THE BETROTHED
From the Italian of
ALESSANDRO MANZONI
[Illustration: _The street was deserted before him; but,
behind him, the terrible cry still resounded.
“Seize him! stop him! a poisoner!”_]
London:
Richard Bentley,
(_Successor to H. Colburn_)
Cumming, Dublin. Bell and Bradfute, Edinburgh.
Galignani, Paris.
1834
[Illustration: THE BETROTHED.
_So saying, he passed his arm around the neck
of the Unknown, who after resisting a moment,
yielded, quite vanquished by this impulse of
kindness, and fell on the neck of the Cardinal
in an agony of repentance._]
STANDARD NOVELS.
Nº XLIII.
“No kind of literature is so generally attractive as Fiction. Pictures
of life and manners, and Stories of adventure, are more eagerly received
by the many than graver productions, however important these latter may
be. APULEIUS is better remembered by his fable of Cupid and Psyche than
by his abstruser Platonic writings; and the Decameron of BOCCACCIO has
outlived the Latin Treatises, and other learned works of that author.”
THE BETROTHED.
Complete in One Volume.
London:
Richard Bentley, 8. New Burlington Street
(Successor to Henry Colburn):
Bell, and Bradfute, Edinburgh;
and Cumming, Dublin.
1834.
London:
Printed by A. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square.
CRITICAL REMARKS on MANZONI’S BETROTHED:
BY THE COUNT O’MAHONY. [Translated from the Italian.]
To publish a novel, to analyse, to eulogise it, and recommend its
perusal to the good and pious, will appear no doubt very extraordinary,
and offend the prejudices of many who have agreed among themselves to
consider a novel, whoever may be its author, and whatever may be its
subject, form, and design, as a pestilent production. If you ask them
why? “Because,” they will reply—“because it is a novel!” The answer is
as wise as it is peremptory and decisive, and we will spare ourselves
the useless trouble of replying to arguments so profound and powerful.
We will, however, submit a few serious reflections to minds of a less
elevated order, were it only to prove that we can talk reasonably, even
on the subject of novels.
Certainly, if we are understood to designate by the appellation of
_Novel_, the written dreams and extravagant imaginations of a corrupt
mind and depraved heart, where illusions are substituted for realities,
vice transformed into virtue, crime justified by the passions that lead
to its perpetration, and fallacious pictures presented of an ideal
world, or criminal apologies for a world too real; if, we say, such are
the novels to be condemned and proscribed, none more than ourselves will
be disposed to confirm the sentence. The unhappy influence which
productions like these have exerted over the minds of youth, and above
all, the ravages which their multiplication has within a few years
produced, is a fact acknowledged by all, by those who have escaped the
contagion of their perusal, as well as by those whom that perusal has
injured. With respect to this, the wise and the good are unanimous in
their testimony and their anathemas; it is one of those self-evident
truths, about which an Englishman or a German might still elaborate many
a learned dissertation, but of which we shall take no further notice,
certain that we should only repeat much less forcibly and eloquently,
that which a thousand writers or orators have said before us.
But there is another point of view under which we must consider novels,
or rather the works so called, but which bear, to those which morals and
good taste reprobate, no other resemblance than the name. These are, it
is true, unhappily few in number, and therefore have not been classed by
themselves, but have been comprehended in the common appellation, and
included in the general proscription; like an honest man, who, bearing
the same name as a rogue, partakes with him the odium of his reputation.
But this is an injustice for which we are disposed to claim reparation.
Every work of imagination, in which the author causes ideal personages
to speak, think, and act, according to his pleasure, has been
stigmatised as a _Novel_. But, if we allow this rigorous definition, the
apologue, so dear to the moralist, is a _Novel_, and deserving of
proscription. We will go further; the parable, which also creates its
characters and invents their words and actions, is a _novel_! But who
would dare to call them so? Who would dare profane by this name, those
profound allegories, those holy fables, so excellent in truth, and so
replete with instruction, which God himself has related to man? Finally,
if we peruse the works of the most austere philosophers, and the most
severe moralists, without excepting ecclesiastical writers, we shall
find among them all, pictures of fancy or ideal histories of imaginary
persons, fiction serving as a veil, or rather (we must acknowledge it)
as an apology for truth.
Now, we ask, by what unjust caprice would we condemn in the novelist
that which we admire and applaud in the moralist and philosopher; or
rather, by what title do we interdict to the former the right of being
equally philosophical and moral with the latter? If man were without
weaknesses and society without imperfections, truth would prevail of
itself, and in order to be loved and obeyed, it would need only to be
shown in its unadorned purity and undisguised nakedness. But, from the
beginning of the world, pride has precipitated man into darkness.
Corrupt and blind, a jealous susceptibility is developed in his
character, which continually increases in proportion to his blindness
and corruptions,—that is to say, the deeper he is plunged in darkness,
the more he dreads the light, and it is but by degrees, and under
various disguises, that we can hope ultimately to make him endure its
full blaze.
Besides, fiction, under divers forms, such as fables, apologues, novels,
allegories, and tales, constitutes a large portion of the literature of
every nation; to this we may add the utility, nay, even the necessity of
disguising truth, in order to make it acceptable to our imperfection;
and more than all, the good frequently resulting from these modest
productions ought to stimulate those on whom Heaven has bestowed the
same kind of talent, to employ it in exposing vice and reforming the
corruptions of society.
But if the imperfection and weakness of our hearts render fiction
necessary to us, a similar necessity results from the languor and
inaction of our minds: for in proportion to the extent of public
corruption, individual application of the mind to severe and serious
study diminishes. Insensibly all continued exercise of the powers of his
understanding becomes irksome to man, and he finally considers thought
and _ennui_ to be synonymous terms. This is, without doubt, a deplorable
and alarming symptom of the decline of society; but we are obliged to
confess its existence, and, not possessing the power of changing, we
must submit to its caprices and satisfy its necessities.
Now, whether from instinct or observation, writers appear for some years
past to have generally understood the demands of the age; and throughout
Europe, men of distinguished talents have employed themselves in
answering them. It might be said that Germany, England, Switzerland, and
Italy, have formed as it were a literary alliance, which will probably
endure longer than their _political alliance_. As to France, her
attention has for fifteen years been attracted to literature as well as
to politics; but she has thought it sufficient for her glory to
translate foreign books, and for her prosperity to translate foreign
constitutions.[1]
[1] In this assertion we do not agree with the critic.
France, in common with other European nations, has
unquestionably manifested much curiosity regarding
foreign literature, and has availed herself of its
treasures; but, by the original works of her own
writers, the advantage has been reciprocated,
particularly in the novels lately produced in Paris by
such men as M. de Vigny and M. Victor Hugo. The “Notre
Dame de Paris” of the latter has attained an European
celebrity, and has accordingly been incorporated in
the present series of “Standard Novels.”—_English
Ed._
However this may be, the new taste for foreign literature is remarkable.
Numerous works of imagination have appeared simultaneously of an
elevated style and uncommon erudition. The choice, and we may add the
gravity, of the subjects, the importance of the action, the extent of
the developements, and the fidelity of the descriptions, stamp them with
a peculiar character, and oblige us to assign to their authors a
distinct rank among novel writers. Although unequal in merit, they may
be arranged into two classes. The one, beholding how history was
neglected, has endeavoured to restore its influence by reviving our
ancient chronicles, and presenting to us in an elegant undress, the same
characters from whom we avert our eyes, in the magnificent and stiff
accompaniments of their historical costume. The other, less numerous,
but, in our opinion, much more happily inspired, afflicted by the cold
indifference with which the most excellent works on morals and politics
are received, or by the insulting contempt which discards them
altogether, has undertaken to allure and amuse the prejudices of the
age, in order to correct them. In an imaginary picture, they have
specially devoted themselves to describe the great springs of human
action, and to bring prominently forward those traits of character,
those inflexible criticisms on society, which under such a form will
attract attention, when every direct and serious admonition would be
rejected. Now, it is to this class of novel writers that Alessandro
Manzoni essentially belongs.
And here, a great difficulty presents itself; a work of which the action
is so simple, that an analysis of it might be given in half a page, and
yet so rich in beauties, that a volume might be written in its praise;
between these two extremes, the middle path is not easy to find. For, if
we should content ourselves with stating that two villagers, who were
betrothed, and about to be united, had been separated by the menaces of
a rich and titled robber, calumniated, betrayed by a seeming friend, and
aided by the unlooked-for benevolence of an enemy; again persecuted by
the tyranny of the great, and then almost immolated by the tyranny of
the people, and finally delivered by the pestilence itself; if, we
repeat, we confine ourselves to this exposition, we shall have presented
to our readers the abstract of the work; but shall we have given them a
single idea of its beauties?
If, on the contrary, we would enter on an examination of the characters,
and follow them in their developement, what a task we impose on
ourselves! For here, what beauty! what truth! what originality! The
character of Don Abbondio alone would furnish matter for extensive
remark, as it is assuredly one of the most profoundly comic creations of
the genius of romance. A coward by nature, and selfish from habit,
entering the ecclesiastical order only to find in it powerful protection
against future enemies, and a refuge against present terrors, during his
whole life he pursues, without a single deviation, the tyrannical
vocation of _fear_. Ever disturbed by the apprehension of being
disturbed, and giving himself prodigious trouble in order to secure his
tranquillity, the care of his repose takes from him all repose. “_A
friend to all_,” is his device, and “_Be quiet_,” his habitual reply.
For him, the evil committed in secret is preferable to the good which
might excite dangerous remark. However, at the bottom of his heart, he
still esteems the good and virtuous; as to the wicked, he caresses, and
where there is necessity, flatters them; in every controversy, he deems
the strongest party to be in the right, but his fear of mistake often
prevents him from deciding which _is_ the strongest. In discussions
where he is personally involved, he acts not less prudently; he does not
grant concessions, he does more, he freely offers them, as by so doing
he saves the honour of his authority. Indeed, he does not drop a word
nor risk a gesture, of which he has not previously weighed the
consequences. So that by calculation and foresight, he is prepared for
all, except the performance of duty under circumstances of peril and
difficulty; to this he closes his ears and his eyes, and thus
compromises with the world and his conscience.
And here, let us add, that if any of our readers discover, in this
character, the intention, or even the possibility, of an application
injurious to religion, they understand but little the mind of the
author, which is constantly animated by the most ardent faith, and
imbued, we may say, with its highest inspirations. The curate Abbondio
appears before us chiefly to give greater relief to the sublime figures
of the friar Christopher, and the holy archbishop of Milan, and to
furnish materials for scenes between these three characters, where the
weakness, the cowardice, and the selfishness of the one serves to
brighten, by contrast, the courage, devotion, and heroism of the others.
It is an eminently philosophical conception to portray three men
entering the priesthood from such different motives, in the course of
their long lives, disclosing faithfully in their actions, the sources of
their primitive choice. A lesson indeed! from which we may learn what
religion can do with men, when they obey its laws and devote themselves
to its service, and what men can do with religion, when they subject it
to their caprices, or prostitute it to their interests.
But it is in the conversion of the formidable Unknown, that religion
appears in all its power, and its pontiff in all the majesty of his
benevolence. The interview between these two persons, the one the
terror, the other the beloved of his country; the proud criminal
humbling himself before the most humble of the just; the former
preserving in his profound humiliation the traces of his habitual
wickedness and pride, and the latter, with humility equally profound,
the majestic authority of unsullied virtue. This scene, conceived and
executed with equal genius, combines within itself the deepest interest,
and the highest beauty.
As an illustration of the ingenuity and discernment of the author, we
will offer one remark further; he has placed before us two wicked men;
the one a subaltern robber, a libertine of the second rank, a swaggerer
in debauch, vainer of his vices than jealous of his pleasures. The other
a superior genius, who has measured how far man could descend in crime,
and himself reached its depths, where he governs human corruption as its
sovereign, committing no act of violence without leaving the impression
of his unlimited power and inexorable will. One of these is to be
converted; which will it be? The least guilty? No; coward in vice, where
would he find courage to repent? He will die hardened and impenitent. It
is the grand criminal who will be drawn from the abyss, for he has
descended into it with all his power, and it will need a repentance
proportioned to the measure of his iniquities to restore him to the
favour of his God. There is evinced in this developement, great
knowledge of the human heart, and a very striking revelation of the
mysterious dealings of a just and compassionate God.
We find the same sagacity of observation in other parts of the work; it
appears under an altogether original form in the episode of Gertrude;
irresistibly conducted to the cloister, notwithstanding her
insurmountable repugnance, when she could by a single word free herself
from such a condemnation, dooming her own self to a sacrifice she
detests; yielding without having been conquered; the slave of her very
liberty, and the victim to a voluntary fatality! It is not in a rapid
sketch that we can give an idea of this singular and altogether novel
character. To appreciate its excellence, we must give an attentive
perusal.
But Alessandro Manzoni is not only a skilful painter of individual
portraits, he excels also in grand historical representations. In that
of the plague at Milan, and the famine preceding it, his manner becomes
bolder, his touch more free and majestic, without, however, losing any
of its exquisite delicacy. When he represents an entire people rebelling
against hunger, or vanquished by disease and death, we deeply feel the
horror of the picture, at the same time that an occasional smile is
elicited by the comic genius of the artist, which exercises itself even
amidst the agonies of famine and pestilence, so that, through the grand
design of the exhibition, the delicate touches of the pencil are still
visible, and individual character perceptible through the very depths of
bold and general description; it is Van Dyck painting on the reverse of
one of Michael Angelo’s pictures.
We will not take leave of this interesting production without indulging
ourselves in one more observation, which is, that in this succession of
adventures, where appear, by turns or simultaneously, two robber chiefs
and their followers, an unbridled soldiery, a people in rebellion,
famine, and pestilence, all the evil specially resulting to the
virtuous, is the consequence of the cowardice of a single man! What a
lesson may we derive from such a _Novel_!
THE BETROTHED.
CHAPTER I.
That branch of the Lake of Como, which turns toward the south between
two unbroken chains of mountains, presenting to the eye a succession of
bays and gulfs, formed by their jutting and retiring ridges, suddenly
contracts itself between a headland to the right and an extended sloping
bank on the left, and assumes the flow and appearance of a river. The
bridge by which the two shores are here united, appears to render the
transformation more apparent, and marks the point at which the lake
ceases, and the Adda recommences, to resume, however, the name of _Lake_
where the again receding banks allow the water to expand itself anew
into bays and gulfs. The bank, formed by the deposit of three large
mountain streams, descends from the bases of two contiguous mountains,
the one called St. Martin, the other by a Lombard name, _Resegone_, from
its long line of summits, which in truth give it the appearance of a
saw; so that there is no one who would not at first sight, especially
viewing it in front, from the ramparts of Milan that face the north, at
once distinguish it in all that extensive range from other mountains of
less name and more ordinary form. The bank, for a considerable distance,
rises with a gentle and continual ascent, then breaks into hills and
hollows, rugged or level land, according to the formation of the
mountain rocks, and the action of the floods. Its extreme border,
intersected by the mountain torrents, is composed almost entirely of
sand and pebbles; the other parts of fields and vineyards, scattered
farms, country seats, and villages, with here and there a wood which
extends up the mountain side. Lecco, the largest of these villages, and
which gives its name to the district, is situated at no great distance
from the bridge, upon the margin of the lake; nay, often, at the rising
of the waters, is partly embosomed within the lake itself; a large town
at the present day, and likely soon to become a city. At the period of
our story, this village was also fortified, and consequently had the
honour to furnish quarters to a governor, and the advantage of
possessing a permanent garrison of Spanish soldiers, who gave lessons in
modesty to the wives and daughters of the neighbourhood, and toward the
close of summer never failed to scatter themselves through the
vineyards, in order to thin the grapes, and lighten for the rustics the
labours of the vintage. From village to village, from the heights down
to the margin of the lake, there are innumerable roads and paths: these
vary in their character; at times precipitous, at others level; now sunk
and buried between two ivy-clad walls, from whose depth you can behold
nothing but the sky, or some lofty mountain peak; then crossing high and
level tracts, around the edges of which they sometimes wind,
occasionally projecting beyond the face of the mountain, supported by
prominent masses resembling bastions, whence the eye wanders over the
most varied and delicious landscape. On the one side you behold the blue
lake, with its boundaries broken by various promontories and necks of
land, and reflecting the inverted images of the objects on its banks; on
the other, the Adda, which, flowing beneath the arches of the bridge,
expands into a small lake, then contracts again, and holds on its clear
serpentining course to the distant horizon: above, are the ponderous
masses of the shapeless rocks; beneath, the richly cultivated acclivity,
the fair landscape, the bridge; in front, the opposite shore of the
lake, and beyond this, the mountain, which bounds the view.
Towards evening, on the 7th day of November, 1628, Don Abbondio, curate
of one of the villages before alluded to (but of the name of which, nor
of the house and lineage of its curate, we are not informed), was
returning slowly towards his home, by one of these pathways. He was
repeating quietly his office; in the pauses of which he held his closed
breviary in his hand behind his back; and as he went, with his foot he
cast listlessly against the wall the stones that happened to impede his
path; at the same time giving admittance to the idle thoughts that
tempted the spirit, while the lips of the worthy man were mechanically
performing their function; then raising his head and gazing idly around
him, he fixed his eyes upon a mountain summit, where the rays of the
setting sun, breaking through the openings of an opposite ridge,
illumined its projecting masses, which appeared like large and variously
shaped spots of purple light. He then opened anew his breviary, and
recited another portion at an angle of the lane, after which angle the
road continued straight for perhaps seventy paces, and then branched
like the letter Y into two narrow paths; the right-hand one ascended
towards the mountain, and led to the parsonage (_Cura_); that on the
left descended the valley towards a torrent, and on this side the wall
rose out to the height of about two feet. The inner walls of the two
narrow paths, instead of meeting at the angle, ended in a little chapel,
upon which were depicted certain long, sinuous, pointed shapes, which,
in the intention of the artist, and to the eyes of the neighbouring
inhabitants, represented flames, and amidst these flames certain other
forms, not to be described, that were meant for souls in purgatory;
souls and flames of a brick colour, upon a ground of blackish grey, with
here and there a bare spot of plaster. The curate, having turned the
corner, directed, as was his wont, a look toward the little chapel, and
there beheld what he little expected, and would not have desired to see.
At the confluence, if we may so call it, of the two narrow lanes, there
were two men: one of them sitting astride the low wall; his companion
leaning against it, with his arms folded on his breast. The dress, the
bearing, and what the curate could distinguish of the countenance of
these men, left no doubt as to their profession. They wore upon their
heads a green network, which, falling on the left shoulder, ended in a
large tassel, from under which appeared upon the forehead an enormous
lock of hair. Their mustachios were long, and curled at the extremities;
the margin of their doublets confined by a belt of polished leather,
from which were suspended, by hooks, two pistols; a little powder-horn
hung like a locket on the breast; on the right-hand side of the wide and
ample breeches was a pocket, out of which projected the handle of a
knife, and on the other side they bore a long sword, of which the great
hollow hilt was formed of bright plates of brass, combined into a
cypher: by these characteristics they were, at a glance, recognised as
individuals of the class of bravoes.
This species, now entirely extinct, flourished greatly at that time in
Lombardy. For those who have no knowledge of it, the following are a few
authentic records, that may suffice to impart an idea of its principal
characteristics, of the vigorous efforts made to extirpate it, and of
its obstinate and rank vitality.
As early as the 8th of April, 1583, the most illustrious and most
excellent lord Don Charles of Arragon, Prince of Castelvetrano, Duke of
Terranova, Marquis of Avola, Count of Burgeto, High Admiral and High
Constable of Sicily, Governor of Milan, and Captain General of His
Catholic Majesty in Italy, “fully informed of the intolerable misery
which the city of Milan has endured, and still endures, by reason of
bravoes and vagabonds,” publishes his decree against them, “declares and
designates all those comprehended in this proclamation to be regarded as
bravoes and vagabonds,——who, whether foreigners or natives, have no
calling, or, having one, do not follow it,——but, either with or
without wages, attach themselves to any knight, gentleman, officer, or
merchant,——to uphold or favour him, or in any manner to molest
others.” All such he commands, within the space of six days, to leave
the country; threatens the refractory with the galleys, and grants to
all officers of justice the most ample and unlimited powers for the
execution of his commands. But, in the following year, on the 12th of
April, the said lord, having perceived “that this city still continues
to be filled with bravoes, who have again resumed their former mode of
life; their manners unchanged, and their number undiminished,” puts
forth another edict still more energetic and remarkable, in which, among
other regulations, he directs “that any person whatsoever, whether of
this city or from abroad, who shall, by the testimony of two witnesses,
be shown to be regarded and commonly reputed as a bravo, even though no
criminal act shall have been proved against him, may, nevertheless, upon
the sole ground of his reputation, be condemned by the said judges to
the rack for examination; and although he make no confession of guilt,
he shall, notwithstanding, be sentenced to the galleys for the said term
of three years, solely for that he is regarded as, and called a bravo,
as above-mentioned;” and this “because His Excellency is resolved to
enforce obedience to his commands.”
One would suppose that at the sound of such denunciations from so
powerful a source, all the bravoes must have disappeared for ever. But
testimony, of no less authority, obliges us to believe directly the
reverse. This testimony is the most illustrious and most excellent lord
Juan Fernandez de Velasco, Constable of Castile, High Chamberlain of His
Majesty, Duke of the city of Freas, Count of Haro and Castelnuovo, Lord
of the house of Velasco, and of that of the Seven Infanti of Lara,
Governor of the State of Milan, &c. On the 5th of June, 1593, he also,
fully informed “how great an injury to the common weal, and how
insulting to justice, is the existence of such a class of men,” requires
them anew to quit the country within six days, repeating very nearly the
same threats and injunctions as his predecessor. On the 23d of May,
then, 1598, “having learnt, with no little displeasure, that the number
of bravoes and vagabonds is increasing daily in this state and city, and
that nothing is heard of them but wounds, murders, robberies, and every
other crime, to the commission of which these bravoes are encouraged by
the confidence that they will be sustained by their chiefs and
abettors,” he prescribes again the same remedies, increasing the dose,
as is usual in obstinate disorders. “Let every one, then,” he concludes,
“carefully beware that he do not, in any wise, contravene this edict;
since, in place of experiencing the mercy of His Excellency, he shall
prove his rigour and his wrath—he being resolved and determined that
this shall be a final and peremptory warning.”
But this again did not suffice; and the illustrious and most excellent
lord, the Signor Don Pietro Enriquez de Acevedo, Count of Fuentes,
Captain and Governor of the State of Milan, “fully informed of the
wretched condition of this city and state, in consequence of the great
number of bravoes that abound therein, and resolved wholly to extirpate
them,” publishes, on the 5th of December, 1600, a new decree, full of
the most rigorous provisions, and “with firm purpose that in all rigour,
and without hope of remission, they shall be wholly carried into
execution.”
We are obliged, however, to conclude that he did not, in this matter,
exhibit the same zeal which he knew how to employ in contriving plots
and exciting enemies against his powerful foe, Henry IV., against whom
history attests that he succeeded in arming the Duke of Savoy, whom he
caused to lose more towns than one; and in engaging in a conspiracy the
Duke of Biron, whom he caused to lose his head. But as regards the
pestilent race of bravoes, it is very certain they continued to increase
until the 22d day of September, 1612; on which day the most illustrious
and most excellent lord Don Giovanni de Mendoza, Marchese de la
Hynojosa, gentleman, &c., Governor, &c., thought seriously of their
extirpation. He addressed to Pandolfo and Marco Tullio Malatesti,
printers of the Royal Chamber, the customary edict, corrected and
enlarged, that they might print it, to accomplish that end. But the
bravoes still survived, to experience, on the 24th December, 1618, still
more terrific denunciations from the most illustrious and most excellent
lord, Don Gomez Suarez de Figueroa, Duke of Feria, Governor, &c.; yet,
as they did not fall even under these blows, the most illustrious and
most excellent lord Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova, under whose government
we are made acquainted with Don Abbondio, found himself obliged to
republish the usual proclamation against the bravoes, on the 5th day of
October, 1627, that is, a year, a month, and two days previous to the
commencement of our story.
Nor was this the last publication; but of those that follow, as of
matters not falling within the period of our history, we do not think it
proper to make mention. The only one of them to which we shall refer, is
that of the 13th day of February, 1632, in which the most illustrious
and most excellent lord, the Duke of Feria, for the second time
governor, informs us, “that the greatest and most heinous crimes are
perpetrated by those styled bravoes.” This will suffice to prove that,
at the time of which we treat, the bravoes still existed.
It appeared evident to Don Abbondio that the two men above mentioned
were waiting for some one, and he was alarmed at the conviction that it
was for himself; for on his appearance, they exchanged a look, as if to
say, “’tis he.” Rising from the wall, they both advanced to meet him. He
held his breviary open before him, as though he were employed in reading
it; but, nevertheless, cast a glance upward in order to espy their
movements. Seeing that they came directly toward him, he was beset by a
thousand different thoughts. He considered, in haste, whether between
the bravoes and himself there were any outlet from the road, and he
remembered there was none. He took a rapid survey of his conduct, to
discover if he had given offence to any powerful or revengeful man; but
in this matter, he was somewhat reassured by the consoling testimony of
his conscience. The bravoes draw near, and kept their eyes upon him. He
raised his hand to his collar, as if adjusting it, and at the same time
turned his head round, to see if any one were coming; he could discover
no one. He cast a glance across the low stone wall upon the fields; no
one! another on the road that lay before him; no one, except the
bravoes! What is to be done? Flight was impossible. Unable to avoid the
danger, he hastened to encounter it, and to put an end to the torments
of uncertainty. He quickened his pace, recited a stanza in a louder
tone, did his utmost to assume a composed and cheerful countenance, and
finding himself in front of the two gallants, stopped short. “Signor
Curate,” said one of them, fixing his eyes upon him,—
“Your pleasure, sir,” suddenly raising his eyes from his book, which he
continued to hold open before him.
“You intend,” pursued the other, with the threatening and angry mien of
one who has detected an inferior in an attempt to commit some villany,
“you intend to-morrow to unite in marriage Renzo Tramaglino and Lucy
Mondella.”
“That is,” said Don Abbondio with a faltering voice, “that is to
say—you gentlemen, being men of the world, are very well aware how
these things are managed: the poor curate neither meddles nor
makes—they settle their affairs amongst themselves, and then—then,
they come to us, as if to redeem a pledge; and we—we are the servants
of the public.”
“Mark now,” said the bravo in a low voice, but in a tone of command,
“this marriage is not to take place, neither to-morrow, nor at any other
time.”
“But, my good sirs,” replied Don Abbondio, with the mild and gentle tone
of one who would persuade an impatient listener, “but, my good sirs,
deign to put yourselves in my situation. If the thing depended on
myself—you see plainly, that it does not in the least concern——”
“Hold there,” said the bravo, interrupting him, “this matter is not to
be settled by prating. We neither know nor care to know any more about
it. A man once warned—you understand us.”
“But, fair sirs, you are too just, too reasonable——”
“But,” interrupted the other comrade, who had not before spoken, “but
this marriage is not to be performed, or (with an oath) he who performs
it will not repent of it, because he’ll not have time” (with another
oath).
“Hush, hush,” resumed the first orator, “the Signor Curate knows the
world, and we are gentlemen who have no wish to harm him if he conducts
himself with judgment. Signor Curate, the most illustrious Signor Don
Roderick, our patron, offers you his kind regards.” As in the height of
a midnight storm a vivid flash casts a momentary dazzling glare around
and renders every object more fearful, so did this _name_ increase the
terror of Don Abbondio: as if by instinct, he bowed his head
submissively, and said—
“If it could but be suggested to me.”
“Oh! suggested to _you_, who understand Latin!” exclaimed the bravo,
laughing; “it is for you to manage the matter. But, above all, be
careful not to say a word concerning the hint that has been given you
for your good; for if you do, ehem!—you understand—the consequences
would be the same as if you performed the marriage ceremony. But say,
what answer are we to carry in your name to the most illustrious Signor
Don Roderick?”
“My respects——”
“Speak more clearly, Signor Curate.”
“That I am disposed, ever disposed, to obedience.” And as he spoke the
words he was not very certain himself whether he gave a promise, or only
uttered an ordinary compliment. The bravoes took, or _appeared_ to take
them, in the more serious sense.
“’Tis very well; good night, Signor Curate,” said one of them as he
retired, together with his companion. Don Abbondio, who a few minutes
before would have given one of his eyes to avoid the ruffians, was now
desirous to prolong the conversation.
“Gentlemen——” he began, as he shut his book. Without again noticing
him, however, they passed on, singing a loose song, of which we will not
transcribe the words. Poor Don Abbondio remained for a moment, as if
spell-bound, and then with heavy and lagging steps took the path which
led towards his home. The reader will better understand the state of his
mind, when he shall have learned something more of his disposition, and
of the condition of the times in which it was his lot to live.
Don Abbondio was not (as the reader may have perceived) endowed with the
courage of a lion. But from his earliest years he had been sensible that
the most embarrassing situation in those times was that of an animal,
furnished with neither tusks nor talons, at the same time having no wish
to be devoured. The arm of the law afforded no protection to a man of
quiet, inoffensive habits, who had no means of making himself feared.
Not that laws and penalties were wanting for the prevention of private
violence: the laws were most express; the offences enumerated, and
minutely particularised; the penalties sufficiently extravagant; and if
that were not enough, the legislator himself, and, a hundred others to
whom was committed the execution of the laws, had power to increase
them. The proceedings were studiously contrived to free the judge from
every thing that might prevent his passing sentence of condemnation; the
passages we have cited from proclamations against the bravoes, may be
taken as a faithful specimen of these decrees. Notwithstanding this, or,
it may be, in _consequence_ of this, these proclamations, reiterated and
reinforced from time to time, served only to proclaim in pompous
language the impotence of those who issued them; or, if they produced
any immediate effect, it was _that_ of adding to the vexations which the
peaceful and feeble suffered from the disturbers of society. Impunity
was organised and effected in so many ways as to render the
proclamations powerless. Such was the consequence of the sanctuaries and
asylums; and of the privileges of certain classes, partly acknowledged
by the legal power, partly tolerated in silence, or feebly opposed; but
which, in _fact_, were sustained and guarded by almost every individual
with interested activity and punctilious jealousy. Now this impunity,
threatened and assailed, but not destroyed, by these proclamations,
would naturally, at every new attack, employ fresh efforts and devices
to maintain itself. The proclamations were efficient, it is true, in
fettering and embarrassing the honest man, who had neither power in
himself nor protection from others; inasmuch as, in order to reach every
person, they subjected the movements of each private individual to the
arbitrary will of a thousand magistrates and executive officers. But he,
who before the commission of his crime had prepared himself a refuge in
some convent or palace where bailiffs never dared to enter; or who
simply wore a livery, which engaged in his defence the vanity or the
interest of a powerful family; such a one was free in his actions, and
could laugh to scorn every proclamation. Of those very persons whose
part it was to ensure the execution of these decrees, some belonged by
birth to the privileged class, others were its clients and dependants;
and as the latter as well as the former had, from education, from habit,
from imitation, embraced its maxims, they would be very careful not to
violate them. Had they however, been bold as heroes, obedient as monks,
and devoted as martyrs, they could never have accomplished the execution
of the laws, inferior as they were in number to _those_ with whom they
must engage, and with the frequent probability of being abandoned, or
even sacrificed, by him who, in a moment of theoretical abstraction,
might require them to act. But, in addition to this, their office would
be regarded as a base one in public opinion, and their name stamped with
reproach. It was therefore very natural that, instead of risking, nay,
throwing away, their lives in a fruitless attempt, they should sell
their inaction, or, rather, their connivance, to the powerful; or, at
least, exercise their authority only on those occasions when it might be
done with safety to themselves; that is, in oppressing the peaceable and
the defenceless.
The man who acts with violence, or who is constantly in fear of violence
from others, seeks companions and allies. Hence it happened that, during
these times, individuals displayed so strong a tendency to combine
themselves into classes, and to advance, as far as each one was able,
the power of that to which he belonged. The clergy was vigilant in the
defence and extension of its immunities; the nobility, of its
privileges; the military, of its exemptions; the merchants and artisans
were enrolled in companies and fraternities; the lawyers were united in
leagues, and even the physicians formed a corporation. Each of these
little oligarchies had its own appropriate power,—in each of them the
individual found the advantage of employing for himself, in proportion
to his influence and dexterity, the united force of numbers. The more
honest availed themselves of this advantage merely for their defence;
the crafty and the wicked profited by it to assure themselves of success
in their rogueries, and impunity from their results. The strength,
however, of these various combinations was far from being equal; and,
especially in the country, the wealthy and overbearing nobleman, with a
band of bravoes, and surrounded by peasants accustomed to regard
themselves as subjects and soldiers of their lord, exercised an
irresistible power, and set all laws at defiance.
Don Abbondio, neither noble, rich, nor valiant, had from early youth
found himself alone and unaided in such a state of society, like an
earthen vessel thrown amidst iron jars; he therefore readily obeyed his
parents, who wished him to become a priest. He did, to say the truth,
not regard the obligations and the noble ends of the ministry to which
he dedicated himself, but was only desirous to secure the means of
living, and to connect himself with a powerful and respected class. But
no class provided for the individual, or secured his safety, _further_
than to a certain point; none rendered it unnecessary for him to adopt
for himself a system of his own. The system of Don Abbondio consisted
chiefly in shunning all disputes; he maintained an unarmed neutrality in
all the contests that broke out around him;—between the clergy and the
civil power, between persons in office and nobles and magistrates,
bravoes and soldiers, down to the squabbles of the peasantry themselves,
terminated by the fist or the knife. By keeping aloof from the
overbearing, by affecting not to notice their acts of violence, by
bowing low and with the most profound respect to all whom he met, the
poor man had succeeded in passing over sixty years without encountering
any violent storms; not but that he also had some small portion of gall
in his composition; and this continual exercise of patience exacerbated
it to such a degree, that, if he had not had it in his power
occasionally to give it vent, his health must have suffered. But as
there were a few persons in the world connected with himself whom he
knew to be powerless, he could, from time to time, discharge on them his
long pent-up ill-humour. He was, moreover, a severe censor of those who
did not regulate their conduct by his example, provided he could censure
without danger. According to his creed, the poor fellow who had been
cudgelled had been a little imprudent; the murdered man had always been
turbulent; the man who maintained his right against the powerful, and
met with a broken head, must have been somewhat wrong; which is,
perhaps, true enough, for in all disputes the line can never be drawn
so finely as not to leave a little wrong on both sides. He especially
declaimed against those of his confraternity, who, at their own risk,
took part with the oppressed against a powerful oppressor. “This,” he
said, “was to purchase trouble with ready money, to kick at snarling
dogs, and an intermeddling in profane things that lowered the dignity of
the sacred ministry.” He had, in short, a favourite maxim, that an
honest man, who looked to himself and minded his own affairs, never met
with any rough encounters.
From all that has been said, we may imagine the effect the meeting just
described must have had upon the mind of poor Don Abbondio. Those fierce
countenances, the threats of a lord who was well known not to speak
idly, his plan of quiet life and patient endurance disconcerted in an
instant, a difficulty before him from which he saw no possibility of
extrication; all these thoughts rushed confusedly through his mind. “If
Renzo could be quietly dismissed with a refusal, all would be well; but
he will require reasons—and what can I say to him? he too has a head of
his own; a lamb, if not meddled with—but once attempt to cross him——
Oh!—and raving after that Lucy, as much enamoured as—— Young idiots!
who, for want of something else to do, fall in love, and must be
married, forsooth, thinking of nothing else, never concerning themselves
about the trouble they bring upon an honest man like me. Wretch that I
am! Why should those two scowling faces plant themselves exactly in my
path, and pick a quarrel with me? What have I to do in the matter? Is it
I that mean to wive? Why did they not rather go and speak—— Ah! truly,
that which is to the purpose always occurs to me after the right time:
if I had but thought of suggesting to them to go and bear their
message——” But here he was disturbed by the reflection, that to repent
of not having been the counsellor and abettor of evil, was too
iniquitous a thing; and he therefore turned the rancour of his thoughts
against the individual who had thus robbed him of his tranquillity. He
did not know Don Roderick, except by sight and by report; his sole
intercourse with him had been to touch chin to breast, and the ground
with the corner of his hat, the few times he had met him on the road.
He had, on more than one occasion, defended the reputation of that
Signor against those who, in an under-tone, with sighs and looks raised
to heaven, had execrated some one of his exploits. He had declared a
hundred times that he was a respectable cavalier. But at this moment he,
in his own heart, readily bestowed upon him all those titles to which he
would never lend an ear from another. Having, amidst the tumult of these
thoughts, reached the entrance of his house, which stood at the end of
the little glebe, he unlocked the door, entered, and carefully secured
it within. Anxious to find himself in society that he could trust, he
called aloud, “Perpetua, Perpetua,” advancing towards the little parlour
where she was, doubtless, employed in preparing the table for his
supper. Perpetua was, as the reader must be aware, the housekeeper of
Don Abbondio; an affectionate and faithful domestic, who knew how to
obey or command as occasion served; to bear the grumbling and whims of
her master at times, and at others to make him bear with hers. These
were becoming every day more frequent; she had passed the age of forty
in a single state; the consequences, _she_ said, of having refused all
the offers that had been made her; her _female friends_ asserted that
she had never found any one willing to take her.
“Coming,” said Perpetua, as she set in its usual place on the little
table the flask of Don Abbondio’s favourite wine, and moved slowly
toward the parlour door: before she reached it he entered, with steps so
disordered, looks so clouded, and a countenance so changed, that an eye
less practised than that of Perpetua could have discovered at a glance
that something unusual had befallen him.
“Mercy on me! What is it ails my master?”
“Nothing, nothing,” said Don Abbondio, as he sank upon his easy chair.
“How, nothing! Would you have me believe that, looking as you do? Some
dreadful accident has happened.”
“Oh! for the love of Heaven! When I say nothing, it is either nothing,
or something I cannot tell.”
“That you cannot tell, not even to me? Who will take care of your
health? Who will give you advice?”
“Oh! peace, peace! Do not make matters worse. Give me a glass of my
wine.”
“And you will still pretend to me that nothing is the matter?” said
Perpetua, filling the glass, but retaining it in her hand, as if
unwilling to present it except as the reward of confidence.
“Give here, give here,” said Don Abbondio, taking the glass with an
unsteady hand, and hastily swallowing its contents.
“Would you oblige me then to go about, asking here and there what it is
has happened to my master?” said Perpetua, standing upright before him,
with her hands on her sides, and looking him steadfastly in the face, as
if to extract the secret from his eyes.
“For the love of Heaven, do not worry me, do not kill me with your
pother; this is a matter that concerns—concerns my life.”
“Your life!”
“My life.”
“You know well, that, when you have frankly confided in me, I have
never——”
“Yes, forsooth, as when——”
Perpetua was sensible she had touched a false string; wherefore,
changing suddenly her note, “My dear master,” said she, in a moving tone
of voice, “I have always had a dutiful regard for you, and if I now wish
to know this affair, it is from zeal, and a desire to assist you, to
give you advice, to relieve your mind.”
The truth is, that Don Abbondio’s desire to disburden himself of his
painful secret was as great as that of Perpetua to obtain a knowledge of
it; so that, after having repulsed, more and more feebly, her renewed
assaults; after having made her swear many times that she would not
breathe a syllable of it, he, with frequent pauses and exclamations,
related his miserable adventure. When it was necessary to pronounce the
dread name of him from whom the prohibition came, he required from
Perpetua another and more solemn oath: having uttered it, he threw
himself back on his seat with a heavy sigh, and, in a tone of command,
as well as supplication, exclaimed,—
“For the love of Heaven!”—
“Mercy upon me!” cried Perpetua, “what a wretch! what a tyrant! Does he
not fear God?”
“Will you be silent? or do you want to ruin me completely?”
“Oh! we are here alone, no one can hear us. But what will my poor master
do?”
“See there now,” said Don Abbondio, in a peevish tone, “see the fine
advice you give me. To ask of me, what I’ll do? what I’ll do? as if you
were the one in difficulty, and it was for me to help you out!”
“Nay, I could give you my own poor opinion; but then—”
“But—but then, let us know it.”
“My opinion would be, that, as every one says our archbishop is a saint,
a man of courage, and not to be frightened by an ugly phiz, and who will
take pleasure in upholding a curate against one of these tyrants; I
should say, and do say, that you had better write him a handsome letter,
to inform him as how——”
“Will you be silent! will you be silent! Is this advice to offer a poor
man? When I get a pistol bullet in my side—God preserve me!—will the
archbishop take it out?”
“Ah! pistol bullets are not given away like sugarplums; and it were
woful if those dogs should bite every time they bark. If a man knows how
to show his teeth, and make himself feared, they hold him in respect: we
should not have been brought to such a pass, if you had stood upon your
rights. Now, all come to us (by your good leave) to——”
“Will you be silent?”
“Certainly; but it is true though, that when the world sees one is
always ready, in every encounter, to lower——”
“Will you be silent? Is this a time for such idle talk?”
“Well, well, you’ll think of it to-night; but in the meantime do not be
the first to harm yourself; to destroy your own health: eat a mouthful.”
“I’ll think of it,” murmured Don Abbondio; “certainly I’ll think of it.
I _must_ think of it;” and he arose, continuing—“No! I’ll take nothing,
nothing; I’ve something else to do. But, that this should have fallen
upon me——”
“Swallow at least this other little drop,” said Perpetua, as she poured
the wine. “You know it always restores your stomach.”
“Oh! there wants other medicine than that, other medicine than that,
other medicine than that——”
So saying, he took the light, and muttering, “A pretty business this! To
an honest man like me! And to-morrow, what is to be done?” with other
like exclamations, he went towards his bedchamber. Having reached the
door, he stopped a moment, and before he quitted the room, exclaimed,
turning towards Perpetua, with his finger on his lips—“For the love of
Heaven, be silent!”