the love of Heaven! I'll see, I'll see if in a week----"

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

  "That it has been a mistake of mine."

  "And to the world?"

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

  "And then there will be no further difficulties?"

  "When I say a thing----"

  "Well, well, I will be quiet for a week; but be assured, I will be putoff with no further excuses:--for the present, I take my leave." Sosaying, he departed, making a bow to Don Abbondio less profound thanusual, and giving him a look more expressive than respectful.
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  With a heavy heart he approached the house of his betrothed, his minddwelling on the strange conversation which had just taken place. Thecold and embarrassed reception of Don Abbondio, his constrained andimpatient air, his mysterious hints, all combined to convince him therewas still something he had not been willing to communicate. He stoppedfor a moment, debating with himself whether he should not return andcompel him to be more frank; raising his eyes, however, he beheldPerpetua entering a little garden a few steps distant from the house. Hecalled to her, quickened his pace, and detaining her at the gate,endeavoured to enter into discourse with her.

  "Good day, Perpetua; I expected to have received your congratulationsto-day."

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

  "I want to ask a favour of you: the Signor Curate has offered reasons Icannot comprehend; will you explain to me the true cause why he isunable or unwilling to marry us to-day?"

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

  "I was right in supposing there was a mystery," thought Renzo. "Come,come, Perpetua," continued he, "we are friends; tell me what youknow,--help a poor young man."

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

  "That is true," replied he, still more confirmed in hissuspicions--"that is true; but it is not becoming in the clergy tobehave unjustly to the poor."

  "Hear me, Renzo; I can tell you nothing, because--I know nothing. But Ican assure you my master would not wrong you or any one; and he is notto blame."

  "Who then is to blame?" asked Renzo, carelessly, but listening intentlyfor a reply.

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

  "Overpowerful! knavish!" thought Renzo; "these cannot be hissuperiors."--"Come," said he, with difficulty concealing his increasingagitation, "come, tell me who it is."

  "Ah! you would persuade me to speak, and I must not, because--I knownothing. I will keep silence as faithfully as if I had promised to doso. You might put me to the torture, and you could not draw any thingfrom me. Adieu! it is lost time for both of us."

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

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

  "Who is this powerful personage?" said Renzo, with the air of oneresolved to obtain an explicit answer; "who is he that forbids me tomarry Lucy?"

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

  "Ah! will you speak now, Signor Curate? Every one knows the affair butmyself; and, by heavens! I'll know it too. Who is it, I say?"

  "Renzo, Renzo, for the love of charity, take care what you do; think ofyour soul."

  "I must know it at once--this moment." So saying, he placed his hand onhis dagger, but perhaps without intending it.

  "Mercy!" exclaimed Don Abbondio, in a stifled voice.

  "I _must_ know it."

  "Who has told you?"

  "Come, no more excuses. Speak plainly and quickly."

  "Do you mean to kill me?"

  "I mean to know that which I have a right to know."

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

  "Speak, then."

  The manner of Renzo was so threatening and decided, that Don Abbondiofelt there was no possibility of disobeying him. "Promise me--swear,"said he, "never to tell----"

  "Tell me, tell me quickly his name, or----"

  At this new adjuration, the poor curate, with the trembling look of aman who feels the instrument of the dentist in his mouth, feeblyarticulated, "Don----"

  "Don?" replied Renzo, inclining his ear towards him, eager to hear therest. "Don?"

  "Don Roderick!" muttered he hastily, trembling at the sound that escapedhis lips.

  "Ah! dog!" shouted Renzo; "and how has he done it? what has he said toyou to----"

  "What? what?" said Don Abbondio, in an almost contemptuous tone, alreadygaining confidence by the sacrifice he had made. "I wish you were likemyself, you would then meddle with nothing, and certainly you would nothave had so many whims in your head." He, however, related in terriblecolours the ugly encounter; his anger, which had hitherto been subduedby fear, displayed itself as he proceeded; and perceiving that Renzo,between rage and astonishment, remained motionless, with his head bentdown, he continued in a lively manner, "You have made a pretty businessof it, indeed! You have rendered me a notable service. Thus to attack anhonest man, your curate, in his own house! in a sacred place! You havedone a fine thing, truly. To wrest from my mouth, that which Iconcealed, from prudence, for your own good. And now that you know it,what will you do? When I gave you good advice this morning, I hadjudgment for you and me; but believe me, this is no jesting matter, noquestion of right or wrong, but superior power. At all events, open thedoor; give me the key."

  "I may have been to blame," replied Renzo with a softened voice, but inwhich might be perceived smothered anger towards his concealed enemy, "Imay have been to blame, but if you had been in my situation----" Hedrew the key from his pocket, and advanced towards the door.

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

  "I may have been to blame--forgive me," replied Renzo, moving to depart.

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

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

  "Perpetua! Perpetua!" cried Don Abbondio, after having in vain calledback the fugitive. Perpetua did not answer. The poor man was sooverwhelmed by his innumerable difficulties, his increasingperplexities, and so apprehensive of some fresh attack, that heconceived the idea of securing to himself a safe retreat from them all,by going to bed and giving out that he had a fever. His malady, indeed,was not altogether imaginary; the terror of the past day, the anxiouswatching of the night, the dread of the future, had combined toproduce really the effect. Weary and stupified, he slumbered in hislarge chair, muttering occasionally in a feeble but passionate voice,"Perpetua."--Perpetua arrived at last with a great cabbage under herarm, and with as unconcerned a countenance as if nothing had happened.We will spare the reader the reproaches, the accusations, and denialsthat passed between them; it is sufficient that Don Abbondio orderedPerpetua to bolt the door, not to put her foot outside, and if any oneknocked, to reply from the window that the curate was gone to bed with afever. He then slowly ascended the stairs and put himself really in bed,where we will leave him.

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

  These reflections prevailing in his mind, he passed by his own house,which was situated in the centre of the village, and arrived at that ofLucy, which was at the opposite extremity. It had a small court-yard infront, which separated it from the road, and which was encircled by alow wall. Entering the yard, Renzo heard a confused murmur of voices inthe upper chamber; he rightly supposed it to be the wedding company,and he could not resolve to appear before them with such a countenance.A little girl, who was standing at the door, ran towards him, cryingout, "The bridegroom! the bridegroom!" "Hush, Betsy, hush," said Renzo,"come hither; go to Lucy, and whisper in her ear--but let no one hearyou--whisper in her ear, that I wish to speak with her in the lowerchamber, and that she must come at once." The little girl hastilyascended the stairs, proud of having a secret commission to execute.Lucy had just come forth, adorned from the hands of her mother, andsurrounded by her admiring friends. These were playfully endeavouring tosteal a look at the blooming bride; while she, with the timidity ofrustic modesty, attempted to conceal her blushing countenance with herbending arm, from beneath which a smiling mouth nevertheless appeared.Her black tresses, parted on her white forehead, were folded up inmultiplied circles on the back of her head, and fastened with pins ofsilver, projecting on every side like the rays of the sun: this is stillthe custom of the Milanese peasantry. Around her throat she had anecklace of garnets, alternated with beads of gold filagree; she wore aboddice embroidered in flowers, the sleeves tied with ribands; a shortpetticoat of silk, with numerous minute plaits; crimson stockings, andembroidered silk slippers. But beyond all these ornaments was the modestand beautiful joy depicted on her countenance; a joy, however, troubledby a slight shade of anxiety. The little Betsy intruded herself into thecircle, managed to approach Lucy, and communicated her message. "I shallreturn in a moment," said Lucy to her friends, as she hastily quittedthe room. On perceiving the altered and unquiet appearance of Renzo,"What is the matter?" said she, not without a presentiment of evil.

  "Lucy," replied Renzo, "all is at a stand, and God knows whether weshall ever be man and wife!"

  "How!" said Lucy, alarmed. Renzo related briefly the history of themorning; she listened with anguish: when he uttered the name of DonRoderick, "Ah!" exclaimed she, blushing and trembling, "has it then cometo this?"

  "Then you knew!" said Renzo.

  "Too well," replied Lucy.

  "What did you know?"

  "Do not make me speak now, do not make me weep! I'll call my mother anddismiss the company. We must be alone."

  As she departed, Renzo whispered, "And you have never spoken of it tome!"

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

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

  Meanwhile the good Agnes (so the mother of Lucy was called) haddescended the stairs, to ascertain the cause of her daughter'sdisappearance. She remained with Renzo; while Lucy returned to thecompany, and, assuming all the composure she could, said to them, "TheSignor Curate is indisposed, and the wedding cannot take place to-day."The ladies departed, and lost no time in relating amongst the gossips ofthe neighbourhood all that had occurred, while they made particularenquiries respecting the reality of Don Abbondio's sickness. The truthof this cut short the conjectures which they had already begun tointimate by brief and mysterious hints.