 INTRODUCTION OF THE BETROVED Quote, history may truly be defined a mighty warfare against time. For as much as, taking prisoners by force the years of time already dead, she recalleth them to life, bringeth them under review, and rearrangeeth them in battle array. But the illustrious champions, who in this arena reap a harvest of palms and laurels, do use to seize only upon the most pompous and brilliant of the spoils, embalming with their imperpled fluid the enterprises of princes and potentates, and such like qualified personages, and embroidering with the acute needle of genius those golden and silken threads which form an uninterrupted tapestry of famous actions. Whereas to my feebleness it is not permitted to rise to such arguments and perilous sublimities, ranging among the labyrinths of political factions and the warlike clang of brazen trumpets, but only this, that having come to the knowledge of facts worthy of remembrance, even though they happened to persons of low condition and ordinary rank, I would address myself to the task of leaving their memory to posterity, by giving with all accuracy and genuineness the account or rather relation of them. Wherein will be seen on a narrow theater fievous tragedies of horror and scenes of great wickedness interspersed with virtuous enterprises and angelic goodness opposed unto satanic operations. And in good truth, seeing that this our country is beneath the rule of his Catholic majesty, our governor, who is that son which doth never set, and that moreover, in addition, shineth with reflected light, that moon which never waineth, the hero of prosopia, who, for the time present, occupyeth his place, and the most noble senators, those fixed stars, and the other admirable magistrates, who, like wandering planets, diffuse the light in all quarters, hereby forming a most glorious firmament. Other cause cannot be discovered, wherefore it should be transmuted into the dark shadows of infernal deeds, wickedness, and cruelty, such as by rash men are multiplied, except it come to pass by diabolical art and ploddings, since human malice alone could never suffice to resist so great a force of heroes, who, with the eyes of Argus and limbs of Bryarius, deal with the public wealth. Wherefore, describing these events which took place in the times of my stillverdent youth, notwithstanding the greater part of the persons here represented, have disappeared from the stage of this world, and become tributaries to the fates, nevertheless, for worthy reasons, shall shroud their names, that is, the names of their families, and the same shall be observed of places, only indicating the territory general lighter. Nor let anyone say that this will be an unperfectness in the story, and deformity of this my unpolished production. At least, let not such a critic be a person greedy of philosophic repute, for as to men versed in the stores of philosophy, they will see clearly that there is nothing wanting to the substance of the said narrative, for as much as it being self-evident and denied by none, that names are nothing but mere, the merest accidents." But when I shall have undergone the heroic fatigue of transcribing this history from this blotted and bescratched autograph, and shall have brought it, as they say, will anyone be found to endure the fatigue of reading it? This doubtful reflection, originating in the endeavor to decipher a great blot which came after accidents, brought my copy to a standstill, and made me reflect more seriously upon what ought to be done. It is quite true, said I to myself, running my eye over the manuscript, it is very true this hailstorm a little conceits and figures of speech, does not continue so uninterruptedly through the work. The good man, after the fashion of his time, was willing at first start to make a little show of his abilities. But afterwards, in the course of the narration, sometimes for a long time together, the style runs more naturally and smoothly. Yes, but then how commonplace he is, how dry, how incorrect, lumbard idioms without end, conversational terms introduced out of place, grammatical rules neglected at will, sentences awkwardly constructed, and then sundry Spanish elegances scattered here and there, and then, which is worse, in tragic or pitiful portions of the story, on every event which excites wonder or calls forth reflections, in all such passages in short as require a little eloquence, but discreet, delicate, and in good taste, this author never fails to indulge in something of similar character with his exhortium. And then, uniting with wonderful talent the most repugnant qualities, he manages to be unpolished and affected at once, in the same page, the same period, the same expression. Here are bombastic declamations made up by force of limping solicisms, and throughout the whole that ambitious dullness which is the peculiar characteristic of the writers of his country at that time. In very truth it is not a production fit to present to readers of today. They are too well advised, too much disgusted with extravagances of this kind. A fortunate escape for me, that this good thought has suggested itself at the beginning of this unhappy work. I wash my hands of it. But in the very act of shutting up the rejected manuscript to put it away again, it seemed sad to me that so pretty a story should remain forever unknown. For as to the story itself, it may appear differently to the reader. But to me, I say, it appears very pretty. Why, thought I, should I not take the series of facts from this manuscript and recast the language? No reasonable why not having presented itself, this plan was embraced at once. And now you have the origin of the present work, set forth with an ingenuousness corresponding to the importance of the same. Some of these facts, however, search and customs described by our author, seem to us so new, so strange, to say no worse, that, before putting faith in them, we determined to question other authorities. And we set ourselves the task of groping among the records of that age to certify ourselves whether the world in those days really so went. This search dissipated all our doubts. At every step, we stumbled on similar events, and even more wonderful. And, what appeared to us most decisive, we have, in the course of our reading, met with some personages, of whom, having never seen any notice beyond the pages of our manuscript, we had doubted whether they had ever enjoyed a real existence. In the course of the story, we cite a few of these testimonies to gain credence for facts, from which, on account of their strangeness, the reader might have been most tempted to withhold it. But having rejected as intolerable the diction of our author of what kind is that which we have substituted, here's the point. Whoever, without being asked, sets himself to revise another's work, must be prepared to render a strict account of his own, and, as it were, contracts an obligation to do so. This is a rule, in fact, in justice, from which we do not pretend to exempt ourselves. So much so, that in order to conform to it with a good grace, we had proposed to give here a minute account of the manner of composition adopted by us, and to this end we went seeking, all the time the work lasted, to divine all possible and contingent criticisms with the intention of answering them by anticipation. Nor would the difficulty have lain here, since we must say this in honor of truth, not a single criticism occurred to us, but there came along with it a triumphant answer. I do not say such an answer as resolves questions, but reverses them. Often, too, putting two criticisms one over against the other, we made them beat each other down, or examining well their inward essence and attentively comparing them, we succeeded in discovering and showing that, opposed as they were in appearance, they were nevertheless of one genus, springing forth one and another from not perceiving the facts and principles on which a judgment should be formed. To their great surprise, we put them both together, and together walked them off. Never was there an author who proved so undeniably that he had done well. But then, by the time we have developed all the set objections and replies, and put them in some order, alas, we shall have made a book. When we saw this, we put aside the thought for two reasons which the reader will certainly find convincing. First, that to print a book to defend another, not to say the style of another, might appear ridiculous. Secondly, that of books, one at a time is enough when there is no profit in advance. End of Introduction Chapter 1 Part 1 of The Betrothed This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Betrothed by Alessandro Monsoni Chapter 1 Part 1 That branch of the Lake of Como, which extends towards the south, is enclosed by two unbroken chains of mountains, which, as they advance and recede, diversify its shores with numerous bays and inlets. Suddenly the lake contracts itself and takes the course in form of a river between a promontory on the right and a wide open shore on the opposite side. The bridge which there joins the two banks seems to render this transformation more sensible to the eye and marks the point where the lake ends and the adda again begins, soon to resume the name of the lake, where the banks receding afresh allow the water to extend and spread itself into new gulfs and bays. The open country bordering the lake, formed of the alluvial deposits of three great torrents, reclines upon the roots of two contiguous mountains, one named San Martino, the other, in the Lombard dialect, Ilresegane. Because of its many peaks seen in profile, which in truth resemble the teeth of a saw so much so, that no one at first sight, viewing it in front, as, for example, from the northern bastions of Milan, could fail to distinguish it by this simple description from the other mountains of more obscure name and ordinary form in that long and vast chain. For a considerable distance the country rises with a gentle and continuous ascent, afterwards it is broken into hill and dale, terraces and elevated plains, formed by the intertwining of the roots of the two mountains and the action of the waters. The shore itself, intersected by the torrents, consists for the most part of gravel and large flints. The rest of the plain of fields and vineyards interspersed with towns, villages and hamlets. Other parts are closed with woods extending far up the mountain. Leco, the principal of these towns, giving its name to the territory, is at a short distance from the bridge and so close upon the shore, that when the waters are high it seems to stand in the lake itself. A large town even now, it promises soon to become a city. At the same time the events happened, which we undertake to recount, this town, already of considerable importance, was also a place of defense and, for that reason, had the honor of lodging a commander and the advantage of possessing a fixed garrison of Spanish soldiers, who taught modesty to the damsels and matrons of the country. He stowed from time to time marks of their favor on the shoulder of a husband or a father, and never failed in autumn to disperse themselves in the vineyards to thin the grapes and lighten for the peasant the labors of the vintage. From one to the other of these towns, from the heights to the lake, from one height to another, down through the little valleys, which lay between, there ran many narrow lanes or mule paths, and they still exist. One while abrupt and steep, another level, another pleasantly sloping, in most places enclosed by walls built of large flints, and clothed here and there with ancient ivy, which, eating with its roots into the cement, usurps its place, and binds together the wallet renders verdant. For some distance, these lanes are hidden, and, as it were, buried between the walls, so that the passenger, looking upwards, can see nothing but the sky and the peaks of some neighboring mountain. In other places they are terrorist. Sometimes they skirt the edge of a plane or project from the face of a declivity, like a long staircase, upheld by walls which flank the hillsides like bastions, but in the pathway rise only the height of a parapet, and here the eye of a traveler can range over varied and most beautiful prospects. On one side he commands the azure surface of the lake, and the inverted image of the rural banks reflected in the placid wave. On the other, the atta, scarcely escaped from the arches of the bridge, expands itself anew into a little lake, then is again contracted, and prolongs to the horizon its bright windings. Upward, the massive piles of the mountains overhanging the head of the gazer. Below, the cultivated terrace, the champagne, the bridge. Opposite, the further bank of the lake, and rising from it, the mountain boundary. Along one of these narrow lanes, in the evening of the 7th of November, in the year 1628, Don Abondio, curate of one of the towns alluded to above, was leisurely returning home from a walk. Our author does not mention the name of the town two blanks already. He was quietly repeating his office, and now and then, between one psalm and another, he would shut the breviary upon the forefinger of his right hand, keeping it there for a mark. Then, putting both his hands behind his back, the right, with the closed book, in the palm of the left, he pursued his way with downcast eyes, kicking from time to time, towards the wall, the flints which lay as stumbling blocks in the path. Thus he gave more undisturbed audience to the idle thoughts which had come to tempt his spirit, while his lips repeated of their own accord his evening prayers. Escaping from these thoughts, he raised his eyes to the mountain which rose opposite, and mechanically gazed on the gleaming of the scarcely set sun, which, making its way through the clefts of the opposite mountain, was thrown upon the projecting peaks in large unequal masses of rose-colored light. The breviary opened again, and another portion recited. He reached a turn where he always used to raise his eyes and look forward, and so he did today. After the turn, the road ran straight forward about sixty yards, and then divided into two lanes, Y fashion. The right hand path ascended towards the mountain and led to the parsonage. The left branch descended through the valley to a torrent, and on this side the walls were not higher than about two feet. The inner walls of the two ways, instead of meeting so as to form an angle, ended in a little chapel on which there depicted certain figures, long, waving, and terminating in a point. These, in the intention of the artist and to the eyes of the neighboring inhabitants, represented flames. Alternately, with the flames were other figures, indescribable, meant for souls in purgatory, souls in flames of brick color on a gray ground enlivened with patches of the natural wall where the plaster was gone. The curate, having turned the corner and looked forward, as was his custom, towards the chapel, beheld an unexpected sight, and one he would not willingly have seen. Two men, one opposite the other, were stationed at the confluence, so to say, of the two ways. One of them was sitting across the low wall, with one leg dangling on the outer side, and the other supporting him in the path. His companion was standing up, leaning against the wall, with his arms crossed on his breast. Their dress, their carriage, and so much of their expression as could be distinguished at the distance at which the curate stood, left no doubt about their condition. Each had a green net on his head, which fell upon the left shoulder, and ended in a large tassel. Their long hair, appearing in one large lock upon the forehead. On the upper lip, two long moustachios, curled at the end, their doublets confined by bright leather girdles, from which hung abrasive pistols. A little horn of powder dangling round their necks, and falling on their breasts like a necklace. On the right side of their large and loose pantaloons, a pocket, and from the pocket the handle of a dagger, a sword hanging on the left, with a large basket hilt of brass carved in cipher polished and gleaming. All at a glance discovered them to be individuals of the species Bravo. This order, now quite extinct, was then most flourishing in Lombardi, and already of considerable antiquity. Has anyone no clear idea of it? Here are some authentic sketches, which may give him a distinct notion of its principal characteristics, of the means put in force to destroy it, and of its obstinate vitality. On the 8th of April, 1583, the most illustrious and excellent, Signor Don Carlo De Aragon, Prince of Castel Vitrano, Duke of Terra Nuova, Marquis of Avola, Count of Berghetto, Grand Admiral and Grand Constable of Sicily, Governor of Milan, and Captain General of his Catholic Majesty in Italy, being fully informed of the intolerable misery in which this city of Milan was lain, and does lie, by reason of Bravos and Bagobons, publishes a ban against them, declares and defines all those to be included in this ban, and to be held Bravos and Bagobons who, whether foreigners or natives, have no occupation, or having it do not employ themselves in it, but without salary or with engage themselves to any cavalier or gentleman, officer or merchant, to render them aid and service, or rather, as may be presumed, to lay weight against others. All these he commands, that, within the term of six days, they should evacuate the country, threatens the galleys to the refractory, and grants to all officials the most strangely ample and indefinite power of executing the order. But the following year, on the 12th of April, the same Signor, perceiving that the city is completely full of the said Bravos, returns to live as they had lived before, their customs wholly unchanged, and their numbers undiminished, issues another hue and cry, more vigorous and marked, in which, among other ordinances, he prescribes that whatever person, as well as inhabitant of this city, as a foreigner, who by the testimony of two witnesses, should appear to be held and commonly reputed a Bravo, and to have that name, although he cannot be convicted of having committed any crime, for this reputation of being a Bravo alone, without any other proof, may, by the said judges, and by every individual of them, be put to the rack in torture for process of information. And although he confess no crime whatever, notwithstanding, he shall be sent to the galleys for the said three years for the sole reputation and name of Bravo, as aforesaid. All this and more which is omitted, because his Excellency is resolved to be obeyed by every one. At hearing such brave and confident words of so great a Signor, accompanied, too, with many penalties, one feels much inclined to suppose that, at the echo of their rumblings, all the Bravos had disappeared forever. But the testimony of a Signor, not less authoritative, nor less endowed with names, obliges us to believe quite the contrary. The most illustrious and the most excellent Signor Juan Fernandez de Velasco, Constable of Castile, Grand Chamberlain of His Majesty, Duke of the City of Frias, Count of Harro and Castile Novo, Lord of the House of Velasco, and that of the Seven Infantas of Lara, Governor of the State of Milan, etc. On the 5th of June, 1593, he also fully informed of how much loss and destruction, Bravos and vagabonds, are the cause, and of the mischief such sort of people effects against the public wheel, in despite of justice, warns them anew that within the term of six days, they are to evacuate the country, repeating almost word for word the threats and penalties of his predecessor. On the 23rd of May, in a subsequent year, 1598, being informed, with no little displeasure of mind, that every day in this city and state, the number of these people, Bravos and vagabonds, is on the increase, and day and night, nothing is heard of them but murder, homicide, robbery, and crimes of every kind, for which there is greater facility, because these Bravos are confident of being supported by their great employers, he prescribes anew the same remedies, increasing the dose, as men do in obstinate maladies. Let everyone then, he concludes, be holy on his guard against contravening in the least, the present proclamation, for instead of experiencing the clemency of his excellency, he will experience the rigor of his anger, he being resolved and determined that this shall be the last and peremptory admonition. Not, however, of this opinion, was the most illustrious and most excellent senor, el señor don Pietro Enrique de Acevedo, count of Fuentes, captain and governor of the state of Milan. Not of this opinion was he, and for good reasons. Being fully informed of the misery in which this city and state lies, by reason of the great number of Bravos which abound in it, and being resolved wholly to extirpate a plant so pernicious, he issues, on the 5th of December, 1600, a new admonition, full of severe penalties, with a firm purpose that, with all rigor and without any hope of remission, they shall be fully carried out. We must believe, however, that he did not apply himself to this matter with that hardy good will which he knew how to employ in contriving cabals and exciting enemies against his great enemy, Henry IV. History informs us that he succeeded in arming against that king, the Duke of Savoy, and caused him to lose a city. He succeeded also in engaging the Duke of Biran on his behalf, and caused him to lose his head. But as to this pernicious plant of Bravos, certain it is that it continued to blossom until the 22nd of September, 1612. On that day, the most illustrious senor Don Giovanni de Mendoza, Marquis of Hainajosa, gentlemen, etc., governor, etc., had serious thoughts of extirpating it. To this end, he sent the usual proclamation, corrected and enlarged, to Pandolfo and Marco Tullio Molatesti, associated printers to his majesty, with orders to print it to the destruction of the Bravos. Yet they lived to receive, on the 24th of December, 1618, similar and more vigorous blows from the most illustrious and most excellent senor, the senor Don Gomez Suarez de Figueroa, Duke of Feria, etc., governor, etc. Moreover, they not being hereby done to death, the most illustrious and most excellent senor, the senor Gonzalo Fernandes de Cordova, under whose government these events happened to Don Abondio, had found himself obliged to re-correct and re-publish the usual proclamation against the Bravos on the fifth day of October, 1627, i.e., one year, one month, and two days before this memorable event. Nor was this the last publication. We do not feel bound, however, to make mention of these which ensued, as they are beyond the period of our story. We will notice only one of the 13th of February, 1632, in which the most illustrious and most excellent senor, the Duke of Feria, a second-time governor, signifies to us that the greatest outrages are caused by those denominated Bravos. This suffices to make it pretty certain that at the time of which we treat, there was as yet no lack of Bravos. That the two described above were on the lookout for someone was but too evident. But what more alarmed Don Abondio was, that he was assured by certain signs that he was the person expected. For the moment he appeared, they exchanged glances, raising their heads with a movement which plainly expressed that both at once had exclaimed, here's our man. He who bestowed the wall got up and brought his other leg into the path. His companion left leaning on the wall and both began to walk towards him. Don Abondio, keeping the breviary open before him as if reading, directed his glance forward to watch their movements. He saw them advancing straight towards him, multitudes of thoughts all at once crowded upon him. With quick anxiety he asked himself whether any pathway to the right or left lay between him and the Bravos, and quickly came the answer, no. He made a hasty examination to discover whether he had offended some great man, some vindictive neighbor. But even in this moment of alarm the consoling testimony of conscience somewhat reassured him. Meanwhile the Bravos drew near, eyeing him fixedly. He put the forefinger and middle finger of his left hand up to his collar as if to settle it, and running the two fingers round his neck he turned his head backwards at the same time, twisting his mouth in the same direction, and looked out of the corner of his eyes as far as he could to see whether anyone was coming. But he saw no one. He cast a glance over the low wall into the fields, no one. Another more subdued along the path forward, no one but the Bravos. What is to be done? Turn back? It is too late. Run? It is the same as to say, follow me or worse. Since he could not escape the danger, he went to meet it. These moments of uncertainty were already so painful, he desired only to shorten them. He quickened his pace, recited a verse in a louder tone, composed his face to a tranquil and careless expression, as well as he could, used every effort to have a smile ready, and when he found himself in the presence of the two good men, exclaiming mentally, here we are, he stood still. Señor Curato said once, staring in his face, Who commands me? quickly answered Dona Bondio, raising his eyes from the book and holding it open in both hands. You intend, continued the other, with the threatening angry brow of one who has caught an inferior committing some grievous fault. You intend to marry Renzo Tremaglino and Lucia Mondella. That is, replied Dona Bondio with a quivering voice, that is, you gentlemen are men of the world, and know well how these things go. A poor curate has nothing to do with them. They patch up their little treaties between themselves, and then they come to us as one goes to the bank to make a demand, and we are the servants of the community. Mark well, said the Bravo, in a lower voice but with a solemn tone of command. This marriage is not to be performed, not tomorrow nor ever. But gentlemen, replied Dona Bondio with the soothing mild tone of one who would persuade an impatient man, be so kind as put yourselves in my place. If the thing depended on me, you see plainly that it is no advantage to me. Come, come, interrupted the Bravo, if the thing were to be decided by preying, you might soon put our heads in a poke. We know nothing about it, and we don't want to know more, a warned man, you understand. But gentlemen, like you, are too just, too reasonable, but this time the other companion broke in who had not hitherto spoken. But the marriage is not to be performed or, hear a great oath, or he who performs it will never repent because he shall have no time for it, another oath. Silence, silence, replied the first orator. The Signor Curato knows the way of the world, and we are good sort of men who don't wish to do him any harm if he will act like a wise man. Signor Curato, the illustrious Signor Don Rodrigo, our master, sends his kind respects. To the mind of Dona Bondio, this name was like the lightning flash in a storm at night, which, illuminating for a moment and confusing all objects, increases the terror. As by instinct, he made a low bow and said, If you could suggest, oh, suggest is for you who know Latin, again interrupted the Bravo, with a smile between awkwardness and ferocity. It is all very well for you. But above all, let not a word be whispered about this notice that we have given you for your good, or it will be the same as marrying them. Well, what will your reverence that we say for you to the illustrious Signor Don Rodrigo? My respects. Be clear, Signor Curato. Disposed, always disposed to obedience. And having said these words, he did not himself well know whether he had given a promise, or whether he had only sent an ordinary compliment. The Bravos took it, and showed that they took it in the more serious meaning. Very well. Good evening, Signor Curato, said one of them, leading his companion away. Chapter 1 Part 2 Dona Bondio, who a few moments before would have given one of his eyes to have got rid of them, now wished to prolong the conversation and modify the treaty. In vain they would not listen, but took the path along which he had come and were soon out of sight, singing a ballad which I do not choose to transcribe. Poor Dona Bondio stood for a moment with his mouth open as if enchanted, and then he too departed, taking that path which led to his house, and hardly dragging one leg after the other, with a sensation of walking on crab claws, and in a frame of mind which the reader will better understand after having learnt somewhat more of the character of this personage and of the sort of times in which his lot was cast. Dona Bondio, the reader may have discovered it already, was not born with the heart of a lion. Besides this, from his earliest years, he had had occasion to learn that the most embarrassing of all conditions in those times was that of an animal without claws and without teeth, which yet nevertheless had no inclination to be devoured. The arm of the law by no means protected the quiet, inoffensive man who had no other means of inspiring fear, not indeed that there was any want of laws and penalties against private violence. Laws came down like hail. Crimes were recounted and particularised with minute prolixity. Penalties were absurdly exorbitant, and if that were not enough, capable of augmentation in almost every case at the will of the legislator himself and of a hundred executives. The forms of procedure studied only how to liberate the judge from every impediment in the way of passing a sentence of condemnation. The sketches we have given of the proclamations against the bravos are a feeble but true index of this. Notwithstanding, or rather in great measure for this reason, these proclamations, republished and reinforced by one government after another, served only to attest most magniliquently the impotence of their authors, or if they produced any immediate effect, it was for the most part to add new vexations to those already suffered by the peaceable and helpless at the hands of the turbulent, and to increase the violence and cunning of the latter. Impunity was organised and implanted so deeply that its roots were untouched, or at least unmoved, by these proclamations. Such were the asylums, such were the privileges of certain classes, privileges partly recognised by law, partly born with envious silence, or decried with vain protests, but kept up in fact and guarded by these classes, and by almost every individual in them with interested activity and punctilious jealousy. Now impunity of this kind, threatened and insulted, but not destroyed by the proclamations, was naturally obliged on every new threat and insult to put in force new powers and new schemes to preserve its own existence. So it fell out in fact, and on the appearance of a proclamation for the restraint of the violent, these sought in their power new means more apt in effecting that which the proclamations forbade. The proclamations indeed could accomplish at every step the molestation of a good sort of men who had neither power themselves nor protection from others. Because in order to have every person under their hands to prevent or punish every crime, they subjected every movement of private life to the arbitrary will of a thousand magistrates and executives. But whoever, before committing a crime, had taken measures to secure his escape in time to a convent or a palace where the beery had never dared to enter. Whoever, without any other measures, bore a livery which called to his defence the vanity and interest of a powerful family or order, such in one was free to do as he pleased, and could set at not the clamour of the proclamations. Of those very persons to whom the enforcing of them was committed, some belonged by birth to the privileged class, some were dependent on it as clients. Both one and the other, by education, interest, habit, and imitation, had embraced its maxims and would have taken good care not to offend it for the sake of a piece of paper pasted on the corners of the streets. The men entrusted with the immediate execution of the decrees, had they been enterprising as heroes, obedient as monks, and devoted as martyrs, could not have had the upper hand, inferior as they were in number, to those with whom they would have been engaged in battle, with the probability of being frequently abandoned, or even sacrificed, by those who abstractedly, or so to say in theory, set them to work. But besides this, these men were generally chosen from the lowest and most rascally classes of those times. Their office was held base even by those who stood most in fear of it, and their title a reproach. It was therefore but natural that they, instead of risking or rather throwing away their lives in an impracticable undertaking, should take pay for inaction, or even connivance at the powerful, and reserve the exercise of their executed authority and diminished power for those occasions where they could oppress without danger, i.e., by annoying pacific and defenseless persons. The man who was ready to give and expecting to receive offense every moment naturally seeks allies and companions. Hence the tendency of individuals to unite into classes was in these times carried to the greatest excess. New societies were formed, and each man strove to increase the power of his own party to the greatest degree. The clergy were on the watch to defend and extend their immunities, the nobility their privileges, the military their exemptions. Tradespeople and artisans were enrolled in subordinate confraternities, lawyers constituted a league, and even doctors a corporation. Each of these little oligarchies had its own peculiar power. In each the individual found it an advantage to avail himself in proportion to their authority and vigor of the united force of the many. Honest men availed themselves of this advantage for defense. The evil disposed and sharp-witted made use of it to accomplish deeds of violence, for which their personal means were insufficient, and to ensure themselves impunity. The power, however, of these various combinations was very unequal, and especially in the country, a rich and violent nobility having a band of bravos and surrounded by a peasantry accustomed by immemorial tradition and compelled by interest or force to look upon themselves as soldiers of their lords, exercised a power against which no other league could have maintained effectual resistance. Our abondio, not noble, not rich, not courageous, was therefore accustomed from his very infancy to look upon himself as a vessel of fragile earthenware, obliged to journey in company with many vessels of iron. Hence he had very easily acquiesced in his parents' wish to make him a priest. To say the truth he had not reflected much on the obligations and noble ends of the ministry to which he was dedicating himself. To ensure something to live upon with comfort and to place himself in a class revered and powerful seemed to him two sufficient reasons for his choice. But no class whatever provides for an individual or secures him beyond a certain point, and none dispenses him from forming his own particular system. Don Abondio, continually absorbed in thoughts about his own security, cared not at all for those advantages which risked a little to secure a great deal. His system was to escape all opposition and to yield where he could not escape. In all the frequent contests carried on around him between the clergy and the laity, in the perpetual collision between officials and the nobility, between the nobility and magistrates, between bravos and soldiers, down to the pitched battle between two rustics arising from a word and decided with fists or poignards, an unarmed neutrality was his chosen position. If he were absolutely obliged to take apart, he favored the stronger, always however with a reserve, and an endeavor to show the other that he was not willingly his enemy. It seemed as if he would say, Why did you not manage to be stronger? I would have taken your side then. Keeping a respectful distance from the powerful, silently bearing their scorn when capriciously shown in passing instances, answering with submission when it assumed a more serious and decided form, obliging by his profound bows and respectful salutations the most surly and haughty to return him a smile when he met them by the way, the poor man had performed the voyage of sixty years without experiencing any very violent tempests. It was not that he had not to his own little portion of gall in his disposition, and this continual exercise of endurance, the ceaseless giving reasons to others, these many bitter mouthfuls gulped down in silence, had so far exasperated it that had he not an opportunity sometimes of giving it a little of its own way, his health would certainly have suffered. But because there were in the world close around him, some few persons whom he knew well to be incapable of hurting, upon them he was able now and then to let out the bad humor so long pent up, and take upon himself, even he, the right to be a little fantastic, and to scold unreasonably. Besides, he was a rigid censor of those who did not guide themselves by his rules, that is, when the censure could be passed without any the most distant danger. Was any one beaten? He was at least imprudent. Anyone murdered? He had always been a turbulent meddler. If any one, having tried to maintain his right against some powerful noble, came off with a broken head, Don Abondio always knew how to discover some fault, a thing not difficult, since right and wrong are never divided with so clean a cut, that one party has the whole of either. Above all, he declaimed against any of his brethren, who at their own risk took the part of the weak and oppressed against the powerful oppressor. This he called paying for quarrels and giving one's legs to the dogs. He even pronounced with severity upon it as a mixing in profane things to the loss of dignity to the sacred ministry. Against such men he discoursed, always, however, with his eyes about him or in a retired corner, with greater vehemence in proportion as he knew them to be strangers to anxiety about their personal safety. He had finally a favorite sentence, with which he always wound up discourses on these matters, that a respectable man who looked to himself and minded his own business could always keep clear of mischievous quarrels. My five and twenty readers may imagine what impression such an encounter as has been related above would make on the mind of this pitiable being. The fearful aspect of those faces, the great words, the threats of a senior known for never threatening in vain, a system of living in quiet the patient's study of so many years upset in a moment, and in prospect a path narrow and rugged from which no exit could be seen. All these thoughts buzzed about tumultuously in the downcast head of Dona Bondio. If Renzo could be dismissed in peace with a mere no, it is all plain, but he would want reasons. And what am I to say to him? And he is a lamb, quiet as a lamb, if no one touches him, but if he were contradicted, who? And then, out of his senses about this luchia in love over head, and these young men who fall in love for want of something to do will be married and think nothing about other people. They do not care anything for the trouble they bring upon a poor curate. Unfortunate me! What possible business had these two frightful figures to put themselves in my path and interfere with me? Is it I who want to be married? Why did they not rather go and talk with? Let me see what a great misfortune it is that the right plan never comes into my head till it is too late, if I had but thought of suggesting to them to carry their message to. But at this point it occurred to him that to repent of not having been aider and a better in iniquity was itself iniquitous, and he turned his angry thoughts upon the man who had come in this manner to rob him of his peace. He knew Don Rodrigo only by sight and by report, nor had he had to do with him further than to make a lowly reverence when he had chance to meet him. It had fallen to him several times to defend this senior against those who, with subdued voice and looks of fear, wished ill to some of his enterprises. He had said a hundred times that he was a respectable cavalier. But at this moment he bestowed upon him all those epithets which he had never heard applied by others without an exclamation of disapprobation. Amid the tumult of these thoughts he reached his own door. He hastily applied the key which he held in his hand, opened, entered, carefully closed it behind him, and anxious to find himself in trustworthy company, called quickly, Perpetua, Perpetua, as he went towards the dining-room where he was sure to find Perpetua laying the cloth for supper. Perpetua, as everyone already knows, was Don Abondio's servant, a servant affectionate and faithful, who knew how to obey and command in turn as occasion required, to bear in season the grumblings and fancies of her master, and to make him bear the like when her turn came, which day by day recurred more frequently, since she had passed the Sinaldahl age of forty, remaining single because, as she said herself, she had refused all offers, or because she had never found anyone goosey enough to have her, as her friend said. I am coming, replied Perpetua, putting down in its usual place a little flask of Don Abondio's favorite wine, and moving leisurely. But before she reached the door of the dining-room, he entered, with a step so unsteady, with an expression so overcast, with features so disturbed, that there had been no need of Perpetua's experienced eye to discover at a glance that something very extraordinary had happened. Mercy, what has happened to you, master? Nothing, nothing, replied Don Abondio, sinking down breathless on his armchair. How nothing! Would you make me believe this, so disordered as you are? Some great misfortune has happened. Oh, for heaven's sake, when I say nothing, either it is nothing, or it is something I cannot tell. Not tell, even to me? Who will take care of your safety, sir? Who will advise you? Oh, dear, hold your tongue and say no more. Give me a glass of my wine. And you will persist, sir, that it is nothing, said Perpetua, filling the glass, and then holding it in her hand, as if she would give it in payment for the confidence he kept her waiting for so long. Give it here, give it here, said Don Abondio, taking the glass from her with no very steady hand, and emptying it hastily, as if it were a draft of medicine. Do you wish me, then, sir, to be obliged to ask here and there what has happened to my master? said Perpetua, right opposite him, with her arms at Kimbo, looking steadily at him, as if she would gather the truth from his eyes. For heaven's sake, let us have no brawling, let us have no noise. It is, it is my life. Your life? My life. You know, sir, that whenever you have told me anything sincerely in confidence, I have never—well done, for instance, when—Perpetua saw she had touched a wrong cord, wherefore suddenly changing her tone. Señor, master, she said, with a softened and affecting voice, I have always been an affectionate servant to you, sir, and if I wish to know this, it is because of my care for you, because I wish to be able to help you and give you good advice and to comfort you. The fact was, Don Abondio was, perhaps, just as anxious to get rid of his burdensome secret as Perpetua was to know it. In consequence, after having rebutted, always more feebly, her reiterated and more vigorous assaults, after having made her vow more than once not to breed the subject with many sighs and many doleful exclamations, he repeated at last the miserable event. When he came to the terrible name, it was necessary for Perpetua to make new and more solemn vows of silence, and Don Abondio, having pronounced this name, sank back on the chair, lifting up his hands in an act at once of command and in treaty, exclaiming, for heaven's sake. Mercy! exclaimed Perpetua. Oh, what a wretch! Oh, what a tyrant! Oh, what a godless man! Will you hold your tongue, or do you wish to ruin me altogether? Why, we're all alone. No one can hear us. But what will you do, sir? Oh, my poor master! You see now, you see, said Don Abondio, in an angry tone, what good advice this woman can give me. She comes and asks me what shall I do, what shall I do, as if she were in a quandary, and it were my place to help her out. But I could even give my poor opinion, but then, but then let us hear. My advice would be, since as everybody says, our archbishop is a saint, a bold-hearted man, and one who is not afraid of an ugly face, and one who glories in upholding a poor curate against these tyrants when he has an opportunity, I should say, and I do say, that you should write a nice letter to inform him how that— Will you hold your tongue? Will you be silent? Is this fit advice to give a poor man? When a bullet was lodged in my back, heaven defend me, would the archbishop dislodge it? Why, bullets don't fly in showers like comforts! Footnote. It is accustomed in Italy during the carnival for friends to salute each other with showers of comforts as they pass in the streets. And footnote. Woe to us if these dogs could bite whenever they bark! And I have always taken notice that whoever knows how to show his teeth and makes use of them is treated with respect. And just because master will never give his reasons, we are come to that pass that everyone comes to us, if I may say it, too. Will you hold your tongue? I will directly, but it is, however, certain that when all the world sees a man always, in every encounter, ready to yield the— Will you hold your tongue? Is this a time for such nonsensical words? Very well. You can think about it tonight. But now don't be doing any mischief to yourself. Don't be making yourself ill. Take a mouthful to eat. Think about it, shall I? Grumbledonabondio. To be sure I shall think about it. I've got it to think about. And he got up going on. I will take nothing, nothing. I have something else to do. I know, too, what I ought to think about it, but that this should have come on my head. Swallow at least this other little drop, said Perpetua, pouring it out. You know, sir, this always strengthens your stomach. Ah, we want another strengthener, another, another. So saying, he took the candle and constantly grumbling a nice little business to a man like me, and to-morrow what is to be done? With other-like lamentations went to his chamber to lie down. When he had reached the door, he paused a moment, turned round, and laid his finger on his lips, pronouncing slowly and solemnly, for heaven's sake, and disappeared. Chapter 2 Part 1 It is related that the Prince Condé slept soundly the night before the battle of Rokroy, but in the first place he was very tired, and secondly he had given all needful previous orders, and arranged what was to be done on the morrow. Don Abondio, on the other hand, as yet knew nothing, except that the morrow would be a day of battle. Hence great part of the night was spent by him in anxious and harassing deliberations. To take no notice of the lawless intimation and proceed with the marriage was a plan on which he would not even expend a thought. To confide the occurrence to Renzo and seek with him some means, he dreaded the thought. He must not let a word escape, otherwise, ahem. Thus one of the bravos had spoken, and the re-echoing of this ahem. Don Abondio, far from thinking of transgressing such a law, began to repent of having revealed it to Perpetua. Must he fly, wither? And then, how many annoyances, how many reasons to give? As he rejected plan after plan, the unfortunate man tossed from side to side in bed. The course which seemed best to him was to gain time by imposing on Renzo. He opportunally remembered that it wanted only a few days of the time when weddings were prohibited. And if I can only put him off for these few days, I have then two months before me, and in two months great things may be done. He ruminated over various pretexts to bring into play. And though they appeared to him rather slight, yet he reassured himself with the thought that his authority added to them would make them appear of sufficient weight, and then his practiced experience would give him great advantage over an ignorant youth. Let us see, he said to himself. He thinks of his love, but I of my life. I am more interested than he. Beside that, I am cleverer. My dear child, if you feel your backsmarting, I know not what to say, but I will not put my foot in it. His mind, being thus a little settled to deliberation, he was able at last to close his eyes. But what sleep, what dreams? Bravo's Don Rodrigo, Renzo, pathways, rocks, flight, chase, cries, muskets. The moment of first awakening after a misfortune, while still in perplexity, is a bitter one. The mind scarcely restored to consciousness returns to the habitual idea of former tranquility, but the thought of the new state of things soon presents itself with rude abruptness, and our misfortune is most trying in this moment of contrast. Dolphily Don Abondio tasted the bitterness of this moment, and then began hastily to recapitulate the designs of the night, confirmed himself in them, arranged them anew, arose, and waited for Renzo at once with fear and impatience. Lorenzo, or as everyone called him, Renzo, did not keep him long waiting, scarcely had the hour arrived at which he thought he could with propriety present himself to the curate, when he set off with a light step of a man of twenty, who was on that day to espouse her whom he loved. He had in early youth been deprived of his parents, and carried on the trade of silk weaver, hereditary, so they say in his family, a trade lucrative enough in former years, but even then beginning to decline, yet not to such a degree that a clever workman was not able to make an honest livelihood by it. Work became more scarce from day to day, but the continual emigration of the workmen, attracted to the neighboring states by promises, privileges, and large wages, left sufficient occupation for those who remained in the country. Renzo possessed, besides, a plot of land which he cultivated, working in it himself when he was disengaged from his silk weaving, so that in his station he might be called a rich man. Although this year was one of greater scarcity than those which had preceded it, and real want began to be felt already, yet he, having become a saver of money ever since he had cast his eyes upon Lucia, found himself sufficiently furnished with provisions, and had no need to beg his bread. He appeared before Dona Bondio in gay bridal costume, with feathers of various colors in his cap, with an ornamental hilted dagger in his pocket, and with an air of festivity, and at the same time of defiance, common at that time even to men the most quiet. The hesitating and mysterious reception of Dona Bondio formed a strange contrast with the joyous and resolute bearing of the young. He must have got some notion in his head, thought Renzo to himself, and then said, I have come, senior curate, to know at what hour it will suit you for us to be at church. What day are you speaking of? How, of what day, don't you remember, sir, that this is the day fixed upon? Today, replied Dona Bondio, as if he now heard it spoken of for the first time. Today, today, don't be impatient, but today I cannot. Today you cannot. What has happened, sir? First of all, I do not feel well, you see. I am very sorry, but what you have to do, sir, is so soon done, and so little fatiguing, and then, and then, and then, and then what, senior curate? And then there are difficulties. Difficulties? What difficulties can there be? You need to stand in our shoes to understand what perplexities we have in these matters, what reasons to give. I am too soft-hearted. I think of nothing but how to remove obstacles and make all easy, and arrange things to please others. I neglect my duty, and then I am subject to reproofs and worse. But in Heaven's name, don't keep me so on the stretch. Tell me at once what is the matter. Do you know how many, many formalities are necessary to perform a marriage regularly? I ought to know a little about it, said Renzo, beginning to be warm, for you, sir, have puzzled my head enough about it the last few days back. But now is not everything made clear, is not everything done that had to be done? All, all on your part, therefore, have patience, and as I am to neglect my duty that I may not give pain to people. We poor curates are between the anvil and the hammer. You are impatient. I am sorry for you, poor young man, and the great people. Enough, one must not say everything, and we have to go between. But explain to me at once, sir, what this new formality is, which has to be gone through, as you say, and shall be done soon. Do you know what the number of absolute impediments is? What would you have me know about impediments, sir? Error condito votum cognatio crimen cultus disbaritas vis ordo sissita finis. Are you making game of me, sir? What do you expect me to know about your latinorum? Then, if you don't understand things, have patience and leave them to those who do. Or sue. Quiet, my dear Renzo, don't get in a passion, for I am ready to do all that depends on me. I wish to see you satisfied, I wish you well. Alas, when I think how well off you were, what were you wanting? The whim of getting married came upon you. What talk is this, senor mio? Interrupted Renzo, with a voice between astonishment and anger. Have patience, I tell you, I wish to see you satisfied. In short, in short, my son, it is no fault of mine. I did not make the law, and before concluding a marriage, it is our special duty to certify ourselves that there is no impediment. But come, tell me once for all what impediment has come in the way. Have patience, they are not things to be deciphered thus at a standing. It will be nothing to us, I hope. But, be the consequence great or little, we must make these researches. The text is clear and evident. Antiquam metrimonium dinuniset. I have told you, sir, I will have no Latin. But it is necessary that I should explain to you. But have you not made all these researches? I tell you, I have not made them all as I must. Why did you not do it in time, sir? Why did you tell me that all was finished? Why wait? Look now, you are finding fault with my over-kindness. I have facilitated everything to serve you without loss of time. But now I have received enough, I know. And what do you wish me to do, sir? To have patience for a few days. My dear son, a few days are not eternity. Have patience. For how long? We are in good trade now, thought Donabondio to himself, and added with a more polite manner than ever. Come now, in fifteen days I will endeavor to do fifteen days. This indeed is something new. You have had everything your own way, sir. You fixed the day. The day arrives. And now you go tell me I must wait fifteen days. Fifteen—he began again, with a louder and more angry voice, extending his arm and striking the air with his fist. And nobody knows what shocking words he would have added to this number fifteen if Donabondio had not interrupted him, taking his other hand with a timid and anxious friendliness. Come, come, don't be angry for heaven's sake. I will see, I will try, whether in one week. And Lucia, what must I say to her? That it has been an oversight of mine. And what will the world say? Tell them, too, that I have made a blunder through overhaste, through too much good nature. Lay all the fault on me. Can I say more? Come now for one week. And then will there be no more impediments? When I tell you very well I will be quiet for a week, but I know well enough that when it is past I shall get nothing but talk, but before that I shall see you again. Having so said he retired, making a bow much less lowly than usual to Donabondio, and bestowing on him a glance more expressive than reverent. Having reached the road and walking with heavy heart towards the home of his betrothed, in the midst of his wrath, he turned his thoughts on the late conversation, and more and more strange it seemed to him. The cold and constrained greeting of Donabondio, his guarded and yet impatient words, his gray eyes, which as he spoke, glensed inquisitively here and there as if afraid of coming in contact with the words which issued from his mouth, the making a new thing as it were, of the nuptials so expressly determined, and above all the constant hinting at some great occurrence without ever saying anything decided. All these things put together made Renzo think that there was some overhanging mystery different from that which Donabondio would have had him suppose. The youth was just on the point of turning back to oblige him to speak more plainly, but raising his eyes he saw Perpetua a little way before him entering a garden a few paces distant from the house. He gave her a call to open the garden door for him, quickened his pace, came up with her, detained her in the doorway, and stood still to have a conversation with her, intending to discover something more positive. Good morning, Perpetua. I hoped we should have been married today altogether. But as heaven wills, my poor Renzo, I want you to do me a kindness. The senior curate has been making a long story of certain reasons which I cannot understand. Will you explain to me better why he cannot or will not marry us today? Oh, is it likely I know my master's secrets? I said there was some hidden mystery, thought Renzo, and to draw it forth to the light he continued. Come, Perpetua, we are friends. Tell me what you know, help an unfortunate youth. It is a bad thing to be born poor, my dear Renzo. That is true, replied he, still confirming himself in his suspicions, and seeking to come nearer the question. That is true, but is it for a priest to deal hardly with the poor? Listen, Renzo, I can tell you nothing, because I know nothing, but what you may assure yourself of is that my master does not wish to ill-treat you or anybody, and it is not his fault. Whose fault is it, then? demanded Renzo, with an air of indifference, but with an anxious heart and ears on the alert. When I tell you I know nothing, in defense of my master I can speak, because I can't bear to hear that he is ready to do ill to anyone. Poor man, if he does wrong, it is from too good nature. There certainly are some wretches in the world overbearing tyrants, men without the fear of God. Tyrants wretches, thought Renzo. Are not these the great men? Come, said he, with difficulty hiding his increasing agitation. Come, tell me who it is. Oh, oh, you want to make me speak, and I cannot speak, because I know nothing. When I know nothing, it is the same as if I had taken an oath not to tell. You might put me to the rack, and you would get nothing from my mouth. Goodbye, it is lost time for you and me both. So, saying, she quickly entered the garden and shut the door. Renzo, having returned her farewell, turned back with a quiet step that she might not hear which way he took. But when he got beyond reach of the good woman's ears, he quickened his pace. In a moment, he was at Dona Bondio's door, entered, went straight to the room in which he had left him, found him there, and went towards him with a reckless bearing and eyes glancing anger. End of Chapter 2, Part 1 Chapter 2, Part 2 of The Betrothed This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Betrothed by Alessandro Monsoni Chapter 2, Part 2 Eh, eh, what new thing is this? said Dona Bondio. Who is that tyrant? said Renzo, with the voice of a man who is determined to obtain a precise reply. Who is the tyrant who is unwilling that I should marry Lucia? What, what, what? stammered the astonished poor man, his face in a moment becoming pale and colorless as a rag just emerged from the washing tub. Then, still stammering, he made a start from his armchair to dart towards the door. But Renzo, who might have expected this movement, was on the alert. Spraying there before him, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. Ah, ah, will you speak now, Signor Curato? Everybody knows my affairs except myself. But by backest I, too, will know. What is his name? Renzo, Renzo, for charity, take care what you are about. Think of your soul. I am thinking that I will know it quickly in a moment. And as he spoke, perhaps without being aware of it, he laid his hand on the hilt of a dagger which projected from his pocket. Misericordia! exclaimed Dona Bondeo in a feeble voice. I will know it. Who has told you? No, no, no more trickery. Speak positively and quickly. Do you wish me to be killed? I wish to know what I have a right to know. But if I speak, I am a dead man. Surely I am not to trample on my own life. Then speak. This, then, was pronounced with such energy, and Renzo's face became so threatening that Dona Bondeo could no longer entertain a hope of the possibility of disobedience. Promise me, swear to me, said he, not to speak of it to anyone, never to tell. I promise you, sir, that I will do an ill deed if you don't tell me quick, quick his name. At this new adjuration, Dona Bondeo, with the face and look of a man who has the pincers of the dentist in his mouth, articulated, Don... Don, repeated Renzo, as if to help the patient to utter the rest. While he stood bending forward, his ear turned towards the open mouth of Dona Bondeo, his arms stretched out, and his clenched fists behind him. Don Rodrigo hastily uttered the compelled curate, making a rush at these few syllables, and gliding over the consonants, partly through excitement, partly because exercising the little judgment that was left him to steer his way betwixt the two fears, it appeared that he wished to withdraw the word and make it invisible at the very moment he was constrained to give utterance to it. Ah, dog, shouted Renzo, and how has he done it, and what has he said to... Howe, howe, replied Dona Bondeo in an indignant voice as it were, feeling after so great a sacrifice that he had in a manner become a creditor. Howe, I wish it had happened to you as it has to me, who have not put my foot in it for nothing, for then certainly you would not have so many crotchets in your head. And here he began to depict in dreadful colors the terrible encounter. As he proceeded in the description he began to realize the wrath which hitherto had been concealed or changed into fear, and perceiving at the same time that Renzo, between anger and confusion, stood motionless with his head downwards, he continued triumphantly. You have done a pretty deed, nice treatment you have given me, to serve such a trick to an honest man to your curate in his own house in a sacred place. You have done a fine action to force from my lips my own ruin and yours, that which I concealed from you in prudence for your own good. And now when you do know it how much wiser are you? I should like to know what you would have done to me. No joking here, no question of right and wrong, but mere force. And this morning when I gave you good advice, eh, in a rage directly. I had judgment enough for myself and you too. But how does it go now? Open the door, however, give me my key. I may have been wrong, replied Renzo, with a voice softened towards Dona Bondeo, but in which suppressed rage against his newly discovered enemy might be perceived. I may have been wrong, but put your hand to your heart and think whether in my case. So, saying, he took the key from his pocket and went to open the door. Dona Bondeo stood behind, and while Renzo turned the key in the lock, he came beside him and with a serious and anxious face, holding up three fingers of his right hand, as if to help him in his turn, swear at least, said he. I may have been wrong, and I beg your pardon, sir, answered Renzo, opening the door and preparing to go out. Swear, replied Dona Bondeo, seizing him by the arm with a trembling hand. I may have been wrong, repeated Renzo, as he extricated himself from him and departed with vehement haste, thus cutting short a discussion which, like many a question of philosophy or literature or something else, might have been prolonged six centuries, since each party did nothing but repeat his own arguments. Perpetua! Perpetua! cried Dona Bondeo after having in vain called back the fugitive. Perpetua answered not. Dona Bondeo then lost all consciousness of where he was. It has happened more than once to personages of much greater importance than Dona Bondeo to find themselves in extremities so trying to the flesh, in such perplexity of plans, that it has appeared to them their best resource to go to bed with a fever. This resource Dona Bondeo had not to seek for, because it offered itself to him of its own accord. The fright of the day before, the harassing sleeplessness of the night, the additional fright in the morning, anxiety about the future, had produced this effect. Perplexed and bewildered, he rested himself on his arm chair. He began to feel a certain quaking of the bones. He looked at his nails inside and called from time to time with a tremulous and anxious voice. Perpetua! Perpetua arrived at length with a great cabbage under her arm and a business-like face, as if nothing had been the matter. I spare the reader the lamentations, condolences, accusations, defenses, the, you only can have spoken, and the, I have not spoken, all the recriminations in short of this colloquy. Let it suffice to say that Dona Bondeo ordered Perpetua to fasten the door as well, not to put foot outside, and if anyone knocked to answer from the window that the curate was confined to his bed with a fever. He then slowly ascended the stairs, repeating at every third step, I have caught it, and really went to bed, where we will leave him. Renzo, meanwhile, walked with an excited step towards home without having determined what he ought to do, but with a mad longing to do something strange and terrible. The unjust and oppressive, all those in fact who wrong others, are guilty not only of the evil they do, but also of the perversion of mind they cause in those whom they offend. Renzo was a young man of peaceful disposition and averse to violence, sincere and one who abhorred deceit. But at this moment his heart panted for murder. His mind was occupied only in devising a plot. He would have wished to hasten to Dona Rodrigo's house to seize him by the throat, and—but he remembered that his house was like a fortress, garrisoned with bravos within, and guarded without, that only friends and servants well known could enter freely without being searched from head to foot, that an artisan if unknown could not put foot within it without an examination, and that he, above all, he probably would be too well known. He then fancied himself taking his fouling piece, planting himself behind a hedge, looking out whether his enemy would ever, ever pass by unaccompanied, and dwelling with ferocious complacency on this thought, he imagined the sound of a step. At this sound he raises his head without noise, recognizes the wretch, raises the fouling piece, takes aim, fires, sees him fall in struggle, bestows a malediction on him, and escapes in safety beyond the borders. And Lucia scarcely had this word come across these dreadful fantasies when the better thoughts, with which Renzo was familiarized, crowded into his mind. He recalled the dying charge of his parents, the thought of God, of the Blessed Virgin, and of the saints returned upon him. He remembered the consolation he had so often experienced from the recollection that he was free from crimes. He remembered the horror with which he had so often received the news of a murder, and he awoke from this dream of blood with fear, with remorse, and yet with a sort of joy that he had but imagined it. But the thought of Lucia, how many thoughts it brought along with it? So many hopes, so many promises, a future so bright, so secure, and this day so longed for. And how, with what words, announced to her such news? And afterwards what was to be done? How were their plans to be accomplished, in spite of this powerful and wicked enemy? Along with all this, not a defined suspicion, but a tormenting shadow flitted every moment through his mind. This overbearing act of Don Rodrigo could have no motive but a lawless passion for Lucia. And Lucia, could she have given him the smallest encouragement, the most distant hope? It was a thought which could not dwell for an instant in his mind. But was she aware of it? Could he have conceived this infamous passion without her perceiving it? Could he have carried matters so far without having made an attempt in some other manner? And Lucia had never mentioned a word of it to him, her betrothed. Overcome by these thoughts he passed by his own house, which was situated in the middle of the village, and proceeding through it came to that of Lucia which stood at the opposite end. This cottage had a little garden in front, which separated it from the road, and the garden was surrounded by a low wall. As Renzo entered the garden, he heard a confused and continual murmur of voices from an upper room. He supposed it was friends and companions come to greet Lucia, and he did not wish to show himself to this company with the sad news he had to communicate visible in his face. A little girl, who happened to be in the garden, ran to meet him, crying, The bridegroom, the bridegroom! Gently, Bettina, gently, said Renzo, come here, go up to Lucia, take her on one side, and whisper in her ear. But mind no one hears or suspects. Tell her I want to speak to her, and that I'm waiting in the downstairs room, and that she must come immediately. The child ran quickly upstairs, delighted and proud to be entrusted with a secret. Lucia had just come forth adorned from head to foot by the hands of her mother. Her friends were stealing glances at the bride, and forcing her to show herself, while she, with the somewhat warlike modesty of a rustic, was endeavoring to escape, using her arms as a shield for her face, and holding her head downwards, her black-penciled eyebrows seeming to frown, while her lips were smiling. Her dark and luxuriant hair, divided on her forehead with a white and narrow parting, was united behind in many circled plaitings, pierced with long silver pins, disposed around, so as to look like an ariola, or saintly glory, a fashion still in use among the Milanese peasant girls. Around her neck she had a necklace of garnets, alternated with beads of filigree gold. She wore a pretty bodice of flowered brocade, laced with colored ribbons, a short gown of embroidered silk plaited in close and minute folds, scarlet stockings, and a pair of shoes of embroidered silk. Besides these, which were the special ornaments of her wedding day, Lucia had the everyday ornament of a modest beauty, displayed at this time, and increased by the varied feelings which were depicted in her face. Joy tempered by a slight confusion, that placid sadness which occasionally shows itself in the face of a bride, and without injuring her beauty, gives it an air peculiar to itself. The little Bettina made her way among the talkers, came close up to Lucia, cleverly made her understand that she had something to communicate, and whispered her little message in her ear. I am going for a moment, and will be back directly, said Lucia to her friends, and hastily descended the stairs. On seeing the changed look and the unquiet manner of Renzo, what is the matter, she exclaimed, not without a pre-sentiment of terror. Lucia, replied Renzo, it is all up for today, and God knows when we can be man and wife. What? said Lucia, altogether amazed. Renzo briefly related to her the events of the morning. She listened in great distress, and when she heard the name of Don Rodrigo, ah, she exclaimed, blushing and trembling, has it come to this point? Then you knew it, said Renzo. Indeed too well, answered Lucia, but to this point. What did you know about it? Don't make me speak now, don't make me cry. I will run and call my mother, and send away the girls. We must be alone. While she was going, Renzo murmured, you never told me anything about it. Ah, Renzo, replied Lucia, turning round for a moment without stopping. Renzo understood very well that his name so pronounced by Lucia at that moment in such a tone meant to say, can you doubt that I could be silent except on just and pure motives? By this time the good I knew I say, so Lucia's mother was named, incited to suspicion and curiosity by the whisper in her ear, had come down to see what was the matter. Her daughter, leaving her with Renzo, returned to the assembled maidens, and composing her voice and manner as well as she could, said, The senor curate is ill, and nothing will be done today. This said, she hastily bid them good-bye and went down again. The company departed and dispersed themselves through the village to recount what had happened, and to discover Donobondio was really ill. The truth of the fact cut short all the conjectures which had already begun to work in their minds and to be discovered undefined and mysteriously in their words. Chapter 3 Part 1 While Renzo was relating with pain what Agnese with pain listened to, Lucia entered the room. They both turned towards her. She indeed knew more about it than they, and of her they awaited an explanation which could not but be distressing. In the midst of their sorrow they both, according to the different nature of the love they bore Lucia, discovered in their own manner a degree of anger that she had concealed anything from them, especially of such a nature. Agnese, although anxious to hear her daughter speak, could not refrain from a slight reproof, to say nothing to your mother in such a case. Now I will tell you all, answered Lucia, as she dried her eyes with her apron. Speak, speak, speak, speak, at once cried both mother and lover. Most holy virgin, exclaimed Lucia, who could have believed it would have come to this. Then, with a voice tremulous with weeping, she related how, as she was returning from her spinning and had loitered behind her companions, Don Rodrigo, in company with another gentleman, had passed by her, that he had tried to engage her in foolish talk as she called it. But she, without giving him an answer, had quickened her pace and joined her companions. Then she had heard the other gentleman laugh loudly, and Don Rodrigo say, I'll lay you a wager. The next day they were again on the road, but Lucia was in the midst of her companions, with her eyes on the ground. When the other gentleman laughed, and Don Rodrigo said, We shall see, we shall see. This day, continued Lucia, thank God, was the last of the spinning. I related immediately. Who was it you told it to? demanded Agnese, waiting, not without a little displeasure, for the name of the confidant who had been preferred. To Father Christoforo, in confession, mama, replied Lucia, with a sweet tone of apology. I related the whole to him the last time we went to church together at the convent, and if you noticed, that morning I kept putting my hand to one thing and another to pass the time till other people were on the road, that we might go in company with them, because after that meeting the roads made me so frightened. At the reverent name of Father Christoforo the wrath of Agnese subsided. You did well, said she, but why not tell all to your mother also? Lucia had had two good reasons, one not to distress and frighten the good woman about an event against which she could have found no remedy. The other not to run the risk of a story traveling from mouth to mouth, which she wished to be kept with jealous silence, the more so because Lucia hoped that her marriage would have cut short at the beginning this abominated persecution. Of these two reasons she alleged only the first. And to you, said she, turning to Renzo, with that tone which reminds a friend that he is unreasonable, and to you could I speak about this? Surely you know too much of it now. And what did the Father say to you? asked Agnese. He told me that I must try to hasten the wedding as much as I could, and in the meantime to keep myself within doors, that I should pray to the Lord, and he hoped that this man, if he did not see me, would not care any more about me. And it was then that I forced myself, continued she, turning again towards Renzo, without however raising her eyes and blushing to the temples. It was then that I put on a two-bold face and begged you to get it done soon, and have it concluded before the fixed time. Who knows what you must have thought of me, but I did it for good, and it was advised me, and I thought for certain, and this morning I was so far from thinking. Here Lucia's words were cut short by a violent burst of tears. Ah, rascal! Wretch! Murderer! exclaimed Renzo, striding backwards and forwards across the room, and grasping from time to time the hilt of his dagger. Oh heavens, what a fury! exclaimed Agnese. The young man suddenly drew himself up before Lucia, who was weeping, looked at her with an anxious and embittered tenderness, and said, This is the last deed this assassin shall do. Ah, no, Renzo, for heaven's sake! cried Lucia. No, no, for heaven's sake! God is on the side of the poor, and how can we expect him to help us if we do wrong? No, no, for heaven's sake! echoed Agnese. Renzo, said Lucia, with an air of hope and more tranquil resolution, You have a trade, and I know how to work. Let us go so far off that this man will hear no more about us. Ah, Lucia, and what then? We are not yet man and wife. Will the curate give us a certificate of no impediment, such a man as he is? If we were married, oh, then! Lucia began to weep again, and all three remained silent, giving signs of depression which contrasted strangely with the festive gaiety of their dress. Listen, my children, attend to me, said Agnese, after some moments. I came into the world long before you, and I know something about the world. You need not frighten yourselves too much. Things are not so bad as people make out. To us poor people, the skein seems more entangled, because we cannot get hold of the right end. But sometimes a piece of good advice, a little talk with a man who has got learning, I know well enough what I would say. Do as I tell you, Renzo, go to Leco, seek for Dr. Azeca Garbugli, tell him all about it, but mind you, don't call him so, for heaven's sake, it's a nickname. You must tell the senior doctor, what in the world do they call him? Oh, dear, I don't know his right name. Everybody calls him so. Never mind, seek for this doctor. He is tall, thin, bald, with a red nose and a raspberry-colored mole on his cheek. I know him by sight, said Renzo. Well, continued Agnese, he is a man. I have seen more than one person, bothered like a chicken in a bundle of hemp, and who did not know where to put his head, and after being an hour nose-to-nose with the Dr. Azeca Garbugli, take good care you don't call him so, I have seen him, I say, make a joke of it. Take these four capons, poor creatures, whose necks I ought to have rung for tonight's supper, and carry them to him, because we must never go empty-handed to these gentlemen. Relate to him all that has happened, and you'll see he will tell you in a twinkling things which would not come into our heads if we were to think about them for a year. Renzo willingly embraced this council. Lucia approved it, and Agnese, proud of having given it, took the poor creatures one by one from the Hencoupe, united their eight legs as one makes up a bunch of flowers, tied them up with a piece of string, and consigned them to the hands of Renzo, who, after giving and receiving words of encouragement and hope, went out by a little gate from the garden, that he might escape the observation of the boys who would have run after him crying, the bridegroom, the bridegroom. Thus having crossed the fields, or as they call them there, the places, he continued his route along narrow lanes, giving utterance to his bitter thoughts, as he reflected on his misfortune, and considering what he must say to the Dr. Ezeka Garboogly. I leave it to the reader to think how the journey was enjoyed by those poor creatures, so bound together, and held by the feet with their heads downwards, in the hand of a man who, agitated by so many passions, accompanied with appropriate gesture, the thoughts which rushed tumultuously through his mind, and in moments of anger or determination, suddenly extending his arm, inflicted terrible shocks upon them, and caused those four pendant heads to bob violently, if we may be allowed the expression. They, meanwhile, vigorously applying themselves to peck each other, as too often happens among friends in adversity. Arriving at the village, he inquired for the doctor's house, and when it was pointed out to him, quickly made his way thither. On approaching it, however, he began to feel that bashfulness so usual with the poor and ignorant in the presence of a gentleman or man of learning, and forgot all the fine speeches he had prepared, but a glance at the chickens he carried in his hand restored his courage. He went into the kitchen, and asked the maid servant if he could see the senior doctor. The woman looked at the birds, and, as if accustomed to such presence, was about to take them in her hand, but Renzo held them back, because he wanted the doctor to see he had brought something with him. Just at this moment, the wished-for personage made his appearance, as the servant was saying, give them here, and go forward to the study. Renzo made a low bow to the doctor, who graciously bid him, come in, my son, and took him into his study. It was a large room, decorated on three sides with portraits of the Twelve Caesars. The remaining wall was hidden by a large bookcase, filled with old and dusty books. In the middle of the room stood a table covered with extracts, petitions, libels, and proclamations. Three or four chairs were scattered around, and on one side was a large armchair with a high square back, terminating at the corners in two horn-shaped ornaments of wood, and covered with leather fastened down with large nails. Some of these had fallen out, so that the leather curled up here and there at pleasure, leaving the corners unencumbered. The doctor was in his dressing-gown, that is to say, he had on a faded robe, which had served him for many years to haranguin on days of state, when he went to Milan on any important cause. Having shut the door, he reanimated the young man's confidence with these words. Tell me your case, my son. I wish to speak a word to you in confidence. I'm ready, speak, replied the doctor, seating himself on his armchair. Renzel stood before the table, and twirling his hat with his right hand round the other, continued, I want to know from you who has studied tell the case as it is, interrupted the doctor. Excuse me, senior doctor. We poor people don't know how to speak properly. I want them to know, blessed set you are, you are all alike. Instead of relating your case, you ask questions because you've already made up your minds. I beg your pardon, senior doctor. I want to know if there's any punishment for threatening a curate and forbidding him to celebrate a marriage. I understand, muttered the doctor, who in truth had not understood. I understand. He then put on a serious face, but it was a seriousness mingled with an air of compassion and importance, and pressing his lips, he uttered an inarticulate sound, betokening a sentiment afterwards more clearly expressed in his first words. A serious case, my son, there are laws to the point. You have done well to come to me. It is a clear case recognized in a hundred proclamations and stay in an edict of the last year by the present senior governor. I'll let you see it and handle it directly. So, saying, he rose from his seat and hunted through the chaos of papers, shoveling the lower ones uppermost with his hands, as if he were throwing corn into a measure. Where can it be? Come nearer, come nearer. One is obliged to have so many things in hand, but it must surely be here, for it is a proclamation of importance. Ah, here it is, here it is. He took it, unfolded it, looked at the date, and with a still more serious face continued. The 15th of October, 1627, certainly it is last years, a fresh proclamation. It is these that cause such fear. Can you read, my son? A little, senior doctor. Very well, follow me with your eye, and you shall see. And holding the edict, displayed in the air, he began to read, rapidly muttering some passages, and pausing distinctly with marked emphasis upon others, as the case required. Although in the proclamation published by order of the senior Duke of Feria, the 14th December, 1620, and confirmed by the most illustrious and most excellent senior, the senior Gonzala Fernandez de Cordova, etc., there was provision made by extraordinary and rigorous measures against oppressions, commotions, and tyrannical acts that some persons dared to commit against the devoted subjects of his majesty. Nevertheless, the frequency of crimes and violences, etc., has increased to such a degree that his excellency is under the necessity, etc. Therefore, with the concurrence of the senate and a council, etc., he has resolved to publish the present edict. And, to begin with tyrannical acts, experience showing that many, as well in cities as in the country, do you hear, excite commotions in this state by violence and oppress the weak in various ways, as, for example, by compelling them to make hard bargains and purchases, rents, etc. Where am I? Ah, here, look. To perform or not to perform marriages, eh? That is my case, said Renzo. Listen, listen, there is plenty more, and then we shall see the penalty. To give evidence or not to give evidence, compelling one to leave his home, etc., another to pay a debt. All this has nothing to do with us. Ah, we have it here. This priest not to perform that to which he is obliged by his office, or to do things which do not belong to him, eh? It seems as if they had made the edict exactly for me. Eh, is it not so? Listen, listen, and similar oppressions, whether perpetrated by feudatories, the nobility, middle ranks, lower orders, or plebeians. No one escapes. They are all here. It is like the valley of Jehoshaphat. Listen now to the penalty. All these, and others such like criminal acts, although they are prohibited, nevertheless, it being necessary to use greater rigor, his excellency not relenting in this proclamation, etc., enjoins and commands that against all offenders, under any of the above mentioned heads, or the like, all the ordinary magistrates of the state shall proceed by pecuniary and corporal punishment, by banishment or the galleys, and even by death, a mere bagatelle, at the will of his excellency or of the senate, according to the character of the cases, persons, and circumstances, and this irremissibly, and with all rigor, etc. There is plenty of it here, eh? And, see, here is the signature, Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova, and lower down Platonis, and here again, Bidid Ferrer. There is nothing wanting. While the doctor was reading, Renzo slowly followed him with his eye, trying to draw out the simple meaning, and to behold for himself those blessed words, which he believed were to render him assistance. The doctor, seeing his client more attentive than alarmed, was greatly surprised. He must be matriculated, said he to himself. Ah, ah! added he aloud. You have been obliged to shave off the lock. You have been prudent. However, you need not have done so when putting yourself under my hands. The case is serious, but you don't know what I have courage to do in a time of need. To understand this mistake of the doctors, it must be known that at that time, bravos by profession and villains of any kind used to wear a long lock of hair, which they drew over the face, like a visor on meeting anyone when the occasion was one which rendered disguise necessary and the undertaking such as required both force and circumspection. The proclamation had not been silent with regard to this matter. His Excellency, the Marquis of Lahaina Hossa, commands that whosoever shall wear his hair of such a length as to cover his forehead as far as the eyebrows only, or shall wear tresses either before or behind the ears, shall incur the penalty of three hundred crowns, or, in case of inability, three years in the galleys for the first offense, and for the second, besides the above, a severer penalty still at the will of his Excellency. However, in case of baldness or other reasonable cause as a mark or wound, he gives permission to such for the greater decorum or health to wear their hair so long as may be necessary to cover such failings and no more, wanting them well to beware of exceeding the limits of duty and pure necessity, that they may not incur the penalty imposed upon other dissemblers. And he also commands all barbers under penalty of a hundred crowns or three stripes to be given them in public and even greater corporal punishment at the will of his Excellency as above, that they leave not on those whom they shave any kind of the said tresses, blocks, curls, or hair longer than usual, either on the forehead, temples, or behind the ears, but that they shall be all of equal length as above, except in case of baldness or other defects, as already described. The lock, then, might almost be considered a part of the armor and a distinctive mark of bravos and vagabonds, so that these characters very commonly bore the name of Cufi. This term is still used with a mitigated signification in the dialect of the country, and perhaps there is not one of our Milanese readers who does not remember hearing it said of him in his childhood, either by his relatives, his tutor, or some family friend. He is a Cufo. He is a Cufetto. On the word of a poor youth, replied Renzo, I never wore a lock in my life. I can do nothing, replied the doctor, shaking his head with a smile between malice and impatience. If you don't trust me, I can do nothing. He who tells lies to the lawyer, do you see my son, is a fool who will tell the truth to the judge. People must relate matters clearly to the advocate. It is our business to make them intricate. If you wish me to help you, you must tell me all from A to Z, with your heart in your hand, as if to your confessor. You must name the person who has employed you. He will most likely be a person of consequence, and in that case I will go to him to perform an act of duty. I shan't however tell him, do you see, that you told me he had sent you, trust me. I will tell him I come to implore his protection for a poor slandered youth, and will take all necessary measures with him to finish the affair commendably. You understand that in securing himself, he will also secure you. Even if the scrape be all your own, I won't go back. I have extricated others from worse predicaments. And if you have not offended a person of quality, you understand I will engage to get you out of the difficulty, with a little expense you understand. You must tell me who is the offended party, as they say. And, according to the condition, rank, and temper of the person, we shall see whether it will be better to bring him to reason by offers of protection, or in some way to criminate him and put a flee in his ear. Because you see, I know very well how to manage these edicts. No one must be guilty, and no one must be innocent. As to the curate, if he has any discretion, he will keep in the background. If he is a simpleton, we will dispose of him, too. One can escape from any intrigue. But it requires one to act like a man. And your case is serious. Serious, I say. Serious. The edict speaks clearly. And if the matter were to be decided between justice and you to say the truth, it would go hard with you. I speak to you as a friend. One must pay for pranks. If you wish to get off clear, money, and frankness, trust yourself to one who wishes you well, obey, and do all that is suggested to you.