The Betrothed / From the Italian of Alessandro Manzoni

by Alessandro Manzoni

Scarcely had Ludovico recalled his scattered thoughts, when he asked for a father confessor, prayed him to seek out the widow of Christopher, to ask forgiveness in his name for having been (however involuntarily) the cause of her affliction, and to assure her that he would take the care of her family on himself. Reflecting further on his own situation, his determination was made to become a friar. It seemed as if God himself had willed it, by placing him in a convent at such a conjuncture. He immediately sent for the superior of the monastery, and expressed to him his intention. He replied to him, that he should be careful not to form a resolution precipitately, but that, if he persisted, he would be accepted. Ludovico then sent for a notary, and made a donation of all his estate to the widow and family of Christopher.

The resolution of Ludovico happened opportunely for his hosts, who felt themselves embarrassed concerning him. To send him from the monastery, and thus expose him to justice and the vengeance of his enemies, was not to be thought of a moment; it would be the same as a renunciation of their privileges, a discrediting of the convent amongst the people; and they would draw upon themselves the animadversion of all the capuchins of the universe for this relinquishment of the rights of the order, this defiance of the ecclesiastical authorities, who then considered themselves the guardians of these rights. On the other hand, the family of the deceased, rich, and powerful in adherents, were determined on vengeance, and disposed to consider as enemies whoever should place obstacles to its accomplishment. History declares, not that they grieved much for the dead, or that a single tear was shed for him amongst his whole race, but that they were urged on by scenting the blood of his opponent. But Ludovico, by assuming the habit of a capuchin, removed all difficulties: to a certain degree he made atonement; imposed on himself penitence; confessed his fault; withdrew from the contest; he was, in short, an enemy who laid down his arms. The relations of the deceased could, if they pleased, believe and boast that he had become a friar through despair and dread of their revenge. And at all events, to reduce a man to dispossess himself of his wealth, to shave his head, to walk bare-footed, to sleep on straw, and to live on alms, might appear a punishment competent to the offence.

The superior presented himself before the brother of the deceased with an air of humility; after a thousand protestations of respect for his illustrious house, and of desire to comply with its wishes as far as was practicable, he spoke of the repentance and resolution of Ludovico, politely hoping that the family would grant their accordance; and then insinuating, mildly and dexterously, that, agreeable or not agreeable, the thing would take place. After some little vapouring, he agreed to it on one condition; that the murderer of his brother should depart immediately from the city. To this the capuchin assented, as if in obedience to the wishes of the family, although it had been already so determined. The affair was thus concluded to the satisfaction of the illustrious house, of the capuchin brotherhood, of the popular feeling, and, above all, of our generous penitent himself. Thus, at thirty years of age, Ludovico bade farewell to the world; and having, according to custom, to change his name, he took one which would continually recall to him his crime,—thus he became Friar Christopher!

Hardly was the ceremony of assuming the habit completed, when the superior informed him he must depart on the morrow to perform his noviciate at ——, sixty miles’ distance. The noviciate bowed submissively. “Permit me, father,” said he, “before I leave the scene of my crime, to do all that rests with me now to repair the evil; permit me to go to the house of the brother of him whom I have murdered, to acknowledge my fault, and ask forgiveness; perhaps God will take away his but too just resentment.”

It appeared to the superior that such an act, besides being praiseworthy in itself, would serve still more to reconcile the family to the monastery. He therefore bore the request himself to the brother of the murdered man; a proposal so unexpected was received with a mixture of scorn and complacency. “Let him come to-morrow,” said he, and appointed the hour. The superior returned to Father Christopher with the desired permission.

The gentleman reflected that the more solemn and public the apology was, the more it would enhance his credit with the family and the world; he made known in haste to the members of the family, that on the following day they should assemble at his house to receive a common satisfaction. At mid-day the palace swarmed with nobility of either sex; there was a blending of veils, feathers, and jewels; a heavy motion of starched and crisped bands; a confused entangling of embroidered trains. The antechambers, the courts, and the street, were crowded with servants, pages, and bravoes.

Father Christopher experienced a momentary agitation at beholding all this preparation, but recovering himself, said, “It is well; the deed was committed in public, the reparation should be public.” Then, with his eyes bent to the earth, and the father, his companion, at his elbow, he crossed the court, amidst a crowd who eyed him with unceremonious curiosity; he entered, ascended the stairs, and passing through another crowd of lords, who made way for him at his approach, he advanced towards the master of the mansion, who stood in the middle of the room waiting to receive him, with downcast looks, grasping with one hand the hilt of his sword, and with the other pressing the cape of his Spanish cloak on his breast. The countenance and deportment of Father Christopher made an immediate impression on the company; so that all were convinced that he had not submitted to this humiliation from fear of man. He threw himself on his knees before him whom he had most injured, crossed his hands on his breast, and bending his head, exclaimed, “I am the murderer of your brother! God knows, that to restore him to life I would sacrifice my own; but as this cannot be, I supplicate you to accept my useless and late apology, for the love of God!”

All eyes were fixed in breathless and mute attention on the novice, and on the person to whom he addressed himself; there was heard through the crowd a murmur of pity and respect; the angry scorn of the nobleman relaxed at this appeal, and bending towards the kneeling supplicant, “Rise,” said he, with a troubled voice. “The offence—the deed truly—but the habit you wear—not only this—but on your own account—rise, father!—my brother—I cannot deny it—was a cavalier—of a hasty temper. Do not speak of it again. But, father, you must not remain in this posture.” And he took him by the arm to raise him. Father Christopher, standing with his eyes still bent to the ground, continued, “I may, then, hope that you have granted me your pardon. And if I obtain it from you, from whom may I not expect it? Oh! if I could hear you utter the word!”

“Pardon!” said the nobleman; “I pardon you with all my heart, and all——” turning to the company——“All! all!” resounded at once through the room.

The countenance of the father expanded with joy, under which, however, was still visible an humble and profound compunction for the evil, which the remission of men could not repair. The nobleman, entirely vanquished, threw his arms around his neck, and the kiss of peace was given and received.