The small octagonal temple, which stood elevated from the ground by several steps, in the middle of the Lazzaretto, was, in its original construction, open on every side, without other support than pilasters and columns — a perforated building, so to say. In each front was an arch between two columns; within, a portico6 ran round that which might more properly be called the church, but which was composed only of eight arches supported by pilasters, surmounted7 by a small cupola, and corresponding to those on the outside of the arcade8; so that the altar, erected9 in the centre, might be seen from the window of each room in the enclosure, and almost from any part of the encampment. Now, the edifice10 being converted to quite a different use, the spaces of the eight fronts are walled up; but the ancient framework, which still remains11 uninjured, indicates with sufficient clearness the original condition and destination of the building.
Renzo had scarcely started, when Father Felice made his appearance in the portico of the temple, and advanced towards the arch in the middle of the side which faces the city, in front of which the assembly were arranged at the foot of the steps, and along the course prepared for them; and shortly he perceived by his manner that he had begun the sermon. He therefore went round by some little bypaths, so as to attain12 the rear of the audience, as had been suggested to him. Arrived there, he stood still very quietly, and ran over the whole with his eye; but he could see nothing from his position, except a mass, I had almost said, a pavement of heads. In the centre there were some covered with handkerchiefs, or veils; and here he fixed13 his eyes more attentively14; but, failing to distinguish anything more clearly, he also raised them to where all the others were directed. He was touched and affected16 by the venerable figure of the speaker; and, with all the attention he could command in such a moment of expectation, listened to the following portion of his solemn address:—
‘Let us remember for a moment the thousands and thousands who have gone forth17 thither;’ and raising his finger above his shoulder, he pointed18 behind him towards the gate which led to the cemetery19 of San Gregorio, the whole of which was then, we might say, one immense grave: ‘let us cast an eye around upon the thousands and thousands who are still left here, uncertain, alas20! by which way they will go forth; let us look at ourselves, so few in number, who are about to go forth restored. Blessed be the Lord! Blessed be He in His justice, blessed in His mercy! blessed in death, and blessed in life! blessed in the choice He has been pleased to make of us! Oh! why has He so pleased, my brethren, if not to preserve to Himself a little remnant, corrected by affliction, and warmed with gratitude21? if not in order that, feeling more vividly22 than ever how life is His gift, we may esteem23 it as a gift from His hands deserves, and employ it in such works as we may dare to offer Him? if not in order that the remembrance of our own sufferings may make us compassionate24 towards others, and ever ready to relieve them? In the mean while, let those in whose company we have suffered, hoped, and feared; among whom we are leaving friends and relatives, and who are all, besides, our brethren; let those among them who will see us pass through the midst of them, not only derive26 some relief from the thought that others are going out hence in health, but also be edified27 by our behaviour. God forbid that they should behold28 in us a clamorous29 festivity, a carnal joy, at having escaped that death against which they are still struggling. Let them see that we depart in thanksgivings for ourselves and prayers for them; and let them be able to say, “Even beyond these walls they will not forget us, they will continue to pray for us poor creatures!: Let us begin from this time, from the first steps we are about to take, a life wholly made up of love. Let those who have regained30 their former vigour32 lend a brotherly arm to the feeble; young men, sustain the aged33; you who are left without children, look around you how many children are left without parents! be such to them! And this charity, covering the multitude of sins, will also alleviate34 your own sorrows.’
Here a deep murmur35 of groans36 and sobs37, which had been increasing in the assembly, was suddenly suspended, on seeing the preacher put a rope round his neck, and fall upon his knees; and, in profound silence, they stood awaiting what he was about to say.
‘For me,’ continued he, ‘and the rest of my companions who, without any merit of our own, have been chosen out for the high privilege of serving Christ in you, I humbly38 implore39 your forgiveness, if we have not worthily40 fulfilled so great a ministry41. If slothfulness, if the ungovernableness of the flesh, has rendered us less attentive15 to your necessities, less ready to answer your calls; if unjust impatience42, or blameworthy weariness, has sometimes made us show you a severe and dispirited countenance43; if the miserable44 thought that we were necessary to you, has sometimes induced us to fail in treating you with that humility45 which became us; if our frailty46 has led us hastily to commit any action which has been a cause of offence to you; forgive us! And so may God forgive you all your trespasses47, and bless you.’ Then, making the sign of a large cross over the assembly, he rose.
We have succeeded in relating, if not the actual words, at least the sense and burden of those which he really uttered; but the manner in which they were delivered it is impossible to describe. It was the manner of one who called it a privilege to attend upon the infected, because he felt it to be so; who confessed that he had not worthily acted up to it, because he was conscious he had not done so; who besought48 forgiveness, because he was convinced he stood in need of it. But the people who had beheld these Capuchins as they went about, engaged in nothing but waiting upon them; who had seen so many sink under the duty, and him who was now addressing them ever the foremost in toil49, as in authority, except, indeed, when he himself was lying at the point of death; think with what sighs and tears they responded to such an appeal. The admirable friar then took a large cross which stood resting against a pillar, elevated it before him, left his sandals at the edge of the outside portico, and, through the midst of the crowd, which reverently50 made way for him, proceeded to place himself at their head.
Renzo, no less affected than if he had been one of those from whom this singular forgiveness was requested, also withdrew a little further, and succeeded in placing himself by the side of a cabin. Here he stood waiting, with his body half concealed51 and his head stretched forward, his eyes wide open, and his heart beating violently, but at the same time with a kind of new and particular confidence, arising, I think, from the tenderness of spirit which the sermon and the spectacle of the general emotion had excited in him.
Father Felice now came up, barefoot, with the rope round his neck, and that tall and heavy cross elevated before him; his face was pale and haggard, inspiring both sorrow and encouragement; he walked with slow, but resolute53 steps, like one who would spare the weakness of others; and in everything was like a man to whom these super-numerary labours and troubles imparted strength to sustain those which were necessary, and inseparable from his charge. Immediately behind him came the taller children, barefooted for the most part, very few entirely54 clothed, and some actually in their shirts. Then came the women, almost every one leading a little child by the hand, and alternately chanting the Miserere; while the feebleness of their voices, and the paleness and languor55 of their countenances56, were enough to fill the heart of any one with pity who chanced to be there as a mere57 spectator. But Renzo was gazing and examining, from rank to rank, from face to face, without passing over one; for which the extremely slow advance of the procession gave him abundant leisure. On and on it goes; he looks and looks, always to no purpose; he keeps glancing rapidly over the crowd which still remains behind, and which is gradually diminishing: now there are very few rows; — we are at the last; — all are gone by; — all were unknown faces. With drooping58 arms, and head reclining on one shoulder, he suffered his eye still to wander after that little band, while that of the men passed before him. His attention was again arrested, and a new hope arose in his mind, on seeing some carts appear behind these, bearing those convalescents who were not yet able to walk. Here the women came last; and the train proceeded at so deliberate a pace, that Renzo could with equal ease review all these without one escaping his scrutiny59. But what then? he examined the first cart, the second, the third, and so on, one by one, always with the same result, up to the last, behind which followed a solitary60 Capuchin, with a grave countenance, and a stick in his hand, as the regulator of the cavalcade61. It was that Father Michele whom we have mentioned as being appointed coadjutor in the government with Father Felice.
Thus was this soothing62 hope completely dissipated; and, as it was dissipated, it not only carried away the comfort it had brought along with it, but, as is generally the case, left him in a worse condition than before. Now the happiest alternative was to find Lucia ill. Yet, while increasing fears took the place of the ardour of present hope, he clung with all the powers of his mind to this melancholy63 and fragile thread, and issuing into the road, pursued his way towards the place the procession had just left. On reaching the foot of the little temple, he went and knelt down upon the lowest step, and there poured forth a prayer to God, or rather a crowd of unconnected expressions, broken sentences, ejaculations, entreaties64, complaints, and promises; one of those addresses which are never made to men, because they have not sufficient quickness to understand them, nor patience to listen to them; they are not great enough to feel compassion25 without contempt.
He rose somewhat more re-animated; went round the temple, came into the other road which he had not before seen, and which led to the opposite gate, and after going on a little way, saw on both sides the paling the friar had told him of, but full of breaks and gaps, exactly as he had said.
He entered through one of these, and found himself in the quarter assigned to the women. Almost at the first step he took, he saw lying on the ground a little bell, such as the monatti wore upon their feet, quite perfect, with all its straps66 and buckles67; and it immediately struck him that perhaps such an instrument might serve him as a passport in that place. He therefore picked it up, and, looking round to see if any one were watching him, buckled68 it on. He then set himself to his search, to that search, which, were it only for the multiplicity of the objects, would have been extremely wearisome, even had those objects been anything but what they were. He began to survey, or rather to contemplate69, new scenes of suffering, in part so similar to those he had already witnessed, in part so dissimilar: for, under the same calamity70, there was here a different kind of suffering, so to say, a different languor, a different complaining, a different endurance, a different kind of mutual71 pity and assistance, there was, too, in the spectator, another kind of compassion, so to say, and another feeling of horror. He had now gone I know not how far, without success, and without accidents, when he heard him a ‘Hey!’— a call, which seemed to be addressed to him. He turned round, and saw at a little distance a commissary, who, with uplifted hand, was beckoning72 to none other but him, and crying, “There, in those rooms, you’re wanted: here we’ve only just finished clearing away.’
Renzo immediately perceived whom he was taken for, and that the little bell was the cause of the mistake; he called himself a great fool for having thought only of the inconveniences which this token might enable him to avoid, and not of those which it might draw down upon him; and at the same instant devised a plan to free himself from the difficulty. He repeatedly nodded to him in a hurried manner, as if to say that he understood and would obey; and then got out of his sight by slipping aside between the cabins.
When he thought himself far enough off, he began to think about dismissing this cause of offence; and to perform the operation without being observed, he stationed himself in the narrow passage between two little huts, which had their backs turned to each other. Stooping down to unloose the buckles, and in this position resting his head against the straw wall of one of the cabins, a voice reached his ear from it . . . Oh heavens! is it possible? His whole soul was in that ear; he held his breath . . . Yes, indeed! it is that voice! . . . ‘Fear of what?’ said that gentle voice: ‘we have passed through much worse than a storm. He who has preserved us hitherto, will preserve us even now.’
If Renzo uttered no cry, it was not for fear of being discovered, but because he had no breath to utter it. His knees failed beneath him, his sight became dim; but it was only for the first moment; at the second he was on his feet, more alert, more vigorous than ever; in three bounds he was round the cabin, stood at the doorway73, saw her who had been speaking, saw her standing74 by a bedside, and bending over it. She turned on hearing a noise; looked, fancied she mistook the object, looked again more fixedly75, and exclaimed: ‘Oh, blessed Lord!’
‘Lucia! I’ve found you! I’ve found you! It’s really you! You’re living!’ exclaimed Renzo, advancing towards her, all in a tremble.
‘Oh, blessed Lord!’ replied Lucia, trembling far more violently. ‘You? What is this? What way? Why? The plague!’
‘I’ve had it. And you! . . . ’
‘Ah! and I too. And about my mother? . . . ’
‘I haven’t seen her, for she’s at Pasturo; I believe, however, she’s very well. But you . . . how pale you still are! how weak you seem! You’re recovered, however, aren’t you?’
‘The Lord has been pleased to leave me a little longer below. Ah Renzo! why are you here?’
‘Why? said Renzo, drawing all the time nearer to her; ‘do you ask why? Why I should come here! Need I say why? Who is there I ought to think about? Am I no longer Renzo? Are you no longer Lucia?’
‘Ah, what are you saying! What are you saying! Didn’t my mother write to you? . . . ’
‘Ay: that indeed she did! Fine things to write to an unfortunate, afflicted76, fugitive77 wretch78 — to a young fellow who has never offered you a single affront79, at least!’
‘But Renzo! Renzo! since you knew . . . why come? why?’
‘Why come? Oh Lucia! Why come, do you say? After so many promises! Are we no longer ourselves? Don’t you any longer remember? What is wanting?’
‘Oh Lord!’ exclaimed Lucia, piteously, clasping her hands, and raising her eyes to heaven, ‘Why hast Thou not granted me the mercy of taking me to Thyself! . . . Oh Renzo, whatever have you done? See; I was beginning to hope that . . . in time . . . you would have forgotten me . . . ’
‘A fine hope, indeed! Fine things to tell me to my face!’
‘Ah, what have you done? and in this place! among all this misery80! among these sights! here, where they do nothing but die, you have! . . . ’
‘We must Pray God for those who die, and hope that they will go to a good place; but it isn’t surely fair, even for this reason, that they who live should live in despair . . . ’
‘But Renzo! Renzo! you don’t think what you’re saying. A promise to the Madonna! — a vow81!’
‘And I tell you they are promises that go for nothing.’
‘Oh Lord! What do you say? where have you been all this time? whom have you mixed with? how are you talking?’
‘I’m talking like a good Christian82; and I think better of the Madonna than you do; for I believe she doesn’t wish for promises that injure one’s fellow-creatures. If the Madonna had spoken, then, indeed! But what has happened? a mere fancy of your own. Don’t you know what you ought to promise the Madonna? promise her that the first daughter we have, we’ll call her Maria; for that I’m willing to promise too: these are things that do much more honour to the Madonna; these are devotions that have some use in them, and do no harm to any one.’
‘No, no; don’t say so: you don’t know what you are saying; you don’t know what it is to make a vow; you’ve never been in such circumstances; you haven’t tried. Leave me, leave me, for Heaven’s sake!’
And she impetuously rushed from him, and returned towards the bed.
‘Lucia!’ said he, without stirring, ‘just tell me this one thing: if there was not this reason . . . would you be the same to me as ever?’
‘Heartless man!’ replied Lucia, turning round, and with difficulty restraining her tears: ‘when you’ve made me say what’s quite useless, what would do me harm, and what, perhaps, would be sinful, will you be content then? Go away — oh, do go! think no more of me; we were not intended for each other. We shall meet again above; now we cannot have much longer to stay in this world. Ah, go! try to let my mother know that I’m recovered; that here, too, God has always helped me: and that I’ve found a kind creature, this good lady, who’s like a mother to me; tell her I hope she will be preserved from this disease, and that we shall see each other again, when and how God pleases. Go away, for Heaven’s sake, and think no more about me . . . except when you say your prayers.’
And, like one who has nothing more to say, and wishes to hear nothing further — like one who would withdraw herself from danger, she again retreated closer to the bed where lay the lady she had mentioned.
‘Listen, Lucia, listen,’ said Renzo, without, however, attempting to go any nearer.
‘No, no; go away, for charity’s sake!’
‘Listen: Father Cristoforo . . . ’
‘What?’
‘He’s here.’
‘Here! Where? How do you know?’
‘I’ve spoken to him a little while ago; I’ve been with him for a short time: and a religious man like him, it seems to me . . . ’
‘He’s here! to assist the poor sick, I dare say. But he? has he had the plague?’
‘Ah Lucia! I’m afraid, I’m sadly afraid . . . ’ And while Renzo was thus hesitating to pronounce the words which were so distressing84 to himself, and he felt must be equally so to Lucia, she had again left the bedside, and was once more drawing near him: ‘I’m afraid he has it now!’
‘Oh, the poor holy man! But why do I say, Poor man? Poor me! How is he? is he in bed? is he attended?’
‘He’s up, going about, and attending upon others; but if you could see his looks, and how he totters85! One sees so many, that it’s too easy . . . to be sure there’s no mistake!’
‘Oh, and he’s here indeed.’
‘Yes, and only a little way off; very little further than from your house to mine . . . if you remember! . . . ’
‘Oh, most holy Virgin86!’
‘Well, very little further. You may think whether we didn’t talk about you. He said things to me . . . And if you knew what he showed me! You shall hear; but now I want to tell you what he said to me first, he, with his own lips. He told me I did right to come and look for you, and that the Lord approves of a youth’s acting87 so, and would help me to find you; which has really been the truth: but surely he’s a saint. So, you see!’
‘But if he said so, it was because he didn’t know a word . . . ’
‘What would you have him know about things you’ve done out of your own head, without rule, and without the advice of any one? A good man, a man of judgment88, as he is, would never think of things of this kind. But oh, what he showed me; . . . ’ And here he related his visit to the cabin; while Lucia, however her senses and her mind must have been accustomed, in that abode89, to the strongest impressions, was completely overwhelmed with horror and compassion.
‘And there, too,’ pursued Renzo, ‘he spoke83 like a saint; he said that perhaps the Lord has designed to show mercy to that poor fellow . . . (now I really cannot give him any other name) . . . and waits to take him at the right moment, but wishes that we should pray for him together . . . Together! did you hear?’
‘Yes, yes; we will pray for him, each of us where the Lord shall place us; He will know how to unite our prayers.’
‘But if I tell you his very words! . . . ’
‘But, Renzo, he doesn’t know . . . ’
‘But don’t you see that when it is a saint who speaks, it is the Lord that makes him speak? and that he wouldn’t have spoken thus, if it shouldn’t really be so . . . And this poor fellow’s soul! I have indeed prayed, and will still pray, for him; I’ve prayed from my heart, just as if it had been for a brother of mine. But how do you wish the poor creature to be, in the other world, if this matter be not settled here below, if the evils he has done be not undone90? For, if you’ll return to reason, then all will be as at first; what has been, has been; he has had his punishment here . . . ’
‘No, Renzo, no; God would not have us do evil that He may show mercy; leave Him to do this; and for us, our duty is to pray to Him. If I had died that night, could not God, then, have forgiven him? And if I’ve not died, if I’ve been delivered . . . ’
‘And your mother, that poor Agnese, who has always wished me well, and who strove so to see us husband and wife, has she never told you that it was a perverted91 idea of yours? She, who has made you listen to reason, too, at other times; for, on certain subjects, she thinks more wisely than you . . . ’
‘My mother! do you think my mother would advise me to break a vow! But, Renzo! you’re not in your proper senses.’
‘Oh, will you have me say so? You women cannot understand these things. Father Cristoforo told me to go back and tell him whether I had found you. I’m going: we’ll hear what he says; whatever he thinks . . . ’
‘Yes yes; go to that holy man; tell him that I pray for him, and ask him to do so for me, for I need it so much, so very much! But for Heaven’s sake, for your own soul’s sake, and mine, never come back here, to do me harm, to . . . tempt65 me. Father Cristoforo will know how to explain things to you, and bring you to your proper senses; he will make you set your heart at rest.’
‘My heart at rest! Oh, you may drive this idea out of your head. You’ve already had those abominable92 words written to me; and I know what I’ve suffered from them; and now you’ve the heart to say so to me. I tell you plainly and flatly that I’ll never set my heart at rest. You want to forget me; but I don’t want to forget you. And I assure you — do you hear? — that if you make me lose my senses, I shall never get them again. Away with my business, away with good rules. Will you condemn93 me to be a madman all my life? and like a madman I shall be . . . And that poor fellow! The Lord knows whether I’ve not forgiven him from my heart; but you . . . Will you make me think, for the rest of my life, that if he had not? . . . Lucia, you have bid me forget you: forget you! How can I? Whom do you think I have thought about for all this time? . . . And after so many things! after so many promises! What have I done to you since we parted? Do you treat me in this way because I’ve suffered? because I’ve had misfortunes? because the world has persecuted94 me? because I’ve spent so long a time from home, un-happy, and far from you? because the first moment I could, I came to look for you?’
When Lucia could sufficiently95 command herself to speak, she exclaimed again, joining her hands, and raising her eyes to heaven, bathed in tears: ‘O most holy Virgin, do thou help me! Thou knowest that, since that night I have never passed such a moment as this. Thou didst succour me then; oh, succour me also now!’
‘Yes, Lucia, you do right to invoke96 the Madonna; but why will you believe that she, who is so kind, the mother of mercy, can have pleasure in making us suffer . . . me, at any rate . . . for a word that escaped you at a moment when you knew not what you were saying? Will you believe that she helped you then, to bring us into trouble afterwards? . . . If, after all, this is only an excuse; — if the truth is, that I have become hateful to you . . . tell me so . . . speak plainly.’
‘For pity’s sake, Renzo, for pity’s sake, for the sake of your poor dead, have done, have done, don’t kill me quite! . . . That would not be a good conclusion. Go to Father Cristoforo, commend me to him; and don’t come back here, don’t come back here.’
‘I go; but you may fancy whether I shall return or not! I’d come back if I was at the end of the world; that I would.’ And he disappeared.
Lucia went and sat down, or rather suffered herself to sink upon the ground, by the side of the bed; and resting her head against it, continued to weep bitterly. The lady, who until now had been attentively watching and listening, but had not spoken a word, asked what was the meaning of this apparition97, this meeting, these tears. But perhaps the reader, in his turn, may ask who this person was; we will endeavour to satisfy him in a few words.
She was a wealthy tradeswoman, of about thirty years of age. In the course of a few days she had witnessed the death of her husband, in his own house, and every one of her children; and being herself attacked shortly afterwards with the common malady98, and conveyed to the Lazzaretto, she had been accommodated in this little cabin, at the time that Lucia, after having unconsciously surmounted the virulence99 of the disease, and, equally unconsciously, changed her companions several times, was beginning to recover and regain31 her senses, which she had lost since the first commencement of her attack in Don Ferrante’s house. The hut could only contain two patients; and an intimacy100 and affection had very soon sprung up between these associates in sickness, bereavement101, and depression, alone as they were in the midst of so great a multitude, such as could scarcely have arisen from long intercourse102 under other circumstances. Lucia was soon in a condition to lend her services to her companion, who rapidly became worse. Now that she, too, had passed the crisis, they served as companions, encouragement, and guards to each other, had made a promise not to leave the Lazzaretto except together, and had, besides, concerted other measures to prevent their separation after having quitted it.
The merchant-woman, who, having left her dwelling104, warehouse105, and coffers, all well furnished, under the care of one of her brothers, a commissioner106 of health, was about to become sole and mournful mistress of much more than she required to live comfortably, wished to keep Lucia with her, like a daughter or sister; and to this Lucia had acceded107, with what gratitude to her benefactress and to Providence108 the reader may imagine; but only until she could hear some tidings of her mother, and learn, as she hoped, what was her will. With her usual reserve, however, she had never breathed a syllable109 about her intended marriage, nor of her other remarkable110 adventures. But now, in such agitation111 of feelings, she had at least as much need to give vent103 to them, as the other a wish to listen to them. And, clasping the right hand of her friend in both hers, she immediately began to satisfy her inquiries112, without further obstacles than those which her sobs presented to the melancholy recital113.
Renzo, meanwhile, trudged114 off in great haste, towards the quarters of the good friar. With a little care, and not without some steps thrown away, he at length succeeded in reaching them. He found the cabin: its occupant, however, was not there; but, rambling115 and peeping about in its vicinity, he discovered him in a tent, stooping towards the ground, or, indeed, almost lying upon his face, administering consolation116 to a dying person. He drew back, and waited in silence. In a few moments he saw him close the poor creature’s eyes, raise himself upon his knees, and after a short prayer, get up. He then went forward, and advanced to meet him.
‘Oh!’ said the friar, on seeing him approach: ‘Well?’
‘She’s there: I’ve found her!’
‘In what state?’
‘Recovered, or at least out of her bed.’
‘The Lord be praised!’
‘But . . . ’ said Renzo, when he came near enough to be able to speak in an under-tone, ‘there’s another difficulty.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that . . . You know already what a good creature this young girl is; but she’s sometimes rather positive in her opinions. After so many promises, after all you know of, now she actually tells me she can’t marry me, because she says — how can I express it? — in that night of terror, her brain became heated — that is to say, she made a vow to the Madonna. Things without any foundation, aren’t they? Good enough for those have knowledge, and grounds for doing them; but for us common people, that don’t well know what we ought to do . . . aren’t they things that won’t hold good?’
‘Is she very far from here?’
‘Oh, no: a few yards beyond the church.’
‘Wait here for me a moment,’ said the friar; ‘and then we’ll go together.’
‘Do you mean that you’ll give her to understand . . . ’
‘I know nothing about it, my son; I must first hear what she has to say to me.’
‘I understand,’ said Renzo; and he was left, with his eyes fixed on the ground, and his arms crossed on his breast, to ruminate117 in still-unallayed suspense. The friar again went in search of Father Vittore, begged him once more to supply his place, went into his cabin, came forth with a basket on his arm, and returning to his expectant companion, said: ‘Let us go.’ He then went forward, leading the way to that same cabin which, a little while before, they had entered together. This time he left Renzo outside; he himself entered, and reappeared in a moment or two, saying: ‘Nothing! We must pray; we must pray. Now,’ added he, ‘you must be my guide.’
And they set off without further words. The weather had been for some time gradually becoming worse, and now plainly announced a not very distant storm. Frequent flashes of lightning broke in upon the increasing obscurity, and illuminated118 with momentary119 brilliancy the long, long roofs and arches of the porticoes120, the cupola of the temple, and the more humble121 roofs of the cabins; while the claps of thunder, bursting forth in sudden peals122, rolled rumbling123 along from one quarter of the heavens to the other. The young man went forward intent upon his way, and his heart full of uneasy expectations, as he compelled himself to slacken his pace, to accommodate it to the strength of his follower124; who, wearied by his labours, suffering under the pressure of the malady, and oppressed by the sultry heat, walked on with difficulty, occasionally raising his pale face to heaven, as if to seek for freer respiration125.
When they came in sight of the little cabin, Renzo stopped, turned round, and said with a trembling voice: ‘There she is.’
They enter . . . ‘See: they’re there!’ exclaimed the lady from her bed. Lucia turned, sprang up precipitately126, and advanced to meet the aged man, crying: ‘Oh, whom do I see? Oh, Father Cristoforo!’
‘Well, Lucia! from how many troubles has the Lord delivered you! You must indeed rejoice that you have always trusted in Him.’
‘Oh yes, indeed! But you, Father? Poor me, how you are altered! How are you? tell me, how are you?’
‘As God wills, and as, by His grace, I will also,’ replied the friar, with a placid127 look. And drawing her on one side, he added; ‘Listen: I can only stay here a few moments. Are you inclined to confide52 in me, as you have done hitherto?’
‘Oh! are you not always my Father?’
‘Then, my daughter, what is this vow that Renzo has been telling me about?’
‘It’s a vow that I made to the Madonna not to marry.’
‘But did you recollect128 at this time, that you were already bound by another promise?’
‘When it related to the Lord and the Madonna! . . . No; I didn’t think about it.’
‘My daughter, the Lord approves of sacrifices and offerings when we make them of our own. It is the heart that He desires — the will; but you could not offer him the will of another, to whom you had already pledged yourself.’
‘Have I done wrong?’
‘No, my poor child, don’t think so: I believe, rather, that the holy Virgin will have accepted the intention of your afflicted heart, and have presented it to God for you. But tell me: have you never consulted with any one on this subject?’
‘I didn’t think it was a sin I ought to confess; and what little good one does, one has no need to tell.’
‘Have you no other motive129 that hinders you from fulfilling the promise you have made to Renzo?’
‘As to this . . . for me . . . what motive? . . . I cannot say . . . nothing else,’ replied Lucia, with a hesitation130 so expressed that it announced anything but uncertainty131 of thought; and her cheeks, still pale from illness, suddenly glowed with the deepest crimson132.
‘Do you believe,’ resumed the old man, lowering his eyes, ‘that God has given to His Church authority to remit133 and retain, according as it proves best, the debts and obligations that men may have contracted to Him?’
‘Yes, indeed I do.’
‘Know, then, that we who are charged with the care of the souls in this place, have, for all those who apply to us, the most ample powers of the Church; and consequently, that I can, when you request it, free you from the obligation, whatever it may be, that you may have contracted by this your vow.’
‘But is it not a sin to turn back, and to repent134 of a promise made to the Madonna? I made it at the time with my whole heart . . . ’ said Lucia, violently agitated by the assault of so unexpected a hope, for so I must call it, and by the uprising, on the other hand, of a terror, fortified135 by all the thoughts which had so long been the principal occupation of her mind.
‘A sin, my daughter?’ said the Father, ‘a sin to have recourse to the Church, and to ask her minister to make use of the authority which he has received from her, and she has received from God? I have seen how you two have been led to unite yourselves; and, assuredly, if ever it would seem that two were joined together by God, you were — you are those two; nor do I now see that God may wish you to be put asunder136. And I bless Him that He has given me, unworthy as I am, the power of speaking in His name, and returning to you your plighted137 word. And if you request me to declare you absolved138 from this vow, I shall not hesitate to do it; nay139, I wish you may request me.’
‘Then! . . . then! . . . I do request you,’ said Lucia, with a countenance no longer agitated, except by modesty140.
The friar beckoned141 to the youth, who was standing in the furthest corner, intently watching (since he could do nothing else) the dialogue in which he was so much interested; and, on his drawing near, pronounced, in an explicit142 voice, to Lucia, ‘By the authority I have received from the Church, I declare you absolved from the vow of virginity, annulling143 what may have been unadvised in it, and freeing you from every obligation you may thereby144 have contracted.’
Let the reader imagine how these words sounded in Renzo’s ears. His eyes eagerly thanked him who had uttered them, and instantly sought those of Lucia; but in vain.
‘Return in security and peace to your former desires,’ pursued the Capuchin, addressing Lucia; ‘beseech the Lord again for those graces you once besought to make you a holy wife; and rely upon it, that He will bestow145 them upon you more abundantly, after so many sorrows. And you,’ said he, turning to Renzo, ‘remember, my son, that if the Church restores to you this companion, she does it not to procure146 for you a temporal and earthly pleasure, which, even could it be complete, and free from all intermixture of sorrow, must end in one great affliction at the moment of leaving you; but she does it to lead you both forward in that way of pleasantness which shall have no end. Love each other as companions in a journey, with the thought that you will have to part from one another, and with the hope of being reunited for ever. Thank Heaven that you have been led to this state, not through the midst of turbulent and transitory joys, but by sufferings and misery, to dispose you to tranquil147 and collected joy. If God grants you children, make it your object to bring them up for Him, to inspire them with love to Him, and to all men; and then you will train them rightly in everything else. Lucia! has he told you,’ and he pointed to Renzo, ‘whom he has seen here?’
‘Oh yes, Father, he has!’
‘You will pray for him! Don’t be weary of doing so. And you will pray also for me; . . . My children! I wish you to have a remembrance of the poor friar.’ And he drew out of his basket a little box of some common kind of wood, but turned and polished with a certain Capuchin precision, and continued; ‘Within this is the remainder of that loaf . . . the first I asked for charity; that loaf, of which you must have heard speak! I leave it to you: take care of it; show it to your children! They will be born into a wretched world, into a miserable age, in the midst of proud and exasperating148 men: tell them always to forgive, always! — everything, everything! and to pray for the poor friar!’
So saying, he handed the box to Lucia, who received it with reverence149, as if it had been a sacred relic150. Then, with a calmer voice, he added, ‘Now then, tell me; what have you to depend upon here in Milan? Where do you propose to lodge151 on leaving this? And who will conduct you to your mother, whom may God have preserved in health?’
‘This good lady is like a mother to me: we shall leave this place together, and then she will provide for every thing.’
‘God bless you,’ said the friar, approaching the bed.
‘I, too, thank you,’ said the widow, ‘for the comfort you have given these poor creatures; though I had counted upon keeping this dear Lucia always with me. But I will keep her in the meanwhile; I will accompany her to her own country, and deliver her to her mother; and,’ added she, in a lower tone, ‘I should like to provide her wardrobe. I have too much wealth, and have not one left out of those who should have shared it with me.’
‘You may thus,’ said the friar, ‘make an acceptable offering to the Lord, and at the same time benefit your neighbour. I do not recommend this young girl to you, for I see already how she has become your daughter: it only remains to bless God, who knows how to show Himself a father even in chastisement152, and who, by bringing you together, has given so plain a proof of His love to both of you. But come!’ resumed he, turning to Renzo, and taking him by the hand, ‘we two have nothing more to do here: we have already been here too long. Let us go.’
‘Oh, Father!’ said Lucia: ‘Shall I see you again? I, who am of no service in this world have recovered; and you! . . . ’
‘It is now a long time ago,’ replied the old man, in a mild and serious tone, ‘since I besought of the Lord a very great mercy, that I might end my days in the service of my fellow-creatures. If He now vouchsafes153 to grant it me, I would wish all those who have any love for me, to assist me in praising Him. Come, give Renzo your messages to your mother.’
‘Tell her what you have seen,’ said Lucia to her betrothed154; ‘that I have found another mother here, that we will come to her together as quickly as possible, and that I hope, earnestly hope, to find her well.’
‘If you want money,’ said Renzo, ‘I have about me all that you sent, and . . . ’
‘No, no,’ interrupted the widow; ‘I have only too much.’
‘Let us go,’ suggested the friar.
‘Good-bye, till we meet again, Lucia! . . . and to you too, kind lady,’ said Renzo, unable to find words to express all that he felt in such a moment.
‘Who knows whether the Lord, in His mercy, will allow us all to meet again!’ exclaimed Lucia.
‘May He be with you always, and bless you,’ said Friar Cristoforo to the two companions; and, accompanied by Renzo, he quitted the cabin.
The evening was not far distant, and the crisis of the storm seemed still more closely impending155. The Capuchin again proposed to the houseless youth to take shelter for that night in his humble dwelling. ‘I cannot keep you company,’ added he; ‘but you will at least be under cover.’
Renzo, however, was burning to be gone, and cared not to remain any longer in such a place, where he would not be allowed to see Lucia again, nor even be able to have a little conversation with the good friar. As to the time and weather, we may safely say that night and day, sunshine and shower, zephyr156 and hurricane, were all the same to him at that moment. He therefore thanked his kind friend, but said that he would rather go as soon as possible in search of Agnese.
When they regained the road, the friar pressed his hand, and said, ‘If (as may God grant!) you find that good Agnese, salute157 her in my name; and beg her, and all those who are left, and remember Friar Cristoforo, to pray for him. God go with you, and bless you for ever!’
‘Oh, dear Father! . . . We shall meet again? — we shall meet again?’
‘Above, I hope.’ And with these words he parted from Renzo, who, staying to watch him till he beheld him disappear, set off hastily towards the gate casting his farewell looks of compassion on each side over the melancholy scene. There was an unusual bustle158, carts rolling about, monatti running to and fro, people securing the curtains of the tents, and numbers of feeble creatures groping about among these, and in the porticoes, to shelter themselves from the impending storm.
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1
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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9
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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12
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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13
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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14
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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15
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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19
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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20
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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21
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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22
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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23
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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26
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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27
edified
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| v.开导，启发( edify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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29
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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30
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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32
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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36
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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38
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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41
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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42
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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43
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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44
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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45
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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46
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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47
trespasses
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| 罪过( trespass的名词复数 )； 非法进入 | |
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48
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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49
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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50
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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51
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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52
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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53
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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54
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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55
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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56
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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57
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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58
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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59
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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60
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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61
cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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62
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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63
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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64
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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65
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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66
straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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67
buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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68
buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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69
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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70
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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71
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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72
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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73
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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74
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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75
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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76
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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78
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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79
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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80
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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81
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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82
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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83
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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84
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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85
totters
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的第三人称单数 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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86
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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87
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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88
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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89
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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90
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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91
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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92
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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93
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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94
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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95
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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96
invoke
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| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
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97
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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98
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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99
virulence
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| n.毒力，毒性；病毒性；致病力 | |
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100
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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101
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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102
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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103
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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104
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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105
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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106
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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107
acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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108
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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109
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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110
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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111
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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112
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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113
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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114
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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115
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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116
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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117
ruminate
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| v.反刍；沉思 | |
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118
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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119
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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120
porticoes
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| n.柱廊，（有圆柱的）门廊( portico的名词复数 ) | |
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121
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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122
peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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123
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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124
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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125
respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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126
precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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127
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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128
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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129
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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130
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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131
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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132
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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133
remit
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| v.汇款，汇寄；豁免（债务），免除（处罚等） | |
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134
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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135
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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136
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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137
plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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138
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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139
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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140
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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141
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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143
annulling
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| v.宣告无效( annul的现在分词 )；取消；使消失；抹去 | |
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144
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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145
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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146
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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147
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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148
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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149
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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150
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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151
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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152
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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153
vouchsafes
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的第三人称单数 )；允诺 | |
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154
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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155
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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156
zephyr
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| n.和风，微风 | |
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157
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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158
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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