The Betrothed. Alessandro Manzoni
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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,