The Betrothed (Manzoni)/Chapter 33
CHAPTER XXXIII.
Renzo had heard vague mention made of severe orders, forbidding the entrance of strangers into Milan, without a certificate of health; but these were easily evaded, for Milan had reached a point when such prohibition was useless, even if it could have been put into execution. Whoever ventured there, might rather appear careless of his own life, than dangerous to that of others.
With this conviction, Renzo's design was to attempt a passage at the first gate, and in case of difficulty to wander on the outside of the walls until he should find one easy of access. It would be difficult to say how many gates he thought Milan had.
When he arrived before the ramparts, he looked around him; there was no indication of living being, except on a point of the platform, a thick cloud of dense smoke arising; this was occasioned by clothing, beds, and infected furniture, which were committed to the flames; every where along the ramparts appeared the traces of these melancholy conflagrations.
The weather was close, the air heavy, the sky covered by a thick cloud, or fog, which excluded the sun, without promising rain. The surrounding country was neglected and sterile; all verdure extinct, and not a drop of dew on the dry and withering leaves. The depth, solitude, and silence, so near a large city, increased the gloom of Renzo's thoughts; he proceeded, without being aware of it, to the gate Nuova, which had been hid from his view by a bastion, behind which it was then concealed. A noise of bells, sounding at intervals, mingled with the voices of men, saluted his ear; turning an angle of the bastion, he saw before the gate a sentry-box, and a sentinel leaning on his musket, with a wearied and careless air. Exactly before the opening was a sad obstacle, a hand-barrow, upon which two monatti were extending an unfortunate man, to carry him off; it was the chief of the toll-gatherers, who had just been attacked by the pestilence. Renzo awaited the departure of the convoy, and no one appearing to close the gate, he passed forwards quickly; the sentinel cried out "Holla!" Renzo stopping, showed him a half ducat, which he drew from his pocket; whether he had had the pestilence, or that he feared it less than he loved ducats, he signed to Renzo to throw it to him; seeing it at his feet, he cried, "Go in, quickly," a permission of which Renzo readily availed himself. He had hardly advanced forty paces when a toll-collector called to him to stop. He pretended not to hear, and passed on. The call was repeated, but in a tone more of anger than of resolution to be obeyed—and this being equally unheeded, the collector shrugged his shoulders and turned back to his room.
Renzo proceeded through the long street opposite the gate which leads to the canal Naviglio, and had advanced some distance into the city without encountering a single individual; at last he saw a man coming towards him, from whom he hoped he might gain some information; he moved towards him, but the man showed signs of alarm at his approach. Renzo, when he was at a little distance, took off his hat, like a polite mountaineer as he was, but the man drew back, and raising a knotty club, armed with a spike, he cried, "Off! off! off!" "Oh! oh!" cried Renzo; he put on his hat, and having no desire for a greeting of this fashion, he turned his back on the discourteous passenger and went on his way.
The citizen retired in an opposite direction, shuddering and looking back in alarm: when he reached home he related how a poisoner had met him with humble and polite manners, but with the air of an infamous impostor, and with a phial of poison or the box of powder (he did not know exactly which) in the lining of his hat, to poison him, if he had not kept him at a distance. "It was unlucky," said he, "that we were in so private a street; if it had been in the midst of Milan, I would have called the people, and he would have been seized: but alone, it was enough to have saved myself—but who knows what destruction he may not already have effected in the city:"—and years after, when the poisoners were talked of, the poor man maintained the truth of the fact, as "he had had ocular proof."
Renzo was far from suspecting the danger he had escaped; and, reflecting on this reception, he was more angry than fearful. "This is a bad beginning," thought he; "my star always seems unpropitious when I enter Milan. To enter is easy enough, but, once here, misfortunes thicken. However—by the help of God—if I find—if I succeed in finding—all will be well."
The streets were silent and deserted; no human being could he see; a single disfigured corpse met his eye in the channel between the street and the houses. Suddenly he heard a cry, which appeared addressed to him; and he perceived, not far off, on the balcony of a house, a woman, surrounded by a group of children, making a sign to him to approach. As he did so, "O good young man!" said she, "do me the kindness to go to the commissary, and tell him that we are forgotten here. They have nailed up the house as suspected, because my poor husband is dead; and since yesterday morning no one has brought us any thing to eat, and these poor innocents are dying of hunger."
"Of hunger!" cried Renzo. "Here, here," said he, drawing the two loaves from his pocket. "Lower something in which I may put them."
"God reward you! wait a moment," said the woman, as she went in search of a basket and cord to suspend it.
"As to the commissary, my good woman," said he, putting the loaves in the basket, "I cannot serve you, because, to tell truth, I am a stranger in Milan, and know nothing of the place. However, if I meet any one a little humane and tractable, to whom I can speak, I will tell him."
The woman begged him to do so, and gave him the name of the street in which she lived.
"You can also render me a service, without its costing you any thing," said Renzo. "Can you tell me where there is a nobleman's house in Milan, named * * *?"
"I know there is a house of that name, but I do not know where it is. Further on in the city you will probably find some one to direct you. And remember to speak of us."
"Do not doubt me," said Renzo, as he passed on.
As he advanced, he heard increasing a sound that had already attracted his attention, whilst stopping to converse with the poor woman; a sound of wheels and horses' feet, with the noise of little bells, and occasionally the cracking of whips and loud cries.
As he reached the square of San Marco, the first objects he saw were two beams erected, with a cord and pulleys. He recognised the horrible instrument of torture! These were placed on all the squares and widest streets, so that the deputies of each quarter of the city, furnished with the most arbitrary power, could subject to them whoever quitted a condemned house, or neglected the ordinances, or by any other act appeared to merit the punishment; it was one of those extreme and inefficacious remedies, which, at this epoch, were so absurdly authorised. Now, whilst Renzo was gazing at this machine, he heard the sounds increasing, and beheld a man appear, ringing a little bell; it was an apparitore, and behind him came two horses, who advanced with difficulty, dragging a car loaded with dead; after this car came another, and another, and another; monatti walked by the side of the horses, urging them on with their whips and with oaths. The bodies were for the most part naked; some were half covered with rags, and heaped one upon another; at each jolt of the wretched vehicles, heads were seen hanging over, the long tresses of women were displayed, arms were loosened and striking against the wheels, thrilling the soul of the spectator with indescribable horror!
The youth stopped at a corner of the square to pray for the unknown dead. A frightful thought passed over his mind. "There, perhaps, there, with them—O God! avert this misfortune! let me not think of it!"
The funeral convoy having passed on, he crossed the square, and reached the Borgo Nuovo by the bridge Marcellino. He perceived a priest standing before a half-open door, in an attitude of attention, as if he were confessing some one. "Here," said he, "is my man. If a priest, and in the discharge of his duty, has no benevolence, there is none left in the world who has." When he was at a few paces distance from him, he took off his hat, and made a sign that he wished to speak with him, keeping, however, at a discreet distance, so as not to alarm the good man unnecessarily. Renzo having made his request, was directed to the hotel. "May God watch over you now and for ever!" said Renzo, "and," added he, "I would ask another favour." And he mentioned the poor forgotten woman. The worthy man thanked him for affording him the opportunity to bestow help where it was so greatly needed, and bade him farewell.
Renzo found it difficult enough to recollect the various turnings pointed out by the priest, disturbed as his mind was by apprehensions for the issue of his enquiries. An end was about to be put to his doubts and fears; he was to be told, "she is living," or, "she is dead!" This idea took such powerful possession of his mind, that at this moment, he would rather have remained in his former ignorance, and have been at the commencement of the journey, to the end of which he so nearly approached. He gathered courage, however. "Ah!" cried he, "if I play the child now, how will it end!" Plunging therefore into the heart of the city, he soon reached one of its most desolated quarters, that which is called the Carrobio di Porta Nuova. The fury of the contagion here, and the infection from the scattered bodies, had been so great, that those who had survived had been obliged to fly: so that, whilst the passenger was struck with the aspect of solitude and death, his senses were painfully affected by the traces of recent life. Renzo hastened on, hoping to find an improvement in the scene, before he should arrive at the end of his journey. In fact, he soon reached what might still be called the city of the living, but, alas! what living! Every door was closed from distrust and terror, except such as had been left open by the flight of the inhabitants, or by the monatti; some were nailed on the outside, because there were within people dead, or dying of the pestilence; others were marked with a cross, for the purpose of informing the monatti that their services were required, and much of this was done more by chance than otherwise; as a commissary of health happened to be in one spot rather than in another, and chose to enforce the regulations. On every side were seen infected rags and bandages, clothes and sheets, which had been thrown from the windows; dead bodies which had been left in the streets until a car should pass to take them up, or which had fallen from the cars themselves, or been thrown from the houses; so much had the long duration and the violence of the pest brutalised men's minds, and subdued every spark of human feeling or sympathy. The customary sounds of human occupation or pleasure had ceased; and this silence of death was interrupted only by the funeral cars, the lamentations of the sick, the shrieks of the frantic, or the vociferations of the monatti.
At the break of day, at noon, and at night, a bell of the cathedral gave the signal for reciting certain prayers, which had been ordered by the archbishop, and this was followed by the bells of the other churches. Then persons were seen at the windows, and a confused blending of voices and groans was heard, which inspired a sorrow, not however unmixed with consolation. It is probable that at this time not less than two thirds of the inhabitants had died, and of the remainder many were sick or had left the city. Every one you met exhibited signs of the dreadful calamity. The usual dress was changed of every order of persons. The cloak of the gentleman, the robe of the priest, the cowl of the monk, in short, every loose appendage of dress that might occasion contact, was carefully dismissed; every thing was as close on the person as possible. Men's beards and hair were alike neglected, from fear of treachery on the part of the barbers. Every man walked with a stick, or even a pistol, to prevent the approach of others. Equal care was shown in keeping the middle of the street to avoid what might be thrown from windows, and in avoiding the noxious matters in the road. But if the aspect of the uninfected was appalling, how shall we describe the condition of the wretched sick in the street, tottering or falling to rise no more—beggars, children, women.
Renzo had travelled far on his way, through the midst of this desolation, when he heard a confused noise, in which was distinguishable the horrible and accustomed tinkling of bells.
At the entrance of one of the most spacious streets, he perceived four cars standing; monatti were seen entering houses, coming forth with burthens on their shoulders, and laying them on the cars; some were clothed in their red dress, others without any distinctive mark, but the greater number with a mark, more revolting still than their customary dress,—plumes of various colours, which they wore with an air of triumph in the midst of the public mourning, and whilst people from the different windows around were calling to them to remove the dead. Renzo avoided, as much as possible, the view of the horrid spectacle; but his attention was soon attracted by an object of singular interest; a female, whose aspect won the regards of every beholder, came out of one of the houses, and approached the cars. In her features was seen beauty, veiled and clouded, but not destroyed, by the mortal debility which seemed to oppress her; the soft and majestic beauty which shines in the Lombard blood. Her step was feeble, but decided; she wept not, although there were traces of tears on her countenance. There was a tranquillity and profundity in her grief, which absorbed all her powers. But it was not her appearance alone which excited compassion in hearts nearly closed to every human feeling; she held in her arms a young girl about nine years of age, dead, but dressed with careful precision; her hair divided smoothly on her pale forehead, and clothed in a robe of the purest white. She was not lying, but was seated, on the arm of the lady, her head leaning on her shoulder; you would have thought she breathed, if a little white hand had not hung down with inanimate weight, and her head reposed on the shoulder of her mother, with an abandonment more decided than that of sleep. Of her mother! it was indeed her mother! If the resemblance of their features had not told it, you would have known it by the expression of that fair and lovely countenance!
A hideous monatto approached the lady, and with unusual respect offered to relieve her of her burthen. "No," said she, with an appearance neither of anger nor disgust, "do not touch her yet; it is I who must place her on the car. Take this," and she dropped a purse into the hands of the monatto; "promise me not to touch a hair of her head, nor to let others do it, and bury her thus."
The monatto placed his hand on his heart, and respectfully prepared a place on the car for the infant dead. The lady, after having kissed her forehead, placed her on it, as carefully as if it were a couch, spread over her a white cloth, and took a last look; "Farewell! Cecilia! rest in peace! To-night we will come to you, and then we shall be separated no more!" Turning again to the monatto, "As you pass to-night," said she, "you will come for me; and not for me only!"
She returned into the house, and a moment after appeared at a window, holding in her arms another cherished child, who was still living, but with the stamp of death on her countenance. She contemplated the unworthy obsequies of Cecilia, until the car disappeared from her eyes, and then left the window with her mournful burthen. And what remained for them, but to die together, as the flower which proudly lifts its head, falls with the bud, under the desolating scythe which levels every herb of the field.
"O God!" cried Renzo, "save her! protect her! her and this innocent creature! they have suffered enough! they have suffered enough!"
He then proceeded on his way, filled with emotions of distress and pity. Another convoy of wretched victims encountered him at a cross street on their way to the lazaretto. Some were imploring to be allowed to die on their own beds in peace; some moving on with imbecile apathy, women as usual with their little ones, and even some of these supported and encouraged with manly devotion by their brothers a little older than themselves, and whom alone the plague had for a time spared for this affecting office. When the miserable crowd had nearly passed, he addressed a commissary whose aspect was a little less savage than the rest; and enquired of him the street and the house of Don Ferrante. He replied, "The first street to the right, the last hotel to the left."
The young man hastened thither, with new and deeper trouble at his heart. Easily distinguishing the house, he approached the door, raised his hand to the knocker, and held it suspended awhile, before he could summon resolution to knock.
At the sound, a window was half opened, and a female appeared at it, looking towards the door with a countenance which appeared to ask, "Is it monatti? thieves? or poisoners?"
"Signora," said Renzo, but in a tremulous voice, "is there not here in service a young villager of the name of Lucy?"
"She is no longer here; begone," replied the woman, about to close the window.
"A moment, I beseech you. She is no longer here! Where is she?"
"At the lazaretto."
"A moment, for the love of Heaven! With the pestilence?"
"Yes. It is something very uncommon, is it not? Begone then."
"Wait an instant. Was she very ill? Is it long since?"
But this time the window was closed entirely.
"Oh! signora, signora! one word, for charity! Alas! alas! one word!" But he might as well have talked to the wind.
Afflicted by this intelligence, and vexed with the rude treatment of the woman, Renzo seized the knocker again, and raised it for the purpose of striking. In his distress, he turned to look at the neighbouring houses, with the hope of seeing some one, who would give him more satisfactory information. But the only person he discovered, was a woman, about twenty paces off, who, with an appearance of terror, anger, and impatience, was making signs to some one to approach; and this she did, as if not wishing to attract Renzo's notice. Perceiving him looking at her, she shuddered with horror.
"What the devil!" said Renzo, threatening her with his fist, but she, having lost the hope of his being seized unexpectedly, cried aloud, "A poisoner! catch him! catch him! stop the poisoner!"
"Who? I! old sorceress! be silent," cried Renzo, as he approached her in order to compel her to be so. But he soon perceived that it was best to think of himself, as the cry of the woman had gathered people from every quarter; not in so great numbers as would have been seen three months before under similar circumstances, but still many more than one man could resist. At this moment, the window was again opened, and the same discourteous woman appeared at it, crying, "Seize him, seize him; he must be one of the rascals who wander about to poison the doors of people."
Renzo determined in an instant that it was better to fly than to stop to justify himself. Rapidly casting his eyes around to see on which side there were the fewest people, and fighting his way through those that opposed him, he soon freed himself from their clutches.
The street was deserted before him; but behind him the terrible cry still resounded, "Seize him! stop him! a poisoner!" It gained on him, steps were close at his heels. His anger became rage; his agony, despair; drawing his knife from his pocket, and brandishing it in the air, he turned, crying aloud, "Let him who dares come here, the rascal, and I will poison him indeed with this."
But he saw, with astonishment and pleasure, that his persecutors had already stopped, as if some obstacle opposed their path; and were making frantic gestures to persons beyond him. Turning again, he beheld a car approaching, and even a file of cars with their usual accompaniments. Beyond them was another little band of people prepared to seize the poisoner, but prevented by the same obstacle. Seeing himself thus between two fires, it occurred to Renzo, that that which was an object of terror to these people, might be to him a source of safety. Reflecting that this was not a moment for fastidious scruples, he advanced towards the cars, passed the first, and perceiving in the second a space large enough to receive him, threw himself into it.
"Bravo! bravo!" cried the monatti with one shout. Some of them were following the convoy on foot, others were seated on the cars, others on the dead bodies, drinking from an enormous flagon, which they passed around. "Bravo! that was well done!"
"You have placed yourself under the protection of the monatti; you are as safe as if you were in a church," said one, who was seated on the car into which Renzo had thrown himself.
The enemy was obliged to retreat, crying, however, "Seize him! seize him! he is a poisoner!"
"Let me silence them!" said the monatto; and drawing from one of the dead bodies a dirty rag, he tied it up in a bundle, and made a gesture as if intending to throw it among them, crying, "Here, rascals!" At the sight, all fled away in horror!
A howl of triumph arose from the monatti.
"Ah! ah! you see we can protect honest people," said the monatto to Renzo, "one of us is worth a hundred of those cowards."
"I owe my life to you," said Renzo, "and I thank you sincerely."
"'Tis a trifle, a trifle; you deserve it; 'tis plain to be seen you're a brave fellow; you do well to poison this rabble; extirpate the fools, who, as a reward for the life we lead, say, that the plague once over, they will hang us all. They must all be finished, before the plague ceases; the monatti alone must remain to sing for victory, and to feast in Milan."
"Life to the pestilence, and death to the rabble!" cried another, putting the flagon to his mouth, from which he drank freely, and then offered it to Renzo, saying, "Drink to our health."
"I wish it to you all," said Renzo, "but I am not thirsty, and do not want to drink now."
"You have been terribly frightened, it seems," said the monatto; "you appear to be a harmless sort of a person; you should have another face than that for a poisoner."
"Give me a drop," said a monatto, who walked by the side of the cars; "I would drink to the health of the nobleman, who is here in such good company—in yonder carriage!" And with a malignant laugh he pointed to the car in which poor Renzo was seated. Then brutally composing his features to an expression of gravity, he bowed profoundly, saying, "Will you permit, my dear master, a poor devil of a monatto to taste a little wine from your cellar? Do now, because we lead rough lives, and moreover, we are doing you the favour to take you a ride into the country. And besides, you are not accustomed to wine, and it might harm your lordship; but the poor monatti have good stomachs."
His companions laughed loudly; he took the flagon, and before he drank, turned again to Renzo, and with an air of insulting compassion said, "The devil with whom you have made a compact, must be very young; if we had not saved you, you would have been none the better for his assistance."
His companions laughed louder than before, and he applied the flagon to his lips.
"Leave some for us! some for us!" cried those from the forward car. After having taken as much as he wanted, he returned the flagon to his companions, who passed it on; the last of the company having emptied it, threw it on the pavement, crying, "Long live the pestilence!" Then they commenced singing a lewd song, in which they were accompanied by all the voices of the horrible choir. This infernal music, blended with the tingling of the bells, the noise of the wheels, and of the horses' feet, resounded in the empty silence of the streets, echoed through the houses, wringing the hearts of the very few who still inhabited them!
But the danger of the preceding moment had rendered more than tolerable to Renzo, the company of these wretches and the dead they were about to inter; and even this music was almost agreeable to his ears, as it relieved him from the embarrassment of such conversation. He returned thanks to Providence for having enabled him to escape from his peril, without receiving or doing an injury; and he prayed God to help him now to deliver himself from his liberators. He kept on the watch to seize the first opportunity of quietly quitting the car, without exciting the opposition of his protectors.
At last they reached the lazaretto. At the appearance of a commissary, one of the two monatti who were on the car with Renzo jumped to the ground, in order to speak with him: Renzo hastily quitting the ear, said to the other, "I thank you for your kindness; God reward you."
"Go, go, poor poisoner," replied he, "it will not be you who will destroy Milan!"
Fortunately no one heard him. Renzo hastened onwards by the wall, crossed the bridge, passed the convent of the capuchins, and then perceived the angle of the lazaretto. In front of the inclosure a horrible scene presented itself to his view. Arrived in front of the lazaretto, throngs of sick were pressing into the avenues which led to the building; some were seated or lying in the ditch, which bordered the road on either side, their strength not having sufficed to enable them to reach their asylum, or who, having quitted it in desperation, were too weak to go further; others wandered by themselves, stupified, and insensible to their condition; one was quite animated, relating his imaginations to a miserable companion, who was stretched on the ground, oppressed by suffering; another was furious from despair; a third, more horrible still! was singing, in a voice above all the rest, and with heart-rending hilarity, one of the popular songs of love, gay and playful, which the Milanese call villanelle.
Already weary, and confounded at the view of so much misery concentrated within so small a space, our poor Renzo reached the gate of the lazaretto. He crossed the threshold, and stood for a moment motionless under the portico.