Kabanata Kabanata 33 · Chapter XXXIII

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Renzo had heard vague mention made of severe orders, forbidding the

entrance of strangers into Milan, without a certificate of health; but

these were easily evaded, for Milan had reached a point when such

prohibition was useless, even if it could have been put into execution.

Whoever ventured there, might rather appear careless of his own life,

than dangerous to that of others.

With this conviction, Renzo’s design was to attempt a passage at the

first gate, and in case of difficulty to wander on the outside of the

walls until he should find one easy of access. It would be difficult to

say how many gates he thought Milan had.

When he arrived before the ramparts, he looked around him; there was no

indication of living being, except on a point of the platform, a thick

cloud of dense smoke arising; this was occasioned by clothing, beds, and

infected furniture, which were committed to the flames; every where

along the ramparts appeared the traces of these melancholy

conflagrations.

The weather was close, the air heavy, the sky covered by a thick cloud,

or fog, which excluded the sun, without promising rain. The surrounding

country was neglected and sterile; all verdure extinct, and not a drop

of dew on the dry and withering leaves. The depth, solitude, and

silence, so near a large city, increased the gloom of Renzo’s thoughts;

he proceeded, without being aware of it, to the gate _Nuova_, which had

been hid from his view by a bastion, behind which it was then concealed.

A noise of bells, sounding at intervals, mingled with the voices of men,

saluted his ear; turning an angle of the bastion, he saw before the gate

a sentry-box, and a sentinel leaning on his musket, with a wearied and

careless air. Exactly before the opening was a sad obstacle, a

hand-barrow, upon which two _monatti_ were extending an unfortunate man,

to carry him off; it was the chief of the toll-gatherers, who had just

been attacked by the pestilence. Renzo awaited the departure of the

convoy, and no one appearing to close the gate, he passed forwards

quickly; the sentinel cried out “Holla!” Renzo stopping, showed him a

half ducat, which he drew from his pocket; whether he had had the

pestilence, or that he feared it less than he loved ducats, he signed to

Renzo to throw it to him; seeing it at his feet, he cried, “Go in,

quickly,” a permission of which Renzo readily availed himself. He had

hardly advanced forty paces when a toll-collector called to him to stop.

He pretended not to hear, and passed on. The call was repeated, but in a

tone more of anger than of resolution to be obeyed—and this being

equally unheeded, the collector shrugged his shoulders and turned back

to his room.

Renzo proceeded through the long street opposite the gate which leads to

the canal _Naviglio_, and had advanced some distance into the city

without encountering a single individual; at last he saw a man coming

towards him, from whom he hoped he might gain some information; he moved

towards him, but the man showed signs of alarm at his approach. Renzo,

when he was at a little distance, took off his hat, like a polite

mountaineer as he was, but the man drew back, and raising a knotty club,

armed with a spike, he cried, “Off! off! off!” “Oh! oh!” cried Renzo; he

put on his hat, and having no desire for a greeting of this fashion, he

turned his back on the discourteous passenger and went on his way.

The citizen retired in an opposite direction, shuddering and looking

back in alarm: when he reached home he related how a poisoner had met

him with humble and polite manners, but with the air of an infamous

impostor, and with a phial of poison or the box of powder (he did not

know exactly which) in the lining of his hat, to poison him, if he had

not kept him at a distance. “It was unlucky,” said he, “that we were in

so private a street; if it had been in the midst of Milan, I would have

called the people, and he would have been seized: but alone, it was

enough to have saved myself—but who knows what destruction he may not

already have effected in the city:”—and years after, when the

poisoners were talked of, the poor man maintained the truth of the fact,

as “he had had ocular proof.”

Renzo was far from suspecting the danger he had escaped; and, reflecting

on this reception, he was more angry than fearful. “This is a bad

beginning,” thought he; “my star always seems unpropitious when I enter

Milan. To enter is easy enough, but, once here, misfortunes thicken.

However—by the help of God—if I find—if I succeed in finding—all

will be well.”

The streets were silent and deserted; no human being could he see; a

single disfigured corpse met his eye in the channel between the street

and the houses. Suddenly he heard a cry, which appeared addressed to

him; and he perceived, not far off, on the balcony of a house, a woman,

surrounded by a group of children, making a sign to him to approach. As

he did so, “O good young man!” said she, “do me the kindness to go to

the commissary, and tell him that we are forgotten here. They have

nailed up the house as suspected, because my poor husband is dead; and

since yesterday morning no one has brought us any thing to eat, and

these poor innocents are dying of hunger.”

“Of hunger!” cried Renzo. “Here, here,” said he, drawing the two loaves

from his pocket. “Lower something in which I may put them.”

“God reward you! wait a moment,” said the woman, as she went in search

of a basket and cord to suspend it.

“As to the commissary, my good woman,” said he, putting the loaves in

the basket, “I cannot serve you, because, to tell truth, I am a stranger

in Milan, and know nothing of the place. However, if I meet any one a

little humane and tractable, to whom I can speak, I will tell him.”

The woman begged him to do so, and gave him the name of the street in

which she lived.

“You can also render me a service, without its costing you any thing,”

said Renzo. “Can you tell me where there is a nobleman’s house in Milan,

named ***?”

“I know there is a house of that name, but I do not know where it is.

Further on in the city you will probably find some one to direct you.

And remember to speak of us.”

“Do not doubt me,” said Renzo, as he passed on.

As he advanced, he heard increasing a sound that had already attracted

his attention, whilst stopping to converse with the poor woman; a sound

of wheels and horses’ feet, with the noise of little bells, and

occasionally the cracking of whips and loud cries.

As he reached the square of San Marco, the first objects he saw were two

beams erected, with a cord and pulleys. He recognised the horrible

instrument of torture! These were placed on all the squares and widest

streets, so that the deputies of each quarter of the city, furnished

with the most arbitrary power, could subject to them whoever quitted a

condemned house, or neglected the ordinances, or by any other act

appeared to merit the punishment; it was one of those extreme and

inefficacious remedies, which, at this epoch, were so absurdly

authorised. Now, whilst Renzo was gazing at this machine, he heard the

sounds increasing, and beheld a man appear, ringing a little bell; it

was an _apparitore_, and behind him came two horses, who advanced with

difficulty, dragging a car loaded with dead; after this car came

another, and another, and another; _monatti_ walked by the side of the

horses, urging them on with their whips and with oaths. The bodies were

for the most part naked; some were half covered with rags, and heaped

one upon another; at each jolt of the wretched vehicles, heads were seen

hanging over, the long tresses of women were displayed, arms were

loosened and striking against the wheels, thrilling the soul of the

spectator with indescribable horror!

The youth stopped at a corner of the square to pray for the unknown

dead. A frightful thought passed over his mind. “There, perhaps, there,

with them—O God! avert this misfortune! let me not think of it!”

The funeral convoy having passed on, he crossed the square, and reached

the Borgo Nuovo by the bridge Marcellino. He perceived a priest standing

before a half-open door, in an attitude of attention, as if he were

confessing some one. “Here,” said he, “is my man. If a priest, and in

the discharge of his duty, has no benevolence, there is none left in the

world who has.” When he was at a few paces distance from him, he took

off his hat, and made a sign that he wished to speak with him, keeping,

however, at a discreet distance, so as not to alarm the good man

unnecessarily. Renzo having made his request, was directed to the hotel.

“May God watch over you now and for ever!” said Renzo, “and,” added he,

“I would ask another favour.” And he mentioned the poor forgotten woman.

The worthy man thanked him for affording him the opportunity to bestow

help where it was so greatly needed, and bade him farewell.

Renzo found it difficult enough to recollect the various turnings

pointed out by the priest, disturbed as his mind was by apprehensions

for the issue of his enquiries. An end was about to be put to his doubts

and fears; he was to be told, “she is living,” or, “she is dead!” This

idea took such powerful possession of his mind, that at this moment, he

would rather have remained in his former ignorance, and have been at the

commencement of the journey, to the end of which he so nearly

approached. He gathered courage, however. “Ah!” cried he, “if I play the

child now, how will it end!” Plunging therefore into the heart of the

city, he soon reached one of its most desolated quarters, that which is

called the _Carrobio di Porta Nuova_. The fury of the contagion here,

and the infection from the scattered bodies, had been so great, that

those who had survived had been obliged to fly: so that, whilst the

passenger was struck with the aspect of solitude and death, his senses

were painfully affected by the traces of recent life. Renzo hastened on,

hoping to find an improvement in the scene, before he should arrive at

the end of his journey. In fact, he soon reached what might still be

called the city of the living, but, alas! what living! Every door was

closed from distrust and terror, except such as had been left open by

the flight of the inhabitants, or by the _monatti_; some were nailed on

the outside, because there were within people dead, or dying of the

pestilence; others were marked with a cross, for the purpose of

informing the _monatti_ that their services were required, and much of

this was done more by chance than otherwise; as a commissary of health

happened to be in one spot rather than in another, and chose to enforce

the regulations. On every side were seen infected rags and bandages,

clothes and sheets, which had been thrown from the windows; dead bodies

which had been left in the streets until a car should pass to take them

up, or which had fallen from the cars themselves, or been thrown from

the houses; so much had the long duration and the violence of the pest

brutalised men’s minds, and subdued every spark of human feeling or

sympathy. The customary sounds of human occupation or pleasure had

ceased; and this silence of death was interrupted only by the funeral

cars, the lamentations of the sick, the shrieks of the frantic, or the

vociferations of the _monatti_.

At the break of day, at noon, and at night, a bell of the cathedral gave

the signal for reciting certain prayers, which had been ordered by the

archbishop, and this was followed by the bells of the other churches.

Then persons were seen at the windows, and a confused blending of voices

and groans was heard, which inspired a sorrow, not however unmixed with

consolation. It is probable that at this time not less than two thirds

of the inhabitants had died, and of the remainder many were sick or had

left the city. Every one you met exhibited signs of the dreadful

calamity. The usual dress was changed of every order of persons. The

cloak of the gentleman, the robe of the priest, the cowl of the monk, in

short, every loose appendage of dress that might occasion contact, was

carefully dismissed; every thing was as close on the person as possible.

Men’s beards and hair were alike neglected, from fear of treachery on

the part of the barbers. Every man walked with a stick, or even a

pistol, to prevent the approach of others. Equal care was shown in

keeping the middle of the street to avoid what might be thrown from

windows, and in avoiding the noxious matters in the road. But if the

aspect of the uninfected was appalling, how shall we describe the

condition of the wretched sick in the street, tottering or falling to

rise no more—beggars, children, women.

Renzo had travelled far on his way, through the midst of this

desolation, when he heard a confused noise, in which was distinguishable

the horrible and accustomed tinkling of bells.

At the entrance of one of the most spacious streets, he perceived four

cars standing; _monatti_ were seen entering houses, coming forth with

burthens on their shoulders, and laying them on the cars; some were

clothed in their red dress, others without any distinctive mark, but the

greater number with a mark, more revolting still than their customary

dress,—plumes of various colours, which they wore with an air of

triumph in the midst of the public mourning, and whilst people from the

different windows around were calling to them to remove the dead. Renzo

avoided, as much as possible, the view of the horrid spectacle; but his

attention was soon attracted by an object of singular interest; a

female, whose aspect won the regards of every beholder, came out of one

of the houses, and approached the cars. In her features was seen beauty,

veiled and clouded, but not destroyed, by the mortal debility which

seemed to oppress her; the soft and majestic beauty which shines in the

Lombard blood. Her step was feeble, but decided; she wept not, although

there were traces of tears on her countenance. There was a tranquillity

and profundity in her grief, which absorbed all her powers. But it was

not _her_ appearance alone which excited compassion in hearts nearly

closed to every human feeling; she held in her arms a young girl about

nine years of age, dead, but dressed with careful precision; her hair

divided smoothly on her pale forehead, and clothed in a robe of the

purest white. She was not lying, but was seated, on the arm of the lady,

her head leaning on her shoulder; you would have thought she breathed,

if a little white hand had not hung down with inanimate weight, and her

head reposed on the shoulder of her mother, with an abandonment more

decided than that of sleep. Of her mother! it was indeed her mother! If

the resemblance of their features had not told it, you would have known

it by the expression of that fair and lovely countenance!

A hideous _monatto_ approached the lady, and with unusual respect

offered to relieve her of her burthen. “No,” said she, with an

appearance neither of anger nor disgust, “do not touch her yet; it is I

who must place her on the car. Take this,” and she dropped a purse into

the hands of the _monatto_; “promise me not to touch a hair of her head,

nor to let others do it, and bury her thus.”

The _monatto_ placed his hand on his heart, and respectfully prepared a

place on the car for the infant dead. The lady, after having kissed her

forehead, placed her on it, as carefully as if it were a couch, spread

over her a white cloth, and took a last look; “Farewell! Cecilia! rest

in peace! To-night we will come to you, and then we shall be separated

no more!” Turning again to the _monatto_, “As you pass to-night,” said

she, “you will come for me; and not for me only!”

She returned into the house, and a moment after appeared at a window,

holding in her arms another cherished child, who was still living, but

with the stamp of death on her countenance. She contemplated the

unworthy obsequies of Cecilia, until the car disappeared from her eyes,

and then left the window with her mournful burthen. And what remained

for them, but to die together, as the flower which proudly lifts its

head, falls with the bud, under the desolating scythe which levels every

herb of the field.

“O God!” cried Renzo, “save her! protect her! her and this innocent

creature! they have suffered enough! they have suffered enough!”

He then proceeded on his way, filled with emotions of distress and pity.

Another convoy of wretched victims encountered him at a cross street on

their way to the lazaretto. Some were imploring to be allowed to die on

their own beds in peace; some moving on with imbecile apathy, women as

usual with their little ones, and even some of these supported and

encouraged with manly devotion by their brothers a little older than

themselves, and whom alone the plague had for a time spared for this

affecting office. When the miserable crowd had nearly passed, he

addressed a commissary whose aspect was a little less savage than the

rest; and enquired of him the street and the house of Don Ferrante. He

replied, “The first street to the right, the last hotel to the left.”

The young man hastened thither, with new and deeper trouble at his

heart. Easily distinguishing the house, he approached the door, raised

his hand to the knocker, and held it suspended awhile, before he could

summon resolution to knock.

At the sound, a window was half opened, and a female appeared at it,

looking towards the door with a countenance which appeared to ask, “Is

it _monatti_? thieves? or poisoners?”

“Signora,” said Renzo, but in a tremulous voice, “is there not here in

service a young villager of the name of Lucy?”

“She is no longer here; begone,” replied the woman, about to close the

window.

“A moment, I beseech you. She is no longer here! Where is she?”

“At the lazaretto.”

“A moment, for the love of Heaven! With the pestilence?”

“Yes. It is something very uncommon, is it not? Begone then.”

“Wait an instant. Was she very ill? Is it long since?”

But this time the window was closed entirely.

“Oh! signora, signora! one word, for charity! Alas! alas! one word!” But

he might as well have talked to the wind.

Afflicted by this intelligence, and vexed with the rude treatment of the

woman, Renzo seized the knocker again, and raised it for the purpose of

striking. In his distress, he turned to look at the neighbouring houses,

with the hope of seeing some one, who would give him more satisfactory

information. But the only person he discovered, was a woman, about

twenty paces off, who, with an appearance of terror, anger, and

impatience, was making signs to some one to approach; and this she did,

as if not wishing to attract Renzo’s notice. Perceiving him looking at

her, she shuddered with horror.

“What the devil!” said Renzo, threatening her with his fist, but she,

having lost the hope of his being seized unexpectedly, cried aloud, “A

poisoner! catch him! catch him! stop the poisoner!”

“Who? I! old sorceress! be silent,” cried Renzo, as he approached her in

order to compel her to be so. But he soon perceived that it was best to

think of himself, as the cry of the woman had gathered people from every

quarter; not in so great numbers as would have been seen three months

before under similar circumstances, but still many more than one man

could resist. At this moment, the window was again opened, and the same

discourteous woman appeared at it, crying, “Seize him, seize him; he

must be one of the rascals who wander about to poison the doors of

people.”

Renzo determined in an instant that it was better to fly than to stop to

justify himself. Rapidly casting his eyes around to see on which side

there were the fewest people, and fighting his way through those that

opposed him, he soon freed himself from their clutches.

The street was deserted before him; but behind him the terrible cry

still resounded, “Seize him! stop him! a poisoner!” It gained on him,

steps were close at his heels. His anger became rage; his agony,

despair; drawing his knife from his pocket, and brandishing it in the

air, he turned, crying aloud, “Let him who dares come here, the rascal,

and I will poison him indeed with this.”

But he saw, with astonishment and pleasure, that his persecutors had

already stopped, as if some obstacle opposed their path; and were making

frantic gestures to persons beyond him. Turning again, he beheld a car

approaching, and even a file of cars with their usual accompaniments.

Beyond them was another little band of people prepared to seize the

poisoner, but prevented by the same obstacle. Seeing himself thus

between two fires, it occurred to Renzo, that _that_ which was an object

of terror to these people, might be to him a source of safety.

Reflecting that this was not a moment for fastidious scruples, he

advanced towards the cars, passed the first, and perceiving in the

second a space large enough to receive him, threw himself into it.

“Bravo! bravo!” cried the _monatti_ with one shout. Some of them were

following the convoy on foot, others were seated on the cars, others on

the dead bodies, drinking from an enormous flagon, which they passed

around. “Bravo! that was well done!”

“You have placed yourself under the protection of the _monatti_; you are

as safe as if you were in a church,” said one, who was seated on the car

into which Renzo had thrown himself.

The enemy was obliged to retreat, crying, however, “Seize him! seize

him! he is a poisoner!”

“Let me silence them!” said the _monatto_; and drawing from one of the

dead bodies a dirty rag, he tied it up in a bundle, and made a gesture

as if intending to throw it among them, crying, “Here, rascals!” At the

sight, all fled away in horror!

A howl of triumph arose from the _monatti_.

“Ah! ah! you see we can protect honest people,” said the _monatto_ to

Renzo, “one of us is worth a hundred of those cowards.”

“I owe my life to you,” said Renzo, “and I thank you sincerely.”

“’Tis a trifle, a trifle; you deserve it; ’tis plain to be seen you’re a

brave fellow; you do well to poison this rabble; extirpate the fools,

who, as a reward for the life we lead, say, that the plague once over,

they will hang us all. They must all be finished, before the plague

ceases; the _monatti_ alone must remain to sing for victory, and to

feast in Milan.”

“Life to the pestilence, and death to the rabble!” cried another,

putting the flagon to his mouth, from which he drank freely, and then

offered it to Renzo, saying, “Drink to our health.”

“I wish it to you all,” said Renzo, “but I am not thirsty, and do not

want to drink now.”

“You have been terribly frightened, it seems,” said the _monatto_; “you

appear to be a harmless sort of a person; you should have another face

than that for a poisoner.”

“Give me a drop,” said a _monatto_, who walked by the side of the cars;

“I would drink to the health of the nobleman, who is here in such good

company—in yonder carriage!” And with a malignant laugh he pointed to

the car in which poor Renzo was seated. Then brutally composing his

features to an expression of gravity, he bowed profoundly, saying, “Will

you permit, my dear master, a poor devil of a _monatto_ to taste a

little wine from your cellar? Do now, because we lead rough lives, and

moreover, we are doing you the favour to take you a ride into the

country. And besides, you are not accustomed to wine, and it might harm

your lordship; but the poor _monatti_ have good stomachs.”

His companions laughed loudly; he took the flagon, and before he drank,

turned again to Renzo, and with an air of insulting compassion said,

“The devil with whom you have made a compact, must be very young; if we

had not saved you, you would have been none the better for his

assistance.”

His companions laughed louder than before, and he applied the flagon to

his lips.

“Leave some for us! some for us!” cried those from the forward car.

After having taken as much as he wanted, he returned the flagon to his

companions, who passed it on; the last of the company having emptied it,

threw it on the pavement, crying, “Long live the pestilence!” Then they

commenced singing a lewd song, in which they were accompanied by all the

voices of the horrible choir. This infernal music, blended with the

tingling of the bells, the noise of the wheels, and of the horses’ feet,

resounded in the empty silence of the streets, echoed through the

houses, wringing the hearts of the very few who still inhabited them!

But the danger of the preceding moment had rendered more than tolerable

to Renzo, the company of these wretches and the dead they were about to

inter; and even this music was almost agreeable to his ears, as it

relieved him from the embarrassment of such conversation. He returned

thanks to Providence for having enabled him to escape from his peril,

without receiving or doing an injury; and he prayed God to help him now

to deliver himself from his liberators. He kept on the watch to seize

the first opportunity of quietly quitting the car, without exciting the

opposition of his protectors.

At last they reached the lazaretto. At the appearance of a commissary,

one of the two _monatti_ who were on the car with Renzo jumped to the

ground, in order to speak with him: Renzo hastily quitting the car, said

to the other, “I thank you for your kindness; God reward you.”

“Go, go, poor poisoner,” replied he, “it will not be you who will

destroy Milan!”

Fortunately no one heard him. Renzo hastened onwards by the wall,

crossed the bridge, passed the convent of the capuchins, and then

perceived the angle of the lazaretto. In front of the inclosure a

horrible scene presented itself to his view. Arrived in front of the

lazaretto, throngs of sick were pressing into the avenues which led to

the building; some were seated or lying in the ditch, which bordered the

road on either side, their strength not having sufficed to enable them

to reach their asylum, or who, having quitted it in desperation, were

too weak to go further; others wandered by themselves, stupified, and

insensible to their condition; one was quite animated, relating his

imaginations to a miserable companion, who was stretched on the ground,

oppressed by suffering; another was furious from despair; a third, more

horrible still! was singing, in a voice above all the rest, and with

heart-rending hilarity, one of the popular songs of love, gay and

playful, which the Milanese call _villanelle_.

Already weary, and confounded at the view of so much misery concentrated

within so small a space, our poor Renzo reached the gate of the

lazaretto. He crossed the threshold, and stood for a moment motionless

under the portico.