The Betrothed. Alessandro Manzoni
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days more the time would arrive, during which marriages were prohibited. “And if I can keep this youngster at bay for a few days, I shall then have two months before me; and in two months who can tell what may happen?” He thought of various pretexts for his purpose; and though they were rather flimsy, he persuaded himself that his authority would give them weight, and that his experience would prevail over the mind of an ignorant youth. “We will see,” said he to himself: “he thinks of his love, but I think of myself; I am, therefore, the party most interested; I must call in all my cunning to assist me. I cannot help it, young man, if you suffer; I must not be the victim.” Having somewhat composed his mind with this determination, he at length fell asleep. But his dreams, alas! how horrible—bravoes, Don Roderick, Renzo, roads, rocks, cries, bullets.
The arousing from sleep, after a recent misfortune, is a bitter moment; the mind at first habitually recurs to its previous tranquillity, but is soon depressed by the thought of the contrast that awaits it. When alive to a sense of his situation, Don Abbondio recapitulated the plans of the night, made a better disposal of them, and after having risen, awaited with dread and impatience the moment of Renzo’s arrival.
Lorenzo, or as he was called, Renzo, did not make him wait long; at an early hour he presented himself before the curate with the joyful readiness of one who was on this day to espouse her whom he loved. He had been deprived of his parents in his youth, and now practised the trade of a weaver of silk, which was, it might be said, hereditary in his family. This trade had once been very lucrative; and although now on the decline, a skilful workman might obtain from it a respectable livelihood. The continual emigration of the tradesmen, attracted to the neighbouring states by promises and privileges, left sufficient employment for those who remained behind. Besides, Renzo possessed a small farm, which he had cultivated himself when otherwise unoccupied; so that, for one of his condition, he might be called wealthy: and although the last harvest had been more deficient than the preceding ones, and the evils of famine were beginning to be felt; yet, from the moment he had given his heart to Lucy, he had been so economical as to preserve a sufficiency of all necessaries, and to be in no danger of wanting bread. He appeared before Don Abbondio gaily dressed, and with a joyful countenance. The mysterious and perplexed manner of the curate formed a singular contrast to that of the handsome young man.
“What is the matter now?” thought Renzo; but without waiting to answer his own question, “Signor Curate,” said he, “I am come to know at what hour of the day it will be convenient for you that we should be at the church?”
“Of what day do you speak?”
“How! of what day? do you not remember that this is the day appointed?”
“To-day?” replied Don Abbondio, as if he heard it for the first time, “to-day? to-day? be patient, I cannot to-day—”
“You cannot to-day? why not?”
“In the first place I am not well—”
“I am sorry for it; but we shall not detain you long, and you will not be much fatigued.”
“But then—but then—”
“But then, what, sir?”
“There are difficulties.”
“Difficulties! How can that be?”
“People should be in our situation, to know how many obstacles there are to these matters; I am too yielding, I think only of removing impediments, of rendering all things easy, and promoting the happiness of others. To do this I neglect my duty, and am covered with reproaches for it.”
“In the name of Heaven, keep me not thus in suspense, but tell me at once what is the matter?”
“Do you know how many formalities are required before the marriage can be celebrated?”
“I must, indeed, know something of them,” said Renzo, beginning to grow angry, “since you have racked my brains with them abundantly these few days back. But are not all things now ready? have you not done all there was to do?”
“All, all, you expect; but be patient, I tell you. I have been a blockhead to neglect my duty, that I might not cause pain to others;—we poor curates—we are, as may be said, ever between a hawk and a buzzard. I pity you, poor young man! I perceive your impatience, but my superiors—Enough, I have reasons for what I say, but I cannot tell all—we, however, are sure to suffer.”
“But tell me what this other formality is, and I will perform it immediately.”
“Do you know how many obstacles stand in the way?”
“How can I know any thing of obstacles?”
“Error, conditio, votum, cognatis, crimen, cultus disparitas, vis, ordo.... Si sit affinis....”
“Oh! for Heaven’s sake—how should I understand all this Latin?”
“Be patient, dear Renzo; I am ready to do—all that depends on me. I—I wish to see you satisfied—I wish you well— And when I think that you were so happy, that you wanted nothing when the whim entered your head to be married—”
“What words are these, Signor?” interrupted Renzo, with a look of astonishment and anger.
“I say, do be patient—I say, I wish to see you happy. In short—in short, my dear child, I have not been in fault; I did not make the laws. Before concluding a marriage, we are required to search closely that there be no obstacles.”
“Now, I beseech you, tell me at once what difficulty has occurred?”
“Be patient—these are not points to be cleared up in an instant. There will be nothing, I hope; but whether or not, we must search into the matter. The passage is clear and explicit,—‘antiquam matrimonium denunciet—‘”
“I’ll not hear your Latin.”
“But it is necessary to explain to you—”
“But why not do this before? Why tell me all was prepared? Why wait—”
“See there now! to reproach me with my kindness! I have hastened every thing to serve you; but—but there has occurred—well, well, I know—”
“And what do you wish that I should do?”
“Be patient for a few days. My dear child, a few days are not eternity; be patient.”
“For how long a time then?”
“We are coming to a good conclusion,” thought Don Abbondio. “Come,” said he, gently, “in fifteen days I will endeavour—”
“Fifteen days! Oh! this is something new. To tell me now, on the very day you yourself appointed for my marriage, that I must wait fifteen days! Fifteen,” resumed he, with a low and angry voice.
Don Abbondio interrupted him, earnestly seizing his hand, and with an imploring tone beseeching him to be quiet. “Come, come, don’t be angry; for the love of Heaven! I’ll see, I’ll see if in a week—”
“And what shall I say to Lucy?” said Renzo, softening.
“That it has been a mistake of mine.”
“And to the world?”
“Say also it is my fault; that through too great haste I have made some great blunder: throw all the blame on me. Can I do more than this? Come in a week.”
“And then there will be no further difficulties?”
“When I say a thing—”
“Well, well, I will be quiet for a week; but be assured, I will be put off with no further excuses:—for the present, I take my leave.” So saying, he departed, making a bow to Don Abbondio less profound than usual, and giving him a look more expressive than respectful.
With a heavy heart he approached the house of his betrothed, his mind dwelling on the strange conversation which had just taken place. The cold and embarrassed reception