Don Abbondio's internal monologue on the way to the fortress was hilarious. While the theme of Divine Providence is not hard to see in this chapter, I loved how he talks trash about the saintly archbishop and the miraculous convert. He is a little like Agnese in the way he thinks about his social superiors, but she doesn't have the cowardliness and smallness of character that Manzoni mines for comic gold.
A key line for me is when Frederigo and the Nameless One are entering the room with the assembled clergy. Manzoni writes: "They were followed by Don Abbondio, whom no one even noticed. ( Dietro veniva don Abbondio, a cui nessuno badò.). A few moments earlier, the Cardinal seeing Don Abbondio looking unhappy says that the priest is always with him in the house of the Lord. but this man (the Nameless One), "He is lost and now he is found". I like Don Abbondio's response: " I couldn't be happier!" said Don Abbondio, bowing with equal reverence to both men.' The original has: Oh quanto me ne consolo!” disse don Abbondio, facendo una gran riverenza ad entrambi in comune. There seems to be a nice touch of irony in this response, as if to say, that's easy for you to say.
Don Abbondio seems to be a kind of Everyman, at the beck and call of the powerful, be they Cardinals or brigands. He is a small cog in a big machine, always under some kind of pressure from rich and poor. As the following few pages show, even when he is trying to pluck up courage to speak to the Nameless One, he is literally unable to find his own voice. I have great sympathy for him.
I am stirred by Michael’s last two lines that seem to be so relevant for our day. There is a faith in those who serve selflessly their brothers and sisters without proof of the “truth”. And there are a great many of us, be it from anxiety or fear, would rather just be comfortable at home doing our own version of good. Thanks be to those who have helped each of us without proof of our worthiness.
That all sounds a bit serious. I did enjoy Don Abbondio mentally chasing his tail.
Cardinal Federigo Borromeo is one confident, courageous man of God. The Nameless One gives every appearance of doing a 180 but I fear there is a long road ahead for him to make good on his (new) word. And Don Abbondio (I had wondered whether we would see him again), who continues to deceive himself (“Is it so very difficult to behave decently all through your life, like I’ve done?”), is only beginning his fraught journey as he is about to reacquaint himself with Lucia, and maybe later to have to explain himself to Don Rodrigo. The plot continues to thicken.
“It’s hopeless. The saints are all so stubborn!” Best line of the day belongs to chaplain when sent by Cardinal to bring in the Nameless One...Saint and sinner meet. Cardinal’s presence, “had a kind of virginal glow.” While the Nameless One, represents all sinners who “He” can forgive and redeem. Can this novel get any more religious? And Don Abbondio? Cowardly, still thinking only of himself--“Poor me! Poor me!” Funny monologue: “I wish I had married them.”
What a terrific chapter with what is said and unsaid interplaying in such fun ways! Got confused in my characters for a moment, but the sudden reappearance of Don Abbondio and his mental grousing (he is such a terrible priest) and the bitter little lament that he should've married them are all.so great. This novel has an epic feel to me, in how it's episodic, more than holistically plotted. With the mule, I was put in mind of Willa Cather's Death Comes for the Archbishop, and wondered if she'd read this book in translation.
Another point for Manzoni's balanced narrative: He intersperses humor into an otherwise serious chapter. "It's hopeless. These saints are all so stubborn!" had me laughing out loud. As did the physical comedy with Don Abbondino mounting and dismounting the tame mule reserved for men of letters. I suppose riding and writing are mutually exclusive activities!
Love the arrival of Don Abbondio and the introduction of comedy after being so moved at certain moments of the encounter of the great saint and great sinner -- and even though this is all spectacularly "religious" I think the heart of their encounter can be read in simply human terms (no matter what if any religious framing a reader/culture may want to give them) -- which the comedy of Don A. helps to remind us. (And if the Nameless One can't be perfectly absolutely evil, the good Cardinal can't be perfectly absolutely good, which we are also, gently, reminded before the chapter ends.)
A few choice words before Don A stole the show --
the exchange with the cautious chaplain, and the Cardinal's: "Should a bishop not feel blessed that a man like him suddenly wants an audience?" followed by the chaplain's wonderful (already noted) "It's hopeless: These saints are all so stubborn!" --
and the effect on the Nameless of raising his eyes to the Cardinal -- "pierced by a feeling of veneration ... that without directly attacking his pride, still crushed it..."
Manzoni's adroit plotting: The reader is conflicted between a desire for Lucia's release from bondage and gladness that the Nameless One is now good, and the hope that Lucia will never make good or have to keep her promise to the Virgin to retain her own virginity lifelong. The Nameless One's repentance and conversion and decision to release Lucia has uncannily intersected with Lucia's covenant. Part of me wants the Nameless One to remain a good person and release Lucia, and part of me wants Lucia to be released from her covenant.
I wonder if Manzoni played up the story of the reluctant, twisted nun to make Lucia's sacrifice seem even greater. If we'd only met contented nuns throughout the story, maybe I'd have a different feeling about her promise to God.
This chapter for some reason put me in mind of the kind Bishop of Digne in Les Miserables, who set Jean Valjean on his virtuous path. I read that tome long ago but last night, upon skimming Hugo's chapter about the bishop, discovered that the bishop, before he "got religion," had also been upper class, but had gone to Italy and mysteriously come back a priest. I wondered if this might have been an oblique reference to Manzoni's work and themes, or if the "good and inspiring priest with a complicated backstory" was just a thing in 19th century European literature?
It's been fun to read all the posts. I came to The Betrothed several decades ago, when I received a gift of the Italian language version upon my own engagement (Italian-American family, long backstory, etc.). I obtained an English translation then and read it, but it felt like I was the only person in the world doing so. The reading experience is so much richer this time around, with this community. Thanks.
I’m glad to see the comments here sympathetic to Don Abbondio. Okay, he’s lily-livered, a moral coward … but so human! I mean, if one ISN’T in a novel (and Don A doesn’t know he is in one), how convincing would it really be if the world’s worst criminal suddenly seems to have had a profound spiritual conversion? Don A isn’t crazy to feel that life is full of dangers, or to want to stay out of trouble.
“I wish I had married them. What could be worse than this!”
Cowardice always has a price…. I’m reminded of the adage - A coward dies a thousand deaths, a brave man dies but once.
Also agree with all the comments about Don Abbondio’s comedy in this chapter. I suppose the coward’s thousand deaths are much more humorous than the brave man’s one!
as someone who is not religious, I'm skeptical of conversions, especially when it's flaunted and so publicly done but then many displays of faith are aggressive and in my face I find. If nobody sees you praying, are you a believer?
Don Abbondio's internal monologue on the way to the fortress was hilarious. While the theme of Divine Providence is not hard to see in this chapter, I loved how he talks trash about the saintly archbishop and the miraculous convert. He is a little like Agnese in the way he thinks about his social superiors, but she doesn't have the cowardliness and smallness of character that Manzoni mines for comic gold.
A key line for me is when Frederigo and the Nameless One are entering the room with the assembled clergy. Manzoni writes: "They were followed by Don Abbondio, whom no one even noticed. ( Dietro veniva don Abbondio, a cui nessuno badò.). A few moments earlier, the Cardinal seeing Don Abbondio looking unhappy says that the priest is always with him in the house of the Lord. but this man (the Nameless One), "He is lost and now he is found". I like Don Abbondio's response: " I couldn't be happier!" said Don Abbondio, bowing with equal reverence to both men.' The original has: Oh quanto me ne consolo!” disse don Abbondio, facendo una gran riverenza ad entrambi in comune. There seems to be a nice touch of irony in this response, as if to say, that's easy for you to say.
Don Abbondio seems to be a kind of Everyman, at the beck and call of the powerful, be they Cardinals or brigands. He is a small cog in a big machine, always under some kind of pressure from rich and poor. As the following few pages show, even when he is trying to pluck up courage to speak to the Nameless One, he is literally unable to find his own voice. I have great sympathy for him.
I am stirred by Michael’s last two lines that seem to be so relevant for our day. There is a faith in those who serve selflessly their brothers and sisters without proof of the “truth”. And there are a great many of us, be it from anxiety or fear, would rather just be comfortable at home doing our own version of good. Thanks be to those who have helped each of us without proof of our worthiness.
That all sounds a bit serious. I did enjoy Don Abbondio mentally chasing his tail.
Cardinal Federigo Borromeo is one confident, courageous man of God. The Nameless One gives every appearance of doing a 180 but I fear there is a long road ahead for him to make good on his (new) word. And Don Abbondio (I had wondered whether we would see him again), who continues to deceive himself (“Is it so very difficult to behave decently all through your life, like I’ve done?”), is only beginning his fraught journey as he is about to reacquaint himself with Lucia, and maybe later to have to explain himself to Don Rodrigo. The plot continues to thicken.
“It’s hopeless. The saints are all so stubborn!” Best line of the day belongs to chaplain when sent by Cardinal to bring in the Nameless One...Saint and sinner meet. Cardinal’s presence, “had a kind of virginal glow.” While the Nameless One, represents all sinners who “He” can forgive and redeem. Can this novel get any more religious? And Don Abbondio? Cowardly, still thinking only of himself--“Poor me! Poor me!” Funny monologue: “I wish I had married them.”
What a terrific chapter with what is said and unsaid interplaying in such fun ways! Got confused in my characters for a moment, but the sudden reappearance of Don Abbondio and his mental grousing (he is such a terrible priest) and the bitter little lament that he should've married them are all.so great. This novel has an epic feel to me, in how it's episodic, more than holistically plotted. With the mule, I was put in mind of Willa Cather's Death Comes for the Archbishop, and wondered if she'd read this book in translation.
Another point for Manzoni's balanced narrative: He intersperses humor into an otherwise serious chapter. "It's hopeless. These saints are all so stubborn!" had me laughing out loud. As did the physical comedy with Don Abbondino mounting and dismounting the tame mule reserved for men of letters. I suppose riding and writing are mutually exclusive activities!
Love the arrival of Don Abbondio and the introduction of comedy after being so moved at certain moments of the encounter of the great saint and great sinner -- and even though this is all spectacularly "religious" I think the heart of their encounter can be read in simply human terms (no matter what if any religious framing a reader/culture may want to give them) -- which the comedy of Don A. helps to remind us. (And if the Nameless One can't be perfectly absolutely evil, the good Cardinal can't be perfectly absolutely good, which we are also, gently, reminded before the chapter ends.)
A few choice words before Don A stole the show --
the exchange with the cautious chaplain, and the Cardinal's: "Should a bishop not feel blessed that a man like him suddenly wants an audience?" followed by the chaplain's wonderful (already noted) "It's hopeless: These saints are all so stubborn!" --
and the effect on the Nameless of raising his eyes to the Cardinal -- "pierced by a feeling of veneration ... that without directly attacking his pride, still crushed it..."
Manzoni's adroit plotting: The reader is conflicted between a desire for Lucia's release from bondage and gladness that the Nameless One is now good, and the hope that Lucia will never make good or have to keep her promise to the Virgin to retain her own virginity lifelong. The Nameless One's repentance and conversion and decision to release Lucia has uncannily intersected with Lucia's covenant. Part of me wants the Nameless One to remain a good person and release Lucia, and part of me wants Lucia to be released from her covenant.
I wonder if Manzoni played up the story of the reluctant, twisted nun to make Lucia's sacrifice seem even greater. If we'd only met contented nuns throughout the story, maybe I'd have a different feeling about her promise to God.
It’s based on a true story, which Manzoni researched quite thoroughly.
This chapter for some reason put me in mind of the kind Bishop of Digne in Les Miserables, who set Jean Valjean on his virtuous path. I read that tome long ago but last night, upon skimming Hugo's chapter about the bishop, discovered that the bishop, before he "got religion," had also been upper class, but had gone to Italy and mysteriously come back a priest. I wondered if this might have been an oblique reference to Manzoni's work and themes, or if the "good and inspiring priest with a complicated backstory" was just a thing in 19th century European literature?
It's been fun to read all the posts. I came to The Betrothed several decades ago, when I received a gift of the Italian language version upon my own engagement (Italian-American family, long backstory, etc.). I obtained an English translation then and read it, but it felt like I was the only person in the world doing so. The reading experience is so much richer this time around, with this community. Thanks.
I’m glad to see the comments here sympathetic to Don Abbondio. Okay, he’s lily-livered, a moral coward … but so human! I mean, if one ISN’T in a novel (and Don A doesn’t know he is in one), how convincing would it really be if the world’s worst criminal suddenly seems to have had a profound spiritual conversion? Don A isn’t crazy to feel that life is full of dangers, or to want to stay out of trouble.
“I wish I had married them. What could be worse than this!”
Cowardice always has a price…. I’m reminded of the adage - A coward dies a thousand deaths, a brave man dies but once.
Also agree with all the comments about Don Abbondio’s comedy in this chapter. I suppose the coward’s thousand deaths are much more humorous than the brave man’s one!
as someone who is not religious, I'm skeptical of conversions, especially when it's flaunted and so publicly done but then many displays of faith are aggressive and in my face I find. If nobody sees you praying, are you a believer?