第 三十六 章 · Chapter XXXVI

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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 thought _where_

or _when_ he 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, the _Resegone_, 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 good

_polenta_. You, in the mean while, change your clothes.” After having

allowed him time to perform the troublesome operation, his friend

returned, and commenced making the _polenta_. “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, _I_

at least.”

“But——”

“There is no longer any _but_; I know what you would say. You will soon

see there is no longer any _but_; 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; _when_ would 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]

[36] Ripamonti.

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 she _died_, 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. “In _rerum 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.