The Betrothed. Alessandro Manzoni
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magistrate, and, if questioned by any of the gossips of the villagers, to maintain a perfect silence on pain of death.
Our fugitives for a while continued their flight, rapidly and silently, utterly overwhelmed by the fatigue of their flight, by their late anxiety, by vexation and disappointment at their failure, and a confused apprehension of some future danger. As the sound of the bell died away on the ear, they slackened their pace. Agnes, gathering breath and courage, first broke the silence, by asking Renzo what had been done at the curate’s? He related briefly his melancholy story. “And who,” said she to Menico, “was the devil in the house? What did you mean by that?” The boy narrated that of which he had been an eye-witness, and which imparted a mingled feeling of alarm and gratitude to the minds of his auditors,—alarm at the obstinacy of Don Roderick in pursuing his purpose, and gratitude that they had thus escaped his snares. They caressed affectionately the boy who had been placed in so great danger on their account: Renzo gave him a piece of money in addition to the new coin already promised, and desired him to say nothing of the message given him by Father Christopher. “Now, return home,” said Agnes, “because thy family will be anxious about thee: you have been a good boy; go home, and pray the Lord that we may soon meet again.” The boy obeyed, and our travellers advanced in silence. Lucy kept close to her mother, dexterously but gently declining the arm of her lover. She felt abashed, even in the midst of all this confusion, at having been so long and so familiarly alone with him, while expecting that a few moments longer would have seen her his wife: but this dream had vanished, and she felt most sensitively the apparent indelicacy of their situation. They at length reached the open space before the church of the convent. Renzo advanced towards the door, and pushed it gently. It opened, and they beheld, by the light of the moon, which then fell upon his pallid face and silvery beard, the form of Father Christopher, who was there in anxious expectation of their arrival. “God be thanked!” said he, as they entered. By his side stood a capuchin, whose office was that of sexton to the church, whom he had persuaded to leave the door half open, and to watch with him. He had been very unwilling to submit to this inconvenient and dangerous condescension, which it required all the authority of the holy father to overcome; but, perceiving who the company were, he could endure no longer. Taking the father aside, he whispered, to him, “But Father—Father—at night—in the church—with women—shut—the rules—but Father!—” “Omnia munda mundis,” replied he, turning meekly to Friar Fazio, and forgetting that he did not understand Latin. But this forgetfulness was exactly the most fortunate thing in the world. If the father had produced arguments, Friar Fazio would not have failed to oppose them; but these mysterious words, he concluded, must contain a solution of all his doubts. He acquiesced, saying, “Very well; you know more than I do.”
Father Christopher then turned to our little company, who were standing in suspense, by the light of a lamp which was flickering before the altar. “Children,” said he, “thank the Lord, who has preserved you from great peril. Perhaps at this moment—” and he entered into an explanation of the reasons which had induced him to send for them to the convent, little suspecting that they knew more than he did, and supposing that Menico had found them tranquil at their home, before the arrival of the robbers. No one undeceived him, not even Lucy, although suffering the keenest anguish at practising dissimulation with such a man; but it was a night of confusion and duplicity.
“Now,” continued he, “you perceive, my children, that this country is no longer safe for you. It is your country, I know; you were born here; you have wronged no one: but such is the will of God! It is a trial, children, support it with patience, with faith, without murmuring; and be assured, there will come a day, in which you will see the wisdom of all that now befalls you. I have procured you a refuge for a season, and I hope you will soon be able to return safely to your home; at all events, God will provide, and I his minister will faithfully exert myself to serve you, my poor persecuted children. You,” continued he, turning to the females, “can remain at —. There you will be beyond danger, and yet not far from home; go to our convent in that place, ask for the superior, give him this letter, he will be to you another Friar Christopher. And thou, my Renzo, thou must place thyself in safety from the impetuosity of others, and your own. Carry this letter to Father Bonaventura, of Lodi, in our convent at the eastern gate of Milan; he will be to you a father, will advise you, and find you work, until you can return to live here tranquilly. Now, go to the border of the lake, near the mouth of the Bione” (a stream a short distance from the convent); “you will see there a small boat fastened; you must say, ‘A boat;’ you will be asked for whom, answer, ‘Saint Francis.’ The boatman will receive you, will take you to the other side, where you will find a carriage, which will conduct you to —. If any one should ask how Father Christopher came to have at his disposal such means of transport by land and by water, he would show little knowledge of the power possessed by a capuchin who held the reputation of a saint.”
The charge of the houses remained to be thought of; the father received the keys of them; Agnes, on consigning hers, thought with a sigh, that there was no need of keys, the house was open, the devil had been there, and it was doubtful if there remained any thing to be cared for.
“Before you go,” said the father, “let us pray together to the Lord, that he may be with you in this journey, and always, and above all, that he may give you strength to submit cheerfully to that which he has ordained.” So saying, he knelt down; all did the same. Having prayed a few moments in silence, he pronounced with a low but distinct voice the following words: “We pray thee also for the wretched man who has brought us to this state. We should be unworthy of thy mercy if we did not earnestly solicit it for him: he has most need of it. We, in our sorrow, have the consolation of trusting in thee; we can still offer thee our supplications, with thankfulness. But he—he is an enemy to thee! Oh wretched man! He dares to strive against thee: have pity on him, O Lord! touch his heart, soften his rebellious will, and bestow on him all the good we would desire for ourselves.”
Rising hastily, he then said, “Away, my children, there is no time to lose; God will go with you, his angel protect you: away.” They kept silence from emotion, and as they departed, the father added, “My heart tells me we shall soon meet again.” Without waiting for a reply, he retired; the travellers pursued their way to the appointed spot, found the boat, gave and received the watchword, and entered into it. The boatmen made silently for the opposite shore: there was not a breath of wind; the lake lay polished and smooth in the moonlight, agitated only by the dipping of the oars, which quivered in its gleam. The waves breaking on the sands of the shore, were heard deadly and slowly at a distance, mingled with the rippling of the waters between the pillars of the bridge.
The silent passengers cast a melancholy look behind at the mountains and the landscape, illumined by the moon, and varied by multitudes of shadows. They discerned villages, houses, cottages; the palace of Don Roderick, raised above the huts that crowded the base of the promontory, like a savage prowling in the dark over his slumbering prey. Lucy beheld it, and shuddered; then cast a glance beyond the declivity, towards her own little home, and beheld the top of the fig-tree which towered in the court-yard; moved at the sight, she buried her face in her hands, and wept in silence.
Farewell, ye mountains, source of waters! farewell to your varied summits, familiar as the faces of friends! ye torrents, whose voices have been heard from infancy! Farewell! how melancholy the destiny of one, who, bred up amid your scenes, bids you farewell! If voluntarily departing with the hope of future gain at this moment, the dream of wealth loses its attraction, his resolution falters, and he would fain remain with you, were it not for the hope of benefiting you by his prosperity. The more he advances into the level country, the more his view becomes wearied with its uniform extent; the air appears heavy and lifeless: he proceeds sorrowfully and thoughtfully into the tumultuous city; houses crowded against houses, street uniting with street, appears to deprive him of the power to breathe; and in front of edifices admired by strangers, he stops to recall, with restless desire, the image of the field and the cottage which had long been the object of his wishes, and which, on his return to his mountains, he will make his own, should he acquire the wealth of which he is in pursuit.
But how much more sorrowful the moment of separation to him, who, having never sent a transient wish beyond the mountains, feels that they comprise the limit of his earthly hopes, and yet is driven from them by an adverse