 Chapter 36 Part 1 of The Betrothed Who would ever have told Renzo, a few hours before, that in the very crisis of his search, at the approach of the moment of greatest suspense which was so soon to be decisive, his heart would have been divided between Lucia and Don Rodrigo. Yet so it was. That figure he had just beheld came and mingled itself in all the dear or terrible pictures which either hope or fear alternately brought before him in the course of his walk. The words he had heard at the foot of the bed blended themselves with the conflicting thoughts by which his mind was agitated and he could not conclude a prayer for the happy issue of this great experiment without connecting with it that which he had begun there and which the sound of the bell had abruptly terminated. The small octagonal temple which stood elevated from the ground by several steps in the middle of the Lasaretto was, in its original construction, open on every side without other support than pilasters and columns, a perforated building, so to say. And each front was an arch between two columns. Within a portico ran round that which might more properly be called the church, but which was composed only of eight arches supported by pilasters, surmounted by a small cupola, and corresponding to those on the outside of the arcade, so that the altar erected in the center might be seen from the window of each room in the enclosure and almost from any part of the encampment. Now the edifice being converted to quite a different use. The spaces of the eight fronts are walled up but the ancient framework which still remains uninjured indicates with sufficient clearness the original condition and destination of the building. Portico had scarcely started when Father Felice made his appearance in the portico of the temple and advanced toward the arch in the middle of the side which faces the city, in front of which the assembly were arranged at the foot of the steps and along the course prepared for them, and shortly he perceived by his manner that he had begun the sermon and therefore went round by some little bypass, so as to attain the rear of the audience as had been suggested to him. Arrived there he stood very quietly and ran over the whole with his eye, but he could see nothing from his position except a mass. I had almost said a pavement of heads. In the center there were some covered with handkerchiefs or veils and here he fixed his eyes more attentively but failing to distinguish anything more clearly he also raised them to where all the others were directed. He was touched and affected by the venerable figure of the speaker and with all the attention he could command in such a moment of expectation listened to the following portion of his solemn address. Let us remember for a moment the thousands and thousands who have there gone forth and raising his finger above his shoulder he pointed behind him toward the gate which led to the cemetery of San Gregorio, the whole of which was then we might say one immense grave. Let us cast an eye around upon the thousands and thousands who are still left here uncertain alas, but which way will they go forth? Let us look at ourselves so few in number who are about to go forth restored. Blessed be the Lord, blessed be he in his justice, blessed in his mercy, blessed in death and blessed in life, blessed in the choice he has been pleased to make of us. Oh, why has he so pleased, my brethren, if not to preserve to himself a little remnant corrected by affliction and warmed with gratitude? If not in order that feeling more vividly than ever how life is his gift we may esteem it as a gift from his hands and employ it in such works as we may dare to offer him. If not in order that the remembrance of our own sufferings may make us compassionate toward others and ever ready to relieve them. In the meanwhile, let those in whose company we have suffered, hoped and feared, among whom we are leaving friends and relatives and who are all besides our brethren. Let those among them who will see us pass through the midst of them not only derive some relief from the thought that others are going out hence in health, but also be edified by our behavior. God forbid that they should behold us in a clamorous festivity, a carnal joy at having escaped that death against which they are still struggling. Let them see that we depart in thanksgivings for ourselves and prayers for them. And let them be able to say, even beyond these walls they will not forget us. They will continue to pray for us poor creatures. Let us begin from this time, from the first steps we are about to take, a life wholly made of love. Let those who have regained their former vigor lend a brotherly arm to the feeble, young men, sustain the aged. You who are left without children, look around you how many children are left without parents, be such to them, and this charity covering the multitude of sins will also alleviate your own sorrows. Here a deep murmur of groans and sobs which had been increasing in the assembly was suddenly suspended on seeing the preacher put a rope round his neck and fall upon his knees, and in profound silence they stood waiting what he was about to say. For me, continued he, and the rest of my companions who, without any merit of our own, have been chosen out for the high privilege of serving Christ in you. I, humbly implore your forgiveness, if we have not worthily fulfilled so great a ministry. If slothfulness, if the ungovernableness of the flesh has rendered us less attentive to your necessities, less ready to answer your calls. If unjust impatience or blameworthy weariness has sometimes made us show you a severe and dispirited countenance, if the miserable thought that we were necessary to you has sometimes induced us to fail in treating you with that humility which became us. If our frailty has led us hastily to commit any action which has been a cause of offence to you, forgive us, and so may God forgive you all your trespasses, and bless you. Then, making the sign of a large cross over the assembly, he rose. We have succeeded in relating, if not the actual words, at least the sense of burden of those which he really uttered. But the manner in which they were delivered, it is impossible to describe. It was the manner of one who called it a privilege to attend upon the infected because he felt it to be so. Who confessed that he had not worthily acted up to it because he was conscious he had not done so. Who be sought forgiveness because he was convinced he stood in need of it. But the people who had beheld these capuchins as they went about engaged in nothing but waiting upon them, who had seen so many sink under that duty and him who was now addressing them ever in the foremost in toil as an authority except indeed when he himself was lying at the point of death. Think with what size and tears they responded to such an appeal. The admirable friar then took a large cross which stood resting against a pillar, elevated it before him, left his sandals at the edge of the outside portico, and through the midst of the crowd which reverently made way for him proceeded to place himself at their head. Renzo, no less affected than if he had been one of those from whom this singular forgiveness was requested, also withdrew a little further, and succeeded in placing himself by the side of a cabin. Here he stood waiting, with his body half concealed, and his head stretched forward, his eyes wide open, and his heart beating violently. But at the same time with a kind of new and particular confidence arising, I think from the tenderness of spirit which the sermon and the spectacle of the general emotion had excited in him. Father Felice now came up, barefoot with the rope round his neck, and that tall and heavy cross elevated before him. His face was pale and haggard, inspiring bossarro and encouragement. He walked with slow but resolute steps, like one who would spare the weakness of others, and in everything was like a man to whom these supernumerary labours and troubles imparted strength to sustain those which were necessary and inseparable from his charge. Immediately behind him came the taller children, barefooted for the most part, very few entirely clothed, and some actually in their shirts. Then came the women, almost every one leading a little child by the hand, and alternately chanting the Miserere, while the feebleness of their voices and the paleness and languor of their countenances were enough to fill the heart of anyone with pity who chanced to be there as a mere spectator. But Renzo was gazing and examining from rank to rank, from face to face, without passing over one, for which the extremely slow advance of the procession gave him abundant leisure. On and on it goes. He looks and looks, always to no purpose. He keeps glancing rapidly over the crowd which still remains behind, and which is gradually diminishing. Now there are very few rows. We are at the last. All are gone by. All were unknown faces. With drooping arms and head reclining on one shoulder, he suffered his eye still to wander after that little band, while that of the men passed before him. His attention was again arrested, and a new hope arose in his mind on seeing some carts appear behind these bearing those convalescents who were not yet able to walk. Here the women came last, and the train proceeded at so deliberate a pace that Renzo could with equal ease review all these without one escaping his scrutiny. But what then? He examined the first cart, the second, the third, and so on, one by one, always with the same result, up to the very last, behind which followed a solitary capuchin, with a grave countenance and a stick in his hand, as the regulator of the cavalcade. It was that Father Michel, whom we have mentioned as being appointed co-adjecture in the government with Father Felice. Thus was this soothing hope completely dissipated, and as it was dissipated it not only carried away the comfort it had brought along with it, but as is generally the case, left him in a worse condition than before. Now the happiest alternative was to find Lucia ill, yet while increasing fears took the place of the ardor of present hope he clung with all the powers of his mind to this melancholy and fragile thread, and issuing into the road pursued his way toward the place the procession had just left. On reaching the foot of the little temple he went and knelt down upon the lowest step, and there poured forth a prayer to God, or rather a crowd of unconnected expressions, broken sentences, ejaculations, and treaties, and promises, one of those addresses which are never made to men because they have not sufficient quickness to understand them, nor patience to listen to them. They are not great enough to feel compassion without contempt. He rose, somewhat more reanimated. Went round the temple, came into the other road which he had not before seen, and which led to the opposite gate, and after going on a little way, saw on both sides the paling the friar had told him about, but full of breaks and gaps, exactly as he had said. He entered through one of these, and found himself in the quarter assigned to the women. Almost at the first step he took, he saw lying on the ground a little bell, such as the Manati wore upon their feet, quite perfect, with all its straps and buckles, and it immediately struck him that perhaps such an instrument might serve him as a passport in that place. He therefore picked it up, and looking round to see if any one was watching him, buckled it on. He then set himself to his search, to that search which, where it only for the multiplicity of the objects would have been extremely wearysome, even had those objects been anything but what they were. He began to survey, or rather to contemplate, new scenes of suffering, in part so similar to those he had already witnessed, in part so dissimilar. For under the same calamity there was here a different kind of suffering, a different languor, a different complaining, a different endurance, a different kind of mutual pity and assistance. There was, too, in the spectator another kind of compassion and another feeling of horror. He had now gone, I know not how far, without success and without accidents, when he heard a, hey, a call which seemed to be addressed to him. He turned round and saw at a little distance a commissary, who with uplifted hand was beckoning to none other but himself, and crying, there, in those rooms you're wanted, here we've only just finished clearing away. Renzo immediately perceived whom he was taken for, and that the little bell was the cause of the mistake. He called himself a great fool for having thought only of the inconveniences which this token might enable him to avoid, and not of those which it might draw down upon him, and at the same instant devised a plan to free himself from the difficulty. He repeatedly nodded to him in a hurried manner as if to say he understood and would obey, and then got out of sight by slipping aside between the cabins. When he thought himself far enough off, he began to think about dismissing this cause of offence, and to perform the operation without being observed, he stationed himself in the narrow passage between two little huts which had their backs turned to each other, stooping down to unloose the buckles, and in this position resting his head against the straw wall of one of the cabins, a voice reached his ear from inside. Oh, heavens! Is it possible? His whole soul was in that ear. He held his breath. Yes, indeed. It is that voice. Fear of what? said the gentle voice. We have passed through much worse than a storm. He who has preserved us hither too will preserve us even now. If Renzo uttered no cry, it was not for fear of being discovered, but because he had no breath to utter it. His knees failed beneath him, his sight became dim, but it was only for the first moment. At the second he was on his feet, more alert, more vigorous than ever. In three bounds he was round the cabin, stood at the doorway, saw her, who had been speaking, saw her, standing by a bedside and bending over it. She turned on hearing a noise. Looked. Fancy she mistook the object. Looked again more fixedly and exclaimed, Oh, blessed Lord! Lucia! I found you! I found you! It's really you! You're living!" exclaimed Renzo, advancing toward her all in a tremble. Oh, blessed Lord! replied Lucia, trembling far more violently. You? What is this? Why, the plague? I've had it, and you? Ah, and I too. And about my mother? I haven't seen her, for she's at Pasteur I believe, however she's very well. But you, how pale you still are, how weak you seem! You're recovered, however, aren't you? The Lord has been pleased to leave me a little longer below. Oh, Renzo, why are you here? Why? said Renzo, drawing all the time nearer to her. Do you ask why? Why I should come here? Need I say why? Who is there I ought to think about? Am I no longer Renzo? Are you no longer Lucia? Ah, what are you saying? What are you saying? Didn't my mother write you? I That indeed she did. Find things to write to an unfortunate afflicted fugitive wretch, to a young fellow who has never offered you a single affront at least. But Renzo, Renzo, since you knew, why come? Why? Why come? Oh, Lucia, why come, do you say? After so many promises, are we no longer ourselves? Do you any longer remember what is wanting? Oh, Lord! exclaimed Lucia piteously, clasping her hands and raising her eyes to heaven. Why hast thou not granted me the mercy of taking me to thyself? Oh, Renzo, whatever have you done? See, I was beginning to hope that, in time, you would have forgotten me. A fine hope indeed. Find things to tell me to my face. Oh, what have you done? And in this place, among all this misery, among these sights, here, where they do nothing but die, you have—we must pray to God for those who die, and hope that they will go to a good place. But it isn't surely fair, even for this reason, that they who live should live in despair. But Renzo, Renzo, you don't think what you're saying a promise to the Madonna of Val. And I tell you they are promises that go for nothing. Oh, Lord, what do you say? Where have you been all this time? Whom have you mixed with? How are you talking? I'm talking like a good Christian. And I think better of the Madonna than you do, for I believe she doesn't wish for promises that injure one's fellow-creatures. If the Madonna had spoken, then indeed. But what has happened? A mere fancy of your own. Don't we know what you ought to promise the Madonna? Promise her that the first daughter we have will call her Maria. For that I'm willing to promise too. There are things that do much more honor to the Madonna. These are devotions that have some use in them, and do not harm any one. No, no, don't say so. You don't know what you're saying. You don't know what it is to make a vow. You've never been in such circumstances. You haven't tried. Leave me, leave me, for heaven's sake. And she impetuously rushed from him and returned toward the bed. Lucia, said he without stirring, just tell me this one thing. If there was not this reason, would you be the same to me as ever? Heartless man, required Lucia turning round, and with difficulty restraining her tears. When you've made me say what's quite useless, what would do me harm, and what perhaps would be sinful, will you be contented then? Go away, oh do go away. I think no more of me. We were not intended for each other. We shall meet again above. Now we cannot have much longer to stay in this world. Oh, go! Try to let my mother know that I'm recovered, and that here too God has always helped me, and that I found a kind creature in this good lady, who's like a mother to me. Tell her I hope she will be preserved from this disease, and that we shall see each other again when and how God pleases. Go away for heaven's sake and think no more about me, except when you say your prayers. And like one who has nothing more to say, and wishes to hear nothing further, like one who would withdraw herself from danger, she again retreated closer to the bed, where lay the lady she had mentioned? Listen, Lucia, listen, said Renzo, without however attempting to go any nearer. No. Go away for charity's sake. Listen, Father Cristoforo, what? He's here. Here? Where? How do you know? I've spoken to him a little while ago. I've been with him for a short time, and a religious man like him, it seems to me, he's here? To assist the poor sick, I dare say, but he, has he had the plague? Ah, Lucia, I'm afraid. I'm sadly afraid. And while Renzo was thus hesitating to pronounce the words, which were so distressing to himself, and he felt must be equally so to Lucia, she had again left the bedside, and was once more drawing near him. I'm afraid he has it now. Oh, the poor holy man! But why do I say poor man? Poor me! How is he? Is he in bed? Is he attended? He's up, going about, and attending upon others. But if you could see his looks and how he totters, one sees so many that it's too easy. To be sure, there's no mistake. Oh, and he's here indeed. Yes, and only a little way off, very little further than from your house to mine, if you remember. Oh, most holy virgin! Well, very little further. You may think whether we didn't talk about you. He said things to me, and if you knew what he showed me, you shall hear, but now I want to tell you what he said to me first. He, with his own lips, told me I did right to come and look for you, and that the Lord approves of a man acting so, and would help me find you, which has really been the truth. But surely he's a saint. So you see? But if he said so, it was because he didn't know a word. What would you have him know about things you've done out of your own head, without role, and without the advice of any one? A good man, a man of judgment as he is, would never think of things of this kind. But, oh, what he showed me! And here he related his visit to the cabin, while Lucia, however her senses and her mind must have been accustomed in that abode, to the strongest impressions, was completely overwhelmed with horror and compassion. And there, too, pursued Renzo, he spoke like a saint. He said that perhaps the Lord had designed to show mercy to that poor fellow. Now I really cannot give him any other name. And waits to take him at the right moment, but wishes that we should pray for him together. Together. Did you hear? Yes, yes. We will pray for him. Each of us, where the Lord shall place us, he will know how to unite our prayers. But if I tell you his very words, but Renzo he doesn't know. But don't you see that when it is a saint who speaks, it's the Lord that makes him speak, and that he would not have spoken thus if it shouldn't really be so. And this poor fellow's soul I have indeed prayed and will still pray for him. I've prayed for my heart, just as if it had been a brother of mine. But how do you wish the poor creature to be, in the other world? If this matter be not settled here below, if the evils he has done be not undone, for if you'll return to reason, then all will be as at first. What has been has been. He's had his punishment here. No, Renzo, no. God would not have us do evil that he may show mercy. Leave him to do this. And for us our duty is to pray to him. If I had died that night, could not God then have forgiven him? And if I've not died, if I've been delivered, and your mother, that poor Agnesee, who has always wished me well, and who worked so to see us husband and wife, has she never told you that it was a perverted idea of yours? She, who has made you listen to reason at other times, for on certain subjects she thinks more wisely than you. My mother? Do you think my mother would advise me to break a vow? But, Renzo, you're not in your proper senses. Oh, will you have me say so? You women cannot understand these things. Father Christoforo told me to go back and tell him whether I had found you. I'm going. We'll hear what he says, whatever he thinks. Yes, yes. Go to that holy man. Tell him that I pray for him, and ask him to do so for me, for I need it so much. So very much. But for heaven's sake, for your own soul's sake, and mine, never come back here to do me harm to tempt me. Father Christoforo will know how to explain things to you, and bring you to your proper senses. He will make you set your heart at rest. My heart at rest? Oh, you may drive this idea right out of your head. You've already had those abominable words written to me, and I know what I've suffered from them, and now you've the heart to say them to me? I tell you plainly and flatly that I'll never set my heart at rest. You want to forget me, but I don't want to forget you, and I assure you, do you hear me, that if you make me lose my senses, I shall never get them again? Away with my business, away with good rules. Will you condemn me to be a madman all my life, and like a madman I shall be? And that poor fellow, the Lord knows whether I've not forgiven him from my heart, but you. Will you make me think for the rest of my life that if he had not? Lucia, you have bid me forget you. Forget you. How can I? Whom do you think I have thought about for all this time, and after so many things, so many promises? What have I done to you since we parted? Do you treat me in this way because I've suffered, because I've had misfortunes, because the world has persecuted me, because I've spent so long a time from home, unhappy, and far from you? Because the first moment I could, I came to look for you. CHAPTER 36 PART II When Lucia could sufficiently command herself to speak, she exclaimed again, joining her hands, and raising her eyes to heaven, bathed in tears. Oh, most holy virgin! Do thou help me? Thou knowest that since that night I have never passed such a moment as this. Thou didst succour me then. Oh, succour me also now. Yes, Lucia, you do right to invoke the Madonna. But why will you believe that she, who is so kind, the mother of mercy, can have pleasure in making us suffer, me at any rate, for a word that escaped you at a moment when you knew not what you were saying? Will you only believe that she helped you then to bring us into trouble afterwards? If after all, this is only an excuse. If the truth is that I have become hateful to you, tell me so, speak plainly. For pity's sake, Renzo, for pity's sake, for the sake of your poor dead, have done, have done! Don't kill me quite. That would not be a good conclusion. Go to Father Cristoforo, commend me to him, and don't come back here. Don't come back here. I go, but you may fancy whether I shall return or not. I'd come back if I was at the end of the world that I would. And he disappeared. Lucia went and sat down, or rather suffered herself to sink upon the ground by the side of the bed, and resting her head against it continued to weep bitterly. The lady, who until now had been attentively watching and listening but had not spoken a word, asked what was the meaning of this apparition, this meeting, these tears? But perhaps the reader in his turn may ask who this person was. We will endeavor to satisfy him in a few words. She was a wealthy tradeswoman of about thirty years of age. In the course of a few days she had witnessed the death of her husband in his own house, and every one of her children, and being herself attacked shortly afterwards with the common malady, and conveyed to the Lazaredo she had been accommodated in this little cabin, at the time that Lucia after having unconsciously surmounted the virulence of the disease and equally unconsciously changed her companions several times, was beginning to recover and regain her senses, which she had lost since the first commencement of her attack in Don Feronte's house. The hut could only contain two patients, and an intimacy and affection had very soon sprung up between these associates in sickness, bereavement, and depression, alone as they were in the midst of so great a multitude such as could scarcely have arisen from long intercourse under other circumstances. Lucia was soon in a condition to lend her services to her companion, who rapidly became worse. Now that she too had passed the crisis, they served as companions, encouragement, and guards to each other, had made a promise not to leave the Lazaredo except together, and had besides concerted other measures to prevent their separation after having quitted it. The merchant woman, who having left her dwelling, warehouse, and coffers all well furnished under the care of one of her brothers, a commissioner of health, was about to become soul and mournful mistress of much more than she required to live comfortably, wished to keep Lucia with her, like a daughter or sister. And to this Lucia had acceded, with what gratitude to her benefactress and to Providence the reader may imagine. But only until she could hear some tidings of her mother, and learn as she hoped, what was her will. With her usual reserve, however, she had never breathed a syllable about her intended marriage, nor of her other remarkable adventures. But now in such agitation of her feelings, she had at least as much need to give vent to them, as the other wished to listen to them. And clasping the right hand of her friend in both hers, she immediately began to satisfy her inquiries, without further obstacles than those which her sobs presented to the melancholy recital. Renzo, meanwhile, trudged off in great haste, toward the quarters of the good friar. With a little care and not without some steps thrown away, he at length succeeded in reaching them. He found the cabin. Its occupant, however, was not there, but rambling and peeping about in its vicinity. He discovered him in a tent, stooping toward the ground, or indeed almost lying upon his face, administering consolation to a dying person. He drew back and waited in silence. In a few moments he saw him close the poor creature's eyes, raise himself upon his knees, and after a short prayer get up. He then went forward and advanced to meet him. Oh! said the friar on seeing him approach. Well, she's there. I found her. In what state? Recovered. Or at least out of her bed. The Lord be praised. But, said Renzo, when he came near enough to be able to speak in an undertone, there's another difficulty. What do you mean? I mean that. You know already what a good creature this young girl is, but she's sometimes rather positive in her opinions. After so many promises, after all you know of, now she actually tells me she cannot marry me, because she says, oh, how can I express it? In that night of terror her brain became heated. That is to say she made a vow to the Madonna. Things without any foundation, aren't they? Good enough for those have knowledge and grounds for doing them, but for us common people, that don't well know what we ought to do, aren't they things that won't hold good? Is she very far from here? Oh, no. A few yards beyond the church. Wait here for me a moment, said the friar, and then we'll go together. Do you mean that you'll give her to understand I know nothing about it, my son? I must first hear what she has to say to me. I understand, said Renzo, and he was left, with his eyes fixed on the ground and his arms crossed on his breast, to ruminate and still unalied suspense. The friar again went in search of Father Vittore, begged him once more to supply his place, went into his cabin, came forth with a basket on his arm, and returning to his expectant companion said, let us go. He then went forward leading the way to the same cabin, which a little while before they had entered together. This time he left Renzo outside. He himself entered, and reappeared in a moment or two, saying, nothing. We must pray. We must pray. Now! added he, you must be my guide. And they set off without further words. The weather had been for some time gradually becoming worse, and now plainly announced a not very distant storm. Frequent flashes of lightning broke in upon the increasing obscurity and illuminated with momentary brilliancy the long, long roofs and arches of the porticoes, the cupola of the temple, and the more humble roofs of the cabins, while the clasps of thunder bursting forth in sudden peals rolled rumbling along from one quarter of the heavens to the other. The young man went forward intent upon his way, and his heart full of uneasy expectations, as he compelled himself to slacken his pace, to accommodate it to the strength of his follower, who, wearied by his labors, suffering under the pressure of the malady, and oppressed by the sultry heat, walked on with difficulty, occasionally raising his pale face to heaven as if to seek for freer respiration. When they came inside of the little cabin, Renzo stopped, turned round, and said with a trembling voice, There she is. They enter. See, they're there! exclaimed the lady from her bed. Lucia turned, sprang up precipitately, and advanced to meet the aged man, crying, Oh! Whom do I see? Oh! Father Cristoforo! Well, Lucia, from how many troubles has the Lord delivered you? You must indeed rejoice that you have always trusted in him. Oh! yes indeed, but you, Father, pour me how you are altered. How are you? Tell me, how are you? As God wills, and as by his grace, I will also, replied the friar with a placid look. And drawing her on one side, he added, Listen, I can only stay here a few moments. Are you inclined to confide in me, as you have done hitherto? Oh! Are you not always my father? Then, my daughter, what is this vow that Renzo has been telling me about? It's a vow that I made to the Madonna, not to marry. But did you recollect at this time that you were already bound by another promise? When it related to the Lord and the Madonna, no. I didn't think about it. My daughter, the Lord approves of sacrifices and offerings when we make them of our own. It is the heart that he desires, the will, but you could not offer him the will of another, to whom you had already pledged yourself. Have I done wrong? No, my poor child, don't think so. I believe, rather, that the Holy Virgin will have accepted the intention of your afflicted heart, and have presented it to God for you. But tell me, have you never consulted with anyone on this subject? I didn't think it was a sin I ought to confess. And what little good one does one has no need to tell. Have you no other motive that hinders you from fulfilling the promise you have made to Renzo? As to this, for me, what motive? I cannot say. Something else, replied Lucia, with a hesitation so expressed that it announced anything but uncertainty of thought, and her cheeks, still pale from illness, suddenly glowed with the deepest crimson. Do you believe, resumed the old man, lowering his eyes, that God has given to his church authority to remit and retain according as it proves best the debts and obligations that men may have contracted to him? Yes indeed, I do. Know then that we who are charged with the care of the souls in this place have, for all those who apply to us, the most ample powers of the church, and consequently that I can, when you request it, free you from the obligation, whatever it may be, that you may have contracted by this your vow. But is it not a sin to turn back, and to repent of a promise made to the Madonna? I made it at the time with my whole heart, said Lucia, violently agitated by the assault of so unexpected a hope, for so I must call it, and by the uprising, on the other hand, of a terror fortified by all the thoughts which had so long been the principal occupation of her mind. A sin, my daughter, said the father, a sin to have recourse to the church and to ask her minister to make use of the authority which he has received from her, and she has received from God? I have seen how you too have been led to unite yourselves, and assuredly, if ever it would seem that two were joined together by God, you were, you are those too. Nor do I now see that God may wish you to be put as under, and I bless him that he has given me, unworthy as I am, the power of speaking in his name, and returning to you your plaited word. And if you request me to declare you absolved from this vow, I shall not hesitate to do it. Nay, I wish you may request me. Then, then, I do request you," said Lucia, with a count in his no longer agitated except by modesty. The friar beckoned to the youth, who was standing in the furthest corner, intently watching, since he could do little else, the dialogue in which he was so much interested, and on his drawing near pronounced in an explicit voice to Lucia. By the authority I have received from the church, I declare you absolved from the vow of virginity, annulling what may have been unadvised in it, and freeing you from every obligation you may thereby have contracted. Let the reader imagine how these words sounded in Renzo's ears. His eyes eagerly thanked him who had uttered them, and instantly sought those of Lucia, but in vain. Return in security and peace to your former desires, pursued the Capuchin, addressing Lucia. Beceached the Lord again for those graces you once besought to make you a holy wife, and rely upon it, that he will bestow them upon you more abundantly after so many sorrows, and you, said he, turning to Renzo, remember, my son, that if the church restores to you this companion, she does it not to procure for you a temporal and earthly pleasure, but even could it be complete and free from all intermixture of sorrow, must end in one great affliction at the moment of leaving you, but she does it to lead you both forward in that way of pleasantness which shall have no end. Love each other as companions in a journey, with the thought that you will have to part from one another, and with the hope of being reunited forever. Thank heaven that you have been led to this state, not through the midst of turbulent and transitory joys, but by sufferings and misery, to dispose you to tranquil and collected joy. If God grants you children, make it your object to bring them up for him, to inspire them with love to him and to all men, and then you will train them rightly in everything else. Lucia, as he told you, and he pointed to Renzo, whom he has seen here. Oh, yes, Father, he has. You will pray for him. Don't be weary of doing so, and you will pray also for me. My children, I wish you to have a remembrance of the poor friar, and he drew out of his basket a little box of some common kind of wood, but turned and polished with a certain Capuchin precision, and continued, Within this is the remainder of that loaf, the first I asked for charity, that loaf of which you must have heard speak. I leave it to you. Take care of it. Show it to your children. They will be born into a wretched world, into a miserable age, in the midst of proud and exasperating men. Tell them always to forgive, always. Everything, everything, and to pray for the poor friar. So saying, he handed the box to Lucia, who received it with reverence, as if it had been a sacred relic. Then with a calmer voice he added, Now, then, tell me, what have you to depend upon here in Milan? Where do you propose to lodge on leaving this? And who will conduct you to your mother, whom may God have preserved in health? This good lady is like a mother to me. We shall leave this place together, and then she will provide for everything. God bless you, said the friar, approaching the bed. I too thank you, said the widow, for the comfort you have given these poor creatures, though I had counted upon keeping this dear Lucia always with me. But I will keep her in the meanwhile. I will accompany her to her own country, and deliver her to her mother, and, added she, in a lower tone, I should like to provide her wardrobe. I have too much wealth, and have not one left out of those who should have shared it with me. You may thus, said the friar, make an acceptable offering to the Lord, and at the same time benefit your neighbor. I do not recommend this young girl to you, for I see already how she has become your daughter. It only remains to bless God, who knows how to show himself a father, even in chastisement, and who, by bringing you together, has given so plain a proof of his love to both of you. But come, resumed he, turning to Renzo and taking him by the hand. We too have nothing more to do here. We have already been here too long. Let us go. Oh, Father, said Lucia, shall I see you again? I, who am of no service in this world, have recovered, and you! It is now a long time ago, replied the old man, in a mild and serious tone, since I besought of the Lord a very great mercy, that I might end my days in the service of my fellow-creatures. If he now vouchsafes to grant it to me, I would wish all those who have any love for me to assist me in praising him. Come, give Renzo your messages to your mother. Tell her what you have seen, said Lucia, to her betrothed, that I have found another mother here, that we will come to her together as quickly as possible, and that I hope, earnestly hope, to find her well. If you want money, said Renzo, I have about me all that you sent, and, no, no, interrupted the widow, I have only too much. Let us go, suggested the friar. Good-bye, till we meet again, Lucia, and to you too, kind lady, said Renzo, unable to find words to express all that he felt in such a moment. Who knows whether the Lord in his mercy will allow us all to meet again, exclaimed Lucia. May he be with you always and bless you, said Father Cristoforo to the two companions, and a company by Renzo he quit the cabin. The evening was not far distant, and the crisis of the storm seemed still more closely impending. The Capuchin again proposed to the houseless youth to take shelter for that night in his humble dwelling. I cannot keep you company, added he, but you will at least be under cover. Renzo, however, was burning to be gone, and cared not to remain any longer in such a place where he would not be allowed to see Lucia again, nor even be able to have a little conversation with the good friar. As to the time and weather, we may safely say that night and day, sunshine and shower, zephyr and hurricane, were all the same to him at that moment. He therefore thanked his kind friend, but said that he would rather go as soon as possible in search of Agnese. When they regained the road, the friar pressed his hand and said, If, as may God grant, you find that good Agnese, salute her in my name, and beg her, and all those who are left, and remember friar Cristoforo, to pray for him. God go with you and bless you for ever. Oh, dear Father, we shall meet again. We shall meet again? Above, I hope, and with these words he parted from Renzo, who, staying to watch him till he beheld him disappear, set off hastily toward the gate casting his farewell looks of compassion on each side over the melancholy scene. There was an unusual bustle, carts rolling about, Monati running to and fro, people securing the curtains of the tents, and numbers of feeble creatures groping about among these and in the porticoes to shelter themselves from the impending storm. CHAPTER 37 PART I Scarcely had Renzo crossed the threshold of the Lazareto and taken the way to the right to find the narrow road by which in the morning he had come out under the walls, when a few large and scattered drops began to fall, which lighting upon and rebounding from the white and parched road stirred up a cloud of very fine dust. These soon multiplied into rain, and before he reached the bypass it poured down in torrents, far from feeling any disquietude Renzo luxuriated in it, and enjoyed himself in that refreshing coolness that murmur that general motion of the grass and leaves, shaking, dripping, revived and glistening as they were. He drew in several deep and long breaths, and in that relenting of nature felt more freely and more vividly as it were that which had been wrought in his own destiny. But how far fuller and more unalloyed would have been this feeling, could he have divined what actually was beheld a few days afterwards, that that rain carried off, washed away so to say, the contagion, that from that day forward the Lazareto, if it was not about to restore to the living all the living whom it contained, would engulf at least no others, that within one week doors and shops would be seen reopened, quarantine would scarcely be spoken of any longer, and of the pestilence only a solitary token or two remain here and there, that trace which every pestilence had left behind it for some time. Our traveler then proceeded with great alacrity, without having formed any plans as to where, how, when, or whether at all he should stop for the night, and anxious only to get forward, to reach his own village quickly, to find somebody to talk to, somebody to whom he might relate his adventures, and above all, to set off again immediately on his way to Pasturo, in search of Agnese. His mind was quite confused by the events of the day, but from beneath all the misery, the horrors, and the dangers he recalled, one little thought always rose to the surface. I found her, she's recovered, she's mine. And then he would give a spring which scattered a drizzling shower around, like a spaniel coming up out of the water. At other times he would content himself with rubbing his hands. And then, on he would go more cheerily than ever. With his eyes fixed upon the road, he gathered up so to say the thoughts he had left there in the morning and the day before as he came. And with the greatest glee, those very same which he had then most sought to banish from his mind, the doubts, the difficulty of finding her, of finding her alive amidst so many dead and dying. And I have found her alive, he concluded. He recurred to the most critical moments, the most terrible obscurities of that day. He fancied himself with that knocker in his hand. Will she be here or not? And a reply so little encouraging. And before he had time to digest it, that crowd of mad rascals upon him, and that lazaretto, that sea, there I wished to find her, and to have found her there. He recalled the moment when the procession of convalescence had done passing by. What a moment! What bitter sorrow at not finding her. And now it no longer mattered to him, and that quarter for the women, and there behind that cabin, when he was least expecting it, to hear that voice, that very voice, and to see her, to see her standing. But what then? There was still that knot about the vow, and drawn tighter than ever. This, too, untied. And that madness against Don Rodrigo, that cursed canker which exasperated all his sorrows, and poisoned all his joys, even that rooted out. So that it would be difficult to imagine a state of greater satisfaction, had it not been for the uncertainty about Agnese, his grief for Father Christoforo, and the remembrance that he was still in the midst of a pestilence. He arrived at Sesto as evening was coming on, without any token of the rain being about to stop. But feeling more than ever disposed to go forward, considering, too, the many difficulties of finding a lodging, and saturated as he was with wet, he would not even think of an inn. The only necessity that made itself felt was a very craving appetite. For success, such as he had met with, would have enabled him to digest something more substantial than the Capuchin's little bowl of soup. He looked about to see if he could discover a baker's shop, quickly found one, and received two loaves with the tongs, and the other ceremonies we have described. One he put into his pocket, the other to his mouth, and on he went. When he passed through Monza the night had completely closed in. He managed, however, to leave the town in the direction that led to the right road. But except for this qualification, which, to say the truth, was a great compensation, it may be imagined what kind of a road it was, and how it was becoming worse and worse every moment. Sung, as were all, and we must have said so elsewhere, between two banks, almost like the bed of a river, it might then have been called, if not a river, at least in reality, a water course. And in many places were holes and puddles, from which it was difficult to recover one's shoes, and sometimes one's footing. But Renzo extricated himself as he could, without impatience, without bad language, and without regrets. Consoling himself with the thought that every step, whatever it might cost him, brought him further on his way, that the rain would stop when God should see fit, that day would come in its own time, and that the journey he was meanwhile performing would then be performed. Indeed, I may say, he never even thought of this except in the moments of greatest need. These were digressions. The grand employment of his mind was going over the history of the melancholy years that had passed, so many perplexities, so many adversities, so many moments in which he had been about to abandon even hope, and give up everything for lost. And then to oppose to these the images of so far different of future, the arrival of Lucia and the wedding, and the setting up house, and the relating to each other past vicissitudes, and in short, their whole life. How he fared at forks of the road, for some indeed there were. Whether his little experience, together with the glimmering twilight, enabled him always to find the right road, or whether he always turned into it by chance, I am not able to say. For he himself, who used to relate his history with great minuteness, rather tediously than otherwise, and everything leads us to believe that our anonymous author had heard it from him more than once, he himself declared at this place that he remembered no more of that night than if he had spent it in bed dreaming. Certain it is, however, that towards its close, he found himself on the banks of the Adda. It had never ceased raining a moment, but at a certain stage it had changed from a perfect deluge to more moderate rain, and then to a fine, silent, uniform drizzle. The lofty and rarefied clouds formed a continual, but light and transparent veil, and the twilight dawn allowed Renzo to distinguish the surrounding country. Within this tract was his own village, and what he felt at the thought it is impossible to describe. I can only say that those mountains, that neighboring Resegony, the whole territory of Lecho, had become as it were his own property. He glanced too at himself, and discovered that he looked, to say the truth, somewhat of a contrast to what he felt, to what he even fancied he ought to look. His clothes shrunk up and clinging to his body, from the crown of his head to his girdle, one dripping saturated mass. From his girdle to the soles of his feet, mud and splashes. The places which were free from these might themselves have been called spots and splashes. And could he have seen his whole figure in a looking glass, with the brim of his hat unstiffened and hanging down, and his hair straight and sticking to his face, he would have considered himself a still greater beauty. As to being tired he may have been so, but if he were, he knew nothing about it. And the freshness of the morning added to that of the night and of his trifling bath only inspired him with more energy, and a wish to get forward on his way more rapidly. He is at Piscotti. He pursues his course along the remaining part of the road that runs by the side of the adda, giving a melancholy glance, however, at Pescarinico. He crosses the bridge and, through fields and lanes, shortly arrives at his friend's hospitable dwelling. He, who only just risen, was standing in the doorway to watch the weather, raised his eyes in amazement at that strange figure, so drenched be spattered, and we may say, dirty, yet at the same time so lively and at ease. In his whole life he had never seen a man worse equipped and more thoroughly contented. Aha! said he, here already, and in such weather. How have things gone? She's there, said Renzo. She's there, she's there. Well, recovered, which is better. I have to thank the Lord and the Madonna for it as long as I live. But, oh, such grand things, such wonderful things, I'll tell you all afterwards. But what a plight you are in. I'm a beauty, am I not? To say the truth, you might employ the over-plus above to wash off the over-plus below. But wait a minute, and I'll make you a good fire. I won't refuse it, I assure you. Where do you think it caught me, just at the gate of the Lasaretto? But never mind, let the weather do its own business and I mine. His friend then went out and soon returned with two bundles of baguettes, one he laid on the ground, the other on the hearth, and with a few embers remaining over from the evening quickly kindled a fine blaze. Renzo, meanwhile, had taken off his hat, and giving it two or three shakes, he threw it upon the ground, and, not quite so easily, had also pulled off his doublet. He then threw from his breeches pocket his ponyard, the sheaf of which was so wet that it seemed to have been laid in soap. This he put upon the table, saying, This, too, is in a pretty plight, but there's rain, there's rain. Thank God, I've had some hair-bread escapes. I'll tell you by and by. And he began rubbing his hands. Now do me another kindness, added he, that little bundle that I left upstairs just fetch it for me for before these clothes that I have on dry. Returning with the bundle, his friend said, I should think you must have a pretty good appetite. I fancy you haven't wanted enough to drink by the way, but something to eat. I bought two rolls yesterday towards evening, but indeed they haven't touched my lips. Leave it to me, said his friend. He then poured some water into a kettle which he suspended upon a hook over the fire, and added, I'm going to milk. When I come back the water will be ready and will make a good polenta. You, meanwhile, can dress yourself at your leisure. When left alone, Renzo, not without some difficulty, took off the rest of his clothes, which were almost as if glued to his skin. He then dried himself and dressed himself anew from head to foot. His friend returned and set himself to make the polenta. Renzo, meanwhile, sitting by an expectation. Now I feel that I'm tired, said he, but it's a fine, long stretch. That's nothing, however. I've so much to tell you it will take the whole day. Oh, what a state Milan's in. What one's obliged to see. What one's obliged to touch. Enough to make one loathe oneself. I daresay I wanted nothing less than the little washing I've had. And what those gentry down there would have done to me, you shall hear. But if you could see the lazaretto, it's enough to make one lose oneself in miseries. Well, well, I'll tell you all, and she's there, and you'll see her here, and she'll be my wife, and you must be a witness, and plague or no plague will be merry at least for a few hours. In short, he verified what he had told his friend that it would take all the day to relate everything. For, as it never ceased drizzling, the latter spent the whole of it under cover, partly seated by the side of his friend, partly busied over one of his wine vats and a little cask, and in other occupations preparatory to the vintage and the dressing of the graves, in which Renzo failed not to lend a hand. For, as he used to say, he was one of those who were sooner tired of doing nothing than of working. He could not, however, resist taking a little run up to Agnese's cottage to see once more a certain window, and there, too, to rub his hands with glee. He went and returned, unobserved, and retired to rest in good time. In good time, too, he rose next morning, and finding that the rain had ceased, if settled fine weather had not yet returned, he set off quickly on his way to Pasturo. It was still early when he arrived there, for he was no less willing and in a hurry to bring matters to an end than the reader probably is. He inquired for Agnese and heard that she was safe and well. A small cottage standing by itself was pointed out to him as the place where she was staying. He went thither and called her by name from the street. On hearing such a call she rushed to the window, and while she stood with open mouth on the point of uttering, I know not what sound or exclamation, Renzo prevented her by saying, Lucia's recovered, I saw her the day before yesterday, she sends you her love and will be here soon, and beside these I've so many, many things to tell you. Between the surprise of the apparition, the joy of these tidings, and the burning desire to know more about it, Agnese began one moment in exclamation, the next a question, without finishing any. Then forgetting the precautions she had long been accustomed to take, she said, I'll come and open the door for you. Wait, the plague, said Renzo, you've not had it, I believe? No, not I, have you? Yes, I have, you must therefore be prudent. I come from Milan, and you shall hear that I've been up to the eyes in the midst of the contagion. To be sure I've changed from head to foot, but it's an abominable thing that clings to one sometimes like witchcraft, and since the Lord has preserved you hitherto, you must take care of yourself till this infection is over. For you are our mother, and I want us to live together happily for as long while, in compensation for the great sufferings we have undergone, I at least. But, began Agnese, eh, interrupted Renzo, there's no but that will hold. I know what you mean, but you shall hear, you shall hear that there are no longer any buts in the way. Let us go into some open space where we can talk at our ease without danger, and you shall hear. Agnese pointed out to him a garden behind the house, if he would go in and seat himself on one of the two benches which he would find opposite each other, she would come down directly and go and sit on the other. Thus it was arranged, and I am sure that if the reader, informed as he is of preceding events, could have placed himself there as a third party to witness with his own eyes that animated conversation to hear with his own ears those descriptions, questions, explanations, ejaculations, condolences, and congratulations about Don Rodrigo and Father Christofaro and everything else, and those descriptions of the future as clear and certain as those of the past, I am sure I say he would have enjoyed it exceedingly, and would have been the last to come away. But to have this conversation upon paper in mute words written with ink and without meeting with a single new incident, I fancy he would not care much for it, and would rather that we should leave him to conjecture it. Their conclusion was that they would go to keep house altogether in the territory of Bergamo, where Renzo had already gained a good footing. As to the time, they could decide nothing because it depended upon the plague and other circumstances. But no sooner should the danger be over, than Agnese would return home to wait there for Lucia, or Lucia would wait there for her, and in the meantime, Renzo would often take another trip to Pasturo to see his mother and to keep her acquainted with whatever might happen. Before taking his leave, he offered money to her also, saying, I have them all here you see, though scooty you sent. I, too, made a vow not to touch them until the mystery was cleared up. Now, however, if you want any of them, bring me a little bowl of vinegar and water, and I'll throw in the 50 scooty good and glittering as you sent them. No, no, said Agnese, I've more than I need still by me. Keep yours untouched, and they'll do nicely to set up house with. Renzo took his departure with the additional consolation of having found one so dear to him safe and well. He remained the rest of that day, and for the night, at his friend's house, and on the morrow was again on his way, but in another direction towards his adopted country. End of Chapter 37 Part 1 Chapter 37 Part 2 of The Betrothed This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Betrothed by Alessandro Monsoni Chapter 37 Part 2 Here he found Portolo still in good health and in less apprehension of losing it. For in those few days things had here also rapidly taken a favorable turn. New cases of illness had become rare, and the malady was no longer what it had been. There were no longer those fatal blotches nor violent symptoms, but slight fevers, for the most part intermittent, with, at the worst, a discolored spot which was cured like an ordinary tumor. The face of the country seemed already changed. The survivors began to come forth to reckon up their numbers and mutually to exchange condolences and congratulations. There was already a talk of resuming business again. Such masters as survived already began to look out for and bespeak workmen and principally in those branches of art where the number had been scarce even before the contagion, as was that of silk weaving. Renzo without any display of levity promised his cousin, with the proviso however, that he obtained all due consent, to resume his employment when he could come in company to settle himself in the country. In the meanwhile he gave orders for the most necessary preparations. He provided a more spacious dwelling, a task become only too easy to execute at a small cost, and furnished it with all necessary articles, this time breaking into his little treasure, but without making any very great hole in it, for of everything there was a superabundance at a very moderate price. In the course of a few days he returned to his native village, which he found still more signally changed for the better. He went over immediately to pasturo. There he found Agnese in good spirits again, and ready to return home as soon as might be, so that he accompanied her thither at once. Nor will we attempt to describe what were their feelings and words on again beholding those scenes together. Agnese found everything as she had left it, so that she was forced to declare that, considering it was a poor widow and her daughter, the angels had kept guard over it. And that other time, added she, when it might have been thought that the Lord was looking elsewhere and thought not of us, since he suffered all our little property to be carried away, yet, after all, he showed us the contrary, for he sent me from another quarter that grand store of money, which enabled me to restore everything. I say everything, but I am wrong, since Lucia's wedding clothes, which were stolen among the rest, good and complete as they were at first, were still wanting, and behold, now they come to us in another direction. Who would have told me when I was working so busily to prepare those others? You think you are working for Lucia. Name, my good woman, you are working for you know not whom. Heaven knows what sort of being will wear this veil and all those clothes. Those for Lucia, the real wedding dress which is to serve for her, will be provided by a kind soul whom you know not, nor even that there is such a person. Agnese's first care was to prepare for this kind soul the most comfortable accommodations her poor little cottage could afford. Then she went to procure some silk to wind, and thus employed with her reel, beguiled the weary some hours of delay. Renzo, on his part, suffered not these days long enough in themselves to pass away in idleness. Fortunately he understood two trades, and of these two chose that of a laborer. He partly helped his kind host who considered it particularly fortunate at such a time to have a workman frequently at his command, and a workman too of his abilities, and partly cultivated and restored to order Agnese's little garden which had completely run wild during her absence. As to his own property he never thought about it at all, because he said it was too entangled a para-wig and wanted more than one pair of hands to set it to rights again. He did not even set foot into it, still less into his house. It would have pained him too much to see its desolation, and he had already resolved to dispose of everything at whatever price and to spend in his new country all that he could make by the sale. If the survivors of the plague were to one another resuscitated as it were, he to his fellow countrymen was so to say doubly so. Everyone welcomed and congratulated him, everyone wanted to hear from him his story. The reader will perhaps say how went on the affair of his outlawry? It went on very well. He scarcely thought anything more about it supposing that they who could have enforced it would no longer think about it themselves, nor was he mistaken. This arose not merely from the pestilence which had thwarted so many undertakings, but as may have been seen in more than one place in this story, it was a common occurrence in those days that special as well as general orders against persons, unless there were some private and powerful animosity to keep them alive and render them availing, often continued without taking effect if they had not done so on their first promulgation, like musket balls which if they strike no blow, lie quietly upon the ground without giving molestation to any one. Unnecessary consequence of the extreme facility with which these orders were flung about both right and left. Man's activity is limited and whatever excess there was in the making of regulations must have produced so much greater a deficiency in the execution of them. What goes into the sleeves cannot go into the skirt. If anyone wants to know how Renzo got on with Dona Bondio during this interval of expectation, I need only say that they kept at a respectful distance from each other, the latter for fear of hearing a whisper about the wedding, and at the very thought of such a thing his imagination conjured up Don Rodrigo with his bravos on the one side and the cardinal with his arguments on the other, and the former because he had resolved not to mention it to him till the very last moment being unwilling to run the risk of making him restive beforehand of stirring up who could tell some difficulty and of entangling things by useless chit-chat. All his chit-chat was with Agnese. Do you think she'll come soon, one would ask? I hope so, with the other reply, and frequently the one who had given the answer would not long afterwards make the same inquiry. With these and similar cheats they endeavored to beguile the time which seemed to them longer and longer in proportion as more passed away. We will make the reader, however, pass over all this period in one moment by briefly stating that a few days after Renzo's visit to the Lazareto Lucia left it with the kind widow, that a general quarantine having been enjoined they kept it together in the house of the latter that part of the time was spent in preparing Lucia's wardrobe, at which, after sundry ceremonious objections, she was obliged to work herself, and that the quarantine having expired the widow left her warehouse and dwelling under the custody of her brother, the commissioner, and prepared to set off on her journey with Lucia. We could too speedily add they set off, arrived, and all the rest, but with all our willingness to accommodate ourselves to this haste of the readers, there are three things appertaining to this period of time which we are not willing to pass over in silence, and with two at least we believe the reader himself will say that we should have been to blame in so doing. The first is that when Lucia returned to relate her adventures to the good widow more in particular, and with greater order than she could do in her agitation of mind when she first confided them to her, and when she more expressly mentioned the senora who had given her shelter in the monastery at Monza, she learned from her friend things which, by giving her the key of many mysteries, filled her mind with melancholy and fearful astonishment. She learned from the widow that the unhappy lady, having fallen under suspicion of most atrocious conduct, had been conveyed by order of the cardinal to a monastery at Milan, that there, after long indulgence in rage and struggles, she had repented and confessed her faults, and that her present life was one of such voluntary inflections that no one, except by depriving her of that life entirely, could have invented a severer punishment for her. Should anyone wish to be more particularly acquainted with this melancholy history, he will find it in the work and at the place which we have elsewhere quoted in relation to the same person. The other fact is that Lucia, after making inquiries about Father Cristoforo of all the capuchin she could meet with in the Lazareto, heard there with more sorrow than surprised that he had died of the pestilence. Lastly, before leaving Milan, she wished also to ascertain something about her former patrons and to perform, as she said, an act of duty, if any yet remained. The widow accompanied her to the house, where they learned that both one and the other had been carried off with the multitude. When we have said of Donia Prasade that she was dead, we have said all. But Don Feronte, considering that he was a man of erudition, is deemed by our anonymous author worthy of more extended mention, and we at our own risk will transcribe as nearly as possible what he has left on record about him. He says then that on the very first whisper of pestilence Don Feronte was one of the most resolute and ever afterwards one of the most persevering in denying it, not indeed with loud clamors like the people, but with arguments of which at least no one could complain that they wanted concantination. In Rerum Natura, he used to say, there are but two species of things, substances and accidents, and if I prove that the contagion cannot be either one or the other, I shall have proved that it does not exist, that it is a mere chimera. Here I am then, substances are either spiritual or material, that the contagion is a spiritual substance, is an absurdity no one would venture to maintain, it is needless therefore to speak of it. Material substances are either simple or compound. Now the contagion is not a simple substance, and this may be shown in a few words. It is not an ethereal substance, because if it were, instead of passing from one body to another, it would fly off as quickly as possible to its own sphere. It is not aqueous, because it would wet things and be dried up by the wind. It is not igneous, because it would burn. It is not earthy, because it would be visible. Neither is it a compound substance, because it must by all means be sensible to the sight and touch. And who has seen this contagion? Who has touched it? It remains to be seen whether it can be an accident, worse and worse. These gentlemen, the doctors, say that it is communicated from one body to another. For this is their Achilles, this the pretext for issuing so many useless orders. Now supposing it an accident, it comes to this, that it must be a transitive accident, two words quite at variance with each other, there being no planer or more established fact in the whole of philosophy than this, that an accident cannot pass from one subject to another. For if, to avoid this Silla, we shelter ourselves under the assertion that it is an accident produced, we fly from Silla and run upon Charybdis, because if it be produced, then it is not communicated, it is not propagated, as people go about affirming. These principles being laid down, what use is it to come talking to us so about wheels, pustules and carbuncles? All absurdities once escaped from somebody or other. No, no, resumed Don Ferante, I don't say so, science is science, only we must know how to employ it. Wheels, pustules, carbuncles, peritides, violacious tumors, black swellings, are all respectable words which have their true and legitimate signification. But I say that they don't affect the question at all. Who denies that there may be such things, nay, that there actually are such? All depends upon seeing where they come from. Here began the woes even of Don Ferante. So long as he confined himself to reclaiming against the opinion of a pestilence, he found everywhere willing, obliging, and respectful listeners. For it cannot be expressed how much authority the opinion of a learned man by profession carries with it, while he is attempting to prove to others things of which they are already convinced. But when he came to distinguish and to try and demonstrate that the error of these positions did not consist in affirming that there was a terrible and prevalent malady, but in assigning its rules and causes, then, I am speaking of the earliest times when no one would listen to a word about pestilence, then instead of listeners he found rebellious and intractable opponents. Then there was no room for speechifying, and he could no longer put forth his doctrines but by scraps and piecemeal. There's the true reason only too plainly after all, said he, and even they are compelled to acknowledge it who maintain that other empty proposition besides, let them deny if they can that fatal conjunction of Saturn with Jupiter. And when was it ever heard say that influences may be propagated, and would these gentlemen deny the existence of influences? Will they deny that there are stars or tell me that they are placed up there for no purpose, like so many pinheads stuck into a pin cushion? But what I cannot understand about these doctors is this, to confess that we are under so malignant a conjunction, and then to come and tell us with eager face, don't touch this and don't touch that and you'll be safe, as if this avoiding of material contact with terrestrial bodies could hinder the virtual effect of celestial ones and such anxiety about burning old clothes. Poor people! Will you burn Jupiter? Will you burn Saturn? His freedom, that is to say on these grounds, he used no precautions against the pestilence, took it, went to bed, and went to die like one of Mestacio's heroes quarreling with the stars. And that famous library of his? Perhaps it is still there distributed around his walls. End of Chapter 37 Part 2 Chapter 38 Part 1 of The Betrothed This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org The Betrothed by Alessandro Monsoni Chapter 38 Part 1 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 Rensow 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 Rensow how do you do? said she with downcast eyes and an air of composure. Nor let the reader think that Rensow considered this mode of reception too cold and took it at all amiss. He entered fully into the meaning of her behavior 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 Rensow 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 Christoforo 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 Rensow nor was this the only melancholy cord 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 his career and speeds forward as if born on the wings of the wind such had time become in his eyes at first minutes had seemed hours now hours seem to him like minutes. The widow not only did not spoil the party but entered into it with great spirit nor could Rensow when he saw her lying on that miserable bed in the Lazareto have imagined her of so companionable and cheerful a disposition but the Lazareto and the country death and a wedding are not exactly one in 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 Rensow said that he was going to don a bondio to make arrangements about the wedding. He went and with a certain air of respectful railery. Saying your curate said he have you at last lost that headache which you had 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't a bondio 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 Rensow you 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't a bondio did I say no certainly I did not but I speak I speak for good reasons besides don't you see as long 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 or less conclusive Rensow 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 go let us women go make the trial and see whether we can't find a rather better way to manage him by this means to 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 saying your bridegroom please to accompany us to on a little walk well 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 donna bondio 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 when he entered upon the grand subject of the plague and wanted to hear from Lucia how she had managed to get over it in the midst of so many sorrows the lazaretto afforded an opportunity of bringing her companion into conversation then as was but fair donna bondio 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 favorable opportunity of mentioning the essential point and at length one of the two I am not sure which succeeded in breaking the eyes but what thank you donna bondio 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 say nora who come from malan will know more or less the course these matters take you would claim protection some cavalier of weight for which 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 trauma gleno from the altar I couldn't do it with a quiet conscience I too sincerely wish them well I would be afraid I were doing them an injury you see ma'am and they too here agnese and the widow each in her own way broke into combat these arguments donna bondio reproduced them in another shape it was a perpetual recommencement when lo and terrenzo with a determined step and tidings in his face the senior marquis has arrived said he what does this mean arrived where asked donna bondio he has arrived at his palace which was once don rodrigos because this senior marquis is the heir by preferment and trust as they say so that there's no longer any doubt as for myself I should be very glad if I could hear that the poor man had died in peace at any rate I've said pattern osters for him hither too now I will say the day profundis and the senior marquis is a very fine man certainly said donna bondio I've heard him mentioned more than once as a really excellent senior 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 neighborhood 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 embryo who had just been up there and had seen him I say take possession will you hear embryo's testimony I made him wait outside on purpose yes let him come in said donna bondio 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 donna bondio 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 vigor 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 cutthroat 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 honored 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 donabone deal but one may think 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 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 today 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 donabone deal is our senior 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 cannons and curates said the widow no no pursued don't abound deal the curates must draw the card 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 someday 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 will 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 senora it will be the same at malan 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 senora has no bumblefly began 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 oh you are inclined to be mary 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 left 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 by gonsaros i poor old man villains may die one may recover of the plague but there is no help for old age and as they say sinectus 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 goodbye shall i uh but i know what i mean replied renzo it isn't at all like latin there that frightens me it 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 about that navish latin out of the 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 since 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 knew 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 went on the point of starting and afterwards stopping them again for a little while at the very street door each time to make some jocos speech end of chapter 38 part 1