I promessi sposi. English

by Alessandro Manzoni

  CHAPTER XXV.

  The next morning, in the village of Lucy, and throughout all theterritory of Lecco, nothing was talked of but herself, the Unknown, thearchbishop, and another person, who, although generally desirous to betalked of, would willingly have been forgotten on this occasion,--wemean Don Roderick.

  Not that, previous to this period, the villagers had not conversed muchof his actions, in secret, to those in whom they had perfect confidence;but now they could no longer contain themselves, nor surpress manyenquiries on the marvellous events in which two persons so famous hadplayed a part. In comparison of these two personages, Signor DonRoderick appeared rather insignificant, and all agreed in rejoicing overthe ill success of his iniquitous designs; but these rejoicings werestill, in some measure, moderated by fears of the _bravoes_ by whom hewas surrounded.

  A good portion of the public censure was bestowed on his friends andcourtiers. It did not spare the Signor _Podesta_, always deaf and dumband blind to the deeds of this tyrant, but these opinions were expressedin an under-tone, because the _Podesta_ had his officers. Such regardwas not paid to Doctor _Azzecca Garbugli_, who had only his _tricks_ andhis _verbiage_ to employ for his defence; and as to the whole tribe ofsycophants, resembling him, they were so pointed at, and eyed askance,that for some time they thought it most prudent to keep themselveswithin doors.

  Don Roderick, struck, as by a thunderbolt, with the unexpectedintelligence, so different from that which he had been anticipating fromday to day, kept himself shut up in his castle, alone with his bravoes,devouring his rage for the space of two days, and on the third set offfor Milan. If there had only existed the murmurs of the people,notwithstanding things had gone so far, he would perhaps have remainedexpressly to brave them; but he felt himself compelled to quit the fieldof contest, by the certain information that the cardinal was coming tothe village. The count, his uncle, who knew nothing of the story butwhat Attilio had told him, would certainly require him to be one of thefirst to visit the cardinal, in order to obtain in public the mostdistinguished reception from him. The count would require it, because itwas an important opportunity for making known in what esteem the housewas held by his powerful eminence. To escape such a dilemma, DonRoderick, having risen before the sun, threw himself into a carriagewith Griso, and, followed by the rest of the _bravoes_, retired like afugitive, like (if we may be permitted to elevate him by such acomparison), like Catiline from Rome, foaming with rage, and threateninga speedy return to accomplish his revenge.

  Meanwhile the cardinal approached, visiting every day one of theparishes situated in the territory of Lecco. On the day he was expectedin the village, great preparations were made for his reception. At theentrance of the village, near the cottage of Agnes, a triumphal arch waserected, constructed of wood, covered with moss and straw, andornamented with green boughs of birch and holly. The front of the churchwas adorned with tapestry; from every window of the houses weresuspended quilts and sheets, intended for drapery; every thing, inshort, whether in good taste or bad, was displayed in honour of thisextraordinary occasion. At the hour of vespers (which was the hourFrederick usually selected to arrive at the churches which he visited),those who had not gone to church, the old men, women, and the youngestof the children, went forth, in procession, to meet their expectedguest, headed by Don Abbondio. The poor curate was sad in the midst ofthe public joy; the tumult bewildered him; the movement of so manypeople, before and behind, disturbed him; and, moreover, he wastormented by the secret apprehension that the women had tattled, andthat he should be obliged to render an account of his conduct to thecardinal.

  Frederick appeared at last, or rather the crowd appeared, in the midstof which was his litter, and the retinue surrounding it. The persons whofollowed Don Abbondio scattered and mingled themselves with the crowd,notwithstanding all his remonstrances; and he, poor man, finding himselfdeserted by them, went to the church, there to await the cardinal'sapproach.

  The cardinal advanced, bestowing benedictions with his hands, andreceiving them in return from the mouths of the people, who were withdifficulty kept back by his attendants. Being of the same village asLucy, these peasants were desirous of rendering to the archbishoppeculiar demonstrations of respect, but this was not practicable,inasmuch as, wherever he went, he was received with every possiblehonour. In the very commencement of his pontificate, at his first solemnentrance into the cathedral, the concourse had been so great that hislife was in peril. Some gentlemen, who were near him, drew their swordsto keep back and alarm the crowd. Such was the rude violence of thetimes, that even in the general disposition to do honour to theirarchbishop, they were on the point of crushing him: and this defencewould not have been sufficient, if two priests, of great vigour andpresence of mind, had not raised him in their arms, and carried him fromthe church door to the foot of the great altar. His very first entranceinto the church, therefore, might be recorded amidst his pastorallabours and the dangers he had run.

  Entering the church, the cardinal advanced to the altar, and afterhaving prayed some time, he addressed, as was his custom, some words tothe people, on his love for them, on his desire for their salvation, andhow they should dispose their minds for the duties of the morrow. Hethen withdrew to the house of the curate, and among other questionswhich he put to him, he interrogated him with regard to the characterand conduct of Renzo. Don Abbondio replied that he was rather cholericand obstinate: but as the cardinal made more special and preciseenquiries, he was obliged to confess that he was an honest peaceableyouth, and even he himself could not comprehend how he had committed atMilan the conduct which had been imputed to him.

  "As to the young girl," continued the cardinal, "do you think she canreturn now with safety to her house?"

  "At present," replied Don Abbondio, "she can come and remain for awhile. I say, at present, but," added he with a sigh, "your illustriouslordship should be always near at hand."

  "God is always present," said the cardinal. "But I will use my effortsto secure a place of safety for her."

  Before dismissing Don Abbondio, he ordered him to send a litter, on thefollowing day, for Lucy and her mother.

  Don Abbondio went away quite pleased that the cardinal had talked to himof the young couple, without even alluding to his refusal to marry them."He knows nothing of it," said he; "Agnes has kept silence! wonderful!She will see him again, 'tis true, but she shall have furtherinstructions from me, so she shall." He little thought, poor man, thatFrederick had only deferred the enquiry until he should have moreleisure to learn the reasons of his conduct.

  But the solicitude of the good prelate for the disposal of Lucy had beenrendered useless, by a circumstance which we will relate.

  The two females had as far as possible resumed, for the few days theyhad to pass under the hospitable roof of the tailor, their usual mannerof life. As she had done at the monastery, Lucy, in a small chamberapart, employed herself in sewing; and Agnes, keeping much at home,remained for the most part with her daughter. Their conversations wereaffectionate and sorrowful; both were prepared for a separation, sincethe sheep could not dwell in the neighbourhood of the wolf. But how longwas this separation to continue? The future was dark and inexplicable,but Agnes, notwithstanding, was full of agreeable anticipation. "Afterall," said she, "if no irreparable misfortune has befallen Renzo, weshall soon hear from him. If he has found employment, (and who can doubtit?) and if he keeps the faith he has sworn to you, why cannot we go andlive with him?" Her daughter felt as much sorrow in listening to herhopes, as difficulty in replying to them. She still kept her secret inher heart; and although troubled at the idea of concealment with so gooda mother, she was nevertheless restrained by a thousand fears fromcommunicating it. Her plans were, indeed, very different from those ofher mother, or rather, she had none, having committed the future intothe hands of Providence; she therefore endeavoured to change thesubject, saying in general terms that her only hope was to bepermanently re-united to her mother.

  "Do you
know why you feel thus?" said Agnes; "you have suffered so much,that it seems impossible to you that things can turn out happily. Butlet God work; and if---- Let a ray of hope come--a single ray, and thenwe shall see that you will think differently."

  Lucy and her mother entertained a lively friendship for their kindhosts, which was warmly reciprocated; and between whom can friendshipexist more in its purity, than between the benefactor and the recipientsof the benefit, when both have kind hearts! Agnes, especially, had longgossips with the mistress of the house, and the tailor afforded themmuch amusement by his tales and moral discourses; at dinner particularlyhe had always something to relate of the sword of Roland, or of theFathers of the Thebaid.

  At some miles' distance from the village there dwelt a certain DonFerrante, and Donna Prassede his wife; the latter was a woman of highbirth, somewhat advanced in age, and exceedingly inclined to do good;which is surely the most praiseworthy employment one can be engaged onin this world; but which, indulged in without judgment, may be renderedhurtful, like all other good things. To do good, we must have correctideas of good in itself considered, and this can be acquired only bycontrol over our own hearts. Donna Prassede governed herself with herideas, as some do with their friends; she had very few, but to these shewas much attached. Among these few, were a number unfortunately a littlenarrow and unreasonable, and they were not those she loved the least.Thence it happened that she regarded things as good, which were notreally so, and that she used means which were calculated to promote thevery opposite of that which she intended; to this perversion of herintellect may also be attributed the fact, that she esteemed allmeasures to be lawful to her who was bent on the performance of duty. Inshort, with good intentions, her moral perceptions were in no smalldegree distorted. Hearing the wonderful story of Lucy, she was seizedwith a desire to know her, and immediately sent her carriage for themother and daughter. Lucy, having no desire to go, requested the tailorto find some excuse for her; if they had been _common people_, whodesired to make her acquaintance, the tailor would willingly haverendered her the service, but, under such circumstances, refusalappeared to him a species of insult. He uttered so many exclamations,such as, that it was not customary--that it was a high family--that itwas out of the question to say _No_ to such people--that it might maketheir fortune--and that, in addition to all this, Donna Prassede was asaint,--that Lucy was finally obliged to yield, especially as Agnesseconded the remonstrances and arguments of the tailor.

  The high-born dame received them with many congratulations; shequestioned and advised them with an air of conscious superiority, whichwas, however, tempered by so many soft and humble expressions, andmingled with so much zeal and devotion, that Agnes and Lucy soon feltthemselves relieved from the painful restraint her mere presence had atfirst imposed on them. In brief, Donna Prassede, learning that thecardinal wished to procure an asylum for Lucy, and impelled by thedesire to second, and at the same time to anticipate, his goodintention, offered to take the young girl to her house, where therewould be no other service required of her than to direct the labours ofthe needle or the spindle. She added, that she herself would inform thecardinal of the arrangement.

  Besides the obvious and ordinary benefit conferred by her invitation,Donna Prassede proposed to herself another, which she deemed to bepeculiarly important; this was to school impatience, and to place in theright path a young creature who had much need of guidance. The firsttime she heard Lucy spoken of, she was immediately persuaded that in oneso young, who had betrothed herself to a robber, a criminal, a fugitivefrom justice such as Renzo, there must be some corruption, someconcealed vice. "_Tell me what company you keep, and I will tell you whoyou are._" The visit of Lucy had confirmed her opinion; she appeared,indeed, to be an artless girl, but who could tell the cause of herdowncast looks and timid replies? There was no great effort of mindnecessary to perceive that the maiden had opinions of her own. Herblushes, sighs, and particularly her large and beautiful eyes, did notplease Donna Prassede at all. She regarded it as certain as if she hadbeen told it by having authority, that the misfortunes of Lucy were apunishment from Heaven for her connection with that villain, and awarning to withdraw herself from him entirely. That settled thedetermination to lend her co-operation to further so desirable a work;for as she frequently said to herself and others, "Was it not herconstant study to second the will of Heaven?" But, alas! she often fellinto the terrible mistake of taking for the will of Heaven, the vainimaginings of her own brain. However, she was on the present occasionvery careful not to exhibit any of her proposed intentions. It was oneof her maxims, that the first rule to be observed in accomplishing agood design, is to keep your motives to yourself.

  Excepting the painful necessity of separation the offer appeared to bothmother and daughter very inviting, were it only on account of the shortdistance from the castle to their village. Reading in each other'scountenance their mutual assent, they accepted with many thanks thekindness of Donna Prassede, who renewing her kind promises, said shewould soon send them a letter to present to the cardinal. The twofemales having departed, she requested Don Ferrante to write a letter,who, being a literary and learned man, was employed as her secretary onoccasions of importance. In an affair of this sort, Don Ferrante did hisbest, and he gave the original to his wife in order that she could copyit; he warmly recommended to her an attention to the orthography, asorthography was among the great number of things he had studied, andamong the small number over which he had control in his family. Theletter was forthwith copied and sent to the tailor's house. These eventsoccurred a few days before the cardinal had despatched a litter to bringthe mother and daughter to their abode.

  Upon their arrival they went to the parsonage; orders having been leftfor their immediate admittance to the presence of the cardinal. Thechaplain, who conducted them thither, gave them many instructions withregard to the ceremony to be used with him, and the titles to be givenhim; it was a continual torment to the poor man to behold the littleceremony that reigned around the good archbishop in this respect. "Thisresults," he was accustomed to say, "from the excessive goodness of thisblessed man--from his great familiarity." And he added that he had "evenheard people address him with _Yes, sir_, and _No, sir_!"

  At this moment, the cardinal was conversing with Don Abbondio on theaffairs of his parish; so that the latter had no opportunity to repeathis instructions to the females; however, in passing by them as theyentered, he gave them a glance, to make them comprehend that he was wellsatisfied with them, and that they should continue, like honest andworthy women, to keep silence.

  After the first reception, Agnes drew from her bosom the letter of DonnaPrassede, and gave it to the cardinal, saying, "It is from the SignoraDonna Prassede, who says that she knows your illustrious lordship well,my lord, as naturally is the case with great people. When you have read,you will see."

  "It is well," said Frederick, after having read the letter, andextracted its meaning from the trash of Don Ferrante's flowers ofrhetoric. He knew the family well enough to be certain that Lucy hadbeen invited into it with good intentions, and that she would besheltered from the snares and violence of her persecutor. As to hisopinion of Donna Prassede, we do not know it precisely; probably she wasnot a person he would have chosen for Lucy's protectress; but it was nothis habit to undo things, apparently ordered by Providence, in order todo them better.

  "Submit, without regret, to this separation also, and to the suspense inwhich you are left," said he. "Hope for the best, and confide in God!and be persuaded, that all that He sends you, whether of joy or sorrow,will be for your permanent good." Having received the benediction whichhe bestowed on them, they took their leave.

  Hardly had they reached the street, when they were surrounded by a swarmof friends, who were expecting them, and who conducted them in triumphto their house. Their female acquaintances congratulated them,sympathised with them, and overwhelmed them with enquiries. Learningthat Lucy was to depart on the following morning, they broke
forth inexclamations of regret and disappointment. The men disputed with eachother the privilege of offering their services; each wished to remainfor the night to guard their cottage, which reminds us of a proverb;"_If you would have people willing to confer favours on you, be sure notto need them._" This warmth of reception served a little to withdrawLucy from the painful recollections which crowded upon her mind, at thesight of her loved home.

  At the sound of the bell which announced the commencement of theceremonies, all moved towards the church. The ceremonies over, DonAbbondio, who had hastened home to see every thing arranged forbreakfast, was told that the cardinal wished to speak with him. Heproceeded to the chamber of his illustrious guest, who accosted him ashe entered, with "Signor Curate, why did you not unite in marriage, Lucyto her betrothed?"

  "They have emptied the sack this morning," thought Don Abbondio, and hestammered forth, "Your illustrious lordship has no doubt heard of allthe difficulties of that business. It has been such an intricate affair,that it cannot even now be seen into clearly. Your illustrious lordshipknows that the young girl is here, only by a miracle; and that no onecan tell where the young man is."

  "I ask if it is true, that, before these unhappy events, you refused tocelebrate the marriage on the day agreed upon? and why you did so?"

  "Truly--if your illustrious lordship knew--what terrible orders Ireceived--" and he stopped, indicating by his manner, thoughrespectfully, that it would be imprudent in the cardinal to enquirefarther.

  "But," said Frederick, in a tone of much more gravity than he wasaccustomed to employ, "it is your bishop, who, from a sense of duty, andfor your own justification, would learn from you, why you have not donethat which, in the ordinary course of events, it was your strict duty todo?"

  "My lord," said Don Abbondio, "I do not mean to say,--but it appears tome, that as these things are now without remedy, it is useless to stirthem up--However, however, I say, that I am sure your illustriouslordship would not betray a poor curate, because, you see, my lord, yourillustrious lordship cannot be every where present, and I--I remainhere, exposed--However, if you order me, I will tell all."

  "Speak; I ask for nothing but to find you free from blame."

  Don Abbondio then related his melancholy story, suppressing the name ofthe principal personage, and substituting in its place, "_a greatlord_,"--thus giving to prudence the little that was left him in such anextremity.

  "And you had no other motive?" asked the cardinal, after having heardhim through.

  "Perhaps I have not clearly explained myself. It was under pain of deaththat they ordered me not to perform the ceremony."

  "And this reason appeared sufficient to prevent the fulfilment of arigorous duty?"

  "I know my obligation is to do my duty, even to my greatest detriment;but when life is at stake----"

  "And when you presented yourself to the church," said Frederick, withincreased severity of manner, "to be admitted to the holy ministry, werethere any such reservations made? Were you told that the duties imposedby the ministry were free from every obstacle, exempt from every peril?Were you told that personal safety was to be the guide and limit of yourduty? Were you not told expressly the reverse of all this? Were you notwarned that you were sent as a lamb among wolves? Did you not even thenknow that there were violent men in the world, who would oppose you inthe performance of your duty? He, whose example should be our guide, inimitation of whom we call ourselves shepherds, when he came on earth toaccomplish the designs of his benevolence, did he pay regard to his ownsafety? And if your object be to preserve your miserable existence, atthe expense of charity and duty, there was no necessity for yourreceiving holy unction, and entering into the priesthood. The worldimparts this virtue, teaches this doctrine. What do I say? O shame! theworld itself rejects it. It has likewise its laws, which prescribe good,and prohibit evil; it has also its gospel, a gospel of pride and hatred,which will not admit the love of life to be offered as a plea for thetransgression of its laws. It commands, and is obeyed; but we, wechildren and messengers of the promise! what would become of the church,if your language was held by all your brethren? Where would she now be,if she had originally come forth with such doctrines?"

  Don Abbondio hung down his head; he felt under the weight of thesearguments as a chicken under the talons of a hawk, who holds himsuspended in an unknown region, in an atmosphere he had never beforebreathed. Seeing that a reply was necessary, he said, more alarmed thanconvinced,--

  "My lord, I have done wrong; since we should pay no regard to life, Ihave nothing more to say. But when one has to do with certain powerfulpeople, who will not listen to reason, I do not see what is to be gainedby carrying things with a high hand."

  "And know you not that our gain is to suffer for the sake of justice? Ifyou are ignorant of this, what is it you preach? What do you teach? Whatis the _good news_ which you proclaim to the poor? Who has required thisat your hand, to overcome force by force? Certainly you will not beasked at the day of judgment, if you have vanquished the powerful, foryou have neither had the commission nor the means to do so. But, you_will_ be asked, if you have employed the means which have been placedin your power, to do that which was prescribed to you, even when man hadthe temerity to forbid it."

  "These saints are odd creatures," thought Don Abbondio; "extract theessence of this discourse, and it will be found that he has more atheart the love of two young people, than the life of a priest." He wouldhave been delighted to have had the conversation terminate here, but hewell perceived that such was not the intention of the cardinal, whoappeared to be waiting a reply, or apology, or something of the kind.

  "I say, my lord," replied he, "that I have done wrong--We cannot giveourselves courage."

  "And why, then, I might say to you, have you undertaken a ministry whichimposes on you the task of warring with the passions of the world? But,I will rather say, how is it that you have forgotten, that where courageis necessary to fulfil the obligations of this holy vocation, the MostHigh would assuredly impart it to you, were you earnestly to implore it?Do you think the millions of martyrs had courage naturally? that theyhad naturally a contempt for life, young Christians who had just begunto taste its charms, children, mothers! All had courage, simply becausecourage was necessary, and they trusted in God to impart it. Knowingyour own weakness, have you ever thought of preparing yourself for thedifficult situations in which you might be placed? Ah! if, during somany years of pastoral care, you had loved your flock, (and how couldyou refrain from loving them?) if you had reposed in them youraffections, your dearest cares, your greatest delights, you would nothave failed in courage: love is intrepid; if you had loved those whowere committed to your spiritual guardianship, those whom you callchildren--if you had really loved them, when you beheld two of themthreatened at the same time with yourself. Ah! certainly, charity wouldhave made you tremble for them, as the weakness of the flesh made youtremble for yourself. You would have humbled yourself before God forthe first risings of selfish terror; you would have considered it atemptation, and have implored strength to resist it. But, you would haveeagerly listened to the holy and noble anxiety for the safety of others,for the safety of your children; you would have been unable to find amoment of repose; you would have been impelled, constrained to do allthat you could to avert the evil that threatened them. With what thenhas this love, this anxiety, inspired you? What have you done for them?How have you been engaged in their service?"

  And he paused for a reply.