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Betrothed (version 2 Dramatic Reading)

<h2>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> Don Abbondio uttered not a word. It must be confessed that we ourselves, who have nothing to fear but the criticisms of our readers, feel a degree of repugnance in thus urging the unfashionable precepts of charity, courage, indefatigable solicitude for others, and unlimited sacrifice of self. But the reflection that these things were said by a man who practised what he preached, encourages us to proceed in our relation. “You do not answer,” resumed the cardinal. “Ah! if you had followed the dictates of charity and duty, whatever had been the result, you would now have been at no loss for a reply. Behold, then, what you have done; you having obeyed iniquity, regardless of the requirements of duty; you have obeyed her promptly; she had only to show herself to you, and signify her desire, and she found you ready at her call. But she would have had recourse to artifice with one who was on his guard against her, she would have avoided exciting his suspicion, she would have employed concealment, that she might mature at leisure her projects of treachery and violence; she has, on the contrary, boldly ordered you to infringe your duty, and keep silence; you have obeyed, you have infringed it, and you have kept silence. I ask you now, if you have done nothing more. Tell me if it is true, that you have advanced false pretences for your refusal, so as not to reveal the true motive——” “They have told this also, the tattlers!” thought Don Abbondio, but as he gave no indication of addressing himself to speech, the cardinal pursued,—“Is it true, that you told these young people falsehoods to keep them in ignorance and darkness?—I am compelled, then, to believe it; it only remains for me to blush for you, and to hope that you will weep with me. Behold where it has led you, (merciful God! and you advanced it as a justification!) behold to what it has conducted you, this solicitude for your life! It has led you——(repel freely the assertion if it appear to you unjust: take it as a salutary humiliation if it is not) it has led you to deceive the feeble and unfortunate, to lie to your children!” “This is the way of the world!” thought Don Abbondio again; “to this devil incarnate,” (referring to the Unknown,) “his arms around his neck; and to me, for a half lie, reproaches without end! But you are our superiors; of course you are right. It is my star, that all the world is against me, not excepting the saints.” He continued aloud,—“I have done wrong! I see that I have done wrong. But what could I do in so embarrassing a situation?” “Do you still ask? Have I not told you? And must I repeat it? You should have loved, my son, you should have loved and prayed; you would then have felt that iniquity might threaten, but not enforce obedience; you would have united, according to the laws of God, those whom man desired to separate; you would have exercised the ministry these children had a right to expect from you. God would have been answerable for the consequences, as you were obeying His orders; now, since you have obeyed man, the responsibility falls on yourself. And what consequences, just Heaven! And why did you not remember that you had a superior? How would he now dare to reprimand you for having failed in your duty, if he did not at all times feel himself obliged to aid you in its performance? Why did you not inform your bishop of the obstacles which infamous power exerted to prevent the exercise of your ministry?” “Just the advice of Perpetua,” thought Don Abbondio vexed, to whose mind, even in the midst of these touching appeals, the images which most frequently presented themselves, were those of the bravoes and Don Roderick, alive and well, and returning at some future time, triumphant, and inflamed with rage. Although the presence, the aspect, and the language of the cardinal embarrassed him, and impressed him with a degree of apprehension, it was, however, an embarrassment and an apprehension which did not subjugate his thoughts, nor prevent him from reflecting that, after all, the cardinal employed neither arms nor bravoes. “Why did you not think,” pursued Frederick, “that if no other asylum was open to these innocent victims, I could myself receive them, and place them in safety, if you had sent them to me; sent them afflicted and desolate to their bishop; as therefore belonging to him, as the most precious part, I say not of his charge, but of his wealth! And as for you, I should have been anxious for you; I would not have slept until certain that not a hair of your head would be touched; and do you not suppose that this man, however audacious he may be, would have lost something of his audacity, when convinced that his designs were known by me, that I watched over them, and that I was decided to employ for your defence all the means within my power! Know you not, that if man promises too often more than he performs, he threatens also more than he dare execute? Know you not that iniquity does not depend solely on its own strength, but on the credulity and cowardice of others?” “Just the reasoning of Perpetua,” thought Don Abbondio, without considering that this singular coincidence in judgment of Frederick Borromeo and his servant, was an additional argument against him. “But you,” pursued the cardinal, “you have only contemplated your own danger. How is it possible that your personal safety can have appeared of importance enough to sacrifice every thing to it?” “Because I saw them, I saw those frightful faces,” escaped from Don Abbondio. “I heard those horrible words. Your illustrious worship talks well, but you should have been in the place of your poor priest, and have had the same thing happen to you.” No sooner had he uttered these words than he bit his tongue, perceiving that he had suffered himself to be overcome by vexation; he muttered in a low voice, “Now for the storm!” and raising his eyes timidly, he was astonished to see the cardinal, whom he never could comprehend, pass from the severe air of authority and rebuke, to that of a soft and pensive gravity. “It is but too true,” said Frederick. “Such is our terrible and miserable condition! We exact rigorously from others, that which it may be we would not be willing to render ourselves; we judge, correct, and reprimand, and God alone knows what we would do in the same situation, what we have done in similar situations. But, woe be to me, if I take my weakness for the measure of another's duty, for the rule of my instruction! Nevertheless it is certain, that while imparting precepts, I should also afford an example to my neighbour, and not resemble the pharisee, who imposes on others enormous burthens, which he himself would not so much as touch with his finger. Hear me then, my son, my brother; the errors of those in authority, are oftener better known to others than to themselves; if you know that I have, from cowardice, or respect to the opinions of men, neglected any part of my duty, tell me of it frankly, so that where I have failed in example, I may at least not be wanting in humble confession. Show me freely my weakness, and then words from my mouth will be more available, because you will be conscious that they do not proceed from me, but that they are the words of Him who can give to us both the necessary strength to do what He prescribes.” “Oh! what a holy man, but what a troublesome one!” thought Don Abbondio. “He censures himself, and wishes that I should examine, criticise, and control even his actions!” He continued aloud,—“Oh! my lord jests, surely! Who does not know the courage and indefatigable zeal of your illustrious lordship?” “Yes,” added he to himself, “by far too indefatigable!” “I do not desire praise that makes me tremble, because God knows my imperfections, and what I know of them myself is sufficient to humble me. But I would desire that we should humble ourselves together; I would desire that you should feel what your conduct has been, and that your language is opposed to the law you preach, and according to which you will be judged.” “All turns against me. But these persons who have told your lordship these things, have they not also told you that they introduced themselves treacherously into my house, for the purpose of compelling me to perform the marriage ceremony, in a manner unauthorised by the church?” “They have told me, my son; but what afflicts and depresses me, is to see you still seeking excuses; still excusing yourself by accusing others; still accusing others of that which should have formed a part of your own confession. Who placed these unfortunates, I do not say under the necessity, but under the temptation, to do what they have? Would they have sought this irregular method, if the legitimate way had not been closed to them? Would they have thought of laying snares for their pastor, if they had been received, aided, and advised by him? of surprising him, if he had not concealed himself? And you wish to make them bear the blame; and you are indignant that, after so many misfortunes, what do I say? in the very midst of misfortune, they have suffered a word of complaint to escape before their pastor and yours? that the complaints of the oppressed and the afflicted should be hateful to the world, is not astonishing; but to us! and what advantage would their silence have been to you? Would you have been the gainer from their cause having been committed entirely to the judgment of God? Is it not an additional reason to love them, that they have afforded you the occasion to hear the sincere voice of your pastor; that they have provided for you the means to understand more clearly, and quite as far as may be in your power, the great debt you have contracted to them? Ah! if they had even been the aggressors, I would tell you to love them for that very reason. Love them, because they have suffered, and do suffer; love them, because they are a part of your flock, because you yourself have need of pardon and of their prayers.” Don Abbondio kept silence, but no longer from vexation, and an unwillingness to be persuaded; he kept silence from having more things to think of than to say. The words which he heard were unexpected conclusions, a new application of familiar doctrine. The evil done to his neighbour, which apprehension on his own account had hitherto prevented him from beholding in its true light, now made a novel and striking impression on his mind. If he did not feel all the remorse which the cardinal's remonstrances were calculated to produce, he experienced at least secret dissatisfaction with himself and pity for others; a blending of tenderness and shame; as, if we may be permitted to use the comparison, a humid and crushed taper at first hisses and smokes, but by degrees receives warmth, and imparts light, from the flame of a great torch to which it is presented. Don Abbondio would have loudly accused himself, and deplored his conduct, had not the idea of Don Roderick still obtruded itself into his thoughts; however, his feeling was sufficiently apparent to convince the cardinal that his words had at last produced some effect. “Now,” pursued Frederick, “one of these unfortunate beings is a fugitive afar off, the other on the point of departure; both have but too much reason to keep asunder, without any present probability of being re-united. Now, alas! they have no need of you; now, alas! you have no longer the opportunity to do them good, and our short foresight can assure us of but little of the future. But who knows, if God in his compassion is not preparing the occasion for you? Ah! do not let it escape; seek it, watch for it, implore it as a blessing.” “I shall not fail, my lord—I shall not fail to do so, I assure you,” replied Don Abbondio, in a tone that came from the heart. “Ah! yes, my son, yes!” cried Frederick with affectionate dignity; “Heaven knows that I would have desired to hold other converse with you. We have both had a long pilgrimage through life. Heaven knows how painful it has been to me, to grieve your old age by reproaches; how much more I should have loved to occupy the time of this interview in mutual consolation, and mutual anticipation of the heavenly hope which is so near our grasp! God grant that the language I have been obliged to hold may be useful to both of us! Act in such a manner, that He will not call me to account on the great and terrible day, for having retained you in a ministry of which you were unworthy. Let us redeem the time; the night is far spent; the spouse will not linger; let us keep our lamps trimmed and burning. Let us offer to God our poor and miserable hearts, that he may fill them with his love!” So saying he arose to depart; Don Abbondio followed him. We must now return to Donna Prassede, who came, according to agreement, on the following morning, for Lucy, and also to pay her duty to the cardinal. Frederick bestowed many praises on Lucy, and recommended her warmly to the kindness of Donna Prassede; Lucy separated herself from her mother with many tears, and again bade farewell to her cottage and her village. But she was cheered by the hope of seeing her mother once more before their final departure, as Donna Prassede informed them that it was her intention to remain for a few days at her villa, and Agnes promised to visit it again to take a last farewell. The cardinal was on the point of setting out for another parish, when the curate of the village near which the castle of the Unknown was situated, demanded permission to see him. He presented a small packet, and a letter from that lord, in which Frederick was requested to present to Lucy's mother a hundred crowns of gold, to serve as a dowry for the maiden, or for any other purpose she might desire. The Unknown also requested him to tell them, that if ever they should be in need of his services, the poor girl knew but too well the place of his abode, and as for him, he should consider it a high privilege to afford her protection and assistance. The cardinal sent immediately for Agnes, and informed her of the commission he had received. She heard it with equal surprise and joy. “God reward this signor!” said she; “your illustrious lordship will thank him in our name, but do not say a word of the matter to any one, because we live in a world—you will excuse me, I know a man like your lordship does not tattle about such things, but—you understand me.” Returning to her house, she shut herself up in her chamber, and untied the packet; although she was prepared for the sight, she was filled with wonder at seeing in her own power and in one heap such a quantity of those coins which she had rarely ever seen before, and never more than one at a time. She counted them over and over again, and wrapping them carefully in a leather covering, concealed them under one corner of her bed. The rest of the day was employed in reverie and projects for the future, and desires for the arrival of the morrow; the night was passed in restless dreams, and vain imaginings of the blessings to be produced by this gold; at break of day, she arose, and departed for the villa of Donna Prassede. The repugnance Lucy had felt to mention her vow, had not all diminished, but she resolved to overcome it, and to disclose the circumstance to her mother in this conversation, which would probably be the last they should have for a long time. No sooner were they left alone, than Agnes, with an animated countenance, but in a low voice, said, “I have great news to tell you,” and she related her unexpected good fortune. “God bless this signor,” said Lucy; “you have now enough to live comfortably yourself, and also to benefit others.” “Oh! yes, we can do a great deal with this money! Listen, I have only you, that is, I have only you two in the world, for from the moment that Renzo first addressed you, I have considered him as my son. We will hope that no misfortune has befallen him, and that we shall soon hear from him. As for myself, I would have wished to lay my bones in my own country, but now that you cannot stay here on account of this villain, (oh! even to think that he was near me, would make me dislike any place!) I am quite willing to go away. I would have gone with you to the end of the earth before this good fortune, but how could we do it without money? The poor youth had indeed saved a few pence, of which the law deprived him, but in recompence God has sent us a fortune. So then, when he has informed us that he is living, and where he is, and what are his intentions, I will go to Milan for you—yes, I will go for you. Formerly I would not have dreamt of such a thing, but misfortune gives courage and experience. I have been to Monza, and I know what it is to travel. I will take with me a man of resolution; for instance, Alessio di Maggianico; I will pay the expense, and—do you understand?” But perceiving that Lucy, instead of exhibiting sympathy with her plans, could with difficulty conceal her agitation and distress, she stopped in the midst of her harangue, exclaiming, “What is the matter? are you not of my opinion?” “My poor mother!” cried Lucy, throwing her arms around her neck, and concealing on her bosom her face, bathed in tears. “What is the matter?” said Agnes, in alarm. “I ought to have told you sooner, but I had not the heart to do it. Have pity on me.” “But speak, speak then.” “I cannot be the wife of that unfortunate youth.” “Why? how?” Lucy, with downcast looks and flowing tears, confessed at last the vow which she had made. She clasped her hands, and asked pardon of her mother for having concealed it from her, conjuring her to speak of it to no one, and to lend her aid to enable her to fulfil it. Agnes was overwhelmed with consternation; she would have been angry with her daughter for so long maintaining silence towards her, had not the grave thoughts that the circumstance itself excited, stifled all feeling of resentment. She would have blamed her for her vow, had it not appeared to her to be contending against Heaven; for Lucy described to her again, in more lively colours than before, that horrible night, her utter desolation, and unexpected preservation! Agnes listened attentively; and a hundred examples that she had often heard related, that she herself even had related to her daughter, of strange and horrible punishments for violated vows, came to her memory. “And what wilt thou do now?” said she. “It is with the Lord that care rests; the Lord and the holy Virgin. I have placed myself in their hands; they have never yet abandoned me, they will not abandon me now that——The favour I ask of God, the only favour, after the safety of my soul, is to be restored to you, my beloved mother! He will grant it, yes, he will grant it. That fatal day——in the carriage——Oh! most holy Virgin! Those men——who would have thought I should be the next day with you?” “But why not tell your mother at once?” “Forgive me, I had not the heart——What use was there in afflicting you sooner?” “And Renzo?” said Agnes, shaking her head. “Ah!” cried Lucy, starting, “I must think no more of the poor youth. God has not intended——You see it appears to be his will that we should separate. And who knows?——But no, no; the Lord will preserve him from every danger, and render him, perhaps, happier without me.” “But, nevertheless, if you had not bound yourself for ever, provided no misfortune has happened to Renzo, with this money, I would have found a remedy for all our other evils.” “But, my mother, would this money have been ours if I had not passed that terrible night? It is God's will that all should be thus; his will be done!” And her voice became inarticulate through tears. At this unexpected argument, Agnes maintained a mournful silence. After some moments, Lucy, suppressing her sobs, resumed,—“Now that the thing is done, we must submit cheerfully; and you, dear mother, you can aid me, first in praying to the Lord for your poor daughter, and then it is necessary that Renzo should know it. When you ascertain where he is, have him written to, find a man,—your cousin Alessio, for instance, who is prudent and kind, who has always wished us well, and who will not tattle. Make Alessio write to him, and inform him of the circumstance as it occurred, where I was, and how I suffered; tell him that God has ordered it thus, and that he must set his heart at rest; that, as for me, I can never be united to any one. Make him understand the matter clearly; when he knows that I have promised the Virgin——he always has been pious——And you, as soon as you hear from him, get some one to write to me, let me know that he is safe and well——and, nothing more.” Agnes, with much emotion, assured her daughter that all should be done as she desired. “I would say something more; that which has befallen the poor youth, would never have occurred to him, if he had never thought of me. He is a wanderer, a fugitive; he has lost all his little savings; he has been deprived of every thing he possessed, poor fellow! and you know why—and we, we have so much money! Oh! mother, since the Lord has sent us wealth, and since the unfortunate——you regard him as your son, do you not? Ah! divide it, share it with him! Endeavour to find a safe man, and send him the half of it. God knows how much he may need it!” “That is just what I was thinking of,” replied Agnes. “Yes, I will do it certainly. Poor youth! And why did you think I was so pleased with the money, if it were not——but—I came here well pleased,'tis true; but, since matters are so, I will send it to him. Poor youth! he also——I know what I mean. Certainly money gives pleasure to those who have need of it; but this money—Ah! it is not this that will make him prosper.” Lucy returned thanks to her mother for her prompt and liberal accordance with her request, so fervently, that an observer would have imagined her heart to be still devoted to Renzo, more than she herself was aware of. “And without thee, what shall I do—I, thy poor mother?” said Agnes, weeping in her turn. “And I, without you, my dear mother? and in a house of strangers, at Milan? But the Lord will be with us both, and will re-unite us. In eight or nine months we shall see each other again; let us leave it to him. I will incessantly implore this favour from the Virgin; if I had any thing more to offer her, I would not hesitate; but she is so compassionate, she will surely grant my prayer.” The mother and daughter parted with many tears, promising to see each other again, the coming autumn, at the latest, as if it depended on themselves! A long time elapsed before Agnes heard any thing of Renzo; neither message nor letter was received from him; the people of the village were as ignorant concerning him as herself. She was not the only one whose enquiries had been fruitless; it was not a mere ceremony in the cardinal Frederick, when he promised Lucy and Agnes, to inform himself of the history and fate of Renzo; he fulfilled that promise, by writing immediately to Bergamo for the purpose. While at Milan, on his return from visiting his diocese, he received a reply, in which he was informed that little was known of the young man; that he had made, it was true, a short sojourn in such a place, but that one morning he had suddenly disappeared; that a relation of his, with whom he had lived while there, knew not what had become of him; he thought that he had probably enlisted for the Levant, or had passed into Germany, or, which was most likely, that he had perished in crossing the river. It was added, however, that should any more definite intelligence be received concerning him, his illustrious lordship should immediately be informed of it. These reports eventually travelled to Lecco, and reached the ears of Agnes. The poor woman did her best to ascertain the truth of them; but she was kept in a state of suspense and anxiety by the contradictory accounts which were given, and which were, in fact, all without foundation. The governor of Milan, lieutenant-general under Don Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova, had complained bitterly to the lord resident of Venice at Milan, that a robber, a villain, an instigator of pillage and massacre, the famous Lorenzo Tramaglino, had been received in the Bergamascan territory. The resident replied, that he knew nothing of the matter, but that he would write to Venice for information concerning it, in order to give some explanation to his Excellency. It was a maxim at Venice to encourage the tendency of the Milanese workmen in silk, to establish themselves in the Bergamascan territory, by making them find it to their advantage to do so. For this reason, Bortolo was warned confidentially, that Renzo was not safe in his present residence, and that he would do wisely to place him in some other manufactory, and even cause him to change his name for a while. Bortolo, who was quick of apprehension, made no objections, related the matter to his cousin, and taking him to another place fifteen miles off, he presented him, under the name of Antonio Rivolta, to the master of the manufactory, who was a native of Milan, and moreover his old acquaintance. He, although the times were hard, did not require much entreaty to induce him to receive a workman so warmly recommended by an old friend. He saw reason afterwards to congratulate himself on the acquisition, although, at first, the young man appeared rather heedless, because, when they called Antonio, he scarcely ever answered. A short time after, an order arrived from Venice to the captain of Bergamo, to inform himself, and send word to government, whether there was not within his jurisdiction, and particularly in such a village, such an individual. The captain having obeyed in the best manner he could, transmitted a reply in the negative, which was transmitted to the resident at Milan, in order that he should transmit it to Don Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova. There were not wanting inquisitive people, who enquired of Bortolo why the young man had left him. The first time the question was put to him, he simply replied, “He has disappeared.” To relieve himself, however, from the most persevering, he framed the stories we have already related, at the same time offering them as mere reports that he had heard; without, however, placing much reliance on them. But when enquiry came to be made by order of the cardinal, or rather, by order of some great person, as his name was not mentioned, Bortolo became more uneasy, and judged it prudent to maintain his ordinary method of reply, with this addition, that he gave to the stories he had fabricated an air of greater verity and plausibility. We must not conclude, however, that Don Gonzalo had any personal dislike to our poor mountaineer; we must not conclude that, informed perhaps of his disrespect and ill-timed jests upon his Moorish king enchained by the throat, he wished to wreak his vengeance on him, nor that he considered him a person dangerous enough to be pursued even in his flight, as was Hannibal by the Roman senate. Don Gonzalo had too many things to think of, to trouble himself with the actions of Renzo, and if he appeared to do so, it was the result of a singular concurrence of circumstances; by which the poor fellow, without wishing it, or even knowing why, found himself attached, as by an invisible thread, to numerous and important affairs. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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