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Betrothed (version 2 Dramatic Reading)

<h2>CHAPTER XXXVII.</h2> One fine evening Agnes heard a carriage drive up to the door of her cottage. It was Lucy and the good widow. We can easily imagine the joy of the meeting. The following morning Renzo made his appearance, at an early hour, little expecting to find Lucy with her mother. “How are you, Renzo?” said Lucy, with downcast eyes, and in a tone—oh how different from that with which she addressed all besides! Renzo was conscious that it was meant for him alone. “I am always well when I see you,” replied the young man. “Our poor Father Christopher,” said Lucy, “pray for his soul, although we may be almost sure he is now in heaven, praying for us.” “I expected no less,” said Renzo mournfully, “I expected to hear that he was taken away from this world of sorrow and trouble.” Notwithstanding the sadness of their recollections, joy was the predominant feeling of their hearts. The good widow was an agreeable addition to the little company. When Renzo saw her in the miserable cabin at the lazaretto, he could not have believed her to be of so facile and gay a disposition; but the lazaretto and the country, death and a wedding, are not at all the same things. During the evening Renzo left them, for the purpose of visiting the curate. “Signor Curate,” said he, with a respectful but jocular air, “the headache, which, you said, prevented you from marrying us, has it passed off? The bride is here, and I am come to have you appoint an hour, but, I pray you, not to let it be far distant.” Don Abbondio did not say he would not; but he began to offer excuses and insinuations. “Why come forward into public view with this order for his apprehension hanging over him? and the thing could be easily done elsewhere, and then this, and then that.” “I understand,” said Renzo, “you have still a little pain in your head, but listen to me.” And he described the state in which he had seen Don Roderick. “That has nothing to do with us,” said Don Abbondio. “Did I say no to you? However, while there is life there is hope, you know. Look at me; I have also been nearer the other world than this, and here I am nevertheless; and if new troubles do not fall upon me, I hope to remain here a little longer.” The conversation was prolonged some time, without coming to any satisfactory conclusion, and Renzo returned home to relate it. “I came off,” said he, “because I feared I should lose all patience. At times he behaved exactly as he did before, and I verily believe if I had remained a little longer, he would have spoken Latin again. I see that all this portends a tedious business. It would be better to do as he says, and go and be married where we intend to live.” “Let us go and see what we can do,” said the widow, “perhaps he will be more tractable to the ladies.” They followed this advice, and in the afternoon proceeded to the parsonage. The curate evinced much pleasure on seeing Lucy and Agnes, and much politeness towards the stranger. He endeavoured to divert the discourse from that which he knew to be the purport of their visit. He begged from Lucy a recital of all her woes, and availed himself of the account of the lazaretto to draw the stranger into the conversation. He then expatiated on his own miseries, which he detailed at full length. The pause so long watched for came at last. One of the widows broke the ice; but Don Abbondio was no longer the same man; he did not say no; but he returned to his doubts and his difficulties, jumping like a bird from branch to branch. “It would be necessary,” said he, “to get free from this unlucky order. You, signora, who live at Milan, you ought to know the course of these things; if we had the protection of some powerful man, all wounds would be healed. After all, the shortest way would be to have the ceremony performed where these young people are going, and where this proscription cannot affect them. Here, with this order, which is known to every one, to utter from the altar the name of Lorenzo Tramaglino is a thing I should be very unwilling to do. I wish him too well; it would be rendering him an ill service.” While Agnes and the widow were endeavouring to reply to these reasons, which the subtle curate as often reproduced under another form, Renzo entered the room, with the air of one bringing important intelligence, “The Lord Marquis *** has arrived!” said he. “What do you mean? arrived! where?” said Don Abbondio, rising. “He has arrived at his castle, which was Don Roderick's: he is the heir by feoffment of trust, as they say. So that there is no longer a doubt on the subject. And as to the marquis, he is a most worthy man.” “That he is,” said Don Abbondio; “I have often heard him spoken of as an excellent lord. But is it really true that——” “Will you believe your sexton?” “Why——” “Because he saw him with his own eyes. Will you hear Ambrose? I made him wait without expressly.” Renzo called the sexton, who confirmed the intelligence. “Ah, he is dead then! he is really gone!” said Don Abbondio. “You see, my children, the hand of Providence. It is a happy thing for this poor country: we could not live with this man. The plague has been a great scourge, but it has also been, as it were, a serviceable broom; it has swept off certain people, of whom, my children, we could never have delivered ourselves. In the twinkling of an eye they have disappeared by the hundred. We shall no longer see him wandering about with that haughty air, followed by his cut throats, and looking at every body as if they were all placed on earth for his pleasure. He is gone, and we are still here! He will send no more messages to honest people. He has made us all pass a sad life; and now we are at liberty to say so.” “I pardon him,” said Renzo, “with all my heart.” “And you do well; it is your duty; but we may also thank Heaven for delivering us from him. Now, if you wish to be married, I am ready. As to the order for your seizure, that is of little importance; the plague has carried off that too. If you choose—to-day is Thursday—on Sunday, I will publish the banns, and then I shall have the happiness of uniting you.” “You know we came for that purpose,” said Renzo. “Very well; and I will send word of it to his Eminence.” “Who is his Eminence?” asked Agnes. “His Eminence? our lord cardinal archbishop, whom may God preserve!” “Oh, as to that, you are mistaken; I can tell you they do not call him so, because the second time we went to speak with him, one of the priests drew me aside, and told me I must call him your illustrious lordship, and my lord.” “And now, if that same priest were to tell you, he would say you must call him Your Eminence; the pope has ordered, that this title be given to the cardinals. And do you know why? Because Most Illustrious was assumed by so many people who had no right to it. By and by, they will call the bishops Your Eminence, then the abbots will claim it, then the canons——” “And the curates,” said the widow. “No, no, let the curates alone for that; they will be only Your Reverence to the end of the world. But to return to our affairs. On Sunday, I will publish the banns at the church, and obtain, in the mean time, a dispensation for omitting the two other publications. There will be plenty of similar applications, if things go on elsewhere as they do here; the fire has taken; no one will wish to live alone, I imagine; I have already three marriages on hand besides yours; what a pity Perpetua is dead, she might find a husband! And at Milan, signora, I imagine it is the same thing.” “Yes, indeed. In my parish alone there were fifty marriages last Sunday.” “Well, the world wo'n't end yet. And you, signora, has no butterfly begun to fly around you?” “No, no, I think not of it; I do not mean to think of it.” “Oh, yes, yes; would you be alone indeed? Agnes also, Agnes also——” “You have a mind to jest,” said Agnes. “To be sure I have; it is high time. We may hope that the few days that remain to us will be less sad. As for me, poor old man! there is no remedy for years, as they say, Senectus ipsa est morbus.” “Oh, now,” said Renzo, “you may speak Latin as much as you like; I don't care about it now.” “You still quarrel with Latin, do you? Well, I will not forget you. When you come before me with Lucy, to pronounce some little words in Latin, I will say to you, You do not like Latin, go in peace. Eh?” “Ah, it is not that Latin I dislike, pure and holy like that of the mass; I speak of the Latin which falls on one as a traitor, in the very midst of conversation. For example, now that we are here, and all is past, the Latin you spoke there, in that corner, to make me understand that you could not, and——I know not what. Tell me now in language I can understand, will you?” “Hush! you mischievous fellow, hush!” said Don Abbondio. “Do not stir up old grievances: if we were to settle our accounts, I do not know which of us would be in debt to the other. I have forgiven you, but you also played me an ill turn. As for you, it did not astonish me, because you are a good-for-nothing fellow; but I speak of this silent—this little saint; one would have thought it a sin to distrust her. But I know who advised her; I know I do,” added he, pointing to Agnes. It is impossible to describe the change which had come over him. His mind, so long the slave of continual apprehension, was now emancipated from its fetters, and his tongue, liberated from its bonds, recurred to its former habits. He playfully prolonged the conversation, even following them to the door, with some parting jest. The following morning, Don Abbondio received a visit, as agreeable as it was unexpected, from the lord marquis, whose appearance confirmed all that report had said of him. “I come,” said he, “to bring you the salutations of the cardinal archbishop.” “Oh, what condescension in both of you!” “When I took leave of that incomparable man, who honours me with his friendship, he spoke to me of two young people of this parish who have suffered much from the unfortunate Don Roderick. My lord wishes to hear of them. Are they living? Are their affairs settled?” “Their affairs are settled; and I had thought of writing to his Eminence about it, but now that I have the honour——” “Are they here?” “Yes; and as soon as possible, they will be man and wife.” “I request you to tell me what I can do for them, and the best manner of doing it. You will render me a service by enabling me to dispose of some of my superfluous wealth for their benefit.” “May Heaven reward you! I thank you in the name of my children,” said Don Abbondio; “and since your lordship allows me, I have an expedient to suggest which perhaps will not displease you. These good people have resolved to establish themselves elsewhere, and to sell the little that belongs to them here. The best charity you can render them, is to buy their property, as otherwise it will be sold for little or nothing. But your lordship will decide, I have spoken in obedience to your commands.” The marquis thanked Don Abbondio, telling him he should leave it to him to fix the price, and to do so entirely to their advantage, as it was an object with him to make the amount as large as possible. He then proposed that they should go together to the cottage of Lucy. On their way, Don Abbondio, quite overjoyed continued the conversation,—“Since your lordship is so disposed to benefit this people, there is another service you can render them. The young man has an order for his apprehension out against him, for some folly he committed two years ago at Milan, on the day of the great Tumult. A recommendation, a word, from a man like yourself, might hereafter be of service to him.” “Are there not heavy charges against him?” “They made a great deal of noise about it; but really there was nothing in it.” “Well, well; I will take it upon myself to free him from all embarrassment.” We may imagine the surprise of our little company, at a visit from such a guest. He entered agreeably into conversation with them and after a while, made his proposal. Don Abbondio, being requested by him to fix the price, did so; the purchaser said he was well satisfied, and, if he had not understood him, in repeating it, doubled the sum. He would not hear of rectifying the mistake, and ended the conversation by inviting the company to dinner the day after the wedding, when the affair could be settled with every necessary formality. “Ah!” thought Don Abbondio when he returned home, “if the pestilence acted everywhere with so much discrimination, it would be a pity to speak ill of it. We should want one every generation.” The happy day at length arrived. The betrothed went to the church where they were united by Don Abbondio. The day after, the wedding party made their visit at the castle. We will leave the reader to imagine their reflections on entering those walls! In the midst of their joy, however, they felt that the presence of the good Father Christopher was wanting to complete it. “But,” said Lucy, “he is even happier than we are, assuredly.” The contract was drawn up by a doctor, but not Azzecca Garbugli! He was gone to Canterelli. For those who are not of this country, an explanation of this expression may be necessary. About half a mile above Lecco, and nearly on the borders of the other territory, called Castello, is Canterelli. This was a spot where two roads cross. Near the point of junction there is a small eminence, an artificial hill, surmounted by a cross. This was a heap of bodies, dead of this epidemic. It is true, tradition simply says, the dead of the epidemic; but it must have been this one, as it was the last, and most severe within the memory of man: and we know that tradition says very little of itself, unless we render it some assistance. On their return, no other inconvenience was felt, than the weight of the money which Renzo had to sustain. However, he did not look upon this as one of the greatest hardships he had had to encounter. There was, however, one matter which perplexed him not a little. How should he employ it? Should it be in agriculture? Should it be in business? Or why choose at all? Were not both in turn, like one's legs, better than either singly? It will be asked, Did they feel no regrets on quitting their native village—their native mountains? Don Roderick and his wretched agents could no longer disturb them. Regrets they did feel; but the old recollections of happiness enjoyed amidst its scenes, had been greatly weakened by recent distresses and apprehensions, and new hopes had arisen connected with their new country; so that they could look to their change of abode without any feelings of grief. The little company now thought only of preparing for their journey,—the Tramaglino family to their new country, and the widow to Milan. Many tears were shed, many thanks given, and many promises to meet again. The separation of Renzo and the friend who had treated him so hospitably, was not less tender. Neither did they part coldly from Don Abbondio: they had always preserved a certain respect for their curate, and he, in his heart, had always wished them well. It is these unfortunate affairs of the world which perplex our affections. But who would believe that, in this new abode, where Renzo had expected such happiness, he should find only vexation! This was the result of trifles, doubtless; but it requires so little to disturb a state of happiness in this life! The reports the Bergamascans had heard of Lucy, together with Renzo's extraordinary attachment to her—perhaps, too, the representations of some partial friend—had contributed to excite an extravagant idea of her beauty. When Lucy appeared, they began to shrug their shoulders, and say, “Is this the woman? We expected something very different! What is she, after all? A peasant, like a thousand others! Women like her, and fairer than she, are to be found every where!” Unfortunately, some kind friends told Renzo these things, perhaps added to what they had heard, and roused his indignation. “And what consequence is it to you?” said he. “Who told you what to expect? Did I ever do so? Did I tell you she was beautiful? She is a peasant, forsooth! Did I ever say I would bring a princess here? She does not please you. Do not look at her, then: you have beautiful women; look at them.” Thus did he make himself unhappy; and believing that all were disposed to criticise his Lucy, he showed ill nature in return. It would have gone ill with him, if he had been condemned to remain in the place; but fortune smiled on him in this respect. The master of another manufactory, situated near the gates of Bergamo, being dead, the inheritor of it, a young libertine, was willing to sell it half price, for ready money. Bortolo proposed to his cousin that they should make the purchase together. They did so; and when they entered into possession, Lucy was much pleased, and Renzo also, and not the less so for having heard that more than one person amongst his neighbours had said, “Have you seen this beautiful simpleton who is just come?” Their affairs now went on prosperously. Before the year was completed, a beautiful little creature made her appearance, as if to give them the earliest opportunity of fulfilling Lucy's vow. Be assured it was named Maria. In the course of time, they were surrounded by others of both sexes, whom Agnes was delighted to carry about one after the other, calling them little rogues, and loading them with kisses. They were all taught to read and write; “for,” said Renzo, “as this notion is in the country, we may as well take advantage of it.” It was highly pleasing to hear him relate his adventures: he always concluded by naming the great things he had learnt, by which to govern his conduct for the future. “I have learnt,” said he, “not to mix in quarrels; not to preach in public; not to drink more than I want; not to keep my hand on the knocker of a door, when the inhabitants of the place are all crazy; not to tie a little bell to my feet, before I think of the consequences.” “And I!” said Lucy, who thought that the doctrine of her moralist, though sound, was rather confused, and certainly incomplete—“what have I learnt?” said she. “I have not sought misfortunes, they have sought me. Unless you say,” smiling affectionately, “that my error was in loving you, and promising myself to you.” They settled the question, by deciding that misfortunes most commonly happen to us from our own misconduct or imprudence; but sometimes from causes independent of ourselves; that the most innocent and prudent conduct cannot always preserve us from them; and that, whether they arise from our own fault or not, trust in God softens them, and renders them useful in preparing us for a better life. Although this was said by poor peasants, it appears to us so just, that we offer it here as the moral of our story. THE END. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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