The Betrothed. Alessandro Manzoni
personage?” said Renzo, with the air of one resolved to obtain an explicit answer; “who is he that forbids me to marry Lucy?”
“What! what! what!” stammered Don Abbondio, turning pale with surprise. He arose from his chair, and made an effort to reach the door. But Renzo, who expected this movement, was upon his guard; and locking the door, he put the key in his pocket.
“Ah! will you speak now, Signor Curate? Every one knows the affair but myself; and, by heavens! I'll know it too. Who is it, I say?”
“Renzo, Renzo, for the love of charity, take care what you do; think of your soul.”
“I must know it at once—this moment.” So saying, he placed his hand on his dagger, but perhaps without intending it.
“Mercy!” exclaimed Don Abbondio, in a stifled voice.
“I must know it.”
“Who has told you?”
“Come, no more excuses. Speak plainly and quickly.”
“Do you mean to kill me?”
“I mean to know that which I have a right to know.”
“But if I speak, I die. Must I not preserve my life?”
“Speak, then.”
The manner of Renzo was so threatening and decided, that Don Abbondio felt there was no possibility of disobeying him. “Promise me—swear,” said he, “never to tell——”
“Tell me, tell me quickly his name, or——”
At this new adjuration, the poor curate, with the trembling look of a man who feels the instrument of the dentist in his mouth, feebly articulated, “Don——”
“Don?” replied Renzo, inclining his ear towards him, eager to hear the rest. “Don?”
“Don Roderick!” muttered he hastily, trembling at the sound that escaped his lips.
“Ah! dog!” shouted Renzo; “and how has he done it? what has he said to you to——”
“What? what?” said Don Abbondio, in an almost contemptuous tone, already gaining confidence by the sacrifice he had made. “I wish you were like myself, you would then meddle with nothing, and certainly you would not have had so many whims in your head.” He, however, related in terrible colours the ugly encounter; his anger, which had hitherto been subdued by fear, displayed itself as he proceeded; and perceiving that Renzo, between rage and astonishment, remained motionless, with his head bent down, he continued in a lively manner, “You have made a pretty business of it, indeed! You have rendered me a notable service. Thus to attack an honest man, your curate, in his own house! in a sacred place! You have done a fine thing, truly. To wrest from my mouth, that which I concealed, from prudence, for your own good. And now that you know it, what will you do? When I gave you good advice this morning, I had judgment for you and me; but believe me, this is no jesting matter, no question of right or wrong, but superior power. At all events, open the door; give me the key.”
“I may have been to blame,” replied Renzo with a softened voice, but in which might be perceived smothered anger towards his concealed enemy, “I may have been to blame, but if you had been in my situation——” He drew the key from his pocket, and advanced towards the door.
“Swear to me,” said Don Abbondio with a serious and anxious face.
“I may have been to blame—forgive me,” replied Renzo, moving to depart.
“Swear first,” said Don Abbondio, holding him tremblingly by the arm.
“I may have been to blame,” said Renzo, freeing himself from his grasp, and immediately springing out of the room.
“Perpetua! Perpetua!” cried Don Abbondio, after having in vain called back the fugitive. Perpetua did not answer. The poor man was so overwhelmed by his innumerable difficulties, his increasing perplexities, and so apprehensive of some fresh attack, that he conceived the idea of securing to himself a safe retreat from them all, by going to bed and giving out that he had a fever. His malady, indeed, was not altogether imaginary; the terror of the past day, the anxious watching of the night, the dread of the future, had combined to produce really the effect. Weary and stupified, he slumbered in his large chair, muttering occasionally in a feeble but passionate voice, “Perpetua.”—Perpetua arrived at last with a great cabbage under her arm, and with as unconcerned a countenance as if nothing had happened. We will spare the reader the reproaches, the accusations, and denials that passed between them; it is sufficient that Don Abbondio ordered Perpetua to bolt the door, not to put her foot outside, and if any one knocked, to reply from the window that the curate was gone to bed with a fever. He then slowly ascended the stairs and put himself really in bed, where we will leave him.
Renzo, meanwhile, with hurried steps, and with a mind unsettled and distracted as to the course he should pursue, approached his home. Those who injure others are guilty, not only of the evils they commit, but also of the effects produced by these evils on the characters of the injured persons. Renzo was a quiet and peaceful youth, but now his nature appeared changed, and his thoughts dwelt only on deeds of violence. He would have run to the house of Don Roderick to assault him there; but he remembered that it was a fortress, furnished with bravoes within, and well guarded without; that only those known to be friends and servants could enter without the minutest scrutiny; and that not even a tradesman could be seen there without being examined from head to foot; and he, above all, would be, alas! but too well known. He then imagined himself placed behind a hedge, with his arquebuss in his hand, waiting till Roderick should pass by alone; rejoicing internally at the thought, he pictured to himself an approaching footstep; the villain appears, he takes aim, fires, and he falls; he exults a moment over his dying struggles, and then escapes for his life beyond the confines! And Lucy? This name recalled his wiser and better thoughts: he remembered the last instructions of his parents; he thought of God, the Holy Virgin, and the Saints; and he tremblingly rejoiced that he had been guilty of the deed only in imagination. But how many hopes, promises, and anticipations did the idea of Lucy suggest? And this day so ardently desired! How announce to her the dreadful news? And then, what plan to pursue? How make her his own in spite of the power of this wicked lord? And now a tormenting suspicion passed through his mind. Don Roderick must have been instigated to this injury by a brutal passion for Lucy! And she! He could not for a moment endure the maddening thought that she had given him the slightest encouragement. But was she not informed of his designs? Could he have conceived his infamous purpose, and have advanced so far towards its completion, without her knowledge? And Lucy, his own beloved, had never uttered a syllable to him concerning it!
These reflections prevailing in his mind, he passed by his own house, which was situated in the centre of the village, and arrived at that of Lucy, which was at the opposite extremity. It had a small court-yard in front, which separated it from the road, and which was encircled by a low wall. Entering the yard, Renzo heard a confused murmur of voices in the upper chamber; he rightly supposed it to be the wedding company, and he could not resolve to appear before them with such a countenance. A little girl, who was standing at the door, ran towards him, crying out, “The bridegroom! the bridegroom!” “Hush, Betsy, hush,” said Renzo, “come hither; go to Lucy, and whisper in her ear—but let no one hear you—whisper in her ear, that I wish to speak with her in the lower chamber, and that she must come at once.” The little girl hastily ascended the stairs, proud of having a secret commission to execute. Lucy had just come forth, adorned from the hands of her mother, and surrounded by her admiring friends. These were playfully endeavouring to steal a look at the blooming bride; while she, with the timidity of rustic modesty, attempted to conceal her blushing countenance with her bending arm, from beneath which a smiling mouth nevertheless appeared. Her black tresses, parted on her white forehead, were folded up in multiplied circles on the back of her head, and fastened with pins of silver, projecting on every side like the rays of the sun: this is still the custom of the Milanese peasantry. Around her throat she had a necklace of garnets, alternated with beads of gold filagree; she wore a boddice embroidered in flowers,