The Betrothed / From the Italian of Alessandro Manzoni

by Alessandro Manzoni

Don Roderick arrived in the middle of the valley, at the foot of the cliff, at the commencement of the rugged and winding path; at this point was a tavern, which might have been called a guard-house; an old sign, with a rising sun painted on both sides, was suspended before the door; but the people gave the place the more appropriate name of Malanotte.

At the noise of the approaching cavalcade a young boy, well furnished with swords and pistols, appeared on the threshold of the door; and casting a rapid glance at the party, informed three ruffians, who were playing at cards within the house, of its approach. He who appeared to be the chief among them arose, and recognising a friend of his master, saluted him respectfully; Don Roderick returned the salutation with much politeness, and asked if the signor was at the castle. The man replied in the affirmative; and he, dismounting, threw his horse’s bridle to Aimwell, one of his retinue. Then, taking his musket from his shoulder, he gave it to Montanarolo, as if to relieve himself from an useless encumbrance, but in reality because he knew that on this cliff none were permitted to bear arms. Drawing from his pocket some berlinghe, he gave them to Tanabuso, saying, “Wait here till my return; and in the mean time amuse yourselves with these honest people.” Then presenting to the chief of the band some crowns of gold for himself and his companions, he ascended the path with Griso.

Another bravo belonging to the Unknown, who was on his way to the castle, bore him company; thus sparing him the trouble of declaring his name to whomsoever he should meet. When he arrived at the castle (Griso was left at the gate) he was conducted through a long succession of dark galleries, and various halls hung with muskets, sabres, and other weapons of warfare; each of these halls was guarded by a bravo. After having waited some time, he was admitted to the presence of the Unknown, who advanced to meet him, replying to his salutation, and at the same time, as was his custom, even with his oldest friends, eying him from head to foot. He was tall in stature; and from the baldness of his head, and the deep furrows of his countenance, appeared to be much older than sixty, which was his real age; his countenance and movements, the firmness of his features, and the fire which sparkled from his eyes, indicated a vigour of body as well as of mind which would have been remarkable even in a young man.

Don Roderick told him he had come for advice and assistance; that, having embarked in a difficult enterprise, from which his honour did not suffer him to withdraw, he had remembered the promises of one who never promised in vain; and he then related his abominable intrigue. The Unknown, who had already heard something of it, listened with much attention to the recital, both because he naturally loved such relations, and because Friar Christopher, that avowed enemy of tyrants, was concerned in it. Don Roderick spoke of the difficulty of the undertaking, the distance of the place, a monastery, the signora,—but the Unknown, as if prompted by the demon in his heart, interrupted him, saying, that he took the charge of the affair on himself. He wrote down the name of the poor Lucy, and dismissed Don Roderick, saying, “In a little while you will receive news from me.”

The reader may remember the villain Egidio, who lived near the walls of the monastery into which Lucy had been received; now, he was one of the most intimate colleagues in crime of the Unknown; and this accounts for the promptness with which this lord assumed the charge of the undertaking. However, no sooner was he left alone than he repented of his precipitation. He had for some time experienced, not remorse, but a vague uneasiness on account of his crimes; at every new addition to them, the remembrance of those he had previously committed pressed upon his memory, if not upon his conscience, and loaded it with an intolerable weight. An undefinable repugnance to the commission of crime, such as he had experienced and subdued at the outset of his career, returned with all its force to overwhelm his spirit. The thoughts of the future contributed to render the past more painful. “To grow old! to die! and then?” And the image of death, which he had so often met undaunted, in face of an enemy, and which seemed to inflame his courage and double his energy—this same image now, in the midnight silence of his castle, quelled his spirit, and impressed him with an awe which he in vain endeavoured to resist. Formerly, the frequent spectacle of violence and murder, inspiring him with a ferocious emulation, had served as a kind of authority against his conscience; now the confused but terrible idea arose in his mind of individual responsibility at the bar of God. The idea of having risen above the crowd of vulgar criminals, and of having left them far behind, an idea which once flattered his pride, now impressed him with a sentiment of fearful solitude; and experiencing at certain moments of despondence the power and presence of that God whose existence he had hitherto neither admitted nor denied, having been wholly immersed in himself, his accumulated crimes rose up, to justify the sentence which was about to condemn him to eternal banishment from the divine presence. But this uneasiness was not suffered to appear, either in his words or his actions; he carefully concealed it under the appearance of more profound and intense ferocity. Regretting the time when he was accustomed to commit iniquity without remorse, without any other solicitude than for its success, he made every effort to recall these habits and feelings; to take pleasure in wickedness; and glory in his shame, in order to convince himself that he was still the same man.

This accounts for the promptitude of his promise to Don Roderick: he wished to deprive himself of the chance of hesitation; but, scarcely alone, he felt his resolution fail, and thoughts arose in his mind which almost tempted him to break his word, and expose his weakness to an inferior accomplice. But with a violent effort he put an end to the painful conflict. He sent for Nibbio[30], one of the most skilful and resolute ministers of his atrocities, and of whom he had made use in his correspondence with Egidio, and ordered him to mount his horse, to go to Monza, to inform Egidio of the affair he had undertaken, and to require his assistance for its accomplishment.

The messenger returned sooner than his master expected him with the reply of Egidio; the enterprise was easy and safe; the Unknown had only to send a carriage with two or three bravoes, well disguised; Egidio took charge of the rest. The Unknown, whatever passed in his mind, gave orders to Nibbio to arrange every thing, and to set out immediately on the expedition.

If, to perform the horrible service which had been required of him, Egidio had depended only on his ordinary means, he would not certainly have sent back so explicit an answer. But in the asylum of the convent, where every thing appeared as an obstacle, the villain had a means known to himself alone; and that which would have been an insurmountable difficulty to others was to him an instrument of success. We have related how the unhappy signora once lent an ear to his discourse, and the reader may have surmised that this was not the last time; it was only the first step in the path of abomination and blood. The same voice which then addressed her, become imperious through crime, now imposed on her the sacrifice of the innocent girl who had been intrusted to her care.

The proposition appeared frightful to Gertrude; to lose Lucy in any manner would have seemed to her a misfortune, a punishment; and to deprive herself of her with criminal perfidy, to add to her crimes by dealing treacherously with the confiding girl, was to take away the only gleam of virtuous enjoyment which had shone upon her mysterious and wicked career. She tried every method to avoid obedience; every method, except the only infallible one, that was in her power. Crime is a severe and inflexible master, against whom we are strong only when we entirely rebel. Gertrude could not resolve on that, and obeyed.

The day agreed on came; the hour approached; Gertrude, alone with Lucy, bestowed on her more caresses than ordinary, which the poor girl returned with increasing tenderness, as the lamb licks the hand of the shepherd who entices it without the fold into the murderous power of the butcher who there awaits it.