ONE fine evening, Agnese heard a carriage stop at the door. — It is she, and none other! — It was indeed Lucia, with the good widow: the mutual greetings we leave the reader to imagine.
Next morning Renzo arrived in good time, totally ignorant of what had happened, and with no other intentions than of pouring out his feelings a little with Agnese about Lucia’s long delay. The gesticulations he made, and the exclamations he uttered, on finding her thus before his eyes, we will also refer to our reader’s imagination. Lucia’s exhibitions of pleasure towards him were such, that it will not take many words to give an account of them. ‘Good morning, Renzo: how do you do?’ said she, with downcast eyes, and an air of composure. Nor let the reader think that Renzo considered this mode of reception too cold, and took it at all amiss. He entered fully into the meaning of her behaviour; and as among educated people one knows how to make allowance for compliments, so he understood very well what feelings lay hidden beneath these words. Besides, it was easy enough to perceive that she had two ways of proffering them, one for Renzo, and another for all those she might happen to know.
‘It does me good to see you,’ replied the youth, making use of a set phrase, which he himself, however, had invented on the spur of the moment.
‘Our poor Father Cristoforo! . . . ’ said Lucia: ‘pray for his soul; though one may be almost sure that he is now praying for us above.’
‘I expected no less, indeed,’ said Renzo. Nor was this the only melancholy chord touched in the course of this dialogue. But what then? Whatever subject was the topic of conversation, it always seemed to them delightful. Like a capricious horse, which halts and plants itself in a certain spot, and lifts first one hoof and then another, and sets it down again in the self-same place, and cuts a hundred capers before taking a single step, and then all on a sudden starts on its career, and speeds forward as if borne on the wings of the wind; such had time become in his eyes: at first minutes had seemed hours; now hours seemed to him like minutes.
The widow not only did not spoil the party, but entered into it with great spirit: nor could Renzo, when he saw her lying on that miserable bed in the Lazzaretto, have imagined her of so companionable and cheerful a disposition. But the Lazzaretto and the country, death and a wedding, are not exactly one and the same thing. With Agnese she was very soon on friendly terms; and it was a pleasure to see her with Lucia, so tender, and, at the same time, playful, rallying her gracefully and without effort, just so much as was necessary to give more courage to her words and motions.
At length Renzo said that he was going to Don Abbondio, to make arrangements about the wedding.
He went, and with a certain air of respectful raillery, “Signor Curate,’ said he, ‘have you at last lost that headache, which you told me prevented your marrying us? We are now in time; the bride is here, and I’ve come to know when it will be convenient to you: but this time, I must request you to make haste.’
Don Abbondio did not, indeed, reply that he would not; but he began to hesitate, to bring forward sundry excuses, to throw out sundry insinuations; and why bring himself into notice and publish his name, with that proclamation for his seizure still out against him? and that the thing could be done equally well elsewhere; and this, that, and the other argument.
‘Oh, I see!’ said Renzo; ‘you’ve still a little pain in your head. But listen, listen.’ And he began to describe in what state he had beheld poor Don Rodrigo; and that by that time he must undoubtedly be gone. ‘Let us hope,’ concluded he, ‘that the Lord will have had mercy on him.’
‘This has nothing to do with us,’ said Don Abbondio. ‘Did I say no? Certainly I did not; but I speak . . . I speak for good reasons. Besides, don’t you see, as along as a man has breath in his body . . . Only look at me: I’m somewhat sickly; I too have been nearer the other world than this: and yet I’m here; and . . . if troubles don’t come upon me . . . why . . . I may hope to stay here a little longer yet. Think, too, of some people’s constitutions. But, as I say, this has nothing to do with us.’
After a little further conversation neither more nor less conclusive, Renzo made an elegant bow, returned to his party, made his report of the interview, and concluded by saying: ‘I’ve come away, because I’ve had quite enough of it, and that I mightn’t run the risk of losing my patience, and using bad words. Sometimes he seemed exactly like what he was that other time; the very same hesitation, and the very same arguments: I’m sure, if it had lasted as little longer, he’d have returned to the charge with some words in Latin. I see there must be another delay: it would be better to do what he says at once, and go and get married where we’re about to live.’
‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do,’ said the widow: ‘I should like you to let us women go make the trial, and see whether we can’t find rather a better way to manage him. By this means, too, I shall have the pleasure of knowing this man, whether he’s just such as you describe him. After dinner I should like to go, not to assail him again too quickly. And now, Signor bridegroom, please to accompany us two in a little walk, while Agnese is so busily employed: I will act the part of Lucia’s mother. I want very much to see these mountains, and this lake of which I’ve heard so much, rather more at large, for the little I’ve already seen of them seems to me a charmingly fine view.’
Renzo escorted them first to the cottage of his hospitable friend, where they met with a hearty welcome; and they made him promise that, not that day only, but, if he could, every day, he would join their party at dinner.
Having returned from their ramble, and dined, Renzo suddenly took his departure, without saying where he was going. The women waited a little while to confer together, and concert about the mode of assailing Don Abbondio; and at length they set off to make the attack.
— Here they are, I declare — said he to himself; but he put on a pleasant face, and offered warm congratulations to Lucia, greetings to Agnese, and compliments to the stranger. He made them sit down; then he entered upon the grand subject of the plague, and wanted to hear from Lucia how she and managed to get over it in the midst of so many sorrows: the Lazzaretto afforded an opportunity of bringing her companion into conversation; then, as was but fair, Don Abbondio talked about his share in the storm; then followed great rejoicings with Agnese, that she had come forth unharmed. The conversation was carried to some length: from the very first moment the two elders were on the watch for a favourable opportunity of mentioning the essential point; and at length one of the two, I am not sure which, succeeded in breaking the ice. But what think you? Don Abbondio could not hear with that ear. He took care not to say no, but behold! he again recurred to his usual evasions, circumlocutions, and hoppings from bush to bush. ‘It would be necessary,’ he said, ‘to get rid of that order for Renzo’s arrest. You, Signora, who come from Milan, will know more or less the course these matters take; you would claim protection — some cavalier of weight for with such means every wound may be cured. If then, we may jump to the conclusion, without perplexing ourselves with so many considerations; as these young people, and our good Agnese here, already intend to expatriate themselves, (but I’m talking at random; for one’s country is wherever one is well off), it seems to me that all may be accomplished there, where no proclamation interposes. I don’t myself exactly see that this is the moment for the conclusion of this match, but I wish it well concluded, and undisturbedly. To tell the truth: here, with this edict in force, to proclaim the name of Lorenzo Tramaglino from the altar, I couldn’t do it with a quiet conscience: I too sincerely wish them well; I should be afraid I were doing them an injury. You see, ma’am, and they too.’
Here Agnese and the widow, each in their own way, broke in to combat these arguments: Don Abbondio reproduced them in another shape: it was a perpetual recommencement: when lo, enter Renzo with a determine step, and tidings in his face.
‘The Signor Marquis has arrived,’ said he.
‘What does this mean? Arrived where?’ as Don Abbondio.
‘He has arrived at his palace, which was once Don Rodrigo’s; because this Signor Marquis is the heir by preferment in trust, as they say; so that there’s no longer any doubt. As for myself, I should be very glad of it, if I could hear that that poor man had died in peace. At any rate, I’ve said Paternosters for him hitherto; now I will say the De profundis. And this Signor Marquis is a very fine man.’
‘Certainly,’ said Don Abbondio, ‘I’ve heard him mentioned more than once as a really excellent Signor, a man of the old stamp. But is it positively true? . . . ’
‘Will you believe the sexton?’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s seen him with his own eyes. I’ve only been in the neighbourhood of the castle; and, to say the truth, I went there on purpose, thinking they must know something there. And several people told me about it. Afterwards, I met Ambrogio, who had just been up there, and had seen him, I say, take possession. Will you hear Ambrogio’s testimony? I made him wait outside on purpose.’
‘Yet, let him come in,’ said Don Abbondio. Renzo went and called the sexton, who, after confirming every fact, adding fresh particulars, and dissipating every doubt, again went on his way.
‘Ah! he’s dead, then! he’s really gone!’ exclaimed Don Abbondio. ‘You see, my children, how Providence overtakes some people. You know what a grand thing that is! what a great relief to this poor country! for it was impossible to live with him here. This pestilence has been a great scourge, but it has also been a good broom; it has swept away some, from whom, my children, we could never have freed ourselves. Young, blooming, and in full vigour, we might have said that they who were destined to assist at their funeral, were still writing Latin exercises at school; and in the twinkling of an eye they’ve disappeared, by hundreds at a time. We shall no longer see him going about with those cut-throat looking fellows at his heels, with such an ostentatious and supercilious air, looking as if he had swallowed a ramrod, and staring at people as if they were all placed in the world to be honoured by his condescension. Well, he’s here no longer, and we are. He’ll never again send such messages to honest men. He’s given us all a great deal of disquietude, as you see; for now we may venture to say so.’
‘I’ve forgiven him from my heart,’ said Renzo.
‘And you do right! it’s your duty to do so,’ replied Don Abbondio; but one may thank Heaven, I suppose, who has delivered us from him. But to return to ourselves; I repeat, do what you like best. If you wish me to marry you, here I am: if it will be more convenient to you to go elsewhere, do so. As to the order of arrest, I likewise think that, as there is now no longer any who keeps his eye on you, and wishes to do you harm, it isn’t worth giving yourself any great uneasiness about it, particularly as this gracious decree, on occasion of the birth of the most serene Infanta, is interposed. And then the plague! the plague! Oh, that plague has put to flight many a grand thing! So that, if you like . . . to-day is Thursday . . . on Sunday I’ll ask you in church; because what may have been done in that way before will count for nothing, after so long an interval; and then I shall have the pleasure of marrying you myself.’
‘You know we came about this very thing,’ said Renzo.
‘Very well; I shall attend you: and I must also write immediately and inform his Eminence.’
‘Who is his Eminence?’
‘His Eminence,’ replied Don Abbondio, ‘is our Signor Cardinal the Archbishop, whom may God preserve!’
‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ answered Agnese; ‘but though I’m a poor ignorant creature, I can assure you he’s not called so; because, the second time we were about to speak to him, just as I’m speaking to you, sir, one of the priests drew me aside, and instructed me how to behave to a gentleman like him; and that he ought to be called, your illustrious Lordship, and my Lord.’
‘And now, if he had to repeat his instructions, he’d tell you that he is to have the title of Eminence: do you understand now? Because the Pope, whom may God likewise preserve, has ordered, ever since the month of June, that Cardinals are to have this title. And why do you think he has come to this resolution? because the word illustrious, which once belonged to them and certain princes, has now become — even you know what, and to how many it is given; and how willingly they swallow it! And what would you have done? Take it away from all? Then we should have complaints, hatred, troubles, and jealousies without end, and after all, they would go on just as before. So the Pope has found a capital remedy. By degrees, however, they will begin to give the title of Eminence to Bishops; then Abbots will claim it; then Provosts; for men are made so: they must always be advancing, always be advancing; then Canons . . . ’
‘And Curates?’ said the widow.
‘No, no,’ pursued Don Abbondio, ‘the Curates must draw the cart: never fear that “your Reverence” will sit ill upon Curates to the end of the world. Farther, I shouldn’t be surprised if cavaliers, who are accustomed to hear themselves called Illustrious, and to be treated like Cardinals, should some day or other want the title of Eminence themselves. And if they want it, you know, depend upon it they’ll find somebody to give it them. And then, whoever happens to be Pope then, will invent something else for the Cardinals. But come, let us return to our own affairs. On Sunday, I’ll ask you in church; and, meanwhile, what do you think I’ve thought of to serve you better? Meanwhile, we’ll ask for a dispensation for the two other times. They must have plenty to do up at Court in giving dispensations, if things go on everywhere as they do here. I’ve already . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . for Sunday, without counting yourselves; and some others may occur yet. And then you’ll see afterwards; the fire has caught, and there’ll not be left one person single. Perpetua surely made a mistake to die now; for this was the time that even she would have found a purchaser. And I fancy, Signora, it will be the same at Milan.’
‘So it is, indeed; you may imagine it, when, in my parish only, last Sunday, there were fifty weddings.’
‘I said so; the world won’t come to an end yet. And you, Signora, has no bumble fly begun to hover about you?’
‘No, no; I don’t think about such things, nor do I wish to.’
‘Oh yes, yes; for you will be the only single one. Even Agnese, you see — even Agnese . . . ’
‘Poh! you are inclined to be merry!’ said Agnese.
‘I am, indeed; and I think, at length, it’s time. We’ve passed through some rough days, haven’t we, my young ones? Some rough ones we’ve passed indeed; and the few days we have yet to live, we may hope will be a little less melancholy. But, happy you, who, if no misfortunes happen, have still a little time left to talk over bygone sorrows! I, poor old man . . . villains may die; one may recover the of plague, but there is no help for old age; and, as they say, senectus ipsa est morbus.’
‘Now, then,’ said Renzo, ‘you may talk Latin as long as you like, it makes no difference to me.’
‘You’re at it again with that Latin, are you? Well, well, I’ll settle it with you: when you come before me with this little creature here, just to hear you pronounce certain little words in Latin, I’ll say to you — You don’t like Latin; good-bye. Shall I?’
‘Ah! but I know what I mean,’ replied Renzo; ‘it isn’t at all that Latin there that frightens me — that is honest sacred Latin, like that in the mass. And, besides, it is necessary there that you should read what is in the book. I’m talking of that knavish Latin, out of church, that comes upon one treacherously, in the very pith of a conversation. For example, now that we are here, and all is over, that Latin you went on pouring forth, just here in this corner, to give me to understand that you couldn’t, and that other things were wanting, and I know not what besides; please now to translate it a little for me.’
‘Hold your tongue, you wicked fellow, hold your tongue; don’t stir up these things; for if we were now to make up our accounts, I don’t know which would be creditor. I’ve forgiven all; let us talk about it no longer; but you certainly played me some tricks. I don’t wonder at you, because you’re a downright young scoundrel; but fancy this creature, as quiet as a mouse, this little saint, whom one would have thought it a sin to suspect and guard against. But after all, I know who set her up to it, I know, I know.’ So saying, he pointed and waved towards Agnese the finger he had at first directed to Lucia; and it is impossible to describe the good-temper and pleasantry with which he made these reproaches. The tidings he had just heard had given him a freedom and a talkativeness to which he had long been a stranger; and we should be still far enough from a conclusion, if we were to relate all the rest of this conversation, which he continued to prolong, more than once detaining the party when on the point of starting, and afterwards stopping them again for a little while at the very street door, each time to make some jocose speech.
The day following, he received a visit as unexpected as it was gratifying, from the Signor Marquis we have mentioned; a person beyond the prime of manhood, whose countenance was, as it were, a seal to what report had said of him; open, benevolent, placid, humble, dignified, and with something that indicated a resigned sadness.
‘I come,’ said he, ‘to bring you the compliments of the Cardinal Archbishop.’
‘Ah, what condescension of you both!’
‘When I was about to take leave of that incomparable man, who is good enough to honour me with his friendship, he mentioned to me two young betrothed persons of this parish, who have had to suffer on account of the unfortunate Don Rodrigo. His Lordship wishes to have some tidings of them. Are they living? and are their affairs settled?’
‘Everything is settled. Indeed, I was intending to write about them to his Eminence; but now that I have the honour . . . ’
‘Are they here?’
‘They are; and they will be man and wife as soon as possible.’
‘And I request you to be good enough to tell me if I can be of any service to them, and also to instruct me in the best way of being so. During this calamity, I have lost the only two sons I had, and their mother, and have received three considerable inheritances. I had a superfluity even before; so that you see it is really rendering me a service to give me an opportunity of employing some of my wealth, and particularly such an opportunity as this.’
‘May Heaven bless you! Why are not all . . . Enough; I thank you most heartily, in the name of these my children. And since your illustrious Lordship gives me so much encouragement, it is true, my Lord, that I have an expedient to suggest which perhaps may not displease your Lordship. Allow me to tell you, then, that these worthy people are resolved to g............