Bab Bab 32 · Chapter XXXII

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One night, towards the end of the month of August, in the very height of

the pestilence, Don Roderick returned to his house at Milan, accompanied

by his faithful Griso, one of the small number of his servants who still

survived. He had just left a company of friends, who were accustomed to

assemble together, to banish by debauchery the melancholy of the times;

at each meeting there were new guests added, and old ones missing. On

that day Don Roderick had been one of the gayest, and, among other

subjects of merriment which he introduced, he had made the company laugh

at a mock funeral sermon on Count Attilio, who had been carried off by

the pestilence a few days before.

After leaving the house where he had held his carousal, he was conscious

of an uneasiness, a faintness, a weariness of his limbs, a difficulty of

breathing, and an internal heat, which he was ready to attribute to the

wine, the late hour, and the influence of the season. He spoke not a

word during the whole route. Arriving at his house, he ordered Griso to

light him to his chamber. Griso, perceiving the change in his master’s

countenance, kept at a distance, as, in these dangerous times, every one

was obliged to keep for himself, as was said, a medical eye.

“I feel very well, do you see,” said Don Roderick, reading in the

features of Griso the thoughts which were passing through his mind,—“I

feel very well; but I have drank a little too much. The wine was so

fine! With a good sleep all will be well again. I am overcome by sleep.

Take away the light; I cannot bear it; it troubles me.”

“It is the effect of the wine, signor,” said Griso, still keeping at a

distance; “but go to bed, sleep will do you good.”

“You are right; if I could sleep—— I am well, were it not for the want

of sleep. Place the little bell near me, in case I should want

something; and be attentive if I ring. But I shall need nothing. Carry

away that cursed light,” added he; “it troubles me more than I can

tell.”

Griso carried off the light; and, wishing his master a good night, he

quitted the apartment as Don Roderick crouched beneath the bed-clothes.

But the bed-clothes weighed upon him like a mountain; throwing them off,

he endeavoured to compose himself to sleep; hardly had he closed his

eyes when he awoke with a start, as if he had been roused by a blow, and

he felt that the pain and fever had increased. He endeavoured to find

the cause of his sufferings in the heat of the weather, the wine, and

the debauch in which he had just been engaged; but one idea

involuntarily mingled itself with all his reflections, an idea at which

he had been laughing all the evening with his companions, as it was

easier to make it a subject of raillery than to drive it away,—the idea

of the plague.

After having struggled a long time, he at last fell asleep, but was

tormented by frightful dreams. It appeared to him that he was in a vast

church, in the midst of a crowd of people. How he came there he could

not tell, nor how the thought to do so could have entered his head,

especially at such a time. Looking on those by whom he was surrounded,

he perceived them to be lean, livid figures, with wild and glaring eyes;

the garments of these hideous creatures fell in shreds from their

bodies, and through them might be seen frightful blotches and swellings.

He thought he cried, “Give way, you rascals!” as he looked towards the

door, which was far, far off, accompanying the cry with a menacing

expression of countenance, and wrapping his arms around his body to

prevent coming in contact with them, for they seemed to be touching him

on every side. But they moved not, nor even seemed to hear him: it

appeared to him, however, that some one amongst them, with his elbow,

pressed his left side near his heart, where he felt a painful pricking.

Trying to withdraw himself from so irksome a situation, he experienced a

recurrence of the sensation. Irritated beyond measure, he stretched out

his hand for his sword, and, behold, it had glided the whole length of

his body, and the hilt of it was pressing him in this very place. Vainly

did he endeavour to remove it, every effort only increased his agonies.

Agitated and out of breath, he again cried aloud; at the sound, all

those wild and hideous phantoms rushed to one side of the church,

leaving the pulpit exposed to view, in which stood, with his venerable

countenance, his bald head and white beard, Father Christopher. It

appeared to Don Roderick that the capuchin, after having looked over the

assembly, fixed his eyes upon him, with the same expression as on the

well-remembered interview in his castle, and, at the same time, raised

his arm, and held it suspended above his head; making an effort to

arrest the blow, a cry which struggled in his throat escaped him, and he

awoke. He opened his eyes; the light of day, which was already advanced,

pressed upon his brain, and imparted as keen an anguish as the torch of

the preceding night. Looking around on his bed and his room, he

comprehended that it was a dream; the church, the crowd, the friar, all

had vanished; but not so the pain in his left side. He was sensible of

an agonising and rapid beating of his heart, a buzzing in his ears, an

internal heat which consumed him, and a weight and weariness in his

limbs greater than when he went to bed. He could not resolve to look at

the spot where he felt the pain; but, finally gathering courage to do

so, he beheld with horror a hideous tumour of a livid purple.

Don Roderick saw that he was lost. The fear of death took possession of

him, and with it came the apprehension, stronger perhaps than the dread

of death itself, of becoming the prey of the _monatti_, and of being

thrown into the lazaretto. Endeavouring to think of some means of

avoiding this terrible fate, he experienced a confusion and obscurity in

his ideas which told him that the moment was fast approaching when he

should have no feeling left but of despair. Seizing the bell, he shook

it violently. Griso, who was on the watch, appeared immediately;

stopping at a distance from the bed, he looked attentively at his

master, and became certain of that which he had only conjectured the

night before.

“Griso,” said Don Roderick, with difficulty raising himself in his bed,

“you have always been my favourite.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I have always done well by you.”

“The consequence of your goodness.”

“I can trust you, I think. I am ill, Griso.”

“I perceived that you were.”

“If I am cured, I will do still more for you than I have ever yet done.”

Griso made no answer, waiting to see to what this preamble would lead.

“I would not trust any one but you,” resumed Don Roderick; “do me a

favour.”

“Command me.”

“Do you know where the surgeon Chiodo lives?”

“I do.”

“He is an honest man, who, if he be well paid, keeps secret the sick. Go

to him; tell him I will give him four or six crowns a visit,—more, if

he wishes it. Tell him to come here immediately; act with prudence; let

no one get knowledge of it.”

“Well thought of,” said Griso; “I will return immediately.”

“First, Griso, give me a little water; I burn with thirst.”

“No, my lord, nothing without the advice of a physician. This is a rapid

disease, and there is no time to lose. Be tranquil. In the twinkling of

an eye, I will be here with the signor Chiodo.” So saying, he left the

room.

Don Roderick followed him in imagination to the house of Chiodo, counted

his steps, measured the time. He often looked at his side, but,

horror-struck, could only regard it a moment. Continuing to listen

intently for the arrival of the surgeon, this effort of attention

suspended the sense of suffering, and left him the free exercise of his

thoughts. Suddenly he heard a noise of small bells, which appeared to

come from some of the apartments, and not from the street. Listening

again, he heard it louder, and at the same time a sound of steps. A

horrible suspicion darted across his mind. He sat up, listened still

more attentively, and heard a sound in the next chamber, as of a chest

carefully placed on the floor; he threw his limbs out of bed, so as to

be ready to rise; and kept his eyes fastened on the door; it opened,

and, behold, two _monatti_ with their diabolical countenances, and

cursed liveries, advancing towards the bed, whilst from the half-open

door was seen the figure of Griso, awaiting the success of his sordid

treachery.

“Ah, infamous traitor! Begone, rascals! Biondino, Carlotto, help!

murder!” cried Don Roderick, extending his hand under his pillow for his

pistol.

At his very first cry the _monatti_ had rushed towards the bed, and the

most active of the two was upon him before he could make another

movement; jerking the pistol from his hand, and throwing it on the

floor, he forced him to lie down, crying in an accent of rage and

mockery, “Ah, scoundrel! against the _monatti_! against the ministers of

the tribunal!”

“Keep him down until we are ready to carry him out,” said the other, as

he advanced to a strong box. Griso entered the room, and with him

commenced forcing its lock. “Villain!” shouted Don Roderick, struggling

to get free: “let me kill this infamous rascal,” said he to the

_monatti_, “and then you may do with me what you will.” He then called

again loudly on his other servants, but in vain; the abominable Griso

had sent them far away with orders as if from his master, before he

himself went to propose this expedition, and a share of its spoils, to

the _monatti_.

“Be quiet, be quiet,” said the man, who held him extended on the bed, to

the unhappy Don Roderick; then, turning to those who were taking the

booty, he said, “Behave like honest men.”

“You! you!” murmured Don Roderick to Griso, “you! after—— Ah, demon

of hell! I may still be cured! I may still be cured!”

Griso spoke not a word, and was careful to avoid looking at his master.

“Hold him tight,” said the other _monatto_, “he is frantic.”

The unfortunate man, after many violent efforts, became suddenly

exhausted; but from time to time was seen to struggle feebly and vainly,

for a moment, against his persecutors.

The _monatti_ deposited him on a hand-barrow which had been left in the

outer room; one of them returned for the booty, then raising their

miserable burden, they carried him off. Griso remained awhile to make a

selection of such articles as were valuable and portable; he had been

very careful not to touch the _monatti_, nor be touched by them; but, in

his thirst for gain, his prudence forsook him; taking the different

articles of his master’s dress from off the bed, he shook them, for the

purpose of ascertaining if there was money in them.

He had, however, occasion to remember his want of caution the next day;

whilst carousing in a tavern, he was seized with a shivering, his eyes

grew dim, his strength failed, and he fell lifeless. Abandoned by his

companions, he fell into the hands of the _monatti_, who, after having

plundered him, threw him on a car, where he expired, before arriving at

the lazaretto to which his master had been carried.

We must leave Don Roderick in this abode of horror, and return to Renzo,

whom our readers may remember we left in a manufactory under the name of

Antony Rivolta. He remained there five or six months; after which, war

being declared between the republic and the King of Spain, and all fear

on his account having ceased, Bortolo hastened to bring him back, both

because he was attached to him, and because Renzo was a great assistance

to the _factotum_ of a manufactory, without the possibility of his ever

aspiring to be one himself, on account of his inability to write.

Bortolo was a good man, and in the main generous, but, like other men,

he had his failings; and as this motive really had a place in his

calculations, we have thought it our duty to state it. From this time

Renzo continued to work with his cousin. More than once, and especially

after having received a letter from Agnes, he felt a desire to turn

soldier; and opportunities were not wanting, for at this epoch the

republic was in want of recruits. The temptation was the stronger, as

there was a talk of invading the Milanese, and it appeared to him that

it would be a fine thing to return there as a conqueror, see Lucy again,

and have an explanation with her; but Bortolo always diverted him from

this resolution. “If they go there,” said he, “they can go without you,

and you can go afterwards at your leisure. If they return with broken

heads, you will be glad to have been out of the scrape. The Milanese is

not a mouthful to be easily swallowed; and then the question, my friend,

turns on the power of Spain. Have a little patience. Are you not well

here? I know what you will say; but if it is written above that the

affair shall succeed, succeed it will, without your committing more

follies. Some saint will come to your assistance. Believe me, war is not

a trade for you. It needs men expressly trained to the business.”

At other times Renzo thought of returning home in disguise, under a

false name, but Bortolo dissuaded him from this project also.

The plague afterwards spreading over all the Milanese, and advancing to

the Bergamascan territory——don’t be alarmed, reader, our design is not

to relate its history; all that we would say is, that Renzo was attacked

with it, and recovered. He was at death’s door; but his strong

constitution repelling the disease, in a few days he was out of danger.

With life, the hopes and recollections and projects of life returned

with greater vigour than ever; more than ever were his thoughts occupied

with his Lucy: what had become of her in these disastrous times? “To be

at so short distance from her, and to know nothing concerning her, and

to remain, God knows how long, in this uncertainty! and then her vow! I

will go myself, I will go and relieve these terrible doubts,” said he.

“If she lives, I will find her; I will hear herself explain this

promise; I will show her that it is not binding; and I will bring her

here, and poor Agnes also, who has always wished me well, and I am sure

does so still,—yes, I will go in search of them.”

As soon as he was able to walk, he went in search of Bortolo, who had

kept himself shut up in his house, on account of the pestilence. He

called to him to come to the window.

“Ah, ah,” said Bortolo, “you have recovered. It is well for you.”

“I have still some weakness in my limbs, as you see, but I am out of

danger.”

“Oh, I wish I was on your legs. Formerly, when one said, _I am well_, it

expressed all that could be desired; but now-a-days that is of little

consequence. When one can say _I am better_, that’s the word for you!”

Renzo informed his cousin of his determination.

“Go now, and may Heaven bless you,” replied he; “avoid the law as I

shall avoid the pestilence; and if it is the will of God, we shall see

each other again.”

“Oh, I shall certainly return. If I were only sure of not returning

alone! I hope for the best.”

“Well, I join in your hopes; if God wills, we will work, and live

together here. Heaven grant you may find me here, and that this devilish

disease may have ceased.”

“We shall meet again, we shall meet again, I am sure.”

“I say again, God bless you.”

In a few days Renzo, finding his strength sufficiently restored,

prepared for his departure; he put on a girdle in which he placed the

fifty crowns sent him by Agnes, together with his own small savings; he

took under his arm a small bundle of clothes, and secured in his pocket

his certificate of good conduct from his second master; and having armed

himself with a good knife, a necessary appendage to an honest man in

those days, he commenced his journey towards the end of August, three

days after Don Roderick had been carried to the lazaretto. He took the

road to Lecco, before venturing into Milan, as he hoped to find Agnes

there, and learn from her some little of what he desired so much to

know.

The small number of those who had been cured of the plague formed a

privileged class amidst the rest of the population; those who had not

been attacked by the disease lived in perpetual apprehension of it; they

walked about with precaution, with an unquiet air, with a hurried and

hesitating step; the former, on the contrary, nearly certain of security

(for to have the plague twice was rather a prodigy than a rarity),

advanced into the very midst of the pestilence with boldness and

unconcern. With such security, tempered, however, by his own peculiar

anxieties, and by the spectacle of the misery of a whole people, Renzo

travelled towards his village, under a fine sky, and through a beautiful

country; meeting on the way, after long intervals of dismal solitude,

men more like shadows and wandering phantoms than living beings; or dead

bodies about to be consigned to the trench without funeral rites.

Towards the middle of the day he stopped in a grove to eat his meat and

bread; he was bountifully supplied with fruits from the gardens by the

road, for the year was remarkably fertile, the trees along the road were

laden with figs, peaches, plums, apples, and other various kinds, with

hardly a living creature to gather them.

Towards evening he discovered his village; although prepared for the

sight, he felt his heart beat, and he was assailed in a moment by a

crowd of painful recollections and harrowing presentiments: a deathlike

silence reigned around. His agitation increased as he entered the

churchyard, and became hardly supportable at the end of the lane—it was

there, where stood the house of Lucy—one only of its inmates could now

be there, and the only favour he asked from Heaven was to find Agnes

still living; he hoped to find an asylum at her cottage, as he judged

truly that his own must be in ruins.

As he went on he looked attentively before him, fearing, and at the same

time hoping, to meet some one from whom he might obtain information. He

saw at last a man seated on the ground, leaning against a hedge of

jessamines, in the listless attitude of an idiot. He thought it must be

the poor simpleton Jervase, who had been employed as a witness in his

unsuccessful expedition to the curate’s house. But approaching nearer,

he recognised it to be Anthony. The disease had affected his mind, as

well as his body, so that in every act a slight resemblance to his weak

brother might be traced.

“Oh, Tony,” said Renzo, stopping before him, “is it you?” Tony raised

his eyes, but not his head.

“Tony, do you not know me?”

“Is it my turn? Is it my turn?” replied he.

“Poor Tony! do you indeed not know me?”

“Is it my turn? Is it my turn?” replied he, with an idiotic smile, and

then stood with his mouth open.

Renzo, seeing he could draw nothing from him, passed on still more

afflicted than before. Suddenly, at a turn of the path, he beheld

advancing towards him a person whom he recognised to be Don Abbondio.

His pale countenance and general appearance showed that he also had not

escaped the tempest. The curate, seeing a stranger, anxiously examined

his person, whose costume was that of Bergamo. At length he recognised

Renzo with much surprise.

“Is it he, indeed?” thought he, and raised his hands with a movement of

wonder and dismay. His wasted arms seemed trembling in his sleeves,

which before could hardly contain them.

Renzo, hastening towards him, bowed profoundly; for, although he had

quitted him in anger, he still felt respect for him as his curate.

“You here! you!” cried Don Abbondio.

“Yes, I am here, as you see. Do you know any thing of Lucy?”

“How should I know? nothing is known of her. She is at Milan, if she is

still in this world. But you——”

“And Agnes, is she living?”

“Perhaps she is; but who do you think can tell? she is not here.

But——”

“Where is she?”

“She has gone to Valsassina, among her relatives at Pasturo; for they

say that down there the pestilence has not made such ravages as it has

here. But you, I say——”

“I am glad of that. And Father Christopher?”

“He has been gone this long time. But you——”

“I heard that,—but has he not returned?”

“Oh no, we have heard nothing of him. But you——”

“I am sorry for it.”

“But you, I say, what do you do here? For the love of Heaven, have you

forgotten that little circumstance of the order for your apprehension?”

“What matters it? people have other things to think of now. I came here

to see about my own affairs.”

“There is nothing to see about; there is no one here now. It is the

height of rashness in you to venture here, with this little difficulty

impending. Listen to an old man who has more prudence than yourself, and

who speaks to you from the love he bears you. Depart at once, before any

one sees you, return whence you came. Do you think the air of this place

good for you? Know you not that they have been here on the search for

you?”

“I know it too well, the rascals.”

“But then——”

“But, I tell you, they think no more about it. And _he_, does _he_ yet

live? is _he_ here?”

“I tell you there is no one here; I tell you to think no more of the

affairs of this place; I tell you that——”

“I ask you if _he_ is here;”

“Oh, just Heaven! Speak in another manner. Is it possible you still

retain so much warmth, after all that has happened?”

“Is _he_ here, or is _he_ not?”

“He is not. But the plague, my son, the plague keeps every one from

travelling at present.”

“If the pestilence was all that we need fear—I speak for myself, I have

had it, and I fear it not.”

“You had better render thanks to Heaven. And——”

“I do, from the bottom of my heart.”

“And not go in search of other evils, I say. Listen to my advice.”

“You have had it also, sir, if I am not mistaken.”

“That I have, truly! most terrible it was! it is by a miracle I am here;

you see how it has left me. I have need of repose to restore my

strength; I was beginning to feel a little better. In the name of

Heaven, what do you do here? Go away, I beseech you.”

“You always return to your _go away_. If I ought to go away, I would not

have come. You keep saying, _What do you come for? what do you come

for?_ Sir, I am come home.”

“Home!”

“Tell me, have there been many deaths here?”

“Many!” cried Don Abbondio; and beginning with Perpetua, he gave a long

list of individuals, and even whole families. Renzo expected, it is

true, a similar recital; but hearing the names of so many acquaintances,

friends, and relations, he was absorbed by his affliction, and could

only exclaim, from time to time, “Misery! misery! misery!”

“And it is not yet over,” pursued Don Abbondio. “If those who remain do

not listen to reason, and calm the heat of their brains, it will be the

end of the world.”

“Do not concern yourself; I do not intend to remain here.”

“Heaven be praised! you talk reason at last. Go at once——”

“Do not trouble yourself about it; the affair belongs to me. I think I

have arrived at years of discretion. I hope you will tell no one that

you have seen me. You are a priest, and I am one of your flock; you will

not betray me?”

“I understand,” said Don Abbondio, angrily, “I understand. You would

ruin yourself, and me with you. What you have suffered, what I have

suffered, is not sufficient. I understand, I understand.” And continuing

to mutter between his teeth, he proceeded on his way.

Renzo, afflicted and disappointed, reflected where he should seek

another asylum. In the catalogue of deaths given to him by Don Abbondio,

there was a family which had all been carried off by the pestilence,

with the exception of a young man nearly of his own age, who had been

his companion from infancy. The house was a short distance off, a little

beyond the village; he bent his steps thither, to seek the hospitality

which it might afford him. On his way he passed his own vineyard. The

vines were cut, the wood carried off. Weeds of various kinds and most

luxuriant growth, principally of the parasitical order, covered the

place, displaying the most brilliant flowers above the loftiest branches

of the vines, and obstructing the progress of the miserable owner. The

garden beyond presented a similar scene of varied and luxuriant

wildness. The house, that had not escaped the visitation of the

lansquenets, was deformed with filth, dust, and cobwebs. Poor Renzo

turned away with imbittered feelings, and moved slowly onwards to his

friend’s. It was evening. He found him seated before the door, on a

small bench, his arms crossed on his breast, with the air of a man

stupified by distress, and suffering from solitude. At the sound of

steps he turned, and the twilight and the foliage not permitting him to

distinguish objects distinctly, he said, “Are there not others besides

me? Did I not do enough yesterday? Leave me in quiet; it will be an act

of charity.”

Renzo, not knowing what this meant, called him by name.

“Renzo?” replied he.

“It is indeed,” said Renzo, and they ran towards each other.

“Is it you indeed?” said his friend: “oh, how happy I am to see you! who

would have thought it? I took you for one of those persons who torment

me daily to help to bury the dead. Know you that I am left alone? alone!

alone as a hermit!”

“I know it but too well,” said Renzo. They entered the cottage together,

each making numerous enquiries of the other. His friend began to prepare

the table for supper; he went out, and returned in a few moments with a

pitcher of milk, a little salt meat, and some fruit. They seated

themselves at table, at which the polenta was not forgotten, mutually

congratulating each other on their interview. An absence of two years,

and the circumstances under which they met, revived and added new vigour

to their former friendship.

No one, however, could supply the place of Agnes to Renzo, not only on

account of the particular affection she bore him, but she alone

possessed the key to the solution of all his difficulties. He hesitated

awhile whether he had not best go in search of her, as she was not very

far off; but recollecting that he knew nothing of the fate of Lucy, he

adhered to his first intention of gaining all the information he could

concerning her, and carrying the result to her mother. He learnt from

his friend, however, many things of which he was ignorant, others were

explained which he only knew by halves, with regard to the adventures of

Lucy, and the persecutions she had undergone. He was also informed that

Don Roderick had left the village, and had not returned. Renzo learnt,

moreover, to pronounce the name of Don Ferrante properly; Agnes, it is

true, had caused it to be written to him, but Heaven knows how it was

written; and the Bergamascan interpreter had given it so strange a

sound, that if he had not received some instruction from his friend,

probably no one in Milan would have guessed whom he meant, although this

was the only clue he had to guide him to Lucy. As far as the law was in

question his mind was set at rest. The signor Podestà was dead, and most

of the officers; the others were removed, or had other matters too

pressing to occupy their attention. He related, in his turn, his own

adventures to his friend, receiving in exchange an account of the

passage of the army, the pestilence, the poisoners, and the prodigies.

“Dreadful as are our afflictions,” said he, as he led him for the night

to a little chamber which the epidemic had deprived of its inhabitants,

“there is a mournful consolation in speaking of them to our friends.”

At the break of day they both arose, and Renzo prepared to depart. “If

all goes well,” said he, “if I find her living—if—I will return. I

will go to Pasturo and carry the joyful news to poor Agnes, and

then—but if, by a misfortune, which may God avert—then, I know not

what I shall do, nor where I shall go; but you will never see me here

again.”

As he stood on the threshold of the door, about to resume his journey,

he contemplated for a moment, with a mixture of tenderness and anguish,

his village, which he had not beheld for so long a time. His friend

accompanied him a short distance on his road, and bade him farewell,

prognosticating a happy return, and many days of prosperity and

enjoyment.

Renzo travelled leisurely, because there was ample time for him to

arrive within a short distance of Milan, so as to enter it on the

morrow. His journey was without accident, except a repetition of the

same wretched scenes that the roads at that time presented. As he had

done the day before, he stopped in a grove to make a slight repast,

which the generosity of his friend had bestowed on him. Passing through

Monza, he saw loaves of bread displayed in the window of a shop; he

bought two of them, but the shopkeeper called to him not to enter;

stretching out a shovel, on which was a small bowl of vinegar and water,

he told him to throw the money into it; then with a pair of tongs he

reached the bread to him, which Renzo put in his pocket.

Towards evening he passed through Greco, and quitting the high road,

went into the fields in search of some small house where he might pass

the night, as he did not wish to stop at an inn. He found a better

shelter than he anticipated; perceiving an opening in a hedge which

surrounded the yard of a dairy, he entered it boldly. There was no one

within: in one corner of it was a barn full of hay, and against the door

of it a ladder placed. After looking around, Renzo ascended the ladder,

settled himself for the night, and slept profoundly until the break of

day. When he awoke, he descended the ladder very cautiously, and

proceeded on his way, taking the dome of the cathedral for his polar

star. He soon arrived before the walls of Milan near the eastern gate.