I promessi sposi. English

by Alessandro Manzoni

  CHAPTER XXXVI.

  As Renzo passed without the walls of the lazaretto, the rain began tofall in torrents. Instead of lamenting, he rejoiced at it: he wasdelighted with the refreshing air, and with the sound of the fallingdrops from the plants and foliage which seemed to have new life impartedto them; and breathing more freely in this change of nature, he feltmore vividly the change that had occurred in his own destiny.

  But much would his enjoyment have been increased, could he have surmisedwhat would be seen a few days after. This water carried off, washedaway, so to speak, the contagion. If the lazaretto did not restore tothe living all the living it still contained, at least from that day itreceived no more into its vast abyss. At the end of a week, shops wereopened, people returned to their houses, quarantine was hardly spokenof, 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 toreach the village, and to proceed immediately to Pasturo in search ofAgnes. In the midst of the reminiscences of the horrors and the dangersof the day, there was always present the thought, "I have found her! sheis well! she is mine!"

  And then again he recalled his doubts, his difficulties, his fears, hishopes, that had agitated him that eventful morning! He fancied himselfwith his hand on the knocker of Don Ferrante's house! And theunfavourable answer! And then those fools who were about to attack himin their madness! And the lazaretto, that vast sepulchre! To havehurried 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 setapart for the women! And there, behind that cabin when he leastexpected it, that voice! that voice itself! And to see her there! Butthen her vow! It exists no longer. And his violent hatred against DonRoderick, which had augmented his grief, and shed its venom over hishopes! That also was gone. Indeed, had it not been for his uncertaintyconcerning Agnes, his anxiety about Father Christopher, and theconsciousness that the pestilence still existed, his happiness wouldhave been without alloy.

  He arrived at Sesto in the evening; the rain had as yet no appearance ofceasing. But Renzo did not stop, his only inconvenience was anextraordinary appetite, which the vicinity of a baker's shop enabled himto mitigate the violence of. When he passed through Monza it was darknight; he succeeded, however, in leaving it by the right road; but whata road! buried between two banks, almost like the bed of a river, itmight then, indeed, have been called a river, or rather, an aqueduct; innumerous places were deep holes, from which Renzo could with difficultyextricate himself. But he did as well as he could, without impatience orregret. He reflected that every step brought him nearer to the end ofhis journey; that the rain would cease when God should please; that daywould come in its own time; and that in the mean time the road he hadpassed over he should not have to travel again. At the break of day hefound himself near the Adda. It had not ceased raining; there was stilla drizzling shower; the light of the dawn enabled Renzo to see aroundhim. He was in his own country! Who can express his sensations? Thosemountains, the _Resegone_, the territory of Lecco, appeared to belong tohim, to be his own! But, looking at himself, he felt that his outwardaspect was rather at variance with the exuberant joyousness of hisheart; his clothes were wet and clinging to his body, his hat bent outof 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 glanceat Pescarenico; passed the bridge, and crossed the fields, to the houseof his friend, who, just risen, was at the door, looking out upon theweather. He beheld the strange figure, covered with mud, and wet to theskin, and yet, so joyous and animated! in his life he had never seen aman, so accoutred, appear so satisfied with himself.

  "How!" said he, "already here! and in such weather! How have things gonewith 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 washaway 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 therain 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," saidRenzo, "bring me the bundle I left above; for before my clothes dry----"

  Returning with the bundle, his friend said, "You must be hungry; youhave had drink enough, no doubt, on the way, but as to eating----"

  "I bought two loaves yesterday at dusk, but truly, I have not eatenthem."

  "Well, I will provide for you." He poured some water in a kettle whichhung over the fire, adding, "I will go and milk the cow, and when Ireturn with the milk, the water will be ready, and we will have a good_polenta_. You, in the mean while, change your clothes." After havingallowed him time to perform the troublesome operation, his friendreturned, 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 thewedding, and, pestilence or not, we will be happy for a few hours."

  On the following morning Renzo set out for Pasturo. On his arrival, heasked concerning Agnes, and learnt that she was in health and safety. Heapproached her residence, which had been pointed out to him, and calledher by name from the street. At the sound of his voice, she rushed tothe window, and Renzo, without allowing her time to speak, cried, "Lucyis well; I saw her the day before yesterday; she will be at homeshortly; oh, I have so many things to tell you."

  Overcome by various emotions, Agnes could only articulate, "I will openthe 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 fortwo days in the midst of it. It is true I have changed my clothes, butthe contagion attaches itself to the flesh, like witchcraft; and sinceGod has preserved you until now, you must take care of yourself untilall danger is over; for you are our mother, and I trust we shall livelong 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 soonsee there is no longer any _but_; come into the open air, where I mayspeak to you in safety, and I will tell you all about it."

  Agnes pointed to a garden adjoining the house. Renzo entered it, and wasimmediately joined by the anxious and impatient Agnes. They seatedthemselves opposite each other on two benches. The events he describedare already known to our reader, and we will leave to his imaginationthe numerous exclamations of grief, horror, surprise, and joy, thatinterrupted the progress of the narrative every moment. The result,however, was an agreement to settle all together at Bergamo, where Renzohad already an advantageous engagement; _when_ would depend on thepestilence and other circumstances; Agnes was to remain where she was,until it should be safe for her to return home; and in the interval sheshould have regular information of all their movements.

  He departed, with the additional consolation of having found one so dearto him safe and well. He remained the rest of that day and the followingnight with his friend, and on the morrow set out for the country of hisadoption.

  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. Themalignity of the distemper had subsided, and given place to feverindeed, accompanied with tumours, but much more easily cured. Thecountry presented a new aspect; those who had survived the pestilencebegan to resume their business; masters were preparing for theemployment of workmen in every trade; and, ab
ove all, in that of weavingsilk. Renzo made some preparations for the accommodation of his family,by purchasing and furnishing a neat little cottage, from his hithertountouched treasure, which the ravages of the plague enabled him to do atsmall cost.

  After a few days' stay, he returned by the way of Pasturo, and conductedAgnes to her village home: we will not attempt to describe her feelingsat beholding again those well remembered places. She found all things inher cottage as she had left them: it seemed as if angels had watchedover the poor widow and her child. Her first care was to get ready withall speed an apartment in her humble abode for that kind friend who hadbeen to her child a second mother. Renzo, on his side, was not idle. Helaboured alternately at the widow's garden, and in the service of hishospitable friend. As to his own cottage, it pained him to witness thescene of desolation it presented; and he resolved to dispose of it, andtransfer its value to his new country. His re-appearance in the villagewas a cause of much congratulation to those who had survived the plague.All were anxious to learn his adventures, which had given rise to somany reports among the neighbours. As to Don Abbondio, he exhibited thesame apprehension of the marriage as before; the mention of whichconjured up to his affrighted fancy the dreaded Don Roderick and histrain on the one side, and the almost equally feared cardinal and hisarguments on the other.

  We will now transport the reader for a few moments to Milan. Some daysafter the visit of Renzo to the lazaretto, Lucy left it with the goodwidow. A general quarantine having been ordered, they passed the periodof it together in the house of the latter. The time was employed inpreparing Lucy's wedding clothes; and, the quarantine terminated, theyset 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 minutelyto the good widow, she recurred to the signora, who had afforded her anasylum, in the convent of Monza, and in return learnt many things whichafforded her the solution to numerous mysteries, and filled her withsorrow and astonishment. She learnt, too, that the unfortunate signora,falling afterwards under the most horrible suspicions, had been, byorder 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 atlast made her confession and repented of her crimes; and that herpresent life was one of severe and voluntary penance. If any one desiresto know the details of her sad history, it will be found in the authorwe have so often quoted.[36]

  [36] Ripamonti.

  The second is, that Lucy, making enquiries concerning FatherChristopher, of every capuchin from the lazaretto, learnt with moregrief than surprise that he had died of the pestilence.

  And the third is, that before quitting Milan, Lucy had a desire to knowsomething concerning her former patrons. The widow accompanied her totheir 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 isnecessary; not so with Don Ferrante, he deserves a little more of ourattention, considering his learning.

  From the commencement of the pestilence, Don Ferrante was one of themost resolute in denying its existence, not indeed like the multitude,with cries of rage, but with arguments which none could accuse of wantof concatenation. "In _rerum natura_," said he, "there are but twokinds of things, substances and accidents; and if I prove that thecontagion can neither be one nor the other of these I shall have provedthat it does not exist; that it is a chimera. Thus, then: substances areeither material or spiritual; that the contagion is a spiritualsubstance, is so absurd an opinion, that no one would presume to advanceit; it is, then, useless to speak of it. Material substances are eithersimple or compound. Now, the contagion is not a simple substance, and Iwill prove it in three words. It is not an aerial substance, because, ifit were, instead of passing from one body to another, it would fly offto its sphere; it is not a watery substance, because it would be driedup by the wind; it is not igneous, because it would burn; it is notearthy, because it would be visible. Moreover, it is not a compoundsubstance, because it would be sensible to the eye, or to the touch; andwho 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 frombody to body; this is their Achilles; the pretext for so many uselessregulations. Now, supposing it an accident, it would be a transferableaccident, which is an incongruity. There is not in all philosophy a moreevident thing than this, that an accident cannot pass from one subjectto another; so if, to avoid this Scylla, they are reduced to call it anaccident produced, they avoid Scylla by falling into Charybdis, becauseif it be produced, it does not communicate itself, it does notpropagate, as they declare. These principles allowed, what is the use oftalking 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; wemust only know how to employ it. Swellings, purple botches, and blackcarbuncles, are respectable terms, which have a good and propersignification; but I say they have nothing to do with the question. Whodenies that there may be and are such things? We must only prove whencethey come."

  Here began the vexations of Don Ferrante. So long as he laughed at thecontagion, he found respectful and attentive listeners; but when he cameto distinguish and demonstrate that the error of the doctors was, not inaffirming that there existed a general and terrible disease, but ratherin 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 otherfancies are obliged to acknowledge it. Let them deny, if they can, thatthere is a fatal conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn. And when has it beensaid that influences propagate? And would these gentlemen deny theexistence of influences? Will they say there are no planets? or willthey say that they keep up above, doing nothing, as so many pins in apincushion? But that which I cannot understand from these doctors is,that they confess we are under so malign a conjunction, and then theytell us, don't touch this, don't touch that, and you will be safe! asif, in avoiding the material contact of terrestrial bodies, we couldprevent the virtual effect of celestial bodies. And such a work inburning rags! Poor people! will you burn Jupiter? will you burn Saturn?"

  _His fretus_, that is to say, on these grounds, he took no precautionsagainst the pestilence; he caught it, and died, like Metastasio's hero,complaining of the stars.