The Betrothed. Alessandro Manzoni

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СКАЧАТЬ saw no possibility of extrication; all these thoughts rushed confusedly through his mind. “If Renzo could be quietly dismissed with a refusal, all would be well; but he will require reasons—and what can I say to him? he too has a head of his own; a lamb, if not meddled with—but once attempt to cross him— Oh!—and raving after that Lucy, as much enamoured as— Young idiots! who, for want of something else to do, fall in love, and must be married, forsooth, thinking of nothing else, never concerning themselves about the trouble they bring upon an honest man like me. Wretch that I am! Why should those two scowling faces plant themselves exactly in my path, and pick a quarrel with me? What have I to do in the matter? Is it I that mean to wive? Why did they not rather go and speak— Ah! truly, that which is to the purpose always occurs to me after the right time: if I had but thought of suggesting to them to go and bear their message—” But here he was disturbed by the reflection, that to repent of not having been the counsellor and abettor of evil, was too iniquitous a thing; and he therefore turned the rancour of his thoughts against the individual who had thus robbed him of his tranquillity. He did not know Don Roderick, except by sight and by report; his sole intercourse with him had been to touch chin to breast, and the ground with the corner of his hat, the few times he had met him on the road. He had, on more than one occasion, defended the reputation of that Signor against those who, in an under-tone, with sighs and looks raised to heaven, had execrated some one of his exploits. He had declared a hundred times that he was a respectable cavalier. But at this moment he, in his own heart, readily bestowed upon him all those titles to which he would never lend an ear from another. Having, amidst the tumult of these thoughts, reached the entrance of his house, which stood at the end of the little glebe, he unlocked the door, entered, and carefully secured it within. Anxious to find himself in society that he could trust, he called aloud, “Perpetua, Perpetua,” advancing towards the little parlour where she was, doubtless, employed in preparing the table for his supper. Perpetua was, as the reader must be aware, the housekeeper of Don Abbondio; an affectionate and faithful domestic, who knew how to obey or command as occasion served; to bear the grumbling and whims of her master at times, and at others to make him bear with hers. These were becoming every day more frequent; she had passed the age of forty in a single state; the consequences, she said, of having refused all the offers that had been made her; her female friends asserted that she had never found any one willing to take her.

      “Coming,” said Perpetua, as she set in its usual place on the little table the flask of Don Abbondio’s favourite wine, and moved slowly toward the parlour door: before she reached it he entered, with steps so disordered, looks so clouded, and a countenance so changed, that an eye less practised than that of Perpetua could have discovered at a glance that something unusual had befallen him.

      “Mercy on me! What is it ails my master?”

      “Nothing, nothing,” said Don Abbondio, as he sank upon his easy chair.

      “How, nothing! Would you have me believe that, looking as you do? Some dreadful accident has happened.”

      “Oh! for the love of Heaven! When I say nothing, it is either nothing, or something I cannot tell.”

      “That you cannot tell, not even to me? Who will take care of your health? Who will give you advice?”

      “Oh! peace, peace! Do not make matters worse. Give me a glass of my wine.”

      “And you will still pretend to me that nothing is the matter?” said Perpetua, filling the glass, but retaining it in her hand, as if unwilling to present it except as the reward of confidence.

      “Give here, give here,” said Don Abbondio, taking the glass with an unsteady hand, and hastily swallowing its contents.

      “Would you oblige me then to go about, asking here and there what it is has happened to my master?” said Perpetua, standing upright before him, with her hands on her sides, and looking him steadfastly in the face, as if to extract the secret from his eyes.

      “For the love of Heaven, do not worry me, do not kill me with your pother; this is a matter that concerns—concerns my life.”

      “Your life!”

      “My life.”

      “You know well, that, when you have frankly confided in me, I have never—”

      “Yes, forsooth, as when—”

      Perpetua was sensible she had touched a false string; wherefore, changing suddenly her note, “My dear master,” said she, in a moving tone of voice, “I have always had a dutiful regard for you, and if I now wish to know this affair, it is from zeal, and a desire to assist you, to give you advice, to relieve your mind.”

      The truth is, that Don Abbondio’s desire to disburden himself of his painful secret was as great as that of Perpetua to obtain a knowledge of it; so that, after having repulsed, more and more feebly, her renewed assaults; after having made her swear many times that she would not breathe a syllable of it, he, with frequent pauses and exclamations, related his miserable adventure. When it was necessary to pronounce the dread name of him from whom the prohibition came, he required from Perpetua another and more solemn oath: having uttered it, he threw himself back on his seat with a heavy sigh, and, in a tone of command, as well as supplication, exclaimed,—

      “For the love of Heaven!”—

      “Mercy upon me!” cried Perpetua, “what a wretch! what a tyrant! Does he not fear God?”

      “Will you be silent? or do you want to ruin me completely?”

      “Oh! we are here alone, no one can hear us. But what will my poor master do?”

      “See there now,” said Don Abbondio, in a peevish tone, “see the fine advice you give me. To ask of me, what I’ll do? what I’ll do? as if you were the one in difficulty, and it was for me to help you out!”

      “Nay, I could give you my own poor opinion; but then—”

      “But—but then, let us know it.”

      “My opinion would be, that, as every one says our archbishop is a saint, a man of courage, and not to be frightened by an ugly phiz, and who will take pleasure in upholding a curate against one of these tyrants; I should say, and do say, that you had better write him a handsome letter, to inform him as how—”

      “Will you be silent! will you be silent! Is this advice to offer a poor man? When I get a pistol bullet in my side—God preserve me!—will the archbishop take it out?”

      “Ah! pistol bullets are not given away like sugarplums; and it were woful if those dogs should bite every time they bark. If a man knows how to show his teeth, and make himself feared, they hold him in respect: we should not have been brought to such a pass, if you had stood upon your rights. Now, all come to us (by your good leave) to—”

      “Will you be silent?”

      “Certainly; but it is true though, that when the world sees one is always ready, in every encounter, to lower—”

      “Will you be silent? Is this a time for such idle talk?”

      “Well, well, you’ll think of it to-night; but in the meantime do not be the first to harm yourself; to destroy your own health: eat a mouthful.”

      “I’ll think of it,” murmured Don Abbondio; “certainly I’ll think of it. I must think of it;” and he arose, continuing—“No! I’ll take nothing, nothing; I’ve something else to СКАЧАТЬ