Meanwhile Renzo went in search of Father Christopher: he found him with no small difficulty, and engaged in administering consolation to a dying man. The scene was soon closed. The father remained a short time in silent prayer. He then arose, and seeing Renzo approach, exclaimed, “Well, my son!”
“She is there; I have found her!”
“In what state?”
“Convalescent, and out of danger.”
“God be praised!” said the friar.
“But——” said Renzo, “there is another difficulty!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that——you know how good this poor girl is; but she is sometimes a little fanciful. After so many promises, she tells me now she cannot marry me, because on that night of fear she made a vow to the Virgin! These things signify nothing, do they? Is it not true that they are not binding, at least on people such as we are?”
“Is she far from this?”
“Oh no; a few steps beyond the church.”
“Wait a moment,” said the friar, “and we will go together.”
“Will you give her to understand that——?”
“I know not, my son: I must hear what she will say.” And they proceeded to Lucy’s cabin.
The clouds were gathering in the heavens, and a tempest coming on. Rapid lightning, cleaving the increasing darkness, illumined at moments the long roofs and arcades of the building, and the cupola of the little church: loud claps of thunder resounded with prolonged echoes through the heavens. Renzo suppressed his impatience, and accommodated his steps to the strength of the father, who, exhausted by fatigue, oppressed by disease, and breathing in pain, could, with difficulty, drag his failing limbs to the performance of this last act of benevolence.
As they reached the door of the cabin, Renzo stopped, saying, in a trembling voice, “She is there!” They entered. Lucy arose, and ran towards the old man, crying—“Oh, what I do see! Oh, Father Christopher!”
“Well, Lucy! through how much peril has God preserved you! you must be rejoiced that you have always trusted in Him.”
“Ah! yes.—But you, my father! how you are changed! how do you feel? say, how are you?”
“As God wills, and as, through his grace, I will also,” replied the friar, with a serene countenance. Drawing her aside, he said, “Hear me, I have but a few moments to spare. Are you disposed to confide in me, as in times past?”
“Oh, are you not still my father?”
“Well, my child, what is this vow of which Renzo speaks?”
“It is a vow I made to the Virgin never to marry.”
“But did you forget that you were bound by a previous promise? God, my daughter, accepts of offerings from that which is our own. It is the heart he desires, the will; but you cannot offer the will of another to whom you had pledged yourself.”
“I have done wrong.”
“No, poor child, think not so; I believe the holy Virgin has accepted the intention of your afflicted heart, and has offered it to God for you. But tell me, did you ask the advice of any one about this matter?”
“I did not deem it a sin, or I would have confessed it, and the little good one does, one ought not to mention.”
“Have you no other motive for preventing the fulfilment of your promise to Renzo?”
“As to that——for myself——what motive?—no other,” replied Lucy, with a hesitation which implied any thing rather than uncertainty; and a blush passed over her pale and lovely countenance.
“Do you believe,” resumed the old man, “that God has given the church authority to remit the obligations that man may have contracted to him?”
“Yes, I believe it.”
“Learn, then, that the care of souls in this place, being committed to us, we have the most ample powers from the church; and I can, if you ask it, free you from the obligation you have contracted by this vow.”
“But is it not a sin to repent of a promise made to the Virgin?” said Lucy, violently agitated by unexpected hope.
“Sin, my child,” said the father, “sin, to recur to the church, and to ask her minister to use the authority which he has received from her, and which she receives from God! I bless him that he has given me, unworthy that I am, the power to speak in his name, and to restore to you your vow. If you ask me to absolve you from it, I shall not hesitate to do so; and I even hope you will.”
“Then—then—I ask it,” said Lucy, with a modest confidence.
The friar beckoned to Renzo, who was watching the progress of the dialogue with the deepest solicitude, to approach, and said aloud to Lucy, “With the authority I hold from the church, I declare you absolved from your vow, and liberate you from all the obligations you may have contracted by it.”
The reader may imagine the feelings of Renzo at these words. His eyes expressed the warmth of his gratitude to him who had uttered them; but they sought in vain for Lucy’s.
“Return in peace and safety to your former attachment,” said the father. “And do you remember, my son, that in giving you this companion, the church does it not to insure simply your temporal happiness, but to prepare you both for happiness without end. Thank Heaven that you have been brought to this state through misery and affliction: your joy will be the more temperate and durable. If God should grant you children, bring them up in his fear, and in love to all men—for the rest you cannot greatly err. And now, Lucy, has Renzo told you whom he has beheld in this place?”
“Yes, father, he has told me.”
“You will pray for him, and for me also, my children. You will remember your poor friar?” And drawing from his basket a small wooden box, “Within this box are the remains of the loaf—the first I asked for charity—the loaf of which you have heard; I leave it to you; show it to your children; they will come into a wicked world; they will meet the proud and insolent. Tell them always to forgive, always! every thing, every thing! And let them pray for the poor friar!”
Lucy took the box from his hands with reverence, and he continued, “Now tell me what you mean to do here at Milan? and who will conduct you to your mother?”
“This good lady has been a mother to me,” said Lucy; “we shall leave this place together, and she will provide for all.”
“May God bless her!” said the friar, approaching the bed.
“May he bestow his blessing upon you!” said the widow, “for the joy you have given to the afflicted, although it disappoints my hope of having Lucy as a companion. But I will accompany her to her village, and restore her to her mother, and,” added she, in a low voice, “I will give the outfit. I have much wealth, and of those who should have enjoyed it with me none are left.”
“The service will be acceptable to God,” said the father, “who has watched over you both in affliction. Now,” added he, turning to Renzo, “we must begone; I have remained too long already.”
“Oh, my father,” said Lucy, “shall I see you again? I have recovered from this dreadful disease, I who am of no use in the world; and you——”
“It is long since,” replied the old man with a serious and gentle tone, “I asked a great favour from Heaven; that of ending my days in the service of my fellow-men. If God grants it to me now, all those who love me should help me to return him thanks. And now give Renzo your commissions for your mother.”
“Tell her all,” said Lucy to her betrothed; “tell her I have found here another mother, and that we will come to her as soon as we possibly can.”
“If you have need of money,” said Renzo, “I have here all that you sent——”
“No, no,” said the widow, “I have more than sufficient.”
“Farewell, Lucy, and you, too, good signora, till we meet again,” said Renzo, not having words to express his feelings at this moment.
“Who knows whether we shall all meet again?” cried Lucy.
“May God ever watch over you and bless you!” said the friar, as he quitted the cabin with Renzo.
As night was not far distant, the capuchin offered the young man a shelter in his humble abode: “I cannot bear you company,” said he, “but you can at least repose yourself, in order to be able to prosecute your journey.”
Renzo, however, felt impatient to be gone; as to the hour or the weather it might be said that, night or day, rain or shine, heat or cold, were equally indifferent to him; the friar pressed his hand as he departed, saying, “If you find, which may God grant! the good Agnes, remember me to her; tell her, as well as all those who remember Friar Christopher, to pray for me.”
“Oh, dear father, shall we never meet again?”
“Above, I hope. Farewell, farewell!”
As Renzo passed without the walls of the lazaretto, the rain began to fall in torrents. Instead of lamenting, he rejoiced at it: he was delighted with the refreshing air, and with the sound of the falling drops from the plants and foliage which seemed to have new life imparted to them; and breathing more freely in this change of nature, he felt more vividly the change that had occurred in his own destiny.
But much would his enjoyment have been increased, could he have surmised what would be seen a few days after. This water carried off, washed away, so to speak, the contagion. If the lazaretto did not restore to the living all the living it still contained, at least from that day it received no more into its vast abyss. At the end of a week, shops were opened, people returned to their houses, quarantine was hardly spoken of, and there remained of the pestilence but a few scattered traces.
Our traveller proceeded on full of joy, without having thoughtwhereorwhenhe should stop for the night; anxious only to go forward to reach the village, and to proceed immediately to Pasturo in search of Agnes. In the midst of the reminiscences of the horrors and the dangers of the day, there was always present the thought, “I have found her! she is well! she is mine!”
And then again he recalled his doubts, his difficulties, his fears, his hopes, that had agitated him that eventful morning! He fancied himself with his hand on the knocker of Don Ferrante’s house! And the unfavourable answer! And then those fools who were about to attack him in their madness! And the lazaretto, that vast sepulchre! To have hurried thither to find her, and to have found her! And the procession! What a moment! And now it appeared nothing to him! And the quarter set apart for the women! And there, behind that cabin when he least expected it, that voice! that voice itself! And to see her there! But then her vow! It exists no longer. And his violent hatred against Don Roderick, which had augmented his grief, and shed its venom over his hopes! That also was gone. Indeed, had it not been for his uncertainty concerning Agnes, his anxiety about Father Christopher, and the consciousness that the pestilence still existed, his happiness would have been without alloy.
He arrived at Sesto in the evening; the rain had as yet no appearance of ceasing. But Renzo did not stop, his only inconvenience was an extraordinary appetite, which the vicinity of a baker’s shop enabled him to mitigate the violence of. When he passed through Monza it was dark night; he succeeded, however, in leaving it by the right road; but what a road! buried between two banks, almost like the bed of a river, it might then, indeed, have been called a river, or rather, an aqueduct; in numerous places were deep holes, from which Renzo could with difficulty extricate himself. But he did as well as he could, without impatience or regret. He reflected that every step brought him nearer to the end of his journey; that the rain would cease when God should please; that day would come in its own time; and that in the mean time the road he had passed over he should not have to travel again. At the break of day he found himself near the Adda. It had not ceased raining; there was still a drizzling shower; the light of the dawn enabled Renzo to see around him. He was in his own country! Who can express his sensations? Those mountains, theResegone, the territory of Lecco, appeared to belong to him, to be his own! But, looking at himself, he felt that his outward aspect was rather at variance with the exuberant joyousness of his heart; his clothes were wet and clinging to his body, his hat bent out of shape and full of water; his hair hanging straight about his face; while his lower man was encased in a dense covering of mud.
He reached Pescate; travelled along the Adda, giving a melancholy glance at Pescarenico; passed the bridge, and crossed the fields, to the house of his friend, who, just risen, was at the door, looking out upon the weather. He beheld the strange figure, covered with mud, and wet to the skin, and yet, so joyous and animated! in his life he had never seen a man, so accoutred, appear so satisfied with himself.
“How!” said he, “already here! and in such weather! How have things gone with you?”
“She is there! she is there! she is there!”
“Well and safe?”
“Convalescent, which is better! I have wonderful things to tell you.”
“But what a state you are in!”
“A pretty pickle indeed!”
“In truth you might squeeze water enough from your upper half to wash away the mud from the lower. But wait a moment; I will make a fire.”
“I shall be glad to feel its warmth, I assure you. Do you know where the rain overtook me? Precisely at the door of the lazaretto; but no matter, the weather does its business, and I mine.”
His friend soon kindled a bright blaze. “Now do me another favour,” said Renzo, “bring me the bundle I left above; for before my clothes dry——”
Returning with the bundle, his friend said, “You must be hungry; you have had drink enough, no doubt, on the way, but as to eating——”
“I bought two loaves yesterday at dusk, but truly, I have not eaten them.”
“Well, I will provide for you.” He poured some water in a kettle which hung over the fire, adding, “I will go and milk the cow, and when I return with the milk, the water will be ready, and we will have a goodpolenta. You, in the mean while, change your clothes.” After having allowed him time to perform the troublesome operation, his friend returned, and commenced making thepolenta. “I have much to tell you,” said Renzo. “If you were to see Milan! and the lazaretto! She is there! you will soon see her here; she will be my wife; you shall be at the wedding, and, pestilence or not, we will be happy for a few hours.”
On the following morning Renzo set out for Pasturo. On his arrival, he asked concerning Agnes, and learnt that she was in health and safety. He approached her residence, which had been pointed out to him, and called her by name from the street. At the sound of his voice, she rushed to the window, and Renzo, without allowing her time to speak, cried, “Lucy is well; I saw her the day before yesterday; she will be at home shortly; oh, I have so many things to tell you.”
Overcome by various emotions, Agnes could only articulate, “I will open the door for you.”
“Stop, stop,” said Renzo. “You have not had the plague, I believe?”
“No. Have you?”
“Yes; but you ought to be prudent. I come from Milan; and have been for two days in the midst of it. It is true I have changed my clothes, but the contagion attaches itself to the flesh, like witchcraft; and since God has preserved you until now, you must take care of yourself until all danger is over; for you are our mother, and I trust we shall live long together as a compensation for the sufferings we have endured,Iat least.”
“But——”
“There is no longer anybut; I know what you would say. You will soon see there is no longer anybut; come into the open air, where I may speak to you in safety, and I will tell you all about it.”
Agnes pointed to a garden adjoining the house. Renzo entered it, and was immediately joined by the anxious and impatient Agnes. They seated themselves opposite each other on two benches. The events he described are already known to our reader, and we will leave to his imagination the numerous exclamations of grief, horror, surprise, and joy, that interrupted the progress of the narrative every moment. The result, however, was an agreement to settle all together at Bergamo, where Renzo had already an advantageous engagement;whenwould depend on the pestilence and other circumstances; Agnes was to remain where she was, until it should be safe for her to return home; and in the interval she should have regular information of all their movements.
He departed, with the additional consolation of having found one so dear to him safe and well. He remained the rest of that day and the following night with his friend, and on the morrow set out for the country of his adoption.
He found Bortolo in good health, and in less apprehension of losing it, as within a few days things had rapidly changed for the better. The malignity of the distemper had subsided, and given place to fever indeed, accompanied with tumours, but much more easily cured. The country presented a new aspect; those who had survived the pestilence began to resume their business; masters were preparing for the employment of workmen in every trade; and, above all, in that of weaving silk. Renzo made some preparations for the accommodation of his family, by purchasing and furnishing a neat little cottage, from his hitherto untouched treasure, which the ravages of the plague enabled him to do at small cost.
After a few days’ stay, he returned by the way of Pasturo, and conducted Agnes to her village home: we will not attempt to describe her feelings at beholding again those well remembered places. She found all things in her cottage as she had left them: it seemed as if angels had watched over the poor widow and her child. Her first care was to get ready with all speed an apartment in her humble abode for that kind friend who had been to her child a second mother. Renzo, on his side, was not idle. He laboured alternately at the widow’s garden, and in the service of his hospitable friend. As to his own cottage, it pained him to witness the scene of desolation it presented; and he resolved to dispose of it, and transfer its value to his new country. His re-appearance in the village was a cause of much congratulation to those who had survived the plague. All were anxious to learn his adventures, which had given rise to so many reports among the neighbours. As to Don Abbondio, he exhibited the same apprehension of the marriage as before; the mention of which conjured up to his affrighted fancy the dreaded Don Roderick and his train on the one side, and the almost equally feared cardinal and his arguments on the other.
We will now transport the reader for a few moments to Milan. Some days after the visit of Renzo to the lazaretto, Lucy left it with the good widow. A general quarantine having been ordered, they passed the period of it together in the house of the latter. The time was employed in preparing Lucy’s wedding clothes; and, the quarantine terminated, they set off on their journey. We could add,they arrived, but, notwithstanding our desire to yield to the impatience of the reader, there are three circumstances which we must not pass over in silence.
The first is, that while Lucy was relating her adventures more minutely to the good widow, she recurred to the signora, who had afforded her an asylum, in the convent of Monza, and in return learnt many things which afforded her the solution to numerous mysteries, and filled her with sorrow and astonishment. She learnt, too, that the unfortunate signora, falling afterwards under the most horrible suspicions, had been, by order of the cardinal, transferred to a convent at Milan; that there, after having given herself up for a time to rage and despair, she had at last made her confession and repented of her crimes; and that her present life was one of severe and voluntary penance. If any one desires to know the details of her sad history, it will be found in the author we have so often quoted.[36]
The second is, that Lucy, making enquiries concerning Father Christopher, of every capuchin from the lazaretto, learnt with more grief than surprise that he had died of the pestilence.
And the third is, that before quitting Milan, Lucy had a desire to know something concerning her former patrons. The widow accompanied her to their house, where they were informed that both had died of the plague. When we say of Donna Prassede shedied, we have said all that is necessary; not so with Don Ferrante, he deserves a little more of our attention, considering his learning.
From the commencement of the pestilence, Don Ferrante was one of the most resolute in denying its existence, not indeed like the multitude, with cries of rage, but with arguments which none could accuse of want of concatenation. “Inrerum natura,” said he, “there are but two kinds of things, substances and accidents; and if I prove that the contagion can neither be one nor the other of these I shall have proved that it does not exist; that it is a chimera. Thus, then: substances are either material or spiritual; that the contagion is a spiritual substance, is so absurd an opinion, that no one would presume to advance it; it is, then, useless to speak of it. Material substances are either simple or compound. Now, the contagion is not a simple substance, and I will prove it in three words. It is not an aerial substance, because, if it were, instead of passing from one body to another, it would fly off to its sphere; it is not a watery substance, because it would be dried up by the wind; it is not igneous, because it would burn; it is not earthy, because it would be visible. Moreover, it is not a compound substance, because it would be sensible to the eye, or to the touch; and who has seen it? or touched it? It remains to see if it be an accident. This is still less probable. The doctors say it is communicated from body to body; this is their Achilles; the pretext for so many useless regulations. Now, supposing it an accident, it would be a transferable accident, which is an incongruity. There is not in all philosophy a more evident thing than this, that an accident cannot pass from one subject to another; so if, to avoid this Scylla, they are reduced to call it an accident produced, they avoid Scylla by falling into Charybdis, because if it be produced, it does not communicate itself, it does not propagate, as they declare. These principles allowed, what is the use of talking of botches and carbuncles?”
“It is folly,” said one of his hearers.
“No, no,” resumed Don Ferrante, “I do not say so. Science is science; we must only know how to employ it. Swellings, purple botches, and black carbuncles, are respectable terms, which have a good and proper signification; but I say they have nothing to do with the question. Who denies that there may be and are such things? We must only prove whence they come.”
Here began the vexations of Don Ferrante. So long as he laughed at the contagion, he found respectful and attentive listeners; but when he came to distinguish and demonstrate that the error of the doctors was, not in affirming that there existed a general and terrible disease, but rather in assigning its cause, then he found them intractable and rebellious, then he no longer dared expose his doctrine, but by shreds and patches.
“Here is the true reason,” said he, “and those even who maintain other fancies are obliged to acknowledge it. Let them deny, if they can, that there is a fatal conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn. And when has it been said that influences propagate? And would these gentlemen deny the existence of influences? Will they say there are no planets? or will they say that they keep up above, doing nothing, as so many pins in a pincushion? But that which I cannot understand from these doctors is, that they confess we are under so malign a conjunction, and then they tell us, don’t touch this, don’t touch that, and you will be safe! as if, in avoiding the material contact of terrestrial bodies, we could prevent the virtual effect of celestial bodies. And such a work in burning rags! Poor people! will you burn Jupiter? will you burn Saturn?”
His fretus, that is to say, on these grounds, he took no precautions against the pestilence; he caught it, and died, like Metastasio’s hero, complaining of the stars.
One fine evening Agnes heard a carriage drive up to the door of her cottage. It was Lucy and the good widow. We can easily imagine the joy of the meeting.
The following morning Renzo made his appearance, at an early hour, little expecting to find Lucy with her mother. “How are you, Renzo?” said Lucy, with downcast eyes, and in a tone—oh how different from that with which she addressed all besides! Renzo was conscious that it was meant for him alone.
“I am always well when I see you,” replied the young man.
“Our poor Father Christopher,” said Lucy, “pray for his soul, although we may be almost sure he is now in heaven, praying for us.”
“I expected no less,” said Renzo mournfully, “I expected to hear that he was taken away from this world of sorrow and trouble.”
Notwithstanding the sadness of their recollections, joy was the predominant feeling of their hearts. The good widow was an agreeable addition to the little company. When Renzo saw her in the miserable cabin at the lazaretto, he could not have believed her to be of so facile and gay a disposition; but the lazaretto and the country, death and a wedding, are not at all the same things. During the evening Renzo left them, for the purpose of visiting the curate. “Signor Curate,” said he, with a respectful but jocular air, “the headache, which, you said, prevented you from marrying us, has it passed off? The bride is here, and I am come to have you appoint an hour, but, I pray you, not to let it be far distant.”
Don Abbondio did not say he would not; but he began to offer excuses and insinuations. “Why come forward into public view with this order for his apprehension hanging over him? and the thing could be easily done elsewhere, and then this, and then that.”
“I understand,” said Renzo, “you have still a little pain in your head, but listen to me.” And he described the state in which he had seen Don Roderick.
“That has nothing to do with us,” said Don Abbondio. “Did I say no to you? However, while there is life there is hope, you know. Look at me; I have also been nearer the other world than this, and here I am nevertheless; and if new troubles do not fall upon me, I hope to remain here a little longer.”
The conversation was prolonged some time, without coming to any satisfactory conclusion, and Renzo returned home to relate it. “I came off,” said he, “because I feared I should lose all patience. At times he behaved exactly as he did before, and I verily believe if I had remained a little longer, he would have spoken Latin again. I see that all this portends a tedious business. It would be better to do as he says, and go and be married where we intend to live.”
“Let us go and see what we can do,” said the widow, “perhaps he will be more tractable to the ladies.”
They followed this advice, and in the afternoon proceeded to the parsonage. The curate evinced much pleasure on seeing Lucy and Agnes, and much politeness towards the stranger. He endeavoured to divert the discourse from that which he knew to be the purport of their visit. He begged from Lucy a recital of all her woes, and availed himself of the account of the lazaretto to draw the stranger into the conversation. He then expatiated on his own miseries, which he detailed at full length. The pause so long watched for came at last. One of the widows broke the ice; but Don Abbondio was no longer the same man; he did not sayno; but he returned to his doubts and his difficulties, jumping like a bird from branch to branch. “It would be necessary,” said he, “to get free from this unlucky order. You, signora, who live at Milan, you ought to know the course of these things; if we had the protection of some powerful man, all wounds would be healed. After all, the shortest way would be to have the ceremony performed where these young people are going, and where this proscription cannot affect them. Here, with this order, which is known to every one, to utter from the altar the name of Lorenzo Tramaglino is a thing I should be very unwilling to do. I wish him too well; it would be rendering him an ill service.”
While Agnes and the widow were endeavouring to reply to these reasons, which the subtle curate as often reproduced under another form, Renzo entered the room, with the air of one bringing important intelligence, “The Lord Marquis *** has arrived!” said he.
“What do you mean? arrived! where?” said Don Abbondio, rising.
“He has arrived at his castle, which was Don Roderick’s: he is the heir by feoffment of trust, as they say. So that there is no longer a doubt on the subject. And as to the marquis, he is a most worthy man.”
“That he is,” said Don Abbondio; “I have often heard him spoken of as an excellent lord. But is it really true that——”
“Will you believe your sexton?”
“Why——”
“Because he saw him with his own eyes. Will you hear Ambrose? I made him wait without expressly.”
Renzo called the sexton, who confirmed the intelligence.
“Ah, he is dead then! he is really gone!” said Don Abbondio. “You see, my children, the hand of Providence. It is a happy thing for this poor country: we could not live with this man. The plague has been a great scourge, but it has also been, as it were, a serviceable broom; it has swept off certain people, of whom, my children, we could never have delivered ourselves. In the twinkling of an eye they have disappeared by the hundred. We shall no longer see him wandering about with that haughty air, followed by his cut throats, and looking at every body as if they were all placed on earth for his pleasure. He is gone, and we are still here! He will send no more messages to honest people. He has made us all pass a sad life; and now we are at liberty to say so.”
“I pardon him,” said Renzo, “with all my heart.”
“And you do well; it is your duty; but we may also thank Heaven for delivering us from him. Now, if you wish to be married, I am ready. As to theorder for your seizure, that is of little importance; the plague has carried off that too. If you choose—to-day is Thursday—on Sunday, I will publish the banns, and then I shall have the happiness of uniting you.”
“You know we came for that purpose,” said Renzo.
“Very well; and I will send word of it to his Eminence.”
“Who is his Eminence?” asked Agnes.
“His Eminence? our lord cardinal archbishop, whom may God preserve!”
“Oh, as to that, you are mistaken; I can tell you they do not call him so, because the second time we went to speak with him, one of the priests drew me aside, and told me I must call him your illustrious lordship, and my lord.”
“And now, if that same priest were to tell you, he would say you must call himYour Eminence; the pope has ordered, that this title be given to the cardinals. And do you know why? BecauseMost Illustriouswas assumed by so many people who had no right to it. By and by, they will call the bishopsYour Eminence, then the abbots will claim it, then the canons——”
“And the curates,” said the widow.
“No, no, let the curates alone for that; they will be onlyYour Reverenceto the end of the world. But to return to our affairs. On Sunday, I will publish the banns at the church, and obtain, in the mean time, a dispensation for omitting the two other publications. There will be plenty of similar applications, if things go on elsewhere as they do here; the fire has taken; no one will wish to live alone, I imagine; I have already three marriages on hand besides yours; what a pity Perpetua is dead, she might find a husband! And at Milan, signora, I imagine it is the same thing.”
“Yes, indeed. In my parish alone there were fifty marriages last Sunday.”
“Well, the world wo’n’t end yet. And you, signora, has no butterfly begun to fly around you?”
“No, no, I think not of it; I do not mean to think of it.”
“Oh, yes, yes; would you be alone indeed? Agnes also, Agnes also——”
“You have a mind to jest,” said Agnes.
“To be sure I have; it is high time. We may hope that the few days that remain to us will be less sad. As for me, poor old man! there is no remedy for years, as they say,Senectus ipsa est morbus.”
“Oh, now,” said Renzo, “you may speak Latin as much as you like; I don’t care about it now.”
“You still quarrel with Latin, do you? Well, I will not forget you. When you come before me with Lucy, to pronounce some little words in Latin, I will say to you, You do not like Latin, go in peace. Eh?”
“Ah, it is not that Latin I dislike, pure and holy like that of the mass; I speak of the Latin which falls on one as a traitor, in the very midst of conversation. For example, now that we are here, and all is past, the Latin you spoke there, in that corner, to make me understand that you could not, and——I know not what. Tell me now in language I can understand, will you?”
“Hush! you mischievous fellow, hush!” said Don Abbondio. “Do not stir up old grievances: if we were to settle our accounts, I do not know which of us would be in debt to the other. I have forgiven you, but you also played me an ill turn. As for you, it did not astonish me, because you are a good-for-nothing fellow; but I speak of this silent—this little saint; one would have thought it a sin to distrust her. But I know who advised her; I know I do,” added he, pointing to Agnes.
It is impossible to describe the change which had come over him. His mind, so long the slave of continual apprehension, was now emancipated from its fetters, and his tongue, liberated from its bonds, recurred to its former habits. He playfully prolonged the conversation, even following them to the door, with some parting jest.
The following morning, Don Abbondio received a visit, as agreeable as it was unexpected, from the lord marquis, whose appearance confirmed all that report had said of him. “I come,” said he, “to bring you the salutations of the cardinal archbishop.”
“Oh, what condescension in both of you!”
“When I took leave of that incomparable man, who honours me with his friendship, he spoke to me of two young people of this parish who have suffered much from the unfortunate Don Roderick. My lord wishes to hear of them. Are they living? Are their affairs settled?”
“Their affairs are settled; and I had thought of writing to his Eminence about it, but now that I have the honour——”
“Are they here?”
“Yes; and as soon as possible, they will be man and wife.”
“I request you to tell me what I can do for them, and the best manner of doing it. You will render me a service by enabling me to dispose of some of my superfluous wealth for their benefit.”
“May Heaven reward you! I thank you in the name of my children,” said Don Abbondio; “and since your lordship allows me, I have an expedient to suggest which perhaps will not displease you. These good people have resolved to establish themselves elsewhere, and to sell the little that belongs to them here. The best charity you can render them, is to buy their property, as otherwise it will be sold for little or nothing. But your lordship will decide, I have spoken in obedience to your commands.”
The marquis thanked Don Abbondio, telling him he should leave it to him to fix the price, and to do so entirely to their advantage, as it was an object with him to make the amount as large as possible. He then proposed that they should go together to the cottage of Lucy.
On their way, Don Abbondio, quite overjoyed continued the conversation,—“Since your lordship is so disposed to benefit this people, there is another service you can render them. The young man has an order for his apprehension out against him, for some folly he committed two years ago at Milan, on the day of the great Tumult. A recommendation, a word, from a man like yourself, might hereafter be of service to him.”
“Are there not heavy charges against him?”
“They made a great deal of noise about it; but really there was nothing in it.”
“Well, well; I will take it upon myself to free him from all embarrassment.”
We may imagine the surprise of our little company, at a visit from such a guest. He entered agreeably into conversation with them and after a while, made his proposal. Don Abbondio, being requested by him to fix the price, did so; the purchaser said he was well satisfied, and, if he had not understood him, in repeating it, doubled the sum. He would not hear of rectifying the mistake, and ended the conversation by inviting the company to dinner the day after the wedding, when the affair could be settled with every necessary formality.
“Ah!” thought Don Abbondio when he returned home, “if the pestilence acted everywhere with so much discrimination, it would be a pity to speak ill of it. We should want one every generation.”
The happy day at length arrived. The betrothed went to the church where they were united by Don Abbondio. The day after, the wedding party made their visit at the castle. We will leave the reader to imagine their reflections on entering those walls! In the midst of their joy, however, they felt that the presence of the good Father Christopher was wanting to complete it. “But,” said Lucy, “he is even happier than we are, assuredly.”
The contract was drawn up by a doctor, but notAzzecca Garbugli! He was gone toCanterelli. For those who are not of this country, an explanation of this expression may be necessary.
About half a mile above Lecco, and nearly on the borders of the other territory, called Castello, isCanterelli. This was a spot where two roads cross. Near the point of junction there is a small eminence, an artificial hill, surmounted by a cross. This was a heap of bodies, dead of this epidemic. It is true, tradition simply says,the dead of the epidemic; but it must have been this one, as it was the last, and most severe within the memory of man: and we know that tradition says very little of itself, unless we render it some assistance.
On their return, no other inconvenience was felt, than the weight of the money which Renzo had to sustain. However, he did not look upon this as one of the greatest hardships he had had to encounter. There was, however, one matter which perplexed him not a little. How should he employ it? Should it be in agriculture? Should it be in business? Or why choose at all? Were not both in turn, like one’s legs, better than either singly?
It will be asked, Did they feel no regrets on quitting their native village—their native mountains? Don Roderick and his wretched agents could no longer disturb them. Regrets they did feel; but the old recollections of happiness enjoyed amidst its scenes, had been greatly weakened by recent distresses and apprehensions, and new hopes had arisen connected with their new country; so that they could look to their change of abode without any feelings of grief.
The little company now thought only of preparing for their journey,—theTramaglinofamily to their new country, and the widow to Milan. Many tears were shed, many thanks given, and many promises to meet again. The separation of Renzo and the friend who had treated him so hospitably, was not less tender. Neither did they part coldly from Don Abbondio: they had always preserved a certain respect for their curate, and he, in his heart, had always wished them well. It is these unfortunate affairs of the world which perplex our affections. But who would believe that, in this new abode, where Renzo had expected such happiness, he should find only vexation! This was the result of trifles, doubtless; but it requires so little to disturb a state of happiness in this life!
The reports the Bergamascans had heard of Lucy, together with Renzo’s extraordinary attachment to her—perhaps, too, the representations of some partial friend—had contributed to excite an extravagant idea of her beauty. When Lucy appeared, they began to shrug their shoulders, and say, “Is this the woman? We expected something very different! What is she, after all? A peasant, like a thousand others! Women like her, and fairer than she, are to be found every where!”
Unfortunately, some kind friends told Renzo these things, perhaps added to what they had heard, and roused his indignation. “And what consequence is it to you?” said he. “Who told you what to expect? Did I ever do so? Did I tell you she was beautiful? She is a peasant, forsooth! Did I ever say I would bring a princess here? She does not please you. Do not look at her, then: you have beautiful women; look at them.” Thus did he make himself unhappy; and believing that all were disposed to criticise his Lucy, he showed ill nature in return. It would have gone ill with him, if he had been condemned to remain in the place; but fortune smiled on him in this respect.
The master of another manufactory, situated near the gates of Bergamo, being dead, the inheritor of it, a young libertine, was willing to sell it half price, for ready money. Bortolo proposed to his cousin that they should make the purchase together. They did so; and when they entered into possession, Lucy was much pleased, and Renzo also, and not the less so for having heard that more than one person amongst his neighbours had said, “Have you seen this beautiful simpleton who is just come?”
Their affairs now went on prosperously. Before the year was completed, a beautiful little creature made her appearance, as if to give them the earliest opportunity of fulfilling Lucy’s vow. Be assured it was named Maria. In the course of time, they were surrounded by others of both sexes, whom Agnes was delighted to carry about one after the other, calling them little rogues, and loading them with kisses. They were all taught to read and write; “for,” said Renzo, “as this notion is in the country, we may as well take advantage of it.”
It was highly pleasing to hear him relate his adventures: he always concluded by naming the great things he had learnt, by which to govern his conduct for the future. “I have learnt,” said he, “not to mix in quarrels; not to preach in public; not to drink more than I want; not to keep my hand on the knocker of a door, when the inhabitants of the place are all crazy; not to tie a little bell to my feet, before I think of the consequences.”
“And I!” said Lucy, who thought that the doctrine of her moralist, though sound, was rather confused, and certainly incomplete—“what have I learnt?” said she. “I have not sought misfortunes, they have sought me. Unless you say,” smiling affectionately, “that my error was in loving you, and promising myself to you.”
They settled the question, by deciding that misfortunes most commonly happen to us from our own misconduct or imprudence; but sometimes from causes independent of ourselves; that the most innocent and prudent conduct cannot always preserve us from them; and that, whether they arise from our own fault or not, trust in God softens them, and renders them useful in preparing us for a better life. Although this was said by poor peasants, it appears to us so just, that we offer it here as the moral of our story.
THE END.
1.In this assertion we do not agree with the critic. France, in common with other European nations, has unquestionably manifested much curiosity regarding foreign literature, and has availed herself of its treasures; but, by the original works of her own writers, the advantage has been reciprocated, particularly in the novels lately produced in Paris by such men as M. de Vigny and M. Victor Hugo. The “Notre Dame de Paris” of the latter has attained an European celebrity, and has accordingly been incorporated in the present series of “Standard Novels.”—English Ed.
2.Seek quarrel.
3.A sort of coin.
4.El prestin di scansc.
5.Upon my life, what a multitude.
6.If he is guilty.
7.Go on, Pedro, if you can.
8.On, on, but be careful.
9.If he is guilty.
10.Oh, oh! take care.
11.On, Pedro, but be careful.
12.Come with me.
13.Now for the difficult point! God help us!
14.It is to coax them.
15.I say that for your good.
16.Pardon me.
17.If he is guilty.
18.Courage, we are almost out of danger.
19.I kiss your hands.
20.Rise, rise, we are beyond danger.
21.What will his excellency say to this?
22.What will the count duke say?
23.What will the king our master say?
24.God knows.
25.You—for his majesty’s service.
26.Different coins.
27.A kind of soft cheese.
28.Good death. A confraternity which exists under the same name in the south of France.
29.Baggiani.
30.Kite.
31.Saint Charles Borromeo.
32.Three languages.
33.Mixture.
34.Historia Patri欠decad. v. lib. vi. p. 386.
35.A coin worth about 6d.
36.Ripamonti.