FATHER CRISTOFORO arrived with the air of a good general, who having lost an important battle, without any fault on his part — distressed, but not discouraged; thoughtful, but not confounded; retreating, but not put to flight; turns his steps where necessity calls for his presence, fortifying threatened quarters, regulating his troops, and giving new orders.
‘Peace be with you!’ said he, as he entered. ‘There is nothing to hope from man; you have therefore more need to trust in God, and I have already had a pledge of His protection.’
Although none of the party had anticipated much from Father Cristoforo’s attempt, (since, to see a powerful nobleman desist from an act of oppression, unless he were overcome by a superior power, from regard to the entreaties of a disarmed suppliant, was rather an unheard-of, than a rare, occurrence,) yet the melancholy certainty came as a blow upon them all. Their heads involuntarily drooped, but anger quickly prevailed over depression in Renzo’s mind. The announcement found him already wounded and irritated by a succession of painful surprises, fallacious attempts, and disappointed hopes, and, above all, exasperated at this moment by the repulses of Lucia.
‘I should like to know,’ said he, gnashing his teeth and raising his voice as he had never before done in the presence of Father Cristoforo; ‘I should like to know what reasons this dog gives for asserting . . . for asserting that my bride should not be my bride?’
‘Poor Renzo!’ replied the friar, with a look and accent of pity that kindly recommended peaceableness; ‘if the powerful who do such deeds of injustice, were always obliged to give their reasons, things would not be as they are.’
‘Did the dog then say that he would not, because he would not?’
‘He didn’t even say that, my poor fellow! It would be something, if so commit iniquity, they were obliged openly to confess it.’
‘But he must have told you something; what did this infernal firebrand say?’
‘I heard his words, but I cannot repeat them to you. The words of a powerful wicked man are violent, but contradictory. He can be angry that you are suspicious of him, and at the same time make you feel that your suspicions are well-founded; he can insult you, and call himself offended; ridicule you, and ask your opinion; threaten, and complain; be insolent, and irreprehensible. Ask no more. He neither mentioned the name of this innocent, nor your own; he did not even appear to know you, nor did he say he designed anything; but . . . but I understood too well that he is immovable. However, confidence in God, you poor creatures!’ turning to Agnese and Lucia, ‘don’t give up in despair! And you, Renzo . . . oh! believe me, I can put myself in your place; I can feel what passes in your heart. But, patience; it is a poor word, a bitter one to those who have no faith; but you — will you not allow God one day, two days, or whatever time He may please to take to clear you and give you justice? The time is His; and He has promised us much. Leave Him to work, Renzo; and . . . believe me, I already have a clue that may lead to something for your help. I cannot tell you more at present. To-morrow I shall not come here; I must be at the convent all day, for you. You, Renzo, try to come to me; or if, by any unforeseen accident, you cannot, send a trustworthy man, or a lad of discretion, by whom I may let you know what may happen. It grows dark; I shall have to make haste to reach the convent. Faith, courage, and good night.’
Having said this, he hastily left them, and made his way rapidly along a crooked, stony by-path, that he might not be late at the convent, and run the risk of a severe reprimand, or, what would have grieved him more, the infliction of a penance, which might have disabled him on the morrow from any undertaking which the service of his protégés might require.
‘Did you hear what he said about . . . I don’t know what . . . about a clue that he held in hand to help us?’ said Lucia. ‘It is best to trust in him; he is a man who, if he promises ten . . . ’
‘I know there is not his like,’ interrupted Agnese; ‘but he ought to have spoken more clearly, or, at least, taken me aside and told me what it was.’
‘Idle prating! I’ll put an end to it, that I will!’ interrupted Renzo, in his turn, as he paced furiously up and down the room, with a look and tone that left no doubt as to the meaning of his words.
‘Oh Renzo!’ exclaimed Lucia.
‘What do you mean?’ cried Agnese.
‘Why need I tell you? I’ll put an end to it! Though he has a hundred, a thousand devils in his soul, he’s flesh and blood, after all.’
‘No, no! for Heaven’s sake! . . . ’ began Lucia, but tears choked her utterance.
‘This is not proper language, even in jest,’ replied Agnese.
‘In jest!’ cried Renzo, planting himself directly before Agnese, as she sat, and fixing on her two fearful-looking eyes. ‘In jest! you shall see whether I am in jest or not.’
‘Ah, Renzo!’ said Lucia, scarcely able to articulate for sobs, I never saw you so before.’
‘Don’t talk so, for Heaven’s sake!’ replied Agnese, hastily, lowering her voice. ‘Don’t you remember how many arms he has at his bidding? And then, there is always justice to be had against the poor . . . God defend them!’
‘I will get justice for myself, I will. It is time now. The thing isn’t easy, I know. The ruffian is well defended, dog that he is! I know how it is: but never mind. Patience and resolution . . . and the time will soon arrive. Yes, I will get justice. I’ll free the country, and people will bless me! And then in four bounds . . . ’
The horror of Lucia at these explicit declarations repressed her sobs, and inspired her with courage to speak. Raising from her hands her face bathed in tears, she addressed Renzo in a mournful, but resolute tone: ‘You no longer care, then, about having me for your wife? I promised myself to a youth who had the fear of God: but a man who has . . . were he safe from all justice and vengeance, were he the son of a king . . . ’
‘Very well!’ cried Renzo, his face more than ever convulsed with fury; ‘I won’t have you, then; but he sha’n’t either. I will be here without you, and he in the abode of . . . ’
‘Ah, no, for pity’s sake, don’t say so; don’t look so furious! No, no, I cannot bear to see you thus,’ exclaimed Lucia, weeping, and joining her hands in an attitude of earnest supplication; while Agnese repeatedly called him by name, and seized hold of his shoulders, his arms, and his hands, to pacify him. He stood immovable, thoughtful, almost overcome at the sight of Lucia’s imploring countenance; then, suddenly gazed at her sternly, drew back, stretched out his arm, and pointing with his finger towards her, burst forth: ‘Her! yes, he wants her! He must die!’
‘And I, what harm have I done you, that you should kill me?’ said Lucia, throwing herself on her knees.
‘You!’ said he, with a voice expressive of anger, though of a far different nature; ‘you! what good do you wish me? What proof have you given me? Haven’t I begged, and begged, and begged? . . . Have I been able to obtain . . . ’
‘Yes, yes,’ replied she, precipitately; ‘I will go to the Curate’s to-morrow; I will go now, if you like. Only be yourself again, I will go.’
‘You promise me?’ said Renzo, his voice and expression rendered in an instant more human.
‘I promise you.’
‘You have promised me?’
‘Thanks be to Thee, O Lord!’ exclaimed Agnese, doubly satisfied.
Did Renzo, in the midst of his anger, discern the advantage that might be taken of Lucia’s terror? And did he not practise a little artifice to increase it, that he might use this advantage? Our author protests he knows nothing about the matter; nor, I think, did even Renzo himself know very well. At any rate, he was undoubtedly enraged beyond measure with Don Rodrigo, and ardently desired Lucia’s consent; and when two powerful passions struggle together in a man’s mind, no one, not even the most patient, can always clearly discern one voice from the other, or say, with certainty, which of them predominates.
‘I have promised you,’ replied Lucia, with an accent of timid and affectionate reproof; ‘but you have also promised not to make any disturbance — to submit yourself to Father . . . ’
‘Come, now, for whose sake did I get into a passion? Do you want to draw back? And will you oblige me to do a rash thing?’
‘No, no,’ said Lucia, ready to relapse into her former fears. ‘I have promised, and I will not draw back. But see how you have made me promise; God forbid that . . . ’
‘Why will you prophesy evil, Lucia? God knows we do not wrong to anybody.’
‘Promise me, at least, this shall be the last time.’
‘I promise you, upon my word.’
‘But this once you will stand by him,’ said Agnese.
Here the author confesses his ignorance of another matter, and that is, whether Lucia was absolutely, and on every account, dissatisfied at being obliged to give her consent. We follow his example, and leave the point undecided.
Renzo would willingly have prolonged the conversation, and allotted their several parts in the proceedings of the morrow; but it was already dark, and the women wished him good night, as they thought it scarcely decorous that he should remain any longer with them at so late an hour.
The night was passed by all three as well as could be expected, considering that it followed a day of such excitement and misfortune, and preceded one fixed upon for an important undertaking of doubtful issue. Renzo made his appearance early next morning, and concerted with the women, or rather with Agnese, the grand operations of the evening, alternately suggesting and removing difficulties, foreseeing obstacles, and both beginning, by turns, to describe the scene as if they were relating a past event. Lucia listened; and, without approving in words what she could not agree to in her heart, promised to do as well as she was able.
‘Are you going down to the convent to see Father Cristoforo, as he bid you, last night?’ said Agnese to Renzo.
‘Not I,’ replied he; ‘you know what discerning eyes the Father has; he will read in my looks, as if it were written in a book, that there’s something in the wind; and if he begins to question me, I can’t get off it easily. And, besides, I must stay here to arrange matters. It will be better for you to send somebody.’
‘I will send Menico.’
‘Very well,’ replied Renzo; and he set off to arrange matters, as he had said.
Agnese went to a neighbouring cottage to ask for Menico, a sprightly and very sensible lad for his age, who, through the medium of cousins and sisters-in-law, came to be a sort of nephew to the dame. She asked his parents for him, as for a loan, and begged she might keep him the whole day, ‘for a particular service,’ said she. Having obtained permission, she led him to her kitchen, gave him his breakfast, and bid him go to Pescarenico, and present himself to Father Cristoforo, who would send him back with a message at the right time. ‘Father Cristoforo, that fine old man, you know, with a white beard, who is called the Saint . . . ’
‘I understand,’ said Menico; ‘he who speaks so kindly to the children, and sometimes gives them pictures.’
‘Just so, Menico. And if he bids you wait some time at the convent, don’t wander away; and be sure you don’t go with other boys to the lake to throw stones into the water, nor to watch them fish, nor to play with the nets hung up to dry, nor . . . ’
‘Poh, aunt; I am no longer a child.’
‘Well, be prudent; and when you come back with the answer . . . look; these two fine new parpagliole are for you.’
‘Give me them now, that . . . ’
‘No, no, you will play with them. Go, and behave well, that you may have some more.’
In the course of this long morning many strange things happened which roused not a little suspicion in the already-disturbed minds of Agnese and Lucia. A beggar, neither thin nor ragged, as they generally were, and of somewhat dark and sinister aspect, came and asked alms, in God’s name, at the same time looking narrowly around. A piece of bread was given him, which he received, and placed in his basket, with ill-dissembled indifference. He then loitered, and made many inquiries, with a mixed air of impudence and hesitation, to which Agnese endeavoured to make replies exactly contrary to the truth. When about to depart, he pretended to mistake the door, and went to that at the foot of the stairs, glancing hastily upwards, as well as he could. On their calling him back —‘Hey! hey! where are you going, my good man? — this way!’ he turned and went out by the door that was pointed out to him, excusing himself with a submission, and an affected humility, that ill accorded with the fierce and hard features of his face. After his departure, they continued to mark, from time to time, other suspicious and strange figures. It was not easy to discern what kind of men they were; yet still they could not believe them to be the unpretend-ing passers-by they wished to appear. One would enter under pretence of asking the way; others, arriving at the door, slackened their pace, and peeped through the little yard into the room, as if wishing to see without exciting suspicion. At last, towards noon, these annoying and alarming appearances ceased. Agnese got up occasionally, and crossed the little yard to the street-door, to reconnoitre; and after looking anxiously around on either side, returned with the intelligence, ‘There’s nobody;’ words which she uttered with pleasure, and Lucia heard with satisfaction, neither one nor the other knowing exactly the reason why. But an undefined disquietude haunted their steps, and, with Lucia especially, in some degree cooled the courage they had summoned up for the proceedings of the evening.
The reader, however, must be told something more definite about these mysterious wanderers; and to relate it in order, we must turn back a step or two, and find Don Rodrigo, whom we left yesterday after dinner by himself, in one of the rooms of his palace, after the departure of Father Cristoforo.
Don Rodrigo, as we have said, paced backwards and forwards with long strides in this spacious apartment, surrounded on all sides by the family portraits of many generations. When he reached the wall and turned round, his eye rested upon the figure of one of his warlike ancestors, the terror of his enemies, and of his own soldiers; who, with a stern grim countenance, his short hair standing erect from his forehead, his large sharp whiskers covering his cheeks, and his hooked chin, stood like a warrior, clothed in a complete suit of steel armour, with his right hand pressing his side, and the left grasping the hilt of his sword. Don Rodrigo gazed upon it, and when he arrived beneath it, and turned back, beheld before him another of his forefathers, a magistrate, and the terror of litigants, seated in a high chair, covered with crimson velvet, enveloped in an ample black robe, so that he was entirely black, excepting for a white collar, with two large bands, and a lining of sable, turned wrong side outwards, (this was the distinctive mark of senators, but only worn in winter; for which reason the picture of a senator in summer-clothing is never met with,) squalid, and frowning; he held in his hand a memorial, and seemed to be saving, ‘We shall see.’ On the one hand was a matron, the terror of her maids; on the other, an abbot, the terror of his monks; in short, they were all persons who had been objects of terror while alive, and who now inspired dread by their likenesses. In the presence of such remembrancers, Don Rodrigo became enraged and ashamed, as he reflected that a friar had dared to come to him with the parable of Nathan; and his mind could find no peace. He would form a plan of revenge, and then abandon it; seek how, at the same time, to satisfy his passion, and what he called his honour; and sometimes, hearing the beginning of the prophecy resounding in his ears, he would involuntarily shudder, and be almost inclined to give up the idea of the two satisfactions. At last, for the sake of doing something, he called a servant, and desired him to make an apology for him to the company, and to say that he was detained by urgent business. The servant returned with the intelligence that the gentlemen, having left their compliments, had taken their leave.
‘And Count Attilio?’ asked Don Rodrigo, still pacing the room.
‘He left with the gentlemen, illustrious Signor.’
‘Very well; six followers to accompany me — quickly! my sword, cloak and hat, immediately!’
The servant replied by a bow and withdrew, returning shortly with a rich sword, which his master buckled on, a cloak which he threw over his shoulders, and a hat, ornamented with lofty plumes, which he placed on his head, and fastened with a haughty air. He then moved forward, and found the six bravoes at the door, completely armed, who, making way for him, with a low bow, followed as his train. More surly, more haughty, and more supercilious than usual, he left his palace, and took the way towards Lecco, amidst the salutations and profound bows of the peasants he happened to meet; and the ill-mannered wight who would have ventured to pass without taking off his hat, might consider he had purchased the exemption at a cheap rate, had the bravoes in the train been contented merely to enforce respect by a blow on the head. To these salutations Don Rodrigo made no acknowledgment; but to men of higher rank, though still indisputably inferior to his own, he replied with constrained courtesy. He did not chance this time, but when he did happen to meet with the Spanish Signor, the Gov-ernor of the Castle, the salutations were equally profound on both sides; it was like the meeting of two potentates, who have nothing to share between them, yet, for convenience sake, pay respect to each other’s rank. To pass away the time, and, by the sight of far different faces and behaviour, to banish the image of the friar, which continually haunted his mind, Don Rodrigo entered a house where a large party was assembled, and where he was received with that officious and respectful cordiality reserved for those who are greatly courted, and greatly feared. Late at night he returned to his own palace, and found that Count Attilio had just arrived; and they sat down to supper together, Don Rodrigo buried in thought, and very silent.
‘Cousin, when will you pay your wager?’ asked Count Attilio, in a malicious, and at the same time rallying, tone, as soon as the table was cleared, and the servants had departed.
‘St. Martin has not yet passed.’
‘Well, remember you will have to pay it soon; for all the saints in the calendar will pass before . . . ’
‘This has to be seen yet.’
‘Cousin, you want to play the politician; but I understand all; and I am so certain of having won my wager, that I am ready to lay another.’
‘What?’
‘That the Father . . . the Father . . . I mean, in short, that this friar has converted you.’
‘It is a mere fancy of your own.’
‘Converted, cousin; converted, I say. I, for my part, am delighted at it. What a fine sight it will be to see you quite penitent, with downcast eyes! And what triumph for this Father! How proudly he must have returned to the convent! You are not such fish as they catch every day, nor in every net. You may be sure they will bring you forward as an example; and when they go on a mission to some little distance, they will talk of your acts. I can fancy I hear them.’ And, speaking through his nose, accompanying the words with caricatured gestures, he continued, in a sermon-like tone, “In a certain part of the world, which from motives of high respect we forbear to name, there lived, my dear hearers, and there still lives, a............