Bab Bab 35 · Chapter XXXV

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Who would have told Renzo some moments before, that at the very time of

his greatest suspense and anxiety, his heart should be divided between

Lucy and Don Roderick? And nevertheless it was so. The thought of him

mingled itself with all the bright or painful images which hope or fear

called up as he proceeded. The words the friar had uttered by that bed

of pain, blended themselves with the cruel uncertainty of his soul. He

could not utter a prayer, for the happy issue of his present

undertaking, without adding to it one for the miserable object of his

former resentment and revenge.

He saw the Father Felix on the portico of the church, and by his

attitude comprehended that the holy man was addressing the assembled

convalescents. He placed himself where he could overlook the audience.

In the midst were the women, covered with veils; Renzo gazed at them

intently, but finding that, from the place where he stood, it would be a

vain scrutiny, he directed his attention to the father. He was touched

by his venerable figure; and listened with all the attention his own

solicitude would allow, to the reverend speaker, who thus proceeded in

his affecting address:—

“Let us think for a moment,” said he, “of the thousands who have gone

forth thither,” pointing to a gate behind him, leading to the burying

ground of San Gregory, which was then but one mighty grave. “Let us look

at the thousands who remain here, uncertain of their destiny; let us

also look at ourselves! May the Lord be praised! praised in his justice!

praised in his mercy! praised in death! praised in life! praised in the

choice he has made of us! Oh! why has he done it, my children, if not to

preserve a people corrected by affliction, and animated by gratitude?

That we may be deeply sensible that life is his gift, that we may value

it accordingly, and employ it in works which he will approve? That the

remembrance of our sufferings may render us compassionate, and actively

benevolent to others. May those with whom we have suffered, hoped, and

feared, and among whom we leave friends and kindred, may they as we pass

amidst them derive edification from our deportment! May God preserve us

from any exhibition of self-congratulation, or carnal joy, at escaping

that death against which they are still struggling! May they see us

depart, rendering thanks to Heaven for ourselves, and praying for them;

that they may say, _Even beyond these walls they will remember us, they

will continue to pray for us!_ Let us begin from this moment, from the

first step we shall take into the world, a life of charity! Let those

who have regained their former strength, lend a fraternal arm to the

feeble; let the young sustain the old; let those who are left without

children become parents to the orphan, and thus your sorrows will be

softened, and your lives will be acceptable to God!”

Here a deep murmur of sighs and sobs, which had been increasing in the

assembly, was suddenly suspended, on seeing the friar place a cord

around his neck and fall on his knees. All was intense attention and

profound silence.

“For myself,” said he, “and for all my companions, who have been chosen

to the high privilege of serving Christ in you, I humbly ask your

forgiveness if we have not worthily fulfilled so great a ministry. If

indolence, or the waywardness of the flesh, has rendered us less

attentive to your wants, less prompt to your call than duty demanded;

if unjust impatience, or culpable disgust, have caused us sometimes to

appear severe and wearied in your presence; if, indeed, the miserable

thought that you had need of us, has led us to be deficient in humility

towards you; if our frailty has made us commit any action which may have

given you pain, pardon us! May God remit also your offences, and bless

you!”

We have here related, if not the very words, at least the sense of that

which he uttered; but we cannot describe the accent which accompanied

them. It was that of a man who called it a privilege to serve the

afflicted, because he really considered it such; who confessed not to

have worthily exercised this privilege, because he truly felt his

deficiency; who asked pardon, because he was persuaded he had need of

it. But his hearers, who had beheld these capuchins only occupied in

serving them, who had beheld so many of them die in the service, and he

who now spoke in the name of all, always the first in toil as he was the

first in authority, his hearers could only answer him with tears. The

good friar then took a cross which rested against a pillar, and holding

it up before him, took off his sandals, passing through the crowd, which

opened respectfully to give him a passage, and placed himself at their

head.

Renzo, overcome with emotion, drew on one side, and placed himself near

a cabin, where, half concealed, he awaited, with his eyes open, his

heart palpitating, but with renewed confidence, the result of the

emotion excited by the touching scene of which he had been a witness.

Father Felix proceeded barefooted at the head of the procession, with

the cord about his neck, bearing that long and heavy cross; he advanced

slowly but resolutely, as one who would spare the weakness of others,

but whose ideas of duty enabled him to rise above his own. The largest

children followed immediately behind him, for the most part barefooted,

and very few entirely clothed; then came the women, nearly all of them

leading a child, and singing alternately the _miserere_. The feeble

sound of the voices, the paleness and languor of the countenances, would

have excited commiseration in the heart of a mere spectator. But Renzo

was occupied with his own peculiar anxieties; the slow progress of the

procession enabled him to scan with ease every face as it passed. He

looked and looked again, and always in vain! His eye wandered from rank

to rank, from face to face—they came, they passed—in vain, in

vain—none but unknown features! A new ray of hope dawned upon his mind

as he beheld some cars approaching, in which were the convalescents who

were still too feeble to support the fatigue of walking. They approached

so slowly that Renzo had full leisure to examine each in turn. But he

was again disappointed; the cars had all passed, and Father Michael,

with his staff in his hand, brought up the rear as regulator of the

procession.

Thus nearly vanished his hopes, and with them his resolution. His only

ground of hope now was to find Lucy still under the power of the

disease; to this sad and feeble hope, he clung with all the ardour of

his nature. He fell on his knees at the last step of the temple, and

breathed forth an unconnected, but fervent prayer; he arose,

strengthened in hope; and passing the railing pointed out by the father,

entered into the quarter allotted to the women. As he entered it, he saw

on the ground one of the little bells that the _monatti_ carried on

their feet, with its leather straps attached to it. Thinking it might

serve him as a passport, he tied it to his foot, and then began his

painful search. Here new scenes of sorrow met his eye, similar in part

to those he had already witnessed, partly dissimilar. Under the weight

of the same calamity, he discerned a more patient endurance of pain, and

a greater sensibility to the afflictions of others; they to whom bodily

suffering is a lot and an inheritance, acquire from it fortitude to bear

their own woes, and sympathy to bestow on the woes of others.

Renzo had proceeded some distance on his search, when he heard behind

him a “Ho!” which appeared to be addressed to him. Turning, he saw at a

distance a commissary, who cried, “Go there into those rooms; they want

you there; they have not finished carrying all off.”

Renzo perceived that he took him for a _monatto_, and that the little

bell had caused the mistake. He determined to extricate himself from it

as soon as he could. Making a sign of obedience, he hid himself from the

commissary, by passing between two cabins which were very near each

other.

As he stooped to unloose the strap of the little bell, he rested his

head against the straw wall of one of the cabins; a voice reached his

ear. O Heaven! is it possible? His whole soul was in his ear, he

scarcely breathed. Yes! yes! it was that voice! “Fear of what?” said

that gentle voice; “we have passed through worse dangers than a tempest.

He who has watched over us until now, will still continue to do so.”

Renzo scarcely breathed, his knees trembled, his sight became dim; with

a great effort recovering his faculties, he went to the door of the

cabin, and beheld her who had spoken! She was standing, leaning over a

bed; she turned at the sound of his steps, and gazed for a moment

bewildered; at last she exclaimed, “Oh! blessed Lord!”

“Lucy! I have found you again! I have found you again! It is, indeed,

you! You live!” cried Renzo, advancing with trembling steps.

“Oh! blessed Lord!” cried Lucy, greatly agitated; “is it indeed you?

How? Why? the pestilence——”

“I have had it. And you?”

“Yes. I have had it also. And my mother?”

“I have not seen her yet; she is at Pasturo. I believe, however, that

she is well. But you are still suffering! how feeble you appear! you are

cured, however; you are, is it not so?”

“The Lord has seen fit to leave me a little longer here below,” said

Lucy. “But, Renzo! why are you here?”

“Why?” said Renzo, approaching her, “do you ask me why I am here? Must I

tell you? Whom do I think of then? Am I not Renzo? Are you no longer

Lucy?”

“Oh! why speak thus! Did not my mother write to you?”

“Yes! she wrote to me! kind things, truly, to write to a poor

unfortunate man, an exile from his native land, one, at least, who never

injured you!”

“But Renzo! Renzo! since you knew—why come, why?”

“Why come! O Lucy! why come, do you say! After so many promises! Are we

no longer the same! Is all forgotten?”

“O God!” cried Lucy, sorrowfully clasping her hands, and raising her

eyes to heaven; “why didst thou not take me to thyself! O Renzo! what

have you done! Alas! I hoped——that with time——I should have driven

from my memory——”

“A kind hope indeed! and to say so to me!”

“Oh! what have you done! in this place! in the midst of these sorrows!

Here, where there is nothing but death, you have dared——”

“We must pray to God for those who die, and trust that they will be

happy; but their calamity is no reason why those who live must live in

despair——”

“But Renzo! Renzo! you know not what you say; a promise to the Virgin! a

vow!”

“I tell you, such promises are good for nothing.”

“Oh! where have you been all this time? with whom have you associated,

that you speak thus?”

“I speak as a good Christian. I think better of the Virgin than you do,

because I do not believe vows to the injury of others are acceptable to

her. If the Virgin had spoken herself, oh! then indeed——but it is

simply an idea of your own!”

“No, no, you know not what you say; you know not what it is to make a

vow! Leave me, leave me, for the love of Heaven!”

“Lucy!” said Renzo, “tell me at least, tell me, if this reason did not

exist——would you feel the same towards me?”

“Unfeeling man!” said Lucy, with difficulty restraining her tears;

“would it satisfy you to hear me confess that which might be sinful, and

would certainly be useless! Leave me, oh! leave me! forget me! we were

not destined for each other. We shall meet again above; we have not

long to remain in the world. Go! tell my mother that I am cured, that

even here God has assisted me, that I have found a good soul, this

worthy woman who has been a mother to me; tell her we shall meet _when_

it is the will of God, and _as_ it is his will. Go! for the love of

Heaven! and remember me no more——except when you pray to God!”

And as if wishing to withdraw from the temptation to prolong the

conversation, she drew near the bed where the female was lying of whom

she had spoken.

“Hear me, Lucy, hear me!” said Renzo, without however approaching her.

“No, no; go away! for charity!”

“Hear me, Father Christopher——”

“How!”

“He is here.”

“Here! where? how do you know?”

“I have just spoken with him; a man like him it appears to me——”

“He is here! to assist the afflicted, no doubt. Has he had the plague?”

“Ah! Lucy! I fear, I greatly fear——” As Renzo hesitated to utter his

fears, she had unconsciously again approached him, with a look of

anxious enquiry——“I fear he has it now!”

“Oh! poor man! But what do I say? poor man! he is rich, rich in the

favour of God! How is he? Is he confined to his bed? Has he assistance?”

“He is, on the contrary, still assisting others——but if you were to

see him! Alas! there can be no mistake!”

“Oh! is he indeed within these walls?” said Lucy.

“Here, and not far off; hardly farther than from your cottage to

mine——if you remember——”

“Oh! most holy Virgin!”

“Shall I tell you what he said to me? He said I did well to come in

search of you, that God would approve it, and that he would assist me to

find you——Thus, then, you see——”

“If he spoke thus, it was because he did not know—”

“What use would there be in his knowing a mere imagination of your own?

A man of sense, such as he is, never thinks of things of that sort. But

oh! Lucy! Shall I tell you what I have seen?”——And he related his

visit to the cabin.

Lucy, although familiarised in this abode of horrors to spectacles of

wretchedness and despair, was shocked at the recital.

“And at the side of that bed,” said Renzo, “if you could have heard the

holy man! He said, that God has perhaps resolved to look in mercy on

this unfortunate—(I can now give him no other name)—that he designs to

subdue him to himself, but that he desires that we should pray together

for him—together! do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, we will pray each, there where the Lord shall place us. He

can unite our prayers.”

“But if I tell you his very words——”

“But, Renzo, he does not know——”

“But can you not comprehend, when such a man speaks, it is God who

speaks in him, and that he would not have spoken thus, if it ought not

to be exactly so? And the soul of this unfortunate! I have prayed, and

will pray for him; I have prayed with all my heart, as if he were my

brother. But what, think you, will be his condition in the other world,

if we do not repair some of the evil he has done? If you return to

reason, all will be set in order. That which has been, has been—he has

had his punishment here below——”

“No, Renzo, no! God would not have us do evil that good may come. Leave

to him the care of this unfortunate man; our duty is to pray for him. If

I had died that fatal night, would not God have been able to pardon him?

And if I am not dead, if I have been delivered——”

“And your mother, poor Agnes, who desired so much to see us man and

wife, has she not told you it was a foolish imagination?”

“My mother! think you my mother would advise me to break a vow? Would

you desire that she should? But, Renzo, you are not in your right mind!”

“Oh! you women cannot be made to comprehend reason! Father Christopher

told me to return, and inform him whether I had found you—I will go,

and get his advice——”

“Yes, yes, go to the holy man! Tell him I pray for him, and that I

desire his prayers! But, for the love of Heaven! for your soul’s sake,

and for mine, do not return here, to trouble, to——tempt me! Father

Christopher will explain matters to you, and make you return to

yourself; he will set your heart at rest.”

“My heart at rest! Oh! don’t encourage an idea of that sort! You have,

before now, caused such language to be written to me! and the suffering

it caused me! and now you have the heart to tell it to me! As for me, I

declare to you plainly, that I will never set my heart at rest. Lucy!

you have told me to forget you; forget you! how can I do it? After so

many trials! so many promises! Who have I thought of ever since we

parted? Is it because I have suffered, that you treat me thus? because I

have been unfortunate? because the world has persecuted me? because I

have been so long away from you? because the first moment I was able, I

came to seek you?”

“Oh! holy Virgin!” exclaimed Lucy, as the tears flowed from her eyes,

“come to my help. You have aided me hitherto; aid me now. Since that

night such a moment as this have I never passed.”

“Yes, Lucy, you do well to invoke the Virgin. She is the mother of

compassion, and will take no pleasure in our sufferings. But, if this is

an excuse—if I have become odious to you—tell me, speak frankly——”

“For pity, Renzo, for pity, stop—stop. Do not make me die. Go to Father

Christopher; commend me to him. Do not return here—do not return here.”

“I go, but think not I will not return. I would return from the end of

the world; yes, I would return!” and he disappeared.

Lucy threw herself on the floor near the bed, upon which she rested her

head, and wept bitterly. The good woman, who had been a silent spectator

of the painful scene, demanded the cause of her anguish and her tears?

But, perhaps, the reader will wish to know something of this benevolent

person: we will satisfy the desire in a few words.

She was a rich tradeswoman, about thirty years of age: she had beheld

her husband and children die of the plague. Attacked by it herself, she

had been brought to the lazaretto, and placed in the cabin with Lucy,

who was just beginning to recover her senses, which had forsaken her

from the commencement of her attack in the house of Don Ferrante. The

humble roof could only accommodate two guests, and there grew up, in

their affliction, a strict and intimate friendship between them. They

derived great consolation from each other’s society, and had pledged

themselves not to separate, after quitting the lazaretto. The good

woman, whose wealth was now far more ample than were her desires, wished

to retain Lucy with her as a daughter: the proposition was received with

gratitude, and accepted, on condition of the permission and approval of

Agnes. Lucy had, however, never made known to her the circumstances of

her intended marriage, and her other extraordinary adventures; but now

she related, as distinctly as tears permitted her to do so, her sad

story.

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!”