The Betrothed. Alessandro Manzoni
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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.