The Betrothed. Alessandro ManzoniЧитать онлайн книгу.
for Don Roderick, felt a degree of embarrassment in approaching him. He was seated at table, surrounded by guests; on his right was Count Attilio, his colleague in libertinism, who had come from Milan to visit him. To the left was seated, with respectful submissiveness, tempered, however, with conscious security, the podestà of the place,—he whose duty it was, according to the proclamation, to cause justice to be done to Renzo Tramaglino, and to inflict the allotted penalty on Don Roderick. Nearly opposite to the podestà sat our learned Doctor Azzecca Garbugli, with his black cap and his red nose; and over against him two obscure guests, of whom our story says nothing beyond a general mention of their toad-eating qualities.
“Give a seat to the father,” said Don Roderick. A servant presented a chair, and the good father apologised for having come at so inopportune an hour. “I would speak with you alone on an affair of importance,” added he, in a low tone, to Don Roderick.
“Very well, father, it shall be so,” replied he; “but in the meanwhile bring the father something to drink.”
Father Christopher would have refused, but Don Roderick, raising his voice above the tumult of the table, cried, “No, by Bacchus, you shall not do me this wrong; a capuchin shall never leave this house without having tasted my wine, nor an insolent creditor without having tasted the wood of my forests.” These words produced a universal laugh, and interrupted for a moment the question which was hotly agitated between the guests. A servant brought the wine, of which Father Christopher partook, feeling the necessity of propitiating the host.
“The authority of Tasso is against you, respected Signor Podestà,” resumed aloud the Count Attilio: “this great man was well acquainted with the laws of knighthood, and he makes the messenger of Argantes, before carrying the defiance of the Christian knights, ask permission from the pious Bouillon.”
“But that,” replied vociferously the podestà, “that is poetical licence merely: an ambassador is in his nature inviolable, by the law of nations, jure gentium; and moreover, the ambassador, not having spoken in his own name, but merely presented the challenge in writing—”
“But when will you comprehend that this ambassador was a daring fool, who did not know the first—”
“With the good leave of our guests,” interrupted Don Roderick, who did not wish the argument to proceed farther, “we will refer it to the Father Christopher, and submit to his decision.”
“Agreed,” said Count Attilio, amused at submitting a question of knighthood to a capuchin; whilst the podestà muttered between his teeth, “Folly!”
“But, from what I have comprehended,” said the father, “it is a subject of which I have no knowledge.”
“As usual, modest excuses from the father,” said Don Roderick; “but we will not accept them. Come, come, we know well that you came not into the world with a cowl on your head; you know something of its ways. Well, how stands the argument?”
“The facts are these,” said the Count Attilio—
“Let me tell, who am neutral, cousin,” resumed Don Roderick. “This is the story: a Spanish knight sent a challenge to a Milanese knight; the bearer, not finding him at home, presented it to his brother, who, having read it, struck the bearer many blows. The question is—”
“It was well done; he was perfectly right,” cried Count Attilio.
“There was no right about it,” exclaimed the podestà. “To beat an ambassador—a man whose person is sacred! Father, do you think this was an action becoming a knight?”
“Yes, sir; of a knight,” cried the count, “I think I know what belongs to a knight. Oh! if it had been an affair of fists, that would have been quite another thing, but a cudgel soils no one’s hands.”
“I am not speaking of this, Sir Count; I am speaking of the laws of knighthood. But tell me, I pray you, if the messengers that the ancient Romans sent to bear defiance to other nations, asked permission to deliver the message; find, if you can, a writer who relates that such messenger was ever cudgelled.”
“What have the ancient Romans to do with us? a people well enough in some things, but in others, far, far behind. But according to the laws of modern knighthood, I maintain that a messenger, who dared place in the hands of a knight a challenge without having previously asked permission, is a rash fool who deserves to be cudgelled.”
“But answer me this question—”
“No, no, no.”
“But hear me. To strike an unarmed person is an act of treachery. Atqui the messenger de quo was without arms. Ergo—”
“Gently, gently, Signor Podestà.”
“How? gently.”
“Gently, I tell you; I concede that under other circumstances this might have been called an act of treachery, but to strike a low fellow! It would have been a fine thing truly, to say to him, as you would to a gentleman, Be on your guard! And you, Sir Doctor, instead of sitting there grinning your approbation of my opinion, why do you not aid me to convince this gentleman?”
“I,” replied the doctor in confusion; “I enjoy this learned dispute, and am thankful for the opportunity of listening to a war of wit so agreeable. And moreover, I am not competent to give an opinion; his most illustrious lordship has appointed a judge—the father.”
“True,” said Don Roderick; “but how can the judge speak when the disputants will not keep silence?”
“I am dumb,” said the Count Attilio. The podestà made a sign that he would be quiet.
“Well! father! at last!” said Don Roderick, with comic gravity.
“I have already said, that I do not comprehend—”
“No excuses! we must have your opinion.”
“If it must be so,” replied the father, “I should humbly think there was no necessity for challenges, nor bearers, nor blows.”
The guests looked in wonder at each other.
“Oh! how ridiculous!” said the Count Attilio. “Pardon me, father; but this is exceedingly ridiculous. It is plain you know nothing of the world.”
“He?” said Don Roderick; “he knows as much of it as you do, cousin. Is it not so, father?”
Father Christopher made no reply; but to himself he said, “submit thyself to every insult for the sake of those for whom thou art here.”
“It may be so,” said the count; “but the father—how is the father called?”
“Father Christopher,” replied more than one.
“But, Father Christopher, your reverend worship, with your maxims you would turn the world upside down—without challenges! without blows! Farewell, the point of honour! Impunity to ruffians! Happily, the thing is impossible.”
“Stop, doctor,” cried Don Roderick, wishing to divert the dispute from the original antagonists. “You are a good man for an argument; what have you to say to the father?”
“Indeed,” replied the doctor, brandishing his fork in the air—“indeed I cannot understand how the Father Christopher should not remember that his judgment, though of just weight in the pulpit, is worth nothing—I speak with great submission—on a question of knighthood. But perhaps he has been merely jesting, to relieve himself from embarrassment.”
The father not replying to this, Don Roderick made an effort to change the subject.
“Apropos,” said he, “I understand there is a report at Milan of an accommodation.”
There was at this time a contest regarding the succession to the dukedom of Mantua, of which, at the death of Vincenzo Gonzaga, who died without male issue, the Duke de Nevers, his nearest relation, had