CHAPTER XXXV.
Who would have told Renzo some moments before, that at the very time ofhis greatest suspense and anxiety, his heart should be divided betweenLucy and Don Roderick? And nevertheless it was so. The thought of himmingled itself with all the bright or painful images which hope or fearcalled up as he proceeded. The words the friar had uttered by that bedof pain, blended themselves with the cruel uncertainty of his soul. Hecould not utter a prayer, for the happy issue of his presentundertaking, without adding to it one for the miserable object of hisformer resentment and revenge.
He saw the Father Felix on the portico of the church, and by hisattitude comprehended that the holy man was addressing the assembledconvalescents. He placed himself where he could overlook the audience.In the midst were the women, covered with veils; Renzo gazed at themintently, but finding that, from the place where he stood, it would be avain scrutiny, he directed his attention to the father. He was touchedby his venerable figure; and listened with all the attention his ownsolicitude would allow, to the reverend speaker, who thus proceeded inhis affecting address:--
"Let us think for a moment," said he, "of the thousands who have goneforth thither," pointing to a gate behind him, leading to the buryingground of San Gregory, which was then but one mighty grave. "Let us lookat the thousands who remain here, uncertain of their destiny; let usalso look at ourselves! May the Lord be praised! praised in his justice!praised in his mercy! praised in death! praised in life! praised in thechoice he has made of us! Oh! why has he done it, my children, if not topreserve a people corrected by affliction, and animated by gratitude?That we may be deeply sensible that life is his gift, that we may valueit accordingly, and employ it in works which he will approve? That theremembrance of our sufferings may render us compassionate, and activelybenevolent to others. May those with whom we have suffered, hoped, andfeared, and among whom we leave friends and kindred, may they as we passamidst them derive edification from our deportment! May God preserve usfrom any exhibition of self-congratulation, or carnal joy, at escapingthat death against which they are still struggling! May they see usdepart, rendering thanks to Heaven for ourselves, and praying for them;that they may say, _Even beyond these walls they will remember us, theywill continue to pray for us!_ Let us begin from this moment, from thefirst step we shall take into the world, a life of charity! Let thosewho have regained their former strength, lend a fraternal arm to thefeeble; let the young sustain the old; let those who are left withoutchildren become parents to the orphan, and thus your sorrows will besoftened, and your lives will be acceptable to God!"
Here a deep murmur of sighs and sobs, which had been increasing in theassembly, was suddenly suspended, on seeing the friar place a cordaround his neck and fall on his knees. All was intense attention andprofound silence.
"For myself," said he, "and for all my companions, who have been chosento the high privilege of serving Christ in you, I humbly ask yourforgiveness if we have not worthily fulfilled so great a ministry. Ifindolence, or the waywardness of the flesh, has rendered us lessattentive to your wants, less prompt to your call than duty demanded;if unjust impatience, or culpable disgust, have caused us sometimes toappear severe and wearied in your presence; if, indeed, the miserablethought that you had need of us, has led us to be deficient in humilitytowards you; if our frailty has made us commit any action which may havegiven you pain, pardon us! May God remit also your offences, and blessyou!"
We have here related, if not the very words, at least the sense of thatwhich he uttered; but we cannot describe the accent which accompaniedthem. It was that of a man who called it a privilege to serve theafflicted, because he really considered it such; who confessed not tohave worthily exercised this privilege, because he truly felt hisdeficiency; who asked pardon, because he was persuaded he had need ofit. But his hearers, who had beheld these capuchins only occupied inserving them, who had beheld so many of them die in the service, and hewho now spoke in the name of all, always the first in toil as he was thefirst in authority, his hearers could only answer him with tears. Thegood friar then took a cross which rested against a pillar, and holdingit up before him, took off his sandals, passing through the crowd, whichopened respectfully to give him a passage, and placed himself at theirhead.
Renzo, overcome with emotion, drew on one side, and placed himself neara cabin, where, half concealed, he awaited, with his eyes open, hisheart palpitating, but with renewed confidence, the result of theemotion excited by the touching scene of which he had been a witness.
Father Felix proceeded barefooted at the head of the procession, withthe cord about his neck, bearing that long and heavy cross; he advancedslowly but resolutely, as one who would spare the weakness of others,but whose ideas of duty enabled him to rise above his own. The largestchildren followed immediately behind him, for the most part barefooted,and very few entirely clothed; then came the women, nearly all of themleading a child, and singing alternately the _miserere_. The feeblesound of the voices, the paleness and languor of the countenances, wouldhave excited commiseration in the heart of a mere spectator. But Renzowas occupied with his own peculiar anxieties; the slow progress of theprocession enabled him to scan with ease every face as it passed. Helooked and looked again, and always in vain! His eye wandered from rankto rank, from face to face--they came, they passed--in vain, invain--none but unknown features! A new ray of hope dawned upon his mindas he beheld some cars approaching, in which were the convalescents whowere still too feeble to support the fatigue of walking. They approachedso slowly that Renzo had full leisure to examine each in turn. But hewas again disappointed; the cars had all passed, and Father Michael,with his staff in his hand, brought up the rear as regulator of theprocession.
Thus nearly vanished his hopes, and with them his resolution. His onlyground of hope now was to find Lucy still under the power of thedisease; to this sad and feeble hope, he clung with all the ardour ofhis nature. He fell on his knees at the last step of the temple, andbreathed 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 sawon the ground one of the little bells that the _monatti_ carried ontheir feet, with its leather straps attached to it. Thinking it mightserve him as a passport, he tied it to his foot, and then began hispainful search. Here new scenes of sorrow met his eye, similar in partto those he had already witnessed, partly dissimilar. Under the weightof the same calamity, he discerned a more patient endurance of pain, anda greater sensibility to the afflictions of others; they to whom bodilysuffering is a lot and an inheritance, acquire from it fortitude to beartheir own woes, and sympathy to bestow on the woes of others.
Renzo had proceeded some distance on his search, when he heard behindhim a "Ho!" which appeared to be addressed to him. Turning, he saw at adistance a commissary, who cried, "Go there into those rooms; they wantyou there; they have not finished carrying all off."
Renzo perceived that he took him for a _monatto_, and that the littlebell had caused the mistake. He determined to extricate himself from itas soon as he could. Making a sign of obedience, he hid himself from thecommissary, by passing between two cabins which were very near eachother.
As he stooped to unloose the strap of the little bell, he rested hishead against the straw wall of one of the cabins; a voice reached hisear. O Heaven! is it possible? His whole soul was in his ear, hescarcely breathed. Yes! yes! it was that voice! "Fear of what?" saidthat 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; witha great effort recovering his faculties, he went to the door of thecabin, and beheld her who had spoken! She was standing, leaning over abed; she turned at the sound of his steps, and gazed for a momentbewildered; 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, thatshe is well. But you are still suffering! how feeble you appear! you arecured, however; you are, is it not so?"
"The Lord has seen fit to leave me a little longer here below," saidLucy. "But, Renzo! why are you here?"
"Why?" said Renzo, approaching her, "do you ask me why I am here? Must Itell you? Whom do I think of then? Am I not Renzo? Are you no longerLucy?"
"Oh! why speak thus! Did not my mother write to you?"
"Yes! she wrote to me! kind things, truly, to write to a poorunfortunate man, an exile from his native land, one, at least, who neverinjured you!"
"But Renzo! Renzo! since you knew--why come, why?"
"Why come! O Lucy! why come, do you say! After so many promises! Are weno longer the same! Is all forgotten?"
"O God!" cried Lucy, sorrowfully clasping her hands, and raising hereyes to heaven; "why didst thou not take me to thyself! O Renzo! whathave you done! Alas! I hoped----that with time----I should have drivenfrom 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 behappy; but their calamity is no reason why those who live must live indespair----"
"But Renzo! Renzo! you know not what you say; a promise to the Virgin! avow!"
"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 toher. If the Virgin had spoken herself, oh! then indeed----but it issimply an idea of your own!"
"No, no, you know not what you say; you know not what it is to make avow! Leave me, leave me, for the love of Heaven!"
"Lucy!" said Renzo, "tell me at least, tell me, if this reason did notexist----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, andwould certainly be useless! Leave me, oh! leave me! forget me! we werenot destined for each other. We shall meet again above; we have notlong to remain in the world. Go! tell my mother that I am cured, thateven here God has assisted me, that I have found a good soul, thisworthy 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 ofHeaven! and remember me no more----except when you pray to God!"
And as if wishing to withdraw from the temptation to prolong theconversation, she drew near the bed where the female was lying of whomshe 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 hisfears, she had unconsciously again approached him, with a look ofanxious enquiry----"I fear he has it now!"
"Oh! poor man! But what do I say? poor man! he is rich, rich in thefavour 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 tosee 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 tomine----if you remember----"
"Oh! most holy Virgin!"
"Shall I tell you what he said to me? He said I did well to come insearch of you, that God would approve it, and that he would assist me tofind 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. Butoh! Lucy! Shall I tell you what I have seen?"----And he related hisvisit to the cabin.
Lucy, although familiarised in this abode of horrors to spectacles ofwretchedness and despair, was shocked at the recital.
"And at the side of that bed," said Renzo, "if you could have heard theholy man! He said, that God has perhaps resolved to look in mercy onthis unfortunate--(I can now give him no other name)--that he designs tosubdue him to himself, but that he desires that we should pray togetherfor him--together! do you understand?"
"Yes, yes, we will pray each, there where the Lord shall place us. Hecan 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 whospeaks in him, and that he would not have spoken thus, if it ought notto be exactly so? And the soul of this unfortunate! I have prayed, andwill pray for him; I have prayed with all my heart, as if he were mybrother. 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 toreason, all will be set in order. That which has been, has been--he hashad his punishment here below----"
"No, Renzo, no! God would not have us do evil that good may come. Leaveto him the care of this unfortunate man; our duty is to pray for him. IfI 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 andwife, has she not told you it was a foolish imagination?".
"My mother! think you my mother would advise me to break a vow? Wouldyou desire that she should? But, Renzo, you are not in your right mind!"
"Oh! you women cannot be made to comprehend reason! Father Christophertold 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 Idesire 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! FatherChristopher will explain matters to you, and make you return toyourself; 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 sufferingit caused me! and now you have the heart to tell it to me! As for me, Ideclare 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 somany trials! so many promises! Who have I thought of ever since weparted? Is it because I have suffered, that you treat me thus? because Ihave been unfortunate? because the world has persecuted me? because Ihave been so long away from you? because the first moment I was able, Icame 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 thatnight such a moment as this have I never passed."
"Yes, Lucy, you do well to invoke the Virgin. She is the mother ofcompassion, and will take no pleasure in our sufferings. But, if this isan 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 FatherChristopher; 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 ofthe world; yes, I would return!" and he disappeared.
Lucy threw herself on the floor near the bed, upon which she rested herhead, a
nd wept bitterly. The good woman, who had been a silent spectatorof the painful scene, demanded the cause of her anguish and her tears?But, perhaps, the reader will wish to know something of this benevolentperson: we will satisfy the desire in a few words.
She was a rich tradeswoman, about thirty years of age: she had beheldher husband and children die of the plague. Attacked by it herself, shehad been brought to the lazaretto, and placed in the cabin with Lucy,who was just beginning to recover her senses, which had forsaken herfrom the commencement of her attack in the house of Don Ferrante. Thehumble roof could only accommodate two guests, and there grew up, intheir affliction, a strict and intimate friendship between them. Theyderived great consolation from each other's society, and had pledgedthemselves not to separate, after quitting the lazaretto. The goodwoman, whose wealth was now far more ample than were her desires, wishedto retain Lucy with her as a daughter: the proposition was received withgratitude, and accepted, on condition of the permission and approval ofAgnes. Lucy had, however, never made known to her the circumstances ofher intended marriage, and her other extraordinary adventures; but nowshe related, as distinctly as tears permitted her to do so, her sadstory.
Meanwhile Renzo went in search of Father Christopher: he found him withno small difficulty, and engaged in administering consolation to a dyingman. The scene was soon closed. The father remained a short time insilent 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 issometimes a little fanciful. After so many promises, she tells me nowshe cannot marry me, because on that night of fear she made a vow to theVirgin! These things signify nothing, do they? Is it not true that theyare 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 proceededto Lucy's cabin.
The clouds were gathering in the heavens, and a tempest coming on. Rapidlightning, cleaving the increasing darkness, illumined at moments thelong roofs and arcades of the building, and the cupola of the littlechurch: loud claps of thunder resounded with prolonged echoes throughthe heavens. Renzo suppressed his impatience, and accommodated his stepsto the strength of the father, who, exhausted by fatigue, oppressed bydisease, and breathing in pain, could, with difficulty, drag his failinglimbs to the performance of this last act of benevolence.
As they reached the door of the cabin, Renzo stopped, saying, in atrembling voice, "She is there!" They entered. Lucy arose, and rantowards the old man, crying--"Oh, what I do see! Oh, FatherChristopher!"
"Well, Lucy! through how much peril has God preserved you! you must berejoiced 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 thefriar, 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, asin 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, mydaughter, accepts of offerings from that which is our own. It is theheart he desires, the will; but you cannot offer the will of another towhom you had pledged yourself."
"I have done wrong."
"No, poor child, think not so; I believe the holy Virgin has acceptedthe intention of your afflicted heart, and has offered it to God foryou. 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 littlegood one does, one ought not to mention."
"Have you no other motive for preventing the fulfilment of your promiseto Renzo?"
"As to that----for myself----what motive?--no other," replied Lucy, witha hesitation which implied any thing rather than uncertainty; and ablush passed over her pale and lovely countenance.
"Do you believe," resumed the old man, "that God has given the churchauthority 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 tous, we have the most ample powers from the church; and I can, if you askit, 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?" saidLucy, violently agitated by unexpected hope.
"Sin, my child," said the father, "sin, to recur to the church, and toask 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 toyou your vow. If you ask me to absolve you from it, I shall not hesitateto 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 thedialogue with the deepest solicitude, to approach, and said aloud toLucy, "With the authority I hold from the church, I declare you absolvedfrom your vow, and liberate you from all the obligations you may havecontracted by it."
The reader may imagine the feelings of Renzo at these words. His eyesexpressed the warmth of his gratitude to him who had uttered them; butthey 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, thechurch does it not to insure simply your temporal happiness, but toprepare you both for happiness without end. Thank Heaven that you havebeen brought to this state through misery and affliction: your joy willbe 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 youcannot greatly err. And now, Lucy, has Renzo told you whom he has beheldin this place?"
"Yes, father, he has told me."
"You will pray for him, and for me also, my children. You will rememberyour poor friar?" And drawing from his basket a small wooden box,"Within this box are the remains of the loaf--the first I asked forcharity--the loaf of which you have heard; I leave it to you; show it toyour children; they will come into a wicked world; they will meet theproud 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, "Nowtell me what you mean to do here at Milan? and who will conduct you toyour mother?"
"This good lady has been a mother to me," said Lucy; "we shall leavethis 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 youhave given to the afflicted, although it disappoints my hope of havingLucy as a companion. But I will accompany her to her village, andrestore her to her mother, and," added she, in a low voice, "I will givethe outfit. I have much wealth, and of those who should have enjoyed itwith me none are left."
"The service will be acceptable to God," said the father, "who haswatched 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 recoveredfrom this dreadful disease, I who am of no use in the world; andyou----"
"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 theservice of my fellow-men. If God grants it to me now, all those who loveme should help me to return him thanks. And now give Renzo yourcommissions for your mother."
"Tell her all," said Lucy to her betrothed; "tell her I have found hereanother mother, and that we will come to her as soon as we possiblycan."
"If you have need of money," said Renzo, "I have here all that yousent----"
"No, no," said the widow, "I have more than sufficient."
"Farewell, Lucy, and you, too, good signora, till we meet again," saidRenzo, 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 hequitted the cabin with Renzo.
As night was not far distant, the capuchin offered the young man ashelter in his humble abode: "I cannot bear you company," said he, "butyou can at least repose yourself, in order to be able to prosecute yourjourney."
Renzo, however, felt impatient to be gone; as to the hour or the weatherit might be said that, night or day, rain or shine, heat or cold, wereequally indifferent to him; the friar pressed his hand as he departed,saying, "If you find, which may God grant! the good Agnes, remember meto 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!"
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