The Betrothed. Alessandro Manzoni
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 of Don Abbondio, his constrained and impatient air, his mysterious hints, all combined to convince him there was still something he had not been willing to communicate. He stopped for a moment, debating with himself whether he should not return and compel him to be more frank; raising his eyes, however, he beheld Perpetua entering a little garden a few steps distant from the house. He called to her, quickened his pace, and detaining her at the gate, endeavoured to enter into discourse with her.
“Good day, Perpetua; I expected to have received your congratulations to-day.”
“But it must be as God pleases, my poor Renzo.”
“I want to ask a favour of you: the Signor Curate has offered reasons I cannot comprehend; will you explain to me the true cause why he is unable or unwilling to marry us to-day?”
“Oh! you think then that I know the secrets of my master.”
“I was right in supposing there was a mystery,” thought Renzo. “Come, come, Perpetua,” continued he, “we are friends; tell me what you know—help a poor young man.”
“It is a bad thing to be born poor, my dear Renzo.”
“That is true,” replied he, still more confirmed in his suspicions—“that is true; but it is not becoming in the clergy to behave unjustly to the poor.”
“Hear me, Renzo; I can tell you nothing, because—I know nothing. But I can assure you my master would not wrong you or any one; and he is not to blame.”
“Who then is to blame?” asked Renzo, carelessly, but listening intently for a reply.
“I have told you already I know nothing. But I may be allowed to speak in defence of my master; poor man! if he has erred, it has been through too great kindness. There are in this world men who are overpowerful, knavish, and who fear not God.”
“Overpowerful! knavish!” thought Renzo; “these cannot be his superiors.”—“Come,” said he, with difficulty concealing his increasing agitation, “come, tell me who it is.”
“Ah! you would persuade me to speak, and I must not, because—I know nothing. I will keep silence as faithfully as if I had promised to do so. You might put me to the torture, and you could not draw any thing from me. Adieu! it is lost time for both of us.”
Thus saying, she re-entered the garden hastily, and shut the gate. Renzo turned very softly, lest at the noise of his footsteps she might discern the road he took: when fairly beyond her hearing, he quickened his steps, and in a moment was at the door of Don Abbondio's house; he entered, rushed towards the little parlour where he had left him, and finding him still there, approached him with a bold and furious