The Betrothed. Alessandro Manzoni
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draw upon themselves the animadversion of all the capuchins of the universe for this relinquishment of the rights of the order, this defiance of the ecclesiastical authorities, who then considered themselves the guardians of these rights. On the other hand, the family of the deceased, rich, and powerful in adherents, were determined on vengeance, and disposed to consider as enemies whoever should place obstacles to its accomplishment. History declares, not that they grieved much for the dead, or that a single tear was shed for him amongst his whole race, but that they were urged on by scenting the blood of his opponent. But Ludovico, by assuming the habit of a capuchin, removed all difficulties: to a certain degree he made atonement; imposed on himself penitence; confessed his fault; withdrew from the contest; he was, in short, an enemy who laid down his arms. The relations of the deceased could, if they pleased, believe and boast that he had become a friar through despair and dread of their revenge. And at all events, to reduce a man to dispossess himself of his wealth, to shave his head, to walk bare-footed, to sleep on straw, and to live on alms, might appear a punishment competent to the offence.
The superior presented himself before the brother of the deceased with an air of humility; after a thousand protestations of respect for his illustrious house, and of desire to comply with its wishes as far as was practicable, he spoke of the repentance and resolution of Ludovico, politely hoping that the family would grant their accordance; and then insinuating, mildly and dexterously, that, agreeable or not agreeable, the thing would take place. After some little vapouring, he agreed to it on one condition; that the murderer of his brother should depart immediately from the city. To this the capuchin assented, as if in obedience to the wishes of the family, although it had been already so determined. The affair was thus concluded to the satisfaction of the illustrious house, of the capuchin brotherhood, of the popular feeling, and, above all, of our generous penitent himself. Thus, at thirty years of age, Ludovico bade farewell to the world; and having, according to custom, to change his name, he took one which would continually recall to him his crime,—thus he became Friar Christopher!
Hardly was the ceremony of assuming the habit completed, when the superior informed him he must depart on the morrow to perform his noviciate at —, sixty miles’ distance. The noviciate bowed submissively. “Permit me, father,” said he, “before I leave the scene of my crime, to do all that rests with me now to repair the evil; permit me to go to the house of the brother of him whom I have murdered, to acknowledge my fault, and ask forgiveness; perhaps God will take away his but too just resentment.”
It appeared to the superior that such an act, besides being praiseworthy in itself, would serve still more to reconcile the family to the monastery. He therefore bore the request himself to the brother of the murdered man; a proposal so unexpected was received with a mixture of scorn and complacency. “Let him come to-morrow,” said he, and appointed the hour. The superior returned to Father Christopher with the desired permission.
The gentleman reflected that the more solemn and public the apology was, the more it would enhance his credit with the family and the world; he made known in haste to the members of the family, that on the following day they should assemble at his house to receive a common satisfaction. At mid-day the palace swarmed with nobility of either sex; there was a blending of veils, feathers, and jewels; a heavy motion of starched and crisped bands; a confused entangling of embroidered trains. The antechambers, the courts, and the street, were crowded with servants, pages, and bravoes.
Father Christopher experienced a momentary agitation at beholding all this preparation, but recovering himself, said, “It is well; the deed was committed in public, the reparation should be public.” Then, with his eyes bent to the earth, and the father, his companion, at his elbow, he crossed the court, amidst a crowd who eyed him with unceremonious curiosity; he entered, ascended the stairs, and passing through another crowd of lords, who made way for him at his approach, he advanced towards the master of the mansion, who stood in the middle of the room waiting to receive him, with downcast looks, grasping with one hand the hilt of his sword, and with the other pressing the cape of his Spanish cloak on his breast. The countenance and deportment of Father Christopher made an immediate impression on the company; so that all were convinced that he had not submitted to this humiliation from fear of man. He threw himself on his knees before him whom he had most injured, crossed his hands on his breast, and bending his head, exclaimed, “I am the murderer of your brother! God knows, that to restore him to life I would sacrifice my own; but as this cannot be, I supplicate you to accept my useless and late apology, for the love of God!”
All eyes were fixed in breathless and mute attention on the novice, and on the person to whom he addressed himself; there was heard through the crowd a murmur of pity and respect; the angry scorn of the nobleman relaxed at this appeal, and bending towards the kneeling supplicant, “Rise,” said he, with a troubled voice. “The offence—the deed truly—but the habit you wear—not only this—but on your own account—rise, father!—my brother—I cannot deny it—was a cavalier—of a hasty temper. Do not speak of it again. But, father, you must not remain in this posture.” And he took him by the arm to raise him. Father Christopher, standing with his eyes still bent to the ground, continued, “I may, then, hope that you have granted me your pardon. And if I obtain it from you, from whom may I not expect it? Oh! if I could hear you utter the word!”
“Pardon!” said the nobleman; “I pardon you with all my heart, and all—” turning to the company—“All! all!” resounded at once through the room.
The countenance of the father expanded with joy, under which, however, was still visible an humble and profound compunction for the evil, which the remission of men could not repair. The nobleman, entirely vanquished, threw his arms around his neck, and the kiss of peace was given and received.
Loud exclamations of applause burst from the company; and all crowded eagerly around the father. In the meanwhile the servants entered, bearing refreshments; the master of the mansion, again addressing Father Christopher, said, “Father, afford me a proof of your friendship by accepting some of these trifles.”
“Such things are no longer for me,” replied the father; “but if you will allow me a loaf of bread, as a memorial of your charity and your forgiveness, I shall be thankful.” The bread was brought, and with an air of humble gratitude he put it in his basket. He then took leave of the company; disentangled himself with difficulty from the crowd in the antechambers, who would have kissed the hem of his garment, and pursued his way to the gate of the city, whence he commenced his pedestrian journey towards the place of his noviciate.
It is not our design to write the history of his cloistral life; we will only say, he executed faithfully the offices ordinarily assigned to him, of preaching, and of comforting the dying; but beyond these, “the oppressor’s wrongs, the proud man’s contumely,” aroused in him a spirit of resistance which humiliation and remorse had not been able entirely to extinguish. His countenance was habitually mild and humble, but occasionally there passed over it a shade of former impetuosity, which was with difficulty restrained by the high and holy motives which now predominated in his soul. His tone of voice was gentle as his countenance; but in the cause of justice and truth, his language assumed a character of solemnity and emphasis singularly impressive. One who knew him well, and admired his virtues, could often perceive, by the smothered utterance or the change of a single word, the inward conflict between the natural impetus and the resolved will, which latter never failed to gain the mastery.
If one unknown to him in the situation of Lucy had implored his assistance, he would have granted it immediately; with how much more solicitude, then, did he direct his steps to the cottage, knowing and admiring her innocence, trembling for her danger, and experiencing a lively indignation at the persecution of which she had become the object. Besides, he had advised her to remain quiet, and not make known the conduct of her persecutor, and he felt or feared that his advice might have been productive of bad consequences. His anxiety for her welfare, and his inadequate means to secure it, called up many painful feelings, which the good often experience.
But while we have been relating his history, he arrived at the dwelling; Agnes and her daughter advanced eagerly towards him, exclaiming in one breath, “Oh! Father Christopher, you are welcome.”
Chapter V.