Bot-S: Vol 21: The Classics

 But that he 
might suffer nothing of this new disquietude to be apparent 
either in word or deed, he* carefully endeavoured to con- 
ceal it under the mask of deeper and more vehement ferocity ; 
and by this means also he sought to disguise it from him- 



338 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

self, or entirely to stifle it. Envying (since he could neither 
annihilate nor forget them) the days in which he had 
been accustomed to commit iniquity without remorse, and 
without further solicitude than for its success, he used 
every endeavour to recall them, and to retain or recover 
his former unfettered, daring, and undisturbed will, that 
he might convince himself he was still the same man. 

On this occasion, therefore, he had hastily pledged his 
word to Don Rodrigo, that he might close the door against 
all hesitation. Feeling, however, on his visitor's departure, 
a failing of the resolution that he had summoned up to 
make the promise, and gradually overwhelmed with thoughts 
presenting themselves to his mind, which tempted him to 
break his word, and which, if yielded to, would have made 
him sink very low in the eyes of his friend, a secondary 
accomplice, he resolved at once to cut short the painful con- 
flict, and summoned Nibbio" to his presence, one of the 
most dexterous and venturesome ministers of his enormities, 
and the one whom he was accustomed to employ in his 
correspondence with Egidio. With a resolute countenance he 
ordered him immediately to mount his horse, to go straight 
to Monza, to inform Egidio of the engagement he had made, 
and to request his counsel and assistance in fulfilling it. 

The worthless messenger returned more expeditiously 
than his master expected, with Egidio's reply, that the under- 
taking was easy and secure : if the Unnamed would send a 
carriage which would not be known as his, with two or three 
well-disguised bravoes, Egidio would undertake the charge 
of all the rest, and would manage the whole affair. At this 
announcement, the Unnamed, whatever might be passing 
in his mind, hastily gave orders to Nibbio to arrange all as 
Egidio required, and to go himself, with two others whom 
he named, upon this expedition. 

Had Egidio been obliged to reckon only on ordinary means 
for the accomplishment of the horrible service he had been 
requested to undertake, he certainly would not thus readily 
have given so unhesitating a promise. But in that very 
asylum, where it would seem all ought to have been an 
obstacle, the atrocious villain had a resource known only 

-A kite. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 339 

to himself; and that which would have been the greatest 
difficuhy to others became an instrument to him. We have 
already related how the unhappy Signora on one occasion 
lent an ear to his addresses ; and the reader may have under- 
stood that this was not the last time, — that it was but the 
first step in a career of abomination and bloodshed. The 
same voice, rendered imperative, and almost authoritative 
through guilt, now imposed upon her the sacrifice of the 
innocent creature who had been committed to her care. 

The proposal was frightful to Gertrude. To lose Lucia 
by an unforeseen accident, and without any fault on her 
part, would have seeemed to her a misfortune, a bitter pun- 
ishment : but now she was enjoined to deprive herself of her 
society by a base act of perfidy, and to convert a means of 
expiation into a fresh subject for remorse. The unhappy 
lady tried every method to extricate herself from the horrible 
command ;— every method, except the only one which would 
have been infallible, and which still remained in her power. 
Guilt is a rigid and inflexible tyrant, against whom all are 
powerless but those who entirely rebel. On this Gertrude 
could not resolve, and she obeyed. 

It was the day fixed; the appointed hour approached; 
Gertrude retired with Lucia into her private apartment, 
and there lavished upon her more caresses than usual, which 
Lucia received and returned with increasing affection: as 
the lamb, trembling under the hand of the shepherd as he 
coaxes and gently urges it forward, turns to lick that very 
hand, unconscious that the butcher waits outside the sheep- 
fold, to whom the shepherd a moment before has sold it. 

' I want you to do me a great service ; one that nobody 
but you can do. I have plenty of persons ready to obey 
me, but none whom I dare trust. On some very important 
business, which I will tell you about afterwards, I want to 
speak to the Father-guardian of the Capuchins who brought 
you here to me, my poor Lucia ; but it is absolutely necessary 
that no one should know I have sent for him. I have nobody 
but you who can secretly carry this message . . .' 

Lucia was terrified at such a request; and with her own 
native modesty, yet not without a strong expression of 
surprise, she endeavoure'd to dissuade her by adducing rea- 



340 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

sons which the Signora ought to have understood and fore- 
seen: without her mother, without an escort, by a soHtary 
road, in an unknown country . . . But Gertrude, instructed 
in an infernal school, manifested much surprise and dis- 
pleasure at finding this stubborn opposition in one whom 
she had so greatly benefited, and pretended to think her 
excuses very frivolous. In broad daylight — a mere step — 
a road Lucia had travelled only a few days before, and 
which could be so described that even a person who had 
never seen it could not possibly go astray ! . . . In short, 
she said so much, that the poor girl, touched at once with 
gratitude and shame, suffered the words to escape : ' Well, 
what am I to do ? ' 

' Go to the convent of the Capuchins ; ' and here she again 
described the road ; ' ask for the Father-guardian, and tell 
him to come to me as quickly as possible; but not to let 
any one know that he comes at my request.' 

' But what shall I say to the portress, who has never seen 
me go out, and will therefore be sure to ask whither I am 
going?' 

' Try to get out without her seeing you ; and if you can't 
manage it, tell her you are going to such a church, where 
you have vowed to offer up some prayers.' 

Here was a new difficulty for Lucia, — to tell a falsehood; 
but the Signora again showed herself so vexed by her re- 
pulses, and made her so ashamed of herself for interposing 
a vain scruple in the way of gratitude, that the poor girl, 
stupefied rather than convinced, and greatly affected by her 
words, replied : ' Very well ; I will go. And may God help 
me!' 

And she set off. 

But Gertrude, who from her grated window followed 
her with a fixed and anxious look, no sooner saw her set 
foot on the threshold, than, overcome by an irresistible 
emotion, she exclaimed : ' Listen, Lucia ! ' 

Lucia turned round, and advanced towards the window. 
But another thought, the thought accustomed to predominate, 
had already prevailed over Gertrude's unhappy mind. Pre- 
tending that she was not yet satisfied with the instructions 
she had given, she again described to Lucia the road she 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 341 

must follow, and dismissed her, saying: 'Do everything as 
I have told you, and return quickly.' Lucia departed. 

She passed the gate of the cloister unobserved, and took 
the road along the side of the wall, with her eyes bent to 
the ground; by the help of the directions she had received, 
and her own recollection, she found the city gate, and went 
out. Self-possessed, but still rather trembling, she pro- 
ceeded along the high road, and shortly reached the turn 
to the convent, which she immediately recognized. This 
road was, and still is, buried, like the bed of a river, between 
two high banks bordered with trees, which spread their 
branches over it like a vaulted roof. Lucia felt her fears 
increase, and quickened her steps, as she found herself quite 
alone on entering it: but a few paces further her courage 
revived on seeing a travelling carriage standing, and two 
travellers looking this and that way, as if uncertain of the 
road. On drawing nearer, she overheard one of them say- 
ing : ' Here is a good woman, who will show us the way.' 
In fact, when she had got opposite the carriage, the same 
person, with a more courteous manner than countenance, 
turned' and addressed her : ' My good girl, can you tell us 
which is the way to Monza? ' 

' You have taken the wrong direction,' replied the poor 
girl : ' Monza is there . . .' and turning to point it out with 
her finger, the other companion (it was Nibbio) seized her 
unexpectedly round the waist, and lifted her from the ground. 
Lucia, in great alarm, turned her head round, and uttered a 
scream ; the ruffian pushed her into the carriage ; a third, who 
was seated in the back of it, concealed from view, received 
her and forced her, in spite of her struggles and cries, to sit 
down opposite to him ; while another put a handkerchief over 
her mouth, and stifled her cries. Nibbio now hastily threw 
himself into the carriage, shut the door, and they set off at a 
rapid pace. The other, who had made the treacherous inquiry, 
remained in the road, and looked hurriedly around : no one was 
to be seen : he therefore sprang upon the bank, grasped a 
branch of the hedge which was planted upon the summit, 
pushed through the fence, and entering a plantation of green 
oaks, which, for a short distance, ran along the side of the 
road, stooped down there; that he might not be seen by the 



342 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

people who would probably be attracted by the cries. This 
man was one of Egidio's villains ; he had been to watch near 
the gate of the monastery, had seen Lucia go out, had noticed 
her dress and figure, and had then run by a shorter way to 
wait for her at the appointed spot. 

Who can represent the terror, the anguish of the unfortu- 
nate girl, or describe what was passing in her mind? She 
opened her terrified eyes, from anxiety to ascertain her 
horrible situation, and quickly closed them again with a 
shudder of fear at the sight of the dreadful faces that met 
her view: she writhed her body, but found that she was 
held down on all sides; she collected all her strength, and 
made a desperate effort to push towards the door; but two 
sinewy arms held her as if she were nailed to the bottom 
of the carriage, while four other powerful hands supported 
her there. At every signal she gave of intending to utter 
a cry, the handkerchief was instantly stuffed into her mouth 
to smother the sound, while three infernal mouths, with 
voices more human than they were accustomed to utter, con- 
tinued to repeat: 'Be still, be still; don't be afraid, we don't 
want to do you any harm.' After a few moments of agonized 
struggle, she seemed to become quieter; her arms sank 
by her side, her head fell backwards, she half opened her 
eyelids, and her eyes became fixed ; the horrible faces which 
surrounded her appeared to mingle and flock before her in 
one monstrous image ; the colour fled from her cheek ; a cold 
moisture overspread her face; her consciousness vanished, 
and she fainted away. 

' Come, come, courage,' said Nibbio. ' Courage, courage,' 
repeated the two other ruffians; but the prostration of every 
faculty preserved Lucia, at that moment, from hearing the 
consolations addressed to her by those horrible voices. 

'The ! she seems to be dead,' said one of them: 'if 

she's really dead ! ' 

' Pshaw ! ' said the other : ' It's only a swoon, such as 
women often fall into. I know well enough that when Fve 
wanted to send another, be it man or woman, into the other 
world, it has required something more than this.' 

* Hold your tongues,' said Nibbio. 'Attend to your own 
business, and mind nothing else. Take your muskets from 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 343 

under the seat, and keep them in readiness ; for there are 
always some villains hidden in the wood we are entering. 

Not in your hands, the ! put them behind your backs, 

and let them lie there ; don't you see that she's a cowardly 
chicken, who faints for nothing? If she sees fire-arms, it 
will be enough to kill her outright. And when she recovers, 
take good care you don't frighten her ; don't touch her unless 
I beckon to you; I am enough to manage her. And hold 
your tongues : leave me to talk to her.' 

In the mean while the carriage, which was proceeding at 
a very rapid pace, entered the wood. 

After some time, the unhappy Lucia gradually began to 
come to her senses, as if awaking from a profound and 
troubled sleep, and slowly opened her eyes. At first she 
found it difficult to distinguish the gloomy objects that sur- 
rounded her, and collect her scattered thoughts; but she 
at last succeeded in recalling her fearful situation. The 
first use she made of her newly recovered, though still 
feeble, powers, was to rush towards the door, and attempt 
to throw herself out; but she was forcibly restrained, and 
had only time to get a glance at the wild solitude of the 
place through which they were passing. She again uttered 
a cry; but Nibbio, holding up the handkerchief in his 
dreaded hand, ' Come,' said he, in the gentlest tone he could 
command, 'be quiet, and it will be better for you. We 
don't want to do you any harm ; but if you don't hold your 
tongue, we'll make you.' 

' Let me go ! Who are you ? Where are you takmg 
me? Why have you seized me? Let me go, let me go ! ' 

'I tell you, you needn't be afraid: you're not a baby, 
and you ought to understand that we don't want to do you 
any harm. Don't you see that we might have murdered 
you a hundred times, if we had any bad intentions?— so be 

quiet.' , 

'No, no, let mc go on my own busmess ; I don t know 

you.' 

' We know you, however.' 

' O most holy Virgin ! Let me go,^ for pity's sake. Who 
are you? Why have you taken me?' 

' Because we have bcen^Did to do so.' 



344 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

'Who? Who? Who can have bid you ? ' 

'Hush!' said Nibbio, with a stern look; 'you mustn't 
ask me such questions.' 

Lucia made a third attempt to throw herself suddenly 
out of the window; but finding it in vain, she again had 
recourse to entreaties ; and with her head bent, her cheeks 
bathed with tears, her voice interrupted by sobs, and her 
hands clasped before her, ' Oh ! ' cried she, ' for the love 
of God and the most holy Virgin, let me go ! What harm 
have I done? I am an innocent creature, and have done 
nobody any harm. I forgive you the wrongs you have done 
me, from the bottom of my heart, and will pray God for 
you. If any of you have a daughter, a wife, a mother, think 
what they would suffer, if they were in this state. Re- 
member that we must all die, and that you will one day 
want God to be merciful towards you. Let me go; leave 
me here ; the Lord will teach me to find my way.' 

' We cannot.' 

' You cannot ! Oh my God ! Why can't you ? Where 
are you taking me? Why?' . . . 

' We cannot ; it's no use asking. Don't be afraid, for we 
won't harm you : be quiet, and nobody'Il touch you.' 

Overcome with distress, agony, and terror at finding that 
her words made no impression, Lucia turned to Him who 
holds the hearts of men in His hand, and can, when it 
pleaseth Him, soften the most obdurate. She sank back 
into the corner where she had been placed, crossed her 
arms on her breast, and prayed fervently, from the bottom 
of her heart ; then, drawing out her rosary, she began to 
repeat the prayers with more faith and devotion than she 
had ever done before in her life. From time to time she would 
turn to entreat her companions, in hopes that she might 
gain the mercy she implored ; but she implored in vain. 
Then she fell back, and again became senseless, only to 
awake to new anguish. But we have not the heart to relate 
these agonizing vicissitudes more at length ; a feeling of 
overpowering compassion makes us hasten to the close of 
this mournful journey, which lasted for more than four 
hours ; succeeding which we shall be obliged to describe 
many hours of still more bitter anguish. We will transport 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 345 

ourselves to the castle where the unhappy girl was expected. 
She was awaited by the Unnamed with a solicitude and 
anxiety of mind which were very unusual. Strange! that 
he who had disposed of so many lives with an imperturbed 
heart, who in so many undertakings had considered as noth- 
ing the sufferings he inflicted, unless it were sometimes to 
glut his appetite with the fierce enjoyment of revenge, should 
now feel a recoiling, a regret— I might almost say, a feeling 
of alarm, at the authority he was exercising over this 
Lucia, — a stranger, a poor peasant-girl! From a lofty 
window of his castle he had been for some time watching 
the entrance of the valley ; by auv. by the carriage made its 
appearance, slowly advancing along the road; for the rapid 
pace at which they had at first started had curbed the 
mettle and cooled the ardour of the horses. And although, 
from the post where he stood to watch, the convoy looked 
no larger than one of those diminutive vehicles with which 
children are wont to amuse themselves, yet he hesitated 
not a moment to recognize it; and his heart began afresh 
to beat violently. 

Will she be there? — thought he immediately; and he 

continued to say to himself :— What trouble this creature 
gives me ! I will free myself from it. — 

And he prepared to summon one of his men, and despatch 
him immediately to meet the carriage, with orders to Nibbio 
to turn round, and conduct her at once to Don Rodrigo's 
palace. But an imperative no, that instantly flashed across 
his mind, made him at once abandon this design. Wearied 
at length by the desire of ordering something to be done, 
and intolerably tired of idly waiting the approach of the 
carriage, as it advanced slowly, step by step, like a traitor 
to his punishment, he at length summoned an old woman 
of his household. 

This person was the daughter of a former keeper of the 
castle, had been born within its walls, and spent all her 
life there. All that she had seen and heard around her 
from her very infancy, had contributed to impress upon 
her mind a lofty and terrible idea of the power of her 
masters; and the principal maxim that she had acquired 
from instruction and example was, that they must be obeyed 



346 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

in everything, because they were capable of doing either 
great good or great harm. The idea of duty, deposited Hke 
a germ in the hearts of all men, and mingling in hers with 
sentiments of respect, dread, and servile devotion, was 
associated with, and solely directed to, these objects. When 
the Unnamed became her lord, and began to make such 
terrible use of his power, she felt, from the first, a kind of 
horror, and, at the same time, a more profound feeling of 
subjection. In time she became habituated to what she 
daily saw and heard around her: the potent and unbridled 
will of such a Signor was, in her idea, a kind of justice 
appointed by fate. When somewhat advanced in years, 
she had married a servant of the household, who, being 
sent on some hazardous expedition, shortly afterwards left 
his bones on the highway, and her a widow in the castle. 
The vengeance which the Signor quickly took on the in- 
struments of his death, yielded her a savage consolation, 
and increased her pride at being under such protection. 
From that time forward she rarely set foot outside the 
castle, and, by degrees, retained no other ideas of human 
life than such as she received within its precincts. She 
was not confined to any particular branch of service, but 
among such a crowd of ruffians, one or other was con- 
stantly finding her some thing to do, which furnished her 
with a never-failing subject for grumbling. Sometimes 
she would have clothes to repair, sometimes a meal to pro- 
vide in haste, for one who had returned from an expedition, 
and sometimes she was called upon to exercise her medical 
skill in dressing a wound. The commands, reproaches, and 
thanks of these ruffians, were generally seasoned with jokes 
and rude speeches : ' old woman ' was her usual appella- 
tion; while the adjuncts which were perpetually attached 
to it, varied according to the circumstances and humour 
of the speaker. Crossed thus in her idleness, and irritated 
in her peevish temper, which were her two predominant 
passions, she sometimes returned these compliments with 
language in which Satan might have recognized more of 
■his own spirit than in that of her tormentors. 

' You see that carriage down there ? ' said the Signor to 
this amiable specimen of woman-kind. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 347 

*I see it/ replied she, protruding her sharp chin, and 
staring with her sunken eyes, as if trying to force them out 
of their sockets. 

' Bid them prepare a Htter immediately ; get into it your- 
self, and let it be carried to Malanotte instantly, that you 
may get there before the carriage; it is coming on at a 
funeral pace. In that carriage there is . . . there ought to 
be ... a young girl. If she's there, tell Nibbio it is my 
order that she should be put into the litter, and that he 
must come directly to me. You will come up in the litter 
with the . . . girl ; and when you are up here, take her into 
your own room. If she asks you where you are taking her, 
whom the castle belongs to, take care . . .' 

* Oh ! ' said the old woman. 

' But,' continued the Unnamed, ' try to encourage her.' 

* What must I say to her? ' 

* What must you say to her ? Try to encourage her, I 
tell you. Have you come to this age, and don't know how to 
encourage others when they want it ! Have you ever known 
sorrow of heart? Have you never been afraid? Don't 
you know what words soothe and comfort at such moments? 
Say those words to her; find them in the remembrance of 
your own sorrows. Go directly.' 

As soon as she had taken her departure, he stood for a 
while at the window, with his eyes fixed on the carriage, 
which had already considerably increased in size; after- 
wards he watched the sun, at that moment sinking behind 
the mountain; then he contemplated the fleecy clouds scat- 
tered above the setting orb, and from their usual greyish 
hue almost instantaneously assuming a fiery tinge. He drew 
back, closed the window, and began to pace up and down 
the apartment with the step of a hurried traveller. 



CHAPTER XXI 

THE old woman immediately hastened to obey, and tc 
give commands, under the sanction of that name, 
which by whomsoever pronounced, always set the 
whole household on the alert ; for it never entered the imagin- 
ation of any one, that another person would venture to use 
it unauthorized. She reached Malanotte shortly before the 
carriage arrived; and on seeing it approach, got out 
of the litter, beckoned to the driver to stop, advanced 
towards the door, and whispered to Nibbio, who put his 
head out of the window, the wishes of his master. 

Lucia aroused herself, on feeling the carriage stop, and, 
awaking from a kind of lethargy, was seized with renewed 
terror, as she wildly gazed around her. Nibbio had pushed 
himself back on the seat, and the old woman, with her chin 
resting on the door, was looking at Lucia, and saying, 
' Come, my good girl ; come, you poor thing ; come with me, 
for I have orders to treat you well, and try to comfort you.' 

At the sound of a female voice, the poor girl felt a ray of 
comfort — a momentary flash of courage; but she quickly 
relapsed into still more terrible fears. 'Who are you?' 
asked she, in a trembling voice, fixing her astonished gaze 
on the old woman's face. 

' Come, come, you poor creature,' was the unvaried answer 
she received. Nibbio, and his two companions, gathering 
from the words, and the unusually softened tones of the old 
hag, what were the intentions of their lord, endeavoured, 
by kind and soothing words, to persuade the unhappy girl 
to obey. She only continued, however, to stare wildly 
around ; and though the unknown and savage character of 
the place, and the close guardianship of her keepers, forbade 
her indulging a hope of relief, she nevertheless, attempted 
to cry out ; but seeing Nibbio cast a glance towards the 
handkerchief, she stopped, trembled, gave a momentary 
shudder, and was then seized, and placed in the litter. The 
old woman entered after her; Nibbio left the other two 

348 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 349 

villains to follow behind as an escort, while he himself took 
the shortest ascent to attend to the call of his master. 

'Who are you?' anxiously demanded Lucia of her un- 
known and ugly-visaged companion : ' Why am I with you ? 
Where am I ? Where are you taking me ? ' 

' To one who wishes to do you good,' replied the aged 
dame; 'to a great . . . Happy are they to whom he wishes 
good ! You are very lucky, I can tell you. Don't be afraid — 
be cheerful ; he bid me try to encourage you. You'll tell 
him, won't you, that I tried to comfort you?' 

' Who is he ? — why ? — what does he want with me ? I 
don't belong to him ! Tell me where I am ! let me go ! bid 
these people let me go — bid them carry me to some church. 
Oh ! you who are a woman, in the name of Mary the 
Virgin ! . . .' 

This holy and soothing name, once repeated with venera- 
tion in her early years, and now for so long a time unin- 
voked, and, perhaps, unheard, produced in the mind of the 
unhappy creature, on again reaching her ear, a strange, con- 
fused, and distant recollection, like the remembrance of 
light and form in an aged person, who has been blind from 
infancy. 

In the meanwhile, the Unnamed, standing at the door of 
his castle, was looking downwards, and watching the litter, 
as before he had watched the carriage, while it slowly 
ascended, step by step ; Nibbio rapidly advancing before it 
at a distance which every moment became greater. When 
he had at length attained the summit. * Come this way,' 
cried the Signor; and taking the lead, he entered the castle, 
and went into one of the apartments. 

'Well?' said he, making a stand. 

' Everything exactly right,' replied Nibbio, with a pro- 
found obeisance ; ' the intelligence in time, the girl in time, 
nobody on the spot, only one scream, nobody attracted by it, 
the coachman ready, the horses swift, nobody met with : 
but . . .' 

'But what?' 

' But ... I will tell the truth ; I would rather have been 
commanded to shoot her in the back, without hearing her 
speak — without seeing her face.' 



350 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

' What ? . . .what ? . . . what do you mean ? ' 

' I mean that all this time ... all this time ... I have 
felt too much compassion for her.' 

' Compassion ! What do you know of compassion? What 
is compassion? ' 

' I never understood so well what it was as this time; it is 
something that rather resembles fear; let it once take pos- 
session of you, and you are no longer a man.' 

'Let me hear a little of what she did to excite your 
compassion.' 

' O, most noble Signer ! such a time ! . . . weeping, pray- 
ing, and looking at one with such eyes ! and becoming pale 
as death ! and then sobbing, and praying again, and certain 
words . . .' 

I won't have this creature in my house, — thought the 

Unnamed, meanwhile, to himself. — In an evil hour, I en- 
gaged to do it; but I've promised— I've promised. When 
she's far away . - . And raising his face with an imperious 
air towards ISIibbio, ' Now,' said he, ' you must lay aside 
compassion, mount your horse, take a companion — two, if 
you like— and ride away, till you get to the palace of this 
Don Rodrigo, you know. Tell him to send immediately 
. . . immediately, or else . . .' 

But another internal no, more imperative than the first, 
prohibited his finishing. 'No,' said he, in a resolute tone 
almost, as it were, to express to himself the command 
of this secret voice. ' No : go and take some ^ rest ; 
and to-morrow morning . . . you shall do as I will tell 

you.' 

This girl must have some demon of her own, — thought 

he, when left alone, standing with his arms crossed on his 
breast, and his gaze fixed upon a spot on the floor, where the 
rays of the moon, entering through a lofty window, traced 
out a square of pale light, chequered like a draught-board 
by the massive iron bars, and more minutely divided into 
smaller compartments by the little panes of glass.— Some 
demon, or . . . some angel who protects her . . . Com- 
passion in Nibbic! . . . To-morrow morning— to-morrow 
morning, early she must be off from this; she must go to 
her place of destination; and she shall not be spoken of 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 351 

again, and, — continued he to himself, with the resolution 
with which one gives a command to a rebellious child, 
knowing that it will not be obeyed; — and she shall not be 
thought of again, either. That animal of a Don Rodrigo 
must not come to pester me with thanks; for ... I don't 
want to hear her spoken of any more. I have served him 
because . . . because I promised ; and I promised, because 
... it was my destiny. But I'm determined the fellow shall 
pay me well for this piece of service. Let me see a 
little ... — 

And he tried to devise some intricate undertaking, to 
impose upon Don Rodrigo by way of compensation, and 
almost as a punishment ; but the words again shot across his 
mind — Compassion in Nibbio ! — What can this girl have 
done? — continued he, following out the thought; — I must 
see her. Yet no — yes, I will see her. — 

He went from one room to another, came to the foot of 
a flight of stairs, and irresolutely ascending, proceeded to the 
old woman's apartment; here he knocked with his foot at 
the door. 

' Who's there ? ' 

' Open the door.' 

The old woman made three bounds at the sound of his 
voice ; the bolt was quickly heard grating harshly in the 
staples, and the door was thrown wide open. The Unnamed 
cast a glance round the room, as he paused in the doorway ; 
and by the light of a lamp which stood on a three-legged 
table, discovered Lucia crouched down on the floor, in the 
corner farthest from the entrance. 

' Who bid you throw her there, like a bag of rags, you 
uncivil old beldame ? ' said he to the aged matron, with an 
angry frown. 

* She chose it herself,' replied she, in an humble tone. 
' I've done my best to encourage her ; she can tell you so 
herself; but she won't mind me.' 

* Get up,' said he to Lucia, approaching her. But she, 
whose already terrified mind had experienced a fresh and 
mysterious addition to her terror at the knocking, the open- 
ing of the door, his footstep, and his voice, only gathered 
herself still closer into the corner, and, with her face buried 



352 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

in her hands, remained perfectly motionless, excepting that 
she trembled from head to foot. 

* Get up ; I will do you no harm . . . and I can do you 
some good,' repeated the Signor . . . ' Get up ! ' thundered 
he forth at last, irritated at having twice commanded in 
vain. 

As if invigorated by fear, the unhappy girl instantly raised 
herself upon her knees, and joining her hands, as she would 
have knelt before a sacred image, lifted her eyes to the face 
of the Unnamed, and' instantly dropping them, said : ' Here 
I am, kill me if you will.' 

' I have told you I would do you no harm,' replied the 
Unnamed, in a softened tone, gazing at her agonized features 
of grief and terror. 

'Courage, courage,' said the old woman; 'if he himself 
tells you he will do you no harm . . .' 

' And why,' rejoined Lucia, with a voice in which the 
daringness of despairing indignation was mingled with the 
tremor of fear, 'why make me suffer the agonies of hell? 
What have I done to you? . . .' 

' Perhaps they have treated you badly ? Tell me . . .' 
' Treated me badly ! They have seized me by treachery — 
by force! Why — why have they seized me? Why am I 
here? Where am I? I am a poor harmless girl. What 
have I done to you? In the name of God . . .' 

' God, God ! ' interrupted the Unnamed, ' always God ! 
They who cannot defend themselves — who have not the 
strength to do it, must always bring forward this God, as if 
they had spoken to him. What do you expect by this word? 
To make me? . . .' and he left the sentence unfinished. 

' O Signor, expect ! What can a poor girl like me expect, 
except that you should have mercy upon me? God pardons 
so many sins for one deed of mercy. Let me go ; for 
charity's sake, let me go. It will do no good to one who 
must die, to make a poor creature suffer thus. Oh ! you 
who can give the command, bid them let me go ! They 
brought me here by force. Bid them send me again 
with this woman, and take me to * * * , where my mother 
is. Oh ! most holy Virgin ! My mother ! my mother ! — for 
pity's sake, my mother. Perhaps she is not far from here 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 353 

... I saw my mountains. Why do you give me all this 
suffering? Bid them take me to a church; I will pray for 
you all my life. What will it cost you to say one word? 
Oh, see ! you are moved to pity : say one word, oh say it ! 
God pardons so many sins for one deed of mercy ! ' 

— Oh, why isn't she the daughter of one of the rascally 
dogs that outlawed me ! — thought the Unnamed ; — of one of 
the villains who wish me dead; then I should enjoy her 
sufferings ; but instead . . . — 

' Don't drive away a good inspiration ! ' continued Lucia, 
earnestly, reanimated by seeing a certain air of hesitation in 
the countenance and behaviour of her oppressor. ' If you 
don't grant me this mercy, the Lord will do it for me. I shall 
die, and all will be over with me ; but you . . . Perhaps, some 
day, even you . . . But no, no ; I will always pray the Lord to 
keep you from every evil. What will it cost you to say one 
word? If you knew what it was to suffer this agony! . . .' 

' Come, take courage,' interrupted the Unnamed, with a 
gentleness that astonished the old woman. ' Have I done 
you any harm ? Have I threatened you ? ' 

' Oh no ! I see that you have a kind heart, and feel some 
pity for an unhappy creature. If you chose, you could 
terrify me more than all the others: you could kill me with 
fear ; but instead of that, you have . . . rather lightened my 
heart; God will reward you for it. Finish your deed of 
mercy: set me free, set me free.' 

' To-morrow morning . . .' 

' Oh ! set me free now — now . . .' 

' To-morrow morning. I will see you again, I say. Come, 
in the mean while, be of good courage. Take a little rest; 
you must want something to eat. They shall bring you some- 
thing directly.' 

' No, no ; I shall die, if anybody comes here ; I shall die ! 
Take me to a church . . . God will reward you for that 

step.' 

' A woman shall bring you something to eat,' said the 
Unnamed; and having said so, he stood wondering at him- 
self how such a remedy had entered his mind, and how the 
wish had arisen to seek a remedy for the sorrows of a poor 
humble villager. 

* 12 — VOL. x.xi 

lie 



3S4 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

* And you,' resumed he hastily, turning to the aged matron, 
' persuade her to eat something, and let her lie down to rest 
on this bed ; and if she is willing to have you as a com- 
panion, well ; if not, you can sleep well enough for one 
night on the floor. Encourage her, I say, and keep her 
cheerful. Beware that she has no cause to complain of 
you.' 

So saying, he moved quickly towards the door. Lucia 
sprang up, and ran to detain him, and renew her entreaties; 
but he was gone. 

' Oh, poor me ! Shut the door quickly.' And having heard 
the door closed, and the bolt again drawn, she returned to 
seat herself in her corner. ' Oh, poor me ! ' repeated she, 
sobbing ; ' whom shall I implore now ? Where am I ? Do 
you tell me — tell me, for pity's sake, who is this Signor . . . 
he who has been speaking to me?' 

'Who is he, eh? — who is he? Do you think I may tell 
you? Wait till he tells you himself. You are proud, be- 
cause he protects you ; and you want to be satisfied, and 
make me your go-between. Ask him yourself. If I were 
to tell you this, I shouldn't get the good words he has just 
given you. I am an old woman, an old woman,' continued she, 
muttering between her teeth. ' Hang these young folks, who 
may make a fine show of either laughing or crying, just as 
they like, and yet are always in the right.' But hearing 
Lucia's sobs and the commands of her master returning in 
a threatening manner to her memory, she stooped toward the 
poor crouching girl, and, in a gentler and more humane 
tone, resumed : ' Come, I have said no harm to you ; be 
cheerful. Don't ask me questions which Lve no business 
to answer; but pluck up heart, my good girl. Ah! if you 
knew how many people would be glad to hear him speak, 
as he has spoken to you ! Be cheerful, for he will send 
you something to eat just now; and I know ... by the way 
he spoke, Fm sure it will be something good. And then you 
lie down, and . . . you will leave just a little corner for me,' 
added she, with an accent of suppressed rancour. 

* I don't want to eat, I don't want to sleep. L^t me alone; 
don't come near me ; but you won't leave the room ? ' 

' No, no, not I,' said the old woman, drawing back, and 



I PROMESST SPOSI 3SS 

seating herself on an old arm-chair, whence she cast sundry 
glances of alarm, and at the same time of envy, towards the 
Joor girl. Then she looked at the bed, vexed at the idea 
of being, perhaps, excluded from it for the whole night, and 
grumblfng at the cold. But she comforted herself with the 
thoughts of supper, and with the hope that there might be 
some to spare for her. Lucia was sensible of neither cold 
nor hunger, and, almost as if deprived of hef senses, had 
but a confused idea of her very grief and terror, like the 
undefined objects seen by a delirious patient. 

She roused herself, when she heard a knocking at the 
door; and raising her head, exclaimed, in much alarm, 
' Who's there ?— who's there ? Don't let any one i" ' ' ^ . , 
' Nobody, nobody ; good news ! ' said the old woman ; ' it's 
Martha bringing something to eat.' 

' Shut the door, shut the door ! ' cried Lucia. 
'Ay, directly,' replied the old woman; and taking a 
basket'out of Martha's hand, she hastily nodded to her, shut 
the door, and came and set the basket on a table, in the 
middle of the room. She then repeatedly invited Lucia to 
come and partake of the tempting repast, and employing 
words, which, according to her ideas, were most likely to be 
efficacious in restoring the poor girl's appetite, broke forth 
into exclamations on the excellence of the food ;— ' Morsels 
which, when common people have once got a taste, they 
don't forget in a hurry ! Wine, which her master drank with 
his friends . . . when any of them happened to arrive , . . 
and they wanted to be merry ! Hem ! ' But seeing that all 
these charms produced no effect—' It is you who won't^ eat,' 
said she. ' Don't you be saying to-morrow that I didn't try 
to persuade you. I'll eat something, however; and then 
there'll be more than enough left for you, when you come 
to your senses, and are willing to do as you are bid.' 
So saying, she applied herself with avidity to the refresh- 
ments. When she had satisfied herself, she rose, advanced 
towards the corner, and bending over Lucia, again invited 
her to take something, and then lie down. 

' No, no, I don't want anything,' replied she, with a feeble 
and almost drowsy voice. THen with more energy she con- 
tinued ; ' Is the door locked ?— is it well secured ? ' And 



356 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

having looked around, she rose, and feeling with her hands, 
walked with a suspicious step towards the door. 

The old woman sprang thither before her, stretched out 
her hand to the lock, seized the handle, shook it, rattled the 
bolt, and made it grate against the staple that received and 
secured it. ' Do you hear? — do you see? — is it well locked? 
Are you content now ? ' 

' Oh, content ! I content here ! ' said Lucia, again ar- 
ranging herself in her corner. ' But the Lord knows I'm 
here ! ' 

' Come to bed ; what would you do there, crouching like a 
dog? Did ever anybody see a person refuse comforts, when 
he could get them ? ' 

* No, no ; let me alone.' 

' Well, it's your own wish. See, I'll leave you the best 
place; I'm lying here on the very edge; I shall be uncom- 
fortable enough, for your sake. If you want to come to bed, 
you know what you have to do. Remember, I've asked you 
very often.' So saying, she crept, dressed as she was, under 
the counterpane, and soon all was silent. 

Lucia remained motionless, shrunk up into the corner, 
her knees drawn close to her breast, her hands resting on 
her knees, and her face buried in her hands. She was 
neither asleep nor awake, but worn out with a rapid suc- 
cession — a tumultuous alternation, of thoughts, anticipa- 
tions, and heart-throbbings. Recalled, in some degree, to 
consciousness, and recollecting more distinctly the horrors 
she had seen and suffered that terrible day, she would now 
dwell mournfully on the dark and formidable realities in 
which she found herself involved ; then, her mind being car- 
ried onward into a still more obscure region, she had to 
struggle against the phantoms conjured up by uncertainty 
and terror. In this distressing state she continued for a 
long time, which we would here prefer to pass over rapidly ; 
but at length, exhausted and overcome, she relaxed her hold 
on her benumbed limbs, and sinking at full length upon the 
floor, remained for some time in a state closely resembling 
real sleep. But suddenly awaking, as at some inward call, 
she tried to arouse herself completely, to regain her scat- 
tered senses, and to remember where she was, and how, and 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 357 

why. She listened to some sound that caupjht her ear; it 
was the slow, deep breathing of the old woman. She opened 
her eyes, and saw a faint light, now glimmering for a mo- 
ment, and then again dying away: it was the wick of the 
lamp' which, almost ready to expire, emitted a tremulous 
gleam, and quickly drew it back, so to say, like the ebb 
and flow of a wave on the sea-shore ; and thus, withdrawmg 
from the surrounding objects ere there was time to display 
them in distinct colouring and relief, it merely presented 
to the eye a succession of confused and indistinct glimpses. 
But the recent impressions she had received quickly returned 
to her mind, and assisted her in distinguishing what ap- 
peared so disorderly to her visual organs. When fully 
aroused, the unhappy girl recognized her prison; all the 
recollections of the horrible day that was. fled, all the un- 
certain terrors of the future, rushed at once upon her mmd: 
the very calm in which she now found herself after so much 
acritation, the sort of repose she had just tasted, the deser- 
tion in which she was left, all combined to inspire her with 
new dread, till, overcome by alarm, she earnestly longed for 
death But at this juncture, she remembered that she could 
still pray and with that thought there seemed to shine forth 
a sudden ray of comfort. She once more took out her 
rosary, and began to repeat the prayers; and m proportion 
as the words fell from her trembling lips, she felt an in- 
definite confiding faith taking possession of her heart. Sud- 
denly another thought rushed into her mind, that her prayer 
might, perhaps, be more readily accepted, and more certain y 
heard if she were to make some offering in her desolate 
condition. She tried to remember what she most prized, or 
rather what she had once most prized; for at this moment 
her heart could feel no other affection than that of fear, nor 
conceive any other desire than that of deliverance. She did 
remember it, and resolved at once to make the sacrifice. 
Rising upon her knees, and clasping her hands, from whence 
the rosary was suspended before her breast, she raised her 
face and eyes to heaven, and said, 'O most hoy Virgin! 
thou to whom I have so often recommended myself, and who 
hast so often comforted me !-thou who hast borne so many 
sorrows, and art now so.glorious !-thou who hast wrought 



358 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

so many miracles for the poor and afflicted, help me? 
Bring me out of this danger ; bring me safely to my mother, 
O Mother of our Lord; and I vow unto thee to continue a 
virgin ! I renounce for ever my unfortunate betrothed, that 
from henceforth I may belong only to thee ! ' 

Having uttered these w^ords, she bowed her head, and 
placed the beads around her neck, almost as a token of her 
consecration, and, at the same time, as a safeguard, a part of 
the armour for the new warfare to which she had devoted 
herself. Seating herself again on the floor, a kind of tran- 
quillity, a more childlike reliance, gradually diffused them- 
selves over her soul. The to-morrow morning, repeated by 
the unknown nobleman, came to her mind, and seemed to her 
ear to convey a promise of deliverance. Her senses, wearied 
by such struggles, gradually gave way before these soothing 
thoughts ; until at length, towards day-break, and with the 
name of her protectress upon her lips, Lucia sank into a 
profound and unbroken sleep. 

But in this same castle there was one who would willingly 
have followed her example, yet who tried in vain. After 
departing, or rather escaping, from Lucia, giving orders for 
her supper, and paying his customary visits to several posts 
in his castle, with her image ever vividly before his eyes, 
and her words resounding in his ears, the nobleman had 
hastily retired to his chamber, impetuously shut the door 
behind him, and hurriedly undressing, had lain down. But 
that image, which now more closely than ever haunted"'his 
mind, seemed at that moment to say : ' Thou shalt not 
sleep ! ' — What absurd womanly curiosity tempted me to go 
see her? — thought he. — That fool of a Nibbio was right: 
one is no longer a man ; yes, one is no longer a man ! . . . 
I? ... am I no longer a man? What has happened? What 
devil has got possession of me? What is there new in all 
this? Didn't I know, before now, that women always weep 
and implore ? Even men do sometimes, when they have not 

the power to rebel. What the ! have I never heard 

women cry before? — 

And here, without giving himself much trouble to task 
his memory, it suggested to him, of its own accord, more 
than one instance in which neither entreaties nor lamen- 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 3S9 

tations availed to deter him from the completion of enter- 
prises upon which he had once resolved. But these remem- 
brances, instead of inspiring him with the courage he now 
needed to prosecute his present design as it would seem 
he expected and wished they might, instead of helpmg to 
dispel his feelings of compassion, only added to them those 
of terror and consternation, until they compelled hmi to re- 
turn to that first image of Lucia, against which he had been 
seeking to fortify his courage.-She still lives,— said he:— 
She is here; I am in time; I can yet say to her. Go, and be 
happy • I can yet see that countenance change ; I can even 
say Forgive me . . . Forgive me? I ask forgiveness? And 
of a woman, too? I? ... Ah, however! if one word, one 
such word could do me good, could rid me of the demon 
that now possesses me, I would say it; yes, I feel that L 
would say it. To what am I reduced! Fm no longer a 
man; surely, no longer a man! . . . Away !-said he turn- 
incr himself with impetuosity on the couch which had now 
become so hard, under the covering which had now become 
so intolerable a weight :-Away ! these are fooleries which 
have many a time passed through my head. This will take 

its flight too. — 

And to effect such a riddance, he began seeking some 
important subject, some of the many which often so busily 
occupied his mind, in hopes he might be entirely engrossed 
by it- but he sought in vain. All appeared changed: that 
which once most urgently stimulated his desires, now no 
longer possessed any charms for him: his passions, like a 
steed suddenly become restive at the sight of a shadow, 
refused to carry him any further. In reflecting on enter- 
prises engaged in, and not yet concluded, mstead of ani- 
mating himself to their completion, and feelmg irritated at 
the obstacles interposed, (for anger at this moment would 
have been sweet to him,) he felt regret, nay, almost con- 
sternation, at the steps already taken. His life presented 
itself to his mind devoid of all interest, deprived of all 
will divested of every action, and only laden with insup- 
portable recollections; every hour resembling that which 
now rolled so slowly and heavily over his head He drew 
out before his fancy all his ruffians in a kind of battle- 



360 ALESSANDRO MANZOXI 

array, and could contrive nothing of importance in which 
to employ one of them; nay, the very idea of seeing them 
again, and mixing among them, was an additional weight, 
a fresh object of annoyance and detestation. And when 
he sought an occupation for the morrow, a feasible employ- 
ment, he could only remember that on the morrow, he 
might liberate his unfortunate prisoner. 

— I will set her free; yes, I will. I will fly to her by 
day-break, and bid her depart safely. She shall be accom- 
panied by . . . And my promise? My engagement? Don 
Rodrigo ? . . . Who is Don Rodrigo ? — 

Like one suddenly surprised by an unexpected and em- 
barrassing question from a superior, the Unnamed hastily 
sought for an answer to the query he had just put to him- 
self, or rather which had been suggested to him by that 
new voice which had all at once made itself heard, and 
sprung up to be, as it were, a judge of his former self. 
He tried to imagine any reasons which could have induced 
him, almost before being requested, to engage in inflicting 
so much suffering, without any incentives of hatred or fear, 
on a poor unknown creature, only to render a service to 
this man; but instead of succeeding in discovering such 
motives as he would now have deemed sufficient to excuse 
the deed, he could not even imagine how he had ever been 
induced to undertake it. The willingness, rather than the 
determination to do so, had been the instantaneous impulse 
of a mind obedient to its old and habitual feelings, the con- 
sequence of a thousand antecedent actions; and to account 
for this one deed, the unhappy self-examiner found him- 
self involved in an examination of his whole life. Back- 
wards from year to year, from engagement to engagement, 
from bloodshed to bloodshed, from crime to crime, each one 
stood before his conscience-stricken soul, divested of the 
feelings which had induced him to will and commit it, and 
therefore appearing in all its monstrousness, which those 
feelings had, at the time, prevented his perceiving. They 
were all his own, they made up himself; and the horror 
of this thought, renewed with each fresh remembrance, 
and cleaving to all, increased at last to desperation. He 
sprang up impetuously in his bed, eagerly stretched out 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 361 

his hand towards the wall at his side, touched a pistol, 
grasped it, reached it down, and . . . at the moment of 
finishing a life which had become insupportable, his thoughts, 
seized with terror and a (so to say) superstitious dread, 
rushed forward to the time which would still continue to 
flow on after his end. He pictured with horror his dis- 
figured corpse, lying motionless, and in the power of his 
vflest survivor; the astonishment, the confusion of the 
castle in the morning: everything turned upside down; and 
he, powerless and voiceless, thrown aside, he knew not 
whither. He fancied the reports that would be spread, the 
conversations to which it would give rise, both in the castle, 
the neighbourhood, and at a distance, together with the 
rejoicings of his enemies. The darkness and silence around 
him pre'sented death in a still more mournful and frightful 
aspect ; it seemed to him that he would not have hesitated 
in open dav, out of doors, and in the presence of spectators, 
to throw himself into the water, and vanish. Absorbed in 
such tormenting reflections, he continued alternately snap- 
ping and unsnapping the cock of his pistol with a convulsive 
movement of his thumb, when another thought flashed across 
his mind.— If this other life, of which they told me when I 
was a boy, of which everybody talks now, as if it were 
a certain thing, if there be not such a thing, if it be an 
invention of the priests ; what am I doing? why should I die? 
what matters all that I have done? what matters it? It is 
an absurdity, my . . . But if there really be another 

life ! . . . — . ^ ■ u 

At such a doubt, at such a risk, he was seized with a 
blacker and deeper despair, from which even death af- 
forded no escape. He dropped the pistol, and lay with his 
fingers twined among his hair, his teeth chattering, and 
trembling in every limb. Suddenly the words he had heard 
repeated a few hours before rose to his remembrance:— 
God pardons so many sins for one deed of mercy '.—They 
did not come to him with that tone of humble supplication 
in which they had been pronounced; they came with a 
voice of authority, which at the same time excited a distant 
glimmering of hope. It was a moment of relief : he raised 
his hands from his tempos, and, in a more composed at- 



362 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

titude, fixed his mind's eye on her who had uttered the 
words; she seemed to him no longer Hke his prisoner and 
supphant, but in the posture of one who dispenses mercy 
and consolation. He anxiously awaited the dawn of day, 
that he might fly to liberate her, and to hear from her lips 
other words of alleviation and life, and even thought of 
conducting her himself to her mother. — And then? what shall 
I do to-morrow for the rest of the day? What shall I do 
the day after to-morrow? And the day after that again? 
And at night? the night which will return in twelve hours? 
Oh, the night ! no, no, the night ! — And falling again into 
the weary void of the future, he sought in vain for some 
employment of time, some way of living through the days 
and nights. One moment he proposed leaving his castle, 
and going into some distant country, where he had never 
been known or heard of; but he felt that he should carry 
himself with him. Then a dark hope would arise that he 
should resume his former courage and inclinations, and that 
this would prove only a transient delirium. Now he dreaded 
the light which would show him to his followers so miserably 
changed; then he longed for it, as if it would bring light 
also to his gloomy thoughts. And, lo ! about break of day, a 
few moments after Lucia had fallen asleep, while he was 
seated motionless in his bed, a floating and confused mur- 
mur reached his ear, bringing with it something joyous 
and festive in its sound. Assuming a listening posture, 
he distinguished a distant chiming of bells; and, giving 
still more attention, could hear the mountain echo, every 
now and then, languidly repeating the harmony, and min- 
gling itself with it. Immediately afterwards his ear caught 
another, and still nearer peal: then another, and another.— 
What rejoicings are these? What are they all so merry 
about? What is their cause of gladness? — He sprang from 
his bed of thorns; and, half-dressing himself in haste, went 
to the window, threw up the sash, and looked out. The 
mountains were still wrapt in gloom; the sky was not so 
much cloudy, as composed of one entire lead-coloured cloud ; 
but by the already glimmering light of day, he distinguished 
in the road, at the bottom of the valley, numbers of people 
passing eagerly along,— some leaving their dwellings and 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 363 

moving on with the crowd, and all taking the same direc- 
tion towards the outlet of the vale on the right of the 
castle; he could even distinguish the joyous bearing and holi- 
day dress of the passengers. — What the is the matter 

with these people ? What cause of merriment can there be in 
this cursed neighbourhood? — And calling a confidential bravo 
who slept in the adjoining room, he asked him what was the 
cause of this movement. The man replied that he knew 
no more than his master, but would go directly to make 
inquiry. The Signor remained with his eyes riveted upon 
the moving spectacle, which increasing day rendered every 
moment more distinct. He watched crowds pass by, and 
new crowds constantly appear; men, women, children, in 
groups, in couples, or alone; one, overtaking another who 
was before him, walked in company with him; another, just 
leaving his door, accompanied the first he fell in with by the 
way; and so they proceeded together, like friends in a pre- 
concerted journey. Their behaviour evidently indicated a 
common haste and joy; and the unharmonious, but simul- 
taneous burst of the different chimes, some more, some less 
contiguous and distinct, seemed, so to say, the common 
voice of these gestures, and a supplement to the words which 
could not reach him from below. He looked and looked, 
till he felt more than common curiosity to know what could 
communicate so unanimous a will, so general a festivity, 
to so many different people. 



CHAPTER XXII 

SHORTLY afterwards the bravo returned with the in- 
formation, that Cardinal Federigo Borromeo, arch- 
bishop of Milan, had arrived the day before at * * *, 
with the purpose of spending there that which was now just 
dawning; that the news of his arrival, which had been spread 
around for a considerable distance the preceding evening, 
had excited a desire in the people to go and see this great 
man ; and that the bells were ringing, both to express their 
joy, and more widely to diffuse the glad intelligence. When 
again alone, the Signor continued to look down into the 
valley, still more absorbed in thought. — For a man ! Every- 
body eager, everybody joyful, at the sight of a man ! And 
yet, doubtless, each has his own demon that torments him. 
But none, none will have one like mine ! None will have 
passed such a night as I have ! What has this man about 
him to make so many people merry? Some pence, perhaps, 
that he will distribute at random among them . . . But all 
these cannot be going for alms. Well then, a few acknowl- 
edgments and salutations — a word or two . . . Oh ! if he had 
any words for me that could impart peace ! if ! . . . Why 
shouldn't I go too ? Why not ? . . . I will go ! what else can 
I do? I will go; and I will talk with him: face to face I'll 
have some talk with him. What shall I say, though ? W'ell, 
whatever, whatever . . . I'll hear first what the man has to 
say for himself ! — 

Having come to this vague determination, he hastily fin- 
ished dressing himself, and put on, over all, a great coat, 
which had something of a military cut about it ; he then took 
up the pistol which lay upon the bed, and secured it on one 
side of his belt, fastening at the other its fellow, which hung 
upon a nail in the wall ; stuck a dagger into this same girdle ; 
and taking a carabine from the wall, which was almost as 
famous as himself, swung it across his shoulders: then he 
put on his hat, quitted the apartment, and repaired at once to 
that in which he had left Lucia. Setting down his carabine 

364 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 365 

in a corner near the door, he knocked, at the same time 
letting them know, by his voice, who he was. The old 
woman sprang out of bed, threw some article of clothiog 
around her, and flew to open the door. The Signor entered, 
and, casting a glance around the room, saw Lucia lymg in 
her little corner, and perfectly quiet. 

'Does she sleep?' asked he, in an under-tone, of the old 
woman: 'But is she sleeping there? were these my orders, 
you old hag?' 

' I did all I could,' replied the woman ; ' but she wouldn t 
eat and she wouldn't come . . .' 

•Let her sleep quietly; take care you don't disturb her; 
and when she awakes . . . Martha shall wait in the next 
room- and you must send her to fetch anything that she 
may ask for. When she awakes . . . tell her that I . . . 
that the master has gone out for a little while, that he will 
be back soon, and that ... he will do all that she wishes.' 

The old woman stood perfectly astonished, thinking to 
lierself:— This girl must surely be some princess!— 

The Signor then left the room, took up his carabine, sent 
Martha to wait in the adjoining apartment, and the first 
bravo whom he met to keep guard, that no one but this 
woman might presume to approach Lucia ; and then, leaving 
the castle, took the descent with a rapid step. 

The manuscript here fails to mention the distance from the 
castle to the village where the Cardinal was staying: it can- 
not however, have been more than a moderate walk. We do 
not' infer the proximity merely from the flocking thither of 
the inhabitants of the valley ; since we find, in the histories 
of these times, that people came for twenty miles, or more, 
to -et but one sight of Cardinal Federigo. From the circum- 
stances that we are about to relate, as happening on this day, 
we may however, easily conjecture that the distance cannot 
have been very great. The bravoes whom he met ascending, 
stopped respectfully as their lord passed, waiting to see if he 
had any orders to give, or if he wished of them to accom- 
pany him on some expedition, and seemed perfectly astonished 
at his countenance and the glances he returned in answer to 

their salutations. , . j ^u^ 

When, however, he reached the base, and entered the 



366 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

public road, it was a very different matter. There was a 
general whispering among the first passengers who observed 
him, an exchange of suspicious looks, and an endeavour on 
each side to get out of his reach. For the whole length of 
the way he could not take two steps by the side of another 
passenger; for every one who found him quickly gaining 
upon him, cast an uneasy look around, made him a low bow, 
and slackened his pace so as to remain behind. On reaching 
the village, he found a large crowd assembled; his name 
spread rapidly from mouth to mouth, the moment he made 
his appearance, and the throng fell back to make way for 
him. He accosted one of these prudent gentry, and asked 
where the Cardinal was. ' In the Curate's house,' replied the 
addressed party, reverently, at the same time pointing out 
the mansion. The Signor went forward, entered a little 
court, where many priests were assembled, all of whom re- 
garded him with surprised and doubtful looks, and saw be- 
fore him an open door, which gave admission into a small 
hall, where there was also collected a considerable number 
of priests. Taking his carabine from his shoulders, he de- 
posited it in one corner of the little court, and then entered 
the hall, where he was received with significant glances, 
murmurs, and his oft-repeated name; then all was silent. 
Turning to one of those who surrounded him, he asked where 
the Cardinal was, and said that he wished to speak to him. 

T am a stranger,' replied the priest; but hastily glancing 
around, he called 'he chaplain and cross-bearer, who, seated 
in a corner of the hall, was saying, in an under-tone, to his 
companion, ' This man ? this notorious character ? what can 
he have to do here ? Make way ! ' However, at this call, 
which resounded in the general silence, he was obliged to 
come forward; he made a lowly reverence to the Unnamed, 
listened to his inquiry, raised his eyes with uneasy curiosity 
towards his face, and instantly bending them on the ground, 
stood hesitating for a moment, and then said, or rather 
stammered out : * I don't know whether his illustrious Lord- 
ship . . . just now ... is to be .. . can . . . may . . . But I 
will go and see.' And he very unwillingly carried the mes- 
sage into the adjoining room, where the Cardinal was by 
himself. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 367 

At this point in our story, we cannot do less than pause 
for a Httle while; as the traveller, wearied and worn out with 
a lencrthened journey, through a wild and sterile country, 
retards his pace, and halts for a little time under the shade 
of a noble tree, reclining on the grassy bank of a stream of 
running water. We have now fallen upon a person, whose 
name and memory, occurring when they will to the mmd, 
refresh it with a calm emotion of reverence, and a pleas- 
urable feeling of sympathy; how much more, then, after so 
many mournful pictures— after the contemplation of such 
fearful and hateful depravity! On the history of this 
personage, we must absolutely expend a few words: he 
who cares not about hearing them, and is anxious to pro- 
ceed with the story, may pass on at once to the succeedmg 

chapter. , 

Federigo Borromeo, born in 1564, was among those chai- 
acters, rare in whatever age, who have employed singular 
talents all the resources of great wealth, all the advantages 
of privileged rank, and an unwearying diligence in the 
search and exercise of the highest objects and principles. 
His life resembles a rivulet, which, issuing hmpid from the 
rock flows in a ceaseless and unruffled, though lengthened 
cour'se, through various lands, and, clear and limpid still, 
falls at last into the ocean. Amidst comforts and luxuries, 
he attended, even from childhood, to those lessons of self- 
denial and humility, and those maxims on the vanity of 
worldly pleasures, and the sinfulness of pride, on true dig- 
nity and true riches, which, whether acknowledged or not in 
the heart, have been transmitted from one generation to an- 
other in the most elementary instruction in religion. He at- 
tended I say to these lessons and maxims ; he received them 
in real' earnest; he tried them, and found them true; he saw 
therefore that other and contrary lessons and maxims could 
not possibly be true, which yet were transmitted from age 
to aee with the same asseveration, and sometimes by the 
same lips ; and he resolved to take, as the rule of his thoughts 
and actions, those which were indeed right. By these he 
understood that life was not /Icsigncd to be a burden to many 
and a pleasure to only a few; but was intended as a timeof 
employment for all, of which every one would have to give 



368 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

an account; and he began from a child to consider how he 
could render his useful and holy. 

In 1580 he declared his resolution of dedicating himself to 
the ministry of the Church, and received ordination from the 
hands of his cousin Carlo, whom long and universal suffrage 
had already signalized as a saint. Shortly afterwards, he 
entered the college founded by this relative in Pavia, which 
still bears the name of their house ; and here, while applying 
himself with assiduity to the occupations which were pre- 
scribed, he added to them two others of his own free will; 
and these were, to give instruction to the most ignorant and 
neglected among the population, in the doctrines of the 
Christian religion; and to visit, assist, comfort, and relieve 
the sick and needy. He employed the authority conceded to 
him by all around, in inducing his companions to second him 
in such works of charity ; and set a noble example of spend- 
ing, in every honest and beneficial employment, a pre-emi- 
nence which, considering his superior mind and talents, he 
would, perhaps, equally have attained had he been the lowest 
in rank and fortune. The advantages of a different nature, 
which the circumstances of fortune could have procured for 
him, he not only sought not after, but studiously neglected. 
He kept a table rather meagre than frugal, and wore a dress 
rather mean than decent; while the whole tenor of his life 
and behaviour was in conformity with these particulars. 
Nor did he think it necessary to alter it, because some of his 
relatives exclaimed loudly against such a practice, and com- 
plained that by this means he would degrade the dignity of 
tlie house. He had also another warfare to maintain against 
his instructors, who stealthily, and as it were by surprise, 
endeavoured to place before, behind, and around him, more 
noble appendages, something which might distinguish him 
from others, and make him appear the first in the place : 
cither thinking, by this means, to ingratiate themselves with 
him in the long run ; or influenced by that servile attachment 
which prides itself in, and rejoices at, the splendour of 
others ; or being among the number of those prudent persons 
who shrink back with alarm from the extreme of virtue as 
well as vice, are for ever proclaiming that perfection lies in 
a medium between the two, and fix that medium exactly at 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 569 

the point which they have reached, and where they find 
n'c V s very much at their ease. Federigo not only re- 
us dhse kindly offices, but rebuked tl.e officious mstru- 
ments- and that between the ages of childhood and youth. 

That Sur ng the life of the Cardinal Carlo, his senior by 
twenty-six yefrs, in his authoritative and, so to say, solemn 
presence surrounded by homage and respectful silence, in- 
c ted by the fame, and impressed with the tokens of sanctity 
F Icri^o as a boy and a youth, should have endeavoured to 
Lnfor' himself 'to the behaviour and talents o such a 
cousin is certainly not to be wondered at; but it is, mdeed 
n ucT'to be able t'o say, that, after his death, no one could 
oerceive that Federigo, then twenty years of age had lost a 
Tude and censor. The increasing fame of his talents erudi 
r.on and piety ; the relationship and connection of more than 
one powerful Cardinal ; the credit of his family ; his very name 
To which Carlo had almost annexed m P-Pje s jnds - 
idea of sanctity and sacerdotal pre-emmence ; all that should, 
and all that could, lead men to ecclesiastical dignities, con- 
erred to predict them for him. But he, persuaded in heart 
o what no one who professes Christianity can deny w^h 
the lips that there is no real superiority of f.^^n over his 
f lowmen, excepting in so far as he devotes h-sdf to th r 
service both dreaded exaltation, and sought to avoid it 
not nkeed, that he might shrink from serving others-f^ 
few lives have been more devoted to this ob ect than his 
oJn--bu because he considered himself neither worthy 
enoueh of so high and perilous a service, nor sufficiently com- 
TeSVor it. lor thefe reasons, the A-hbishopric of MUan 
being offered to him in 1595, by Clement V II. ^^f^^^^ 
much disturbed, and refused the charge without hesitation^ 
He yielded aft;rwards, however, to the express command 

^'sud/demonstrations (who knows it not?) -e neither 
difficult nor uncommon; and it requires no greater effort of 
satiety for hypocrisy to make them, than for -lUery to de- 
de th'em, and hold them cheap on every occasion. Bu^ do 
thev therefore, cease to be the natural expression of a wise 
and 'v rtuous pHnciple? One's life is the touchstone of ,o- 
fession; and the profession of this sentiment, though it may 



370 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

have been on the tongue of all the impostors and all the 
scoffers in tlie world, will ever be worthy of admiration, 
when preceded and followed by a life of disinterested self- 
sacrifice. 

In Federigo, as Archbishop, was apparent a remarkable 
and constant carefulness to devote to himself no more of his 
wealth, his time, his care — in short, of his whole self, than 
was absolutely necessary. He said, as everybody says, that 
ecclesiastical revenues are the patrimony of the poor; how 
he showed he understood such a maxim in reality, will be 
evident from this fact. He caused an estimate to be taken 
of the sum required for his own expenditure, and that of 
those in his personal service ; and being told that six hundred 
sciidi would be sufficient, (sctido was at that time the name 
of a golden coin which, retaining the same weight and value, 
was afterwards called a zecchino,y he gave orders that this 
sum should annually be set apart out of his patrimonial es- 
tate, for the expenses of the table. So sparing and scrupu- 
lous was he in his personal outlay, that he was careful never 
to leave off a dress which was not completely worn out; 
uniting, however, as was recorded by contemporary writers, 
to this habit of simplicity, that of singular neatness ; two re- 
markable qualilies, in fact, in this age of ostentation and 
uncleanliness. That nothing, again, might be wasted of the 
remnants of his frugal table, he assigned them to a hospital 
for the poor; one of whom came daily, by his orders, to the 
dining apartment, to gather up all that remained. Such 
instances of economy might, perhaps, suggest the idea of a 
close, parsimonious, over-careful virtue, of a mind wrapt up 
in attention to minutiae, and incapable of elevated designs, 
were it not for the Ambrosian Library, still standing, which 
Federigo projected with such noble magnificence, and exe- 
cuted, from the foundations upwards, with such munificent 
liberality; to supply which with books and manuscripts, be- 
sides the presentation of those he had already collected with 
great labour and expense, he sent eight of the most learned 
and experienced men he could find, to make purchases 
throughout Italy, France, Spain, Germany, Flanders, Greece, 

1 Sequin: — an Italian gold coin, worth about ten shillings of English 
money. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 371 

Lebanon and Jerusalem. By this means, he succeeded in 
eatherin:^'^ ^^^^' thirty thousand pnnted volun.es 

fd fourteen d.ousand manuscripts. To th- hb^ary he ^u. ed 
a colle-e of doctors (nine in number at first, and mam 
'ained at his charge while he lived; afterwards, the ordmary 
incml not sufficing for this expense, they_ were reduced to 
twoT Their office was to cultivate various branches of 
s7udy theology history, polite literature, and the Oriental 
In/ua^es obliging each one to publish some work on the 
subiect assic^ned to him. To this he also added a college, 
whidih called Trilingue, for the study of the Greek, Latin, 
r^dltalLn languages fa college of P^P^J^J- ^^^^^^^^^^^ 
these several faculties and languages ^hat they m ght be 

come professors in their turn; a P"f -^'f ^!,f ^ * ,ab i 
ental languages, for Hebrew, that is to say, Chaldaic, Arabic 
Persian and Armenian; a gallery of paintings, another of 
ftatues and a school for the three principal arts of desigm 
Fo th;se last he could find professors already existing ;bu 
as to the rest, we have seen the trouble it cost him to coUect 
bLkst^d manuscripts. Undoubtedly, it would be - re c,ffi 

cult to meet with types in those ^^^'^^^^^'''^'^."^^^^11 
cultivated in Europe than they are at Pj"^^^"* ; and still more 
difficult than types, would be men who understood them. 
Sufice it to say, that, out of nine professors, eight were 
taken flmamo^r^g the young pupils of the seminary; from 
whfch cTrcumstanfe we may infer what was his opinion o 
Te schools then established, and the celebrity gained m those 
davs an oph'ion agreeing with that which posterity seems 
foTa've formed of lem, fy suffering both oije and tl^ other 
to sink into oblivion. In the regulations which he left for 
the use and government of the library, a provisionfor per- 
netua uHUty is conspicuous, not only admirable m itself 
but in many particulars, judicious and elegant, far_ beyond 
the ^enrra7ideas and habits of the age. He required the 
ibraln t'o keep up a correspondence with the most learned 

works which might assi3t them in their designs; and or- 



372 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

dered that the advantages of consulting the works here pre- 
served should be open to all, whether citizens or stran-ers 
Such a regulation will now appear quite natural— one\nd 
the same thing with the founding of a library; but in those 
days It was not so. In a history of the Ambrosian Library 
written (with the precision and elegance usual in that age) 
by one Pier-paolo Bosca, a librarian, after the death of 
Fedengo, it is expressly noted as a remarkable fact that 
in this library, built by a private individual almost entirely 
at his own expense, the books were accessible to the view of 
all, and brought to any one who should demand them with 
liberty to sit down and study them, and the provision of 
pen ink, and paper, to take notes; while, in some other 
celebrated public libraries in Italy, the volumes were not 
only not visible, but concealed in closets, where they were 
never disturbed, except when the humanity, as he says of 
the presidents prompted them sometimes to display them' for 
a moment. As to accommodation and conveniences for study 
provided for those who frequented it, they had not the least 
idea of such a thing. So that, to furnish such libraries was 
to withdraw books from the use of the public ; one of those 
means of cultivation, many of which were, and still are em- 
ployed, that only serve to render the soil more sterile. ' 

It were useless to inquire what were the effects of this 
foundation of Borromeo on public education: it would be 
easy enough to demonstrate in two words, according to the 
general method of demonstration, that they were miraculous 
or that they were nothing; but to investigate and explain' 
up to a certain point, what they really were, would be a 
work of much difficulty, little advantage, and somewhat ill- 
timed. Rather let us think what a generous, judicious be- 
nevolent, persevering lover of the improvement of mankind 
he must have been, who planned such an undertaking— who 
planned it on so grand a scale, and who executed it in the 
midst of Ignorance, inertness, and general contempt of all 
studious application, and, consequently, in spite of ' What 
does It matt n-r and ' There's something else to think about-' 
and. What a fine invention ! ' and, ' This was certainly want- 
ing; and similar remarks, which, undoubtedly, will have 
been more m number than the scudi expended by him in the 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 373 

undertaking, amounting to a hundred and five thousand, the 
greatest part of his property. , • , , 

To style such a man beneficent and liberal m a high de- 
gree it would be unnecessary, perhaps, that he should have 
spent much in the immediate relief of the needy; and there 
are besides, many in whose opinion expenditure of the char- 
acter we have described, and, indeed, I may say all expendi- 
ture is the best and more beneficial almsgiving. But in 
Federigo's opinion, almsgiving, properly speaking, was a 
paramount duty; and here, as in everything else, his actions 
were in accordance with his principles. His life was one 
continual overflowing charity. On occasion of this very 
scarcity, to which our story has already alluded, we shall 
have presently to relate several traits which will exhibit the 
judgment and delicacy he knew how to employ even m his 
liberality Of the many remarkable examples which his 
biographers have recorded of this virtue, we will here cite 
but one Having heard that a certain nobleman was using 
artifices and compulsion to force into a convent one of his 
daughters who wished rather to be married, he had an inter- 
view with her father; and drawing from him the acknowl- 
edgment that the true motive of this oppression was the 
walit of four thousand scudi, which, according to his idea, 
were necessary towards marrying his daughter suitably, 
Federigo immediately presented the required dowry. Some 
may perhaps think this an extravagant act of bounty, not 
well-judged, and too condescending to the foohsh caprices 
of a vain nobleman; and that four thousand scudt might 
have been better employed in this or that manner. io 
which we have nothing to answer, excepting that it were 
devoutly to be wished that one could more frequently see 
excesses of a virtue so unfettered by prevailing opinion, 
(every age has its own,) and so free from the general tend- 
ency as tn this instance that must have been, which induced 
a man to give four thousand scudi, that a young person 
might not be made a nun. 

The inexhaustible charity of this man appeared, not only 
in his almsgiving, but in his whole behaviour. Easy of ac- 
cess to all he considered a cheerful countenance and an 
affectionate courtesy particularly due to those m the lower 



374 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

ranks of life; and the more so in proportion as they were 
little thought of by the world. Here, therefore, he had to 
combat with the gentlemen of the ne quid nimis school, who 
were anxious to keep him within limits, i. e., within their 
limits. One of these, on occasion of a visit to a wild and 
mountainous country, when Federigo was teaching some 
poor children, and during the interrogations and instruction 
was fondly caressing them, besought him to be more cautious 
in handling such children, as they were dirty and repelling: 
as if the worthy gentleman supposed that Federigo had not 
discernment enough to make the discovery, or acumen 
enough to suggest this recondite counsel for himself. Such, 
in certain circumstances of times and things, is the mis- 
fortune of men exalted to high stations, that while they so 
seldom find any one to inform them of their failings, there 
is no lack of persons courageous enough to reprove them 
for doing right. But the good Bishop, not without anger, 
replied : ' They are my lambs, and perhaps may never again 
see my face ; and would you not have me caress them ? ' 

Very seldom, however, did he exhibit any anger, being 
admired for his mild and imperturbable gentleness of be- 
haviour, which might be attributed to an extraordinarily 
happy temperament of mind; while, in truth, it was the effect 
of constant discipline over a naturally hasty and passionate 
disposition. If ever he showed himself severe, nay, even 
harsh, it was towards those pastors under his authority 
whom he discovered guilty of avarice, or negligence, or any 
other conduct opposed to the spirit of their high vocation. 
Upon what might affect his own interest or temporal glory, 
he never betokened either joy, regret, eagerness, or anxiety: 
wonderful indeed if these emotions were not excited in his 
mind ; more wonderful if they were. Not only in the many 
conclaves at which he had assisted, did he acquire the repu- 
tation of having never aspired to that lofty post so desirable 
to ambition, and so terrible to piety; but on one occasion, 
when a colleague, who possessed considerable influence, came 
to offer him his vote and those of his (so, alas! it was 
termed) faction, Federigo refused the proposal in such a 
manner that his friend immediately abandoned the idea, and 
turned his views elsewhere. This same humility, this dread 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 375 

o'f pre-eminence, was equally apparent in the more common 
occurrences of life. Careful and indefatigable m ordenng 
and governing everything, where he considered it his duty 
to do so, he always shrank from intruding into the affairs 
of others and even when solicited, refused, if possible, to 
interfere --discretion and temperance far from common as 
everybody knows, in men as zealous in the cause of good as 

Federigo was. . , 

Were we to allow ourselves to prosecute the pleasing task 
of collecting together the remarkable points in his character, 
the result would certainly be a complication of virtues in 
apparent opposition to each other, and assuredly difficult to 
find combined. We cannot, however, omit to notice one 
more excellency in his excellent life: replete as it was with 
action government, functions, instruction, audiences, dio- 
cesan 'visitations, journeys, and controversies, he not only 
found time for study, but devoted as much to this object as 
a professor of literature would have reqmred Indeed, 
among many other and various titles of commendation, he 
possessed in a high degree, among his contemporaries, that 
of a man of learning. 

We must not, however, conceal that he held with firm 
persuasion, and maintained, ir fact, with persevering con- 
stancy, some opinions which, in the present day, would 
appear to every one rather singular than ill-founded; even 
to such as would be anxious to consider them sound. _ For 
any one who would defend him on this head, there is the 
current and commonly received excuse, that they were the 
errors of the age, rather than his own; an excuse, to say 
the truth, which, when it results from the mmute consid- 
eration of facts, may be valid and significant; but which 
generally, applied in the usual naked way, and as we must 
do in this instance, comes in the end to mean exactly noth- 
ing at all And, besides, not wishing to resolve complicated 
questions with simple formute, we will venture to leave this 
unsolved; resting satisfied with having thus cursorily men- 
tioned that in a character so admirable as a whole, we do 
not pretend to affirm that .every particular was equally so 
lest we should seem to have intended making a funeral 
, oration. 



376 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

We shall not be doing injustice to our readers to suppose 
that some of them may inquire, whether this person has left 
any monument of so much talent and erudition. Whether 
he has left any ! The works remaining from him, great and 
small, Latin and Italian, published and manuscript, amount 
to about a hundred volumes, preserved in the library he 
himself founded: moral treatises, discourses, dissertations on 
history, sacred and profane antiquities, literature, arts, and 
various other subjects. 

— And however does it happen, — this inquirer may ask, — 
that so many works are forgotten, or at least so little known, 
so little sought after? How is it, that with such talents, 
such learning, such experience of men and things, such pro- 
found thought, such a sense of the good and the beautiful, 
such purity of mind, and so many other qualities which 
constitute the elegant author; how is it, that out of a hundred 
works, he has not left even one to be considered excellent 
by those who approve not of the whole, and to be known by 
title even by those who have never read it? How is it that 
all of them together have not sufficed, at least by their 
number, to procure for his name a literary fame among 
posterity ? — 

The inquiry is undoubtedly reasonable, and the question 
sufficiently interesting: because the reasons of this phe- 
nomenon are to be found, or, at least, must be sought for, 
in many general facts ; and when found, would lead to the 
explanation of other similar phenomena. But they would 
be many and prolix : and what if they should not prove satis- 
factory? if they should make the reader turn away in dis- 
gust ? So that it will be better to resume our ' walk through ' 
the story, and instead of digressing more at length on the 
character of this wonderful man, proceed to observe him in 
action under the conduct of our anonymous author. 



CHAPTER XXIII 

CARDINAL FEDERIGO was employed, according to 
his usual custom in every leisure interval, in study, 
until the hour arrived for repairing to the church for 
the celebration of Divine Service, when the chaplain and 
cross bearer entered with a disturbed and gloomy counte- 
nance. 

' A strange visitor, my noble Lord, — strange indeed ! ' 

* Who ? ' asked the Cardinal. 

' No less a personage than the Signer * * *' replied the 
chaplain; and pronouncing the syllables with a very signifi- 
cant tone, he uttered the name which we cannot give to our 
readers. He then added : ' He is here outside in person ; and 
demands nothing less than to be introduced to your illustrious 
Grace.' 

' He ! ' said the Cardinal, with an animated look, shutting 
his book, and rising from his seat ; ' let him come in !— let 
him come in directly ! ' 

' But . . .' rejoined the chaplain, without attempting to 
move, ' your illustrious Lordship must surely be aware who 
he is : that outlaw, that famous . . .' 

' And is it not a most happy circumstance for a bishop, 
that such a man should feel a wish to come and seek an in- 
terview with him?' 

'But . . .' insisted the chaplain, 'we may never speak oE 
certain things, because my Lord says that it is all nonsense : 
but, when it comes to the point, I think it is a duty . . . Zeal 
makes many enemies, my Lord ; and we know positively that 
more than one ruffian has dared to boast that some day or 

other . . .' J- 1 

'And what have they done?' interrupted the Cardmal. 
' I say that this man is a plotter of mischief, a desperate 

character, who holds correspondence with the most violent 

desperadoes, and who may be sent . . .' 

' Oh, what discipHne is this,' again interrupted Fedengo, 

smiling, 'for the soldiers to exhort their general to cow- 

377 



378 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

ardice? then resuming a grave and thoughtful air, he con- 
tinued: ' Saint Carlo would not have deliberated whether he 
ought to receive such a man : he would have gone to seek 
him. Let him be admitted directly : he has already waited 
too long.' 

The chaplain moved towards the door, saying in his heart : 
— There's no remedy : these saints are all obstinate. — 

Having opened the door, and surveyed the room where 
the Signor and his companions were, he saw that the latter 
had crowded together on one side, where they sat whispering 
and cautiously peeping at their visitor, while he was left 
alone in one corner. The chaplain advanced towards him, 
eying him guardedly from head to foot, and wondering what 
weapons he might have hidden under that great coat ; think- 
ing, at the same time, that really, before admitting him, 
he ought at least to have proposed . . . but he could not re- 
solve what to do. He approached him, saying: 'His Grace 
waits for your Lordship. Will you be good enough to come 
with me ? ' And as he preceded him through the little crowd, 
which instantly gave way for him, he kept casting glances 
on each side, which meant to say: What could I do? don't 
you know yourselves that he always has his own way? 

On reaching the apartment, the chaplain opened the door, 
and introduced the Unnamed. Federigo advanced to meet 
him with a happy and serene look, and his hand extended, 
as if to welcome an expected guest, at the same time making 
a sign to the chaplain to go out, which was immediately 
obeyed. 

When thus left alone, they both stood for a moment silent 
and in suspense, though from widely different feelings. The 
Unnamed, who had, as it were, been forcibly carried there 
by an inexplicable compulsion, rather than led by a deter- 
minate intention, now stood there, also as it were by com- 
pulsion, torn by two contending feelings : on the one side, a 
desire and confused hope of meeting with some alleviation 
of his inward torment; on the other, a feeling of self-rebuked 
shame at having come thither, like a penitent, subdued, and 
wretched, to confess himself guilty, and to make supplication 
to a man : he was at a loss for words, and, indeed, scarcely 
sought for them. Raising his eyes, however, to the Arch- 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 379 

bishop's face, he became gradually filled with a feeling of 
veneration, authoritative, and at the same time soothmg; 
which, while it increased his confidence, gently subdued his 
haughtiness, and, without offending his pride, compelled it 
to give way, and imposed silence. 

The bearing of Federigo was, in fact, one which an- 
nounced superiority, and, at the same time, excited love. It 
was naturally sedate, and almost involuntarily commanding, 
his figure being not in the least bowed or wasted by age; 
while his solemn, yet sparkling eye, his open and thoughtful 
forehead, a kind of virginal floridness, which might be dis- 
tinguished even among grey locks, paleness, and the traces 
of abstinence, meditation, and labour: in short, all his fea- 
tures indicated that they had once possessed that which is 
most strictly entitled beauty. The habit of serious and be- 
nevolent thought, the inward peace of a long life, the love 
that he felt towards his fellow-creatures, and the uninter- 
rupted enjoyment of an ineffable hope, had now substituted 
the beauty (so to say) of old age, which shone forth more 
attractively from the magnificent simplicity of the purple. 

He fixed, for a moment, on the countenance of the Un- 
named, a penetrating look, long accustomed to gather from 
this index what was passing in the mind; and imagining he 
discovered, under that dark and troubled mien, something 
every moment more corresponding with the hope he had con- 
ceived on the first announcement of such a visit, ' Oh ! ' cried 
he, in an animated voice, ' what a welcome visit is this ! and 
how thankful I ought to be to you for taking such a step, al- 
though it may convey to me a little reproof ! '• 

' Reproof ! ' exclaimed the Signor, much surprised, but 
soothed by his words and manner, and glad that the Car- 
dinal had broken the ice, and started some sort of conver- 
salion. 

' Certainly, it conveys to me a reproof,' replied the Arch- 
bishop, ' for allowing you to be beforehand with me when 
so often, and for so long a time, I might and ought to have 
come to you myself.' 

' You come to me ! Do you know who I am ? Did they 
deliver in my name rightly ? ' 

' And the happiness I feel, and which must surely be evi- 



380 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

dent in my countenance, do you think I should feel it at the 
announcement and visit of a stranger? It is you who make 
me experience it ; you, I say, whom I ought to have sought ; 
you whom I have, at least, loved and wept over, and for 
whom I have so often prayed; you, among all my children, 
for each one I love from the bottom of my heart, whom I 
should most have desired to receive and embrace, if I had 
thought I might hope for such a thing. But God alone 
knows how to work wonders, and supplies the weakness and 
tardiness of His unworthy servants.' 

The Unnamed stood astonished at this warm reception, in 
language which corresponded so exactly with that which 
he had not yet expressed, nor, indeed, had fully determined 
to express; and, affected, but exceedingly surprised, he re- 
mained silent. ' Well ! ' resumed Federigo, still more affec- 
tionately, ' you have good news to tell me ; and you keep 
me so long expecting it?' 

' Good news ! I have hell in my heart ; and can I tell 
you any good tidings? Tell me, if you know, what good 
news you can expect from such as I am ? ' 

' That God has touched your heart, and would make yor 
His own,' replied the Cardinal, calmly. 

'God! God! God! If I could see Him I If I could 
hear Him! Where is this God?' 

' Do you ask this? you? And who has Him nearer than 
you? Do you not feel Him in your heart, overcoming, agi- 
tating you, never leaving you at ease, and at the same time 
drawing you forward, presenting to your view a hope of 
tranquillity and consolation, a consolation which shall be full 
and boundless, as soon as you recognize Him, acknowledge, 
and implore Him ? ' 

' Oh, surely ! there is something within that oppresses, that 
consumes me! But God! If this be God, if He be such as 
they say, what do you suppose He can do with me ? ' 

These words were uttered with an accent of despair; 
but Federigo, with a solemn tone, as of calm inspiration, 
replied: 'What can God do with you? What would He 
wish to make of you? A token of His power and goodness: 
He would acquire through you a glory, such as others could 
not give Him. The world has long cried out against you. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 381 

hundreds and thousands of voices have declared their de- 
testation of your deeds . . .' (The Unnamed shuddered, and 
feh for a moment surprised at hearing such unusual lan- 
guage addressed to him, and still more surprised that he 
felt no anger, but rather, almost a relief. ) 'What glory/ 
pursued Federigo, 'will thus redound to God! They may 
be voices of alarm, of self-interest; of justice, perhaps — a 
justice so easy! so natural! Some perhaps, yea, too many, 
may be voices of envy of your wretched power; of your 
hitherto deplorable security of heart. But when you, your- 
self, rise up to condemn your past life, to become your own 
accuser, then ! then, indeed, God will be glorified ! And you 
ask what God can do with you. Who am I, a poor mortal, 
that I can tell you what use such a Being may choose hence- 
forth to make of you; how He can employ your impetuous 
will, your unwavering perseverance, when He shall have 
animated and invigorated them with love, with hope, with 
repentance? Who are you, weak man, that you should 
imagine yourself capable of devising and executing greater 
deeds of evil, than God can make you will and accomplish 
in the cause of good? What can God do with you? Par- 
don you! save you! finish in you the work of redemption! 
Are not these things noble and worthy of Him? Oh, just 
think ! if I, an humble and feeble creature, so worthless and 
full of myself— I, such as I am, long so ardently for your 
salvation, that, for its sake, I would joyfully give (and He 
IS my witness!) the few days that still remain to me; oh, 
think what, and how great, must be the love of Him, Who 
inspires me with this imperfect, but ardent affection; how 
must He love you, what must He desire for you. Who has 
bid and enabled me to regard you with a charity that con- 
sumes me ! ' 

While these words fell from his lips, his face, his ex- 
pression, his whole manner, evinced his deep feeling of 
what he uttered. The countenance of his auditor changed, 
from a wild and convulsive look, first to astonishment and 
attention, and then gradually yielded to deeper and less 
painful emotions; his eyes, which from infancy had been 
unaccustomed to weep, became suffused; and when the 
words ceased, he covered his face with his hands, and burst 



382 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

into a flood of tears. It was the only and most evident 
reply. 

' Great and good God ! ' exclaimed Federigo, raising his 
hands and eyes to heaven, ' what have I ever done, an un- 
profitable servant, an idle shepherd, that Thou shouldest call 
me to this banquet of grace ! that Thou shouldest make me 
worthy of being an instrument in so joyful a miracle ! ' So 
saying, he extended his hand to take that of the Unnamed. 

' No ! ' cried the penitent nobleman ; ' no ! keep away from 
me : defile not that innocent and beneficent hand. You don't 
know all that the one you would grasp has committed.' 

' Suffer me,' said Federigo, taking it with affectionate vio- 
lence, ' suffer me to press the hand which will repair so 
many wrongs, dispense so many benefits, comfort so many 
afflicted, and be extended, disarmed, peacefully, and humbly, 
to so many enemies.' 

* It is too much ! ' said the Unnamed, sobbing, ' leave me, 
my Lord ; good Federigo, leave me ! A crowded assembly 
awaits you ; so many good people, so many innocent crea- 
tures, so many come from a distance, to see you for once, 
to hear you : and you are staying to talk . . . with whom ! ' 

' We will leave the ninety and nine sheep,' replied the 
Cardinal ; ' they are in safety, upon the mountain : I wish 
to remain with that which was lost. Their minds are, per- 
haps, now more satisfied than if they were seeing their 
poor bishop. Perhaps God, Who has wrought in you this 
miracle of mercy, is diffusing in their hearts a joy of which 
they know not yet the reason. These people are, perhaps, 
united to us without being aware of it : perchance the Spirit 
may be instilling into their hearts an undefined feeling of 
charity, a petition which He will grant for you, an offering 
of gratitude of which you are, as yet, the unknown object.' 
So saying, he threw his arms round the neck of the Un- 
named, who, after attempting to disengage himself, and 
making a momentary resistance, yielded, completely over- 
come by this vehement expression of affection, embraced the 
Cardinal in his turn, and buried in his shoulder his trem- 
bling and altered face. His burning tears dropped upon the 
stainless purple of Federigo, while the guiltless hands of 
the holy bishop affectionately pressed those members, and 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 383 

touched that garment, which had been accustomed to hold 
the weapons of violence and treachery. 

Disengaging himself, at length, from this embrace, the 
Unnamed again covered his eyes with his hand, and raising 
his face to heaven, exclaimed ; ' God is, indeed, great ! God 
is, indeed, good! I know myself now, now I understand 
what I am; my sins are present before me, and I shudder 
at the thought of myself ; yet ! ... yet I feel an alleviation, 
a joy; yes, even a joy, such as I have never before known 
during the whole of my horrible life ! ' 

' It is a little taste,' said Federigo, ' which God gives you, 
to incline you to His service, and encourage you resolutely 
to enter upon the new course of life which lies before you, 
and in which you will have so much to undo, so much to 
repair, so much to mourn over ! ' 

' Unhappy man that I am ! ' exclaimed the Signor : ' how 
many, oh, how many . . . things for which I can do nothing 
besides mourn ! But, at least, I have undertakings scarcely 
set on foot which I can break off in the midst, if nothing 
more: one there is which I can quickly arrest, which I can 
easily undo, and repair.' 

Federigo listened attentively, while the Unnamed briefly 
related, in terms of, perhaps, deeper execration than we 
have employed, his attempt upon Lucia, the sufferings and 
terrors of the unhappy girl, her importunate entreaties, the 
frenzy that these entreaties had aroused within him, and 
how she was still in the castle ... 

' Ah, then ! let us lose no time ! ' exclaimed Federigo, 
breathless with eagerness and compassion. ' You are in- 
deed blessed! This is an earnest of God's forgiveness! 
He makes you capable of becoming the instrument of safety 
to one whom you intended to ruin. God bless you! Nay, 
He has blessed you ! Do you know where our unhappy pro- 
tegee comes from ? ' 

The Signor named Lucia's village. 

'It's not far from this,' said the Cardinal, 'God be 
praised; and probably . . .' So saying, he went towards a 
little table, and rang a bell. The cross-bearing chaplain 
immediately attended the surtuuons with a look of anxiety, 
and instantly glanced towards the Unnamed. At the sight 



384 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

of his altered countenance, and his eyes still red with weep- 
ing, he turned an inquiring gaze upon the Cardinal ; and 
perceiving, amidst the invariable composure of his counte- 
nance, a look of solemn pleasure and unusual solicitude, he 
would have stood with open mouth, in a sort of ecstasy, had 
not the Cardinal quickly aroused him from his contemplations, 
by asking whether, among the parish-priests who were as- 
sembled in the next room, there were one from * * *. 

' There is, your illustrious Grace,' replied the chaplain. 

' Let him come in directly,' said Federigo, ' and with him 
the priest of this parish.' 

The chaplain quitted the room, and on entering the hall 
where the clergy were assembled, all eyes were immediately 
turned upon him ; while, with a look of blank astonishment, 
and a countenance in which was still depicted the rapture 
he had felt, he lifted up his hands, and waving them in the 
air, exclaimed, ' Signori ! Signori ! hcec miitatio dexterce Ex- 
celsi' And he stood for a moment without uttering another 
word. Then assuming the tone and language of a message, 
he added, ' His most noble and very reverend Lordship de- 
sires to speak with the Signor Curate of this parish, and 
the Signor Curate of * * *. 

The first party summoned immediately came forward ; 
and, at the same time, there issued from the midst of the 
crowd, an ' I ' drawled forth with an intonation of surprise 

'Are you not the Signor Curate of * * *?' replied the 
chaplain. 

' I am ; but . . . 

' His most noble and very reverend Lordship asks for 
you.' 

'Me?' again replied the same voice, clearly expressing 
in this monosyllable, 'What can they want with me?' But 
this time, together with the voice, came forth the living 
being, Don Abbondio himself, with an imwilling step, and 
a countenance between astonishment and disgust. The chap- 
lain beckoned to him with his hand, as if he meant to say, 
'Come, let us go; is it so very alarming?' and escorting 
them to the door, he opened it, and introduced them into 
the apartment. 

The Cardinal relinquished the hand of the Unnamed, with 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 385 

whom, meanwhile, he had been concerting arrangements, and 
withdrawing a Httle aside, beckoned to the curate of the 
village. Briefly relating the circumstances, he asked whether 
he could immediately find a trustworthy woman who would 
be willing to go to the castle in a litter, and fetch away Lucia ; 
a kind and clever person, who would know how to conduct 
herself in so novel an expedition, and whose manners and 
language would be most likely to encourage and tranquilize 
the unfortunate girl, to whom, after so much anguish and 
alarm, even liberation itself might be an additional cause of 
apprehension. After a moment's thought, the Curate said 
that he knew just the very person, and then took his de- 
parture. The Cardinal now calling to him the chaplain, 
desired him to have a litter and bearers immediately prepared 
and to see that two mules were saddled, for riders; and as 
soon as he had quitted the apartment, turned to Don Abbondio. 
This worthy gentleman, who had kept tolerably close to 
the Archbishop, that he might be at a respectful distance 
from the other Signor, and had, in the mean time, been cast- 
ing side glances, first to one, and then to the other, dubitating 
the while within himself what ever all this strange manceu- 
vring might mean, now advanced a step forward, and, mak- 
ing a respectful bow, said, 'I was told that your most 
illustrious Lordship wanted me; but I think there must be 
some misunderstanding.' 

' There is no misunderstanding, I assure you,' replied 
Federigo ; ' I have glad news to give you, and a pleasant and 
most agreeable task to impose upon you. One of your par- 
ishioners, whom you must have lamented as lost, Lucia 
Mondella, is again found, and is near at hand, in the house 
of my good friend here ; and you will go now with him, and 
a woman, whom the Signor Curate of this place has gone to 
seek; you will go, I say, to fetch thence one of your own 
children, and accompany her hither,' 

Don Abbondio did his best to conceal the vexation — the 
what shall I say?— the alarm, the dismay excited by this 
proposal, or command; and unable any longer to restrain 
or dismiss a look of inexpressible discontent already gather- 
ing in his countenance, he could only hide it by a profound 
reverence, in token of obedient acceptance ; nor did he agam 

IJC ' 13— VOL. XXI 



386 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

raise his face, but to make another equally profound obeisance 
to the Unnamed, with a piteous look, which seemed to say, 
' I am in your hands, have pity upon me ; Parcere subjectis.' 

The Cardinal then asked him what relations Lucia had. 

' Of near relations, with whom she lives, or might live, 
she has only a mother,' replied Don Abbondio. 

*Is she at home?' 

* Yes, my Lord.' 

* Well,' replied Federigo, * since this poor girl cannot be 
so directly restored to her own home, it will be a great con- 
solation to her to see her mother as quickly as possible ; so, 
if the Signor Curate of this village doesn't return before I 
go to church, I request you will tell him to find a cart, or 
some kind of conveyance, and despatch a person of discretion 
to fetch her mother here.' 

* Had not / better go ? ' said Don Abbondio. 

* No, no, not you ; I've already requested you to undertake 
another commission,' replied the Cardinal. 

'I proposed it,' rejoined Don Abbondio, 'to prepare her 
poor mother for the news. She is a very sensitive woman, 
and it requires one who knows her disposition, and how to 
go to work with her the right way, or he will do her more 
harm than good.' 

'And therefore I have requested you to acquaint the Signor 
Curate of my wish that a proper person should be chosen 
for this office: you will do better elsewhere,' replied the 
Cardinal. And he would willingly have added: That 
poor girl at the castle has far more need of shortly seeing a 
known and trusted countenance, after so many hours of 
agony, and in such terrible ignorance as to the future. But 
this was not a reason to be so clearly expressed before the 
present third party. Indeed, the Cardinal thought it very 
strange that it had not immediately occurred to Don Abbon- 
dio; that he had not thought of it himself; and the proffer 
he had made, and so warmly insisted upon, seemed so much 
out of place, that he could not help suspecting there must 
be something hidden beneath. He gazed upon his face, and 
there readily detected his fear of journeying with that terrible 
person, and of being his guest even for a few moments. 
Anxious, therefore, entirely to dissipate these cowardly appre- 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 387 

hensions, yet unwilling to draw the curate aside and whisper 
with him in secret, while his new friend formed the third of 
their party, he judged that the best plan would be to do what, 
indeed, he 'would have done without such a motive, that is, 
address the Unnamed himself ; and thus Don Abbondio might 
at length understand, from his replies, that he was no longer 
an object of fear. He returned, therefore, to the Unnamed, 
and addressing him with that frank cordiality which may be 
met with in a new and powerful affection, as well as in an 
intimacy of long standing, 'Don't think,' said he, 'that I 
shall be content with this visit for to-day. You will return, 
won't you, with this worthy clergyman?' 

' Will I return ? ' replied the Unnamed. ' Should you refuse 
me, I would obstinately remain outside your door, like the 
beggar. I want to talk with you ; I want to hear you, to see 
you ; I deeply need you ! ' 

Federigo took his hand and pressed it, saying: 'Do the 
clergyman of this village, then, and me, the favour of dining 
with us to-day. I shall expect you. In the mean while, I 
must go to offer up prayers and praises with the people; 
and you to reap the first-fruits of mercy.' 

Don Abbondio, at these demonstrations, stood like a cow- 
ardly child, who watches a person boldly petting and stroking 
a large, surly, shaggy dog, with glaring eyes, and a notoriously 
bad name for biting and growling, and hears its master 
say that his dog is a good and very quiet beast: he looks 
at the owner and neither contradicts nor assents; he looks 
at the animal, afraid to approach him for fear the 'very 
gentle beast' should show his teeth, were it only from habit; 
and equally afraid to run away, lest he should be thought 
a coward; and can only utter an internal aspiration:— 
Would that I were safe in my own house ! 

In quitting the apartment, in company with the Unnamed, 
whose hand he still grasped, the Cardinal cast another glance 
upon the poor man who remained behind, looking very awk- 
ward and mortified, and with a doleful expression of coun- 
tenance. Thinking that possibly his vexation arose from 
being apparently overlooked, and left, as it were, in a corner, 
particularly in contrast with -the notoriously wicked character 
now so warmly received and welcomed, he turned towards 



388 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

him in passing, and hung back for a moment, and said to 
him, with a friendly smile : ' Signer Curate, thou wert ever 
with me in the house of our kind Father, but this . . . this 
one perierat, et inventus est.' 

' Oh, how glad I am to hear it ! ' said Don Abbondio, making 
a profound reverence to the two together. 

The Archbishop then went on, gave a slight push to the 
door, which was immediately opened from without by two 
servants who stood outside, and the notable pair stood before 
the longing eyes of the clergy assembled in the apartment. 
They gazed with interest upon their two countenances, 
both of which bore the traces of a very different, but equally 
profound emotion : a grateful tenderness, an humble joy, on 
Federigo's venerable features ; and on those of the Unnamed, 
confusion, tempered with consolation, a new and unusual 
modesty, and a feeling of contrition, through which the vigour 
of his wild and fiery temper was, nevertheless, still apparent. 
It was afterwards found that the passage in the prophet 
Isaiah had occurred to more than one of the spectators : 
The wolf and the lamb shall feed together, and the lion shall 
eat straw like the bullock. (Isa. Ixv. 25.) Behind them 
came Don Abbondio, to whom no one paid any attention. 

When they had reached the middle of the room, the Car- 
dinal's groom of the chamber entered on the opposite side, 
and informed his master that he had executed all the orders 
communicated to him by the chaplain ; that the litter and 
mules were in readiness, and they only waited the arrival 
of the female whom the curate was to bring. The Cardinal 
bid him tell the priest, when he came back, that Don Abbondio 
wished to speak with him ; and then all the rest was left 
under the direction of the latter and the Unnamed, whom 
the Cardinal again shook warmly by the hand on taking 
leave, saying : * I shall expect you.' Then, turning to salute 
Don Abbondio with a bow, he set off in the direction of the 
church, followed by the clergy, half grouped and half in 
procession, while the fellow-travellers remained alone in the 
apartment. 

The Unnamed stood wrapt up in his own thoughts, and 
impatient for the moment when he might go to liberate his 
Lucia from her sufferings and confinement, — his, now, in 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 389 

a very different sense from that in which she was so the 
day before : and his face expressed a f eehng of intense agita- 
tion, which to Don Abbondio's suspicious eye, might easily 
appear something worse. He peeped and glanced at him 
from the corner of his eye, and longed to start some friendly 
conversation : — But what can I say to him ? — thought he : — 
must I say again, I am glad? Glad of what? that having 
hitherto been a devil, he has at last resolved to become a 
gentleman, like others ? A fine compliment, indeed ! Eh, eh, 
eh ! however I may turn the words, / atn glad can mean noth- 
ing else. And, after all, will it be true that he has become 
a gentleman ? so on a sudden ! There are so many displays 
made in the world, and from so many motives ! What do I 
know about it? And, in the mean time, I have to go with 
him : and to that castle ! oh, what a tale ! what a tale ! what 
a tale is this to tell ! who w^ould have told me this, this morn- 
ing! Ah, if I can but escape in safety, my lady Perpetua 
shan't soon hear the end of it from me, for having sent me 
here by force, when there was no necessity for it, out of 
my own parish: with her fine plausible reasons, that all the 
priests, for many a mile round, would flock hither, even 
those who were further off than I; and that I mustn't be 
behindhand; and this, that, and the other; and then to em- 
bark me in a business of this sort ! O, poor me ! But I must 
say something to this man. — And he had just thought of that 
something, and was on the point of opening his mouth to 
say: — I never anticipated the pleasure of being thrown into 
such honourable company, — when the groom of the chamber 
entered, with the curate of the parish, who announced that 
the woman was w.aiting in the litter ; and then turned to Don 
Abbondio, to receive from him the further commission of 
the Cardinal. Don Abbondio delivered himself as well as 
he could in the confusion of mind under which he was labour- 
ing ; and then, drawing up to the groom, said to him : ' Pray 
give me, at least, a quiet beast; for, to tell the truth, I am 
but a poor horseman.' 

'You may imagine,' replied the groom, with a half smile: 
' it is the secretary's mule, who is a very learned man.' 

' That will do . . .' replied Don Abbondio, and he con- 
tinued to ruminate : — Heaven send me a good one. — 



390 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

The Signor had readily set off the moment he heard the 
announcement ; but on reaching the door, and perceiving 
that Don Abbondio was remaining behind, he stood still to 
wait for him. When he came up, hastily, with an apologizing 
look, the Signor bowed and made him pass on first, with a 
courteous and humble air, which somewhat reanimated the 
spirits of the unfortunate and tormented man. But scarcely 
had he set foot in the court-yard, when he saw a new object 
of alarm, which quickly dissipated all his reviving confidence ; 
he beheld the Unnamed go towards the corner, take hold 
of the barrel of his carbine with one hand, and of the strap 
with the other, and with a rapid motion, as if performing 
the military exercise, swing it over his shoulder. 

— Alas ! alas ! woe is me ! — thought Don Abbondio : — what 
would he do with that weapon? Suitable sackcloth, truly! 
fine discipline for a new convert! And supposing some 
fancy should take him ? Oh, what an expedition ! what an 
expedition ! — 

Could this Signor have suspected for a moment what 
Jiind of thoughts they were which were passing through 
his companion's mind, it is difficult to say what he would 
not have done to reassure him ; but he was far enough away 
from such a suspicion, and Don Abbondio carefully avoided 
any movement which would distinctly express — I don't trust 
your Lordship. — On reaching the door into the street, they 
found the two animals in readiness: the Unnamed mounted 
one, which was held for him by an hostler. 

'Isn't it vicious?' said Don Abbondio to the valet, as he 
stood with one foot suspended on the stirrup, and the other 
still resting on the ground. 

'You may go with a perfectly easy mind; it's a very 
lamb,' replied the man; and Don Abbondio, grasping the 
saddle, and assisted by the groom, gradually mounted up- 
wards, and, at last, found himself safely seated on the 
creature's back. 

The litter, which stood a few paces in advance, and was 
borne by two mules, moved forward at the word of the 
attendant, and the party set off. 

They had to pass before the church, which was full to 
overflowing with people; and through a little square, also 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 391 

swarming with the villagers, and newly arrived visitors, 
whom the building could not accommodate. The glad news 
had already spread; and on the appearance of the party, 
and more especially of him who, only a few hours before 
had been an object of terror and execration, but was now 
the object of joyful wonder, there arose from the crowd 
almost a murmur of applause; and as they made way for 
him, even their eagerness was hushed in the desire to ob- 
tain a near view of him. The litter passed on, the Unnamed 
followed; and when he arrived before the open door of the 
church, took off his hat, and bowed his hitherto dreaded 
forehead, till it almost touched the animal's mane, amidst 
the murmur of a hundred voices, exclaiming, 'God bless you ! ' 
Don Abbondio, also, took off his hat, and bending low, recom- 
mended himself to Heaven ; but hearing the solemn harmony 
of his brethren, as they chanted in chorus, he was so over- 
come with a feeling of envy, a mournful tenderness of spirit, 
and a sudden fervour of heart, that it was with difficulty he 
restrained his tears. 

When they got beyond the habitations into the open coun- 
try, and in the often entirely deserted windings of the road, 
a still darker cloud overspread his thoughts. The only object 
on which his eye could rest with any confidence, was the 
attendant on the litter, who, belonging to the Cardinal's 
household, must certainly be an honest man; and who, be- 
sides, did not look like a coward. From time to time passen- 
gers appeared, sometimes even in groups, who were flocking 
to see the Cardinal, and this was a great relief to Don 
Abbondio ; it was, however, but transitory, and he was 
advancing towards that tremendous valley, where he should 
meet none but the vassals of his companion ; and what vas- 
sals ! He now more than ever longed to enter into conversa- 
tion with this companion, both to sound him a little more- 
and to keep him in good humour ; but even this wish 
vanished on seeing him so completely absorbed in his own 
thoughts. He must then talk to himself; and we will pre- 
sent the reader with a part of the poor man's soliloquy 
during his journey, for it would require a volume to record 
the whole. 

— It is a fine thing, truly, that saints as well as sinners 



392 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

must have quicksilver in their compositions, and cannot be 
content with fussing about and busying themselves, but must 
also bring into the dance v^^ith them the whole world, if 
they can; and that the greatest busy-bodies must just come 
upon me, who never meddle with anybody, and drag me by 
the hair into their affairs; me, who ask for nothing but to 
be left alone! That mad rascal of a Don Rodrigo ! What 
does he want to make him the happiest man in the world, if 
he had but the least grain of judgment? He is rich, he is 
young, he is respected and courted : he is sick with too much 
prosperity, and must needs go about making trouble for 
himself and his neighbour. He might follow the ways of 
Saint Michael ; oh, no ! my gentleman doesn't choose : he 
chooses to set up the trade of molesting women, the most 
absurd, the most vile, the most insane business in the world : 
he might ride to heaven in his carriage, and chooses rather 
to walk halting to the devil's dwelling. And this man? 
. . . And here he looked at him, as if he suspected he could 
hear his very thoughts. — This man ! after turning the world 
upside down with his wickedness, now he turns it upside 
down with his conversion ... if it prove really so. In 
the mean while, it falls to me to make the trial ! . . . So it 
is, that when people are born with this madness in their 
veins, they must always be making a noise! Is it so diffi- 
cult to act an honest part all one's life, as I have done? 
Oh, no, my good sir: they must kill and quarter, play the 
devil . . . oh, poor me ! . . . and then comes a great stir 
even when doing penance. Repentance, when there is an 
inclination to it, can be performed at home, quietly, without 
so much show, without giving so much trouble to one's 
neighbours. And his illustrious Lordship, instantly, with 
open arms calling him his dear friend, his dear friend; 
and this man listens to all he says as if he had seen him 
work miracles; and then he must all at once come to a 
resolution, and rush into it hand and foot, one minute here, 
and the next there; we, at home, should call this precipita- 
tion. And to deliver a poor curate into his hands without 
the smallest security ! this may be called playing with a 
man at great odds. A holy bishop, as he is, ought to value 
his curates as the apple of his eye. It seems to me there 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 393 

migiit be a little moderation, a little prudence, a little charity 
along with sanctity . . . Supposing this should be all a mere 
show? Who can tell all the intentions of men? and particu- 
larly of such a man as this? To think that it is my lot to 
go with him to his own house ! There may be some under- 
work of the devil here : oh, poor me ! it is best not to think 
about it. How is Lucia mixed up with all this? It is plain 
Don Rodrigo had some designs upon her : what people : and 
suppose it is exactly thus, how then has this man got her 
into his clutches? Who knows, I wonder? It is all a secret 
with my Lord ; and to me, whom they are making trot about 
in this way, they don't tell a word. I don't care about know- 
ing other people's affairs; but when I have to risk my skin 
in the matter, I have a right to know something. If it be 
only to go and fetch away this poor creature, patience! 
though he could easily enough bring her straight away him- 
self. And besides, if he is really converted, if he has become 
a holy father, what need is there of me? Oh, what a chaos ! 
Well ; it is Heaven's will it should be thus : it will be a very 
great' inconvenience, but patience ! I shall be glad, too, for 
this poor Lucia: she also must have escaped some terrible 
issue: Heaven knows what she must have suffered: I pity 
her; but she was born to be my ruin ... At least, I wish 
I could look into his heart, and see what he is thinking about. 
Who can understand him ? Just look, now ; one minute he 
looks like Saint Antony in the desert, the next he is like 
Holofernes himself. Oh, poor me ! poor me ! Well ; Heaven 
is under an obligation to help me, since I didn't get myself 
into this danger with my own good will. — 

In fact, the thoughts of the Unnamed might be seen, so 
to say, passing over his countenance, as in a stormy day the 
clouds' flit across the face of the sun, producing every now 
and then an alternation of dazzling light and gloomy shade. 
His soul, still quite absorbed in reflection upon Federigo's 
soothing words, and, as it were, renewed and made young 
again with fresh life, now rose with cheerful hope at the 
idea of mercy, pardon, and love; and then again sank be- 
neath the weight of the terrible past. He anxiously tried to 
select those deeds of iniquity which were yet reparable, and 
those which he could still arrest in the midst of their prog- 



394 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

ress ; he considered what remedies would be most certain 
and expeditious, how to disentangle so many knots, what to 
do with so many accomplices ; but it was all obscurity and 
difficulty. In this very expedition, the easiest of execution, 
and so near its termination, he went with a willingness 
mingled with grief at the thought, that in the mean while 
the poor girl was suffering, God knew how much, and that 
he, while burning to liberate her, was all the while the 
cause of her suffering. At every turn, or fork in the road, 
the mule-driver looked back for direction as to the way: 
the Unnamed signified it with his hand, and at the same time 
beckoned to him to make haste. 

They entered the valley. How must Don Abbondio have 
felt then ! That renowned valley, of which he had heard 
such black and horrible stories, to be actually within it ! 
Those men of notorious fame, the flower of the bravoes 
of Italy, men without fear and without mercy, — to see them 
in flesh and blood, — to meet one, two. or three, at every 
turn of a corner ! They bowed submissively to the Signor ; 
but their sunburnt visages ! their rough mustachios ! their 
large fierce eyes ! they seemed to Don Abbondio's mind to 
mean, — Shall we dispatch that Priest? — So that, in a moment 
of extreme consternation, the thought rushed into his mind, 
— Would that I had married them ! worse could not befall 
me. — In the mean while they went forward along a gravelly 
path by the side of the torrent : on one hand was a view of 
isolated and solid rocks; on the other, a population which 
would have made even a desert seem desirable : Dante was 
not in a worse situation in the midst of Malebolge. 

They passed the front of Malanotte; where bravoes were 
lounging at the door, who bowed to the Signor, and gazed 
at his companion and the litter. They knew not what to 
think; the departure of the Unnamed in the morning by 
himself had already seemed extraordinary, and his return 
was not less so. Was it a captive that he was conducting? 
And how had he accomplished it alone? And what was 
the meaning of a strange litter? And whose could this 
livery be? They looked and looked, but no one moved, 
because such was the command they read in his eye and 
expression. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 395 

They climbed the ascent, and reached the summit. The 
bravoes on the terrace and round the gate retired on either 
side to make room for him ; the Unnamed motioned to them 
to retreat no farther, spurted forward and passed before 
the Utter, beckoned to the driver and Don Abbondio to fol- 
low him,' entered an outer court, and thence into a second, 
went towards a small postern, made signs to a bravo, who 
was hastening to hold his stirrup, to keep back, and said to 
him, ' You there, and no one nearer.' He then dismounted, 
and' holding the bridle, advanced towards the litter, ad- 
dressed himself to the female who had just drawn back the 
curtain, and said to her in an undertone: 'Comfort her 
directly ; let her understand at once that she is at liberty, and 
among 'friends. God will reward you for it.' He then 
ordered the driver to open the door, and assist her to get 
out. Advancing, then, to Don Abbondio, with a look of 
greater serenity than the poor man had yet seen, or thought 
it possible he could see, on his countenance, in which there 
might now be traced joy at the good work which was at 
length so near its completion, he lent him his arm to dis- 
mount, saying to him at the same time, in a low voice: 
' Signor Curate, I do not apologize for the trouble you have 
had on my account; you are bearing it for One who rewards 
bountifully, and for this His poor creature ! ' 

This look, and these words, once more put some heart 
into Don Abbondio ; and, drawing a long breath, which for 
an hour past had been striving ineffectually to_ find vent, 
he replied, whether or not in a submissive tone it need not 
be asked: 'Is your Lordship joking with me? But, but, 
but, but ! . . .' And, accepting the hand which was so cour- 
teously offered, he slid down from the saddle as he best 
could. The Unnamed took the bridle, and handed it with his 
own to the driver, bidding him wait there outside for them. 
Taking a key from his pocket, he opened the postern, ad- 
mitted the curate and the woman, followed them in, 
advanced to lead the way, went to the foot of the stairs, 
and they all three ascended in silence. 



CHAPTER XXIV 

1UCIA had aroused herself only a short time before, 
and part of that time she had been striving to 
^ awaken herself thoroughly, and to sever the dis- 
turbed dreams of sleep from the remembrances and images 
of a reality which too much resembled the feverish visions 
of sickness. The old woman quickly made up to her, and, 
with a constrained voice of humility, said : 'Ah ! have you 
slept? You might have slept in bed: I told you so often 
enough last night.' And receiving no reply, she continued, 
in a tone of pettish entreaty: 'Just eat something; do be 
prudent. Oh, how wretched you look ! You must want 
something to eat. And then if, when he comes back, he's 
angry with me ! ' 

'No, no; I want to go away. I want to go to my mother. 
Your master promised I should; he said, to-morrozv morn- 
ing. Where is he ? ' 

' He's gone out ; but he said he'd be back soon, and would 
do all you wished.' 

' Did he say so? did he say so? Very well; I wish to go 
to my mother, directly, directly.' 

And behold! the noise of footsteps was heard in the 
adjoining room; then a tap at the door. The old woman 
ran to it, and asked, ' Who's there? ' 

' Open the door,' replied the well-known voice, gently. 

The old woman drew back the bolt, and, with a slight 
push, the Unnamed half opened the door, bid her come out, 
and hastily ushered in Don Abbondio and the good woman. 
He then nearly closed the door again, and waiting himself 
outside, sent the aged matron to a distant part of the castle, 
as he had before dismissed the other one, who was keeping 
watch outside. 

All this bustle, the moment of expectation, and the first 
appearance of strange figures, made Lucia's heart bound 
with agitation ; for, if her present condition was intolerable, 
every change was an additional cause of alarm. She looked 

396 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 397 

up, and beheld a priest and a woman; this somewhat reani- 
mated her; she looked more closely; is it he or not? At 
last, she recognized Don Abbondio, and remained with her 
eyes fixed, as if by enchantment. The female then drew 
near, and bending over her, looked at her compassionately, 
taking both her hands, as if to caress and raise her at the 
same time, and saying: 'Oh, my poor girl! come with us, 
come with us.' 

' Who are you ? ' demanded Lucia ; but without listening 
to the reply, she again turned to Don Abbondio, who was 
standing two or three yards distant, even his countenance 
expressing some compassion; she gazed at him again, and 
exclaimed :' You ! Is it you ! The Signor Curate? Where 
are we? . . . Oh, poor me ! I have lost my senses ! ' 

' No, no,' replied Don Abbondio, ' it is indeed I : take 
courage. Don't you see we are here to take you away? I 
am really your curate, come hither on purpose on horse- 
back . . .' 

As if she had suddenly regained all her strength, Lucia 
precipitately sprang upon her feet: then again fixing her 
eyes on those two faces, she said: 'It is the Madonna, then, 
that has sent you.' 

' I believe indeed it is,' said the good woman. 
'But can we go away? Can we really go away?' re- 
sumed Lucia, lowering her voice, and assuming a timid 
and suspicious look. 'And all these people? . . .' continued 
she, with her lips compressed, and quivering with fear and 
horror: 'And that Lord . . . that man! ... He did, in- 
deed, promise . . .' 

' He is here himself in person, came on purpose with us,' 
said Don Abbondio ; ' he is outside waiting for us. Let us 
go at once; we mustn't keep a man like him waiting.' 

At this moment, he of whom they were speaking opened 
the door, and showing himself at the entrance, came for- 
ward into the room. Lucia, who but just before had wished 
for him, nay, having no hope in any one else in the world, 
had wished for none but him, now, after having seen and 
listened to friendly faces and voices, could not restrain a 
sudden shudder: she started, held her breath, and throwing 
herself on the good woman's shoulder, buried her face in 



398 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

her bosom. At the first sight of that countenance, on which, 
the evening before, he had been unable to maintain a steady- 
gaze, now rendered more pale, languid and dejected, by 
prolonged suffering and abstinence, the Unnamed had sud- 
denly checked his steps; now, at the sight of her impulse 
of terror, he cast his eyes on the ground, stood for a moment 
silent and motionless, and then replying to what the poor 
girl had not expressed in words, 'It is true,' exclaimed he; 
' forgive me ! ' 

' He is come to set you free; he's no longer what he was; 
he has become good; don't you hear him asking your for- 
giveness ? ' said the good woman, in Lucia's ear. 

' Could he say more? Come, Hft up your head; don't be a 
baby: we can go directly,' said Don Abbondio. Lucia raised 
her face, looked at the Unnamed, and seeing his head bent 
low, and his embarrassed and humble look, she was seized 
with a mingled feeling of comfort, gratitude, and pity, as 
she replied, ' Oh, my Lord ! God reward you for this deed 
of mercy ! ' 

' And you a thousandfold, for the good you do me by 
these words.' 

So saying, he turned round, went towards the door, and 
led the way out of the room. Lucia, completely reassured, 
followed, leaning on the worthy female's arm, while Don 
Abbondio brought up the rear. They descended the stair- 
case, and reached the little door that led into the court. The 
Unnamed opened it, went towards the litter, and, with a 
certain politeness, almost mingled with timidity, (two novel 
qualities in him,) offered his arm to Lucia, to assist her to 
get in; and afterwards to the worthy dame. He then took 
the bridles of the two mules from the driver's hand, and 
gave his arm to Don Abbondio, who had approached his 
gentle steed. 

' Oh, what condescension ! ' said Don Abbondio, as he 
mounted much more nimbly than he had done the first time; 
and as soon as the Unnamed was also seated, the party 
resumed their way. The Signor's brow was raised: his 
countenance had regained its customary expression of 
authority. The ruffians whom they passed on their way, 
discovered, indeed, in his face the marks of deep thought. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 399 

and an extraordinary solicitude; but they _ neither under- 
stood nor could understand, more about it. They knew 
not yet anything of the great change which had taken place 
rtheir master rand, undoubtedly, none of them would have 
divined it merely from conjecture. _ 

The good woman immediately drew the curtams over the 
little windows; and then, affectionately takmg Lucia s 
hands, she applied herself to comfort her with expressions 
of pity, congratulation, and tenderness. Seeing then, that 
not only fatfgue from the suffering she had undergone, but 
the perplexity and obscurity of all that had happened, pre- 
vented the poor girl from being sensible of the joy of her 
deliverance, she said all she could think of most hkely o 
recall her recollection, and to clear up, and set to rights so 
to say her poor scattered thoughts. She named the village 
she came from, and to which they were now going. 

' Yes' ' said Lucia, who knew how short a distance it was 

from her own. 'Ah, most holy Madonna, I praise thee! 

Mv mother ! my mother ! ' . „„ 

'We will send to fetch her directly,' said the good woman, 

not knowing that it was already done 

' Yes, yes, and God will reward you for it . . . And you, 
who are you? How have you come . . .' 

'Our Curate sent me,' said the good woman^ because 
God has touched this Signor's heart, (blessed be His name!) 
and he came to our village to speak to the Signor Cardinal 
Archbishop, for he is there in his visitation,^ that holy man 
of God- and he had repented of his great sins, and wished 
to change his life; and he told the Cardinal that he had 
caused a poor innocent to be seized, meaning you at the 
instigation of another person, who had no fear of God, but 
the Curate didn't tell me who it could be. 

Lucia raised her eyes to heaven. . , ., a 

'You know who it was, perhaps,' continued the good 

woman. 'Well; the Signor Cardinal thought that, as there 

was a young girl in the question, there ought to be a female 

Tcome back^ith her; and he told the Curate to look^for 

one- and the Curate, in his goodness, came to me . . 

' Oh, the Lord recompense you for your kindness . 

'Well just listen to me, my poor child! And the Signor 



400 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

Curate bid me encourage you, and try to comfort you 
directly, and point out to you how the Lord has saved you 
by a miracle . . .' 

' Ah yes, by a miracle indeed ; through the intercession of 
the Madonna ! ' 

* Well, that you should have a right spirit, and forgive 
him who has done you this wrong, and be thankful that God 
has been merciful to him, yes, and pray for him too; for, 
besides that you will be rewarded for it, you will also find 
your heart lightened.' 

Lucia replied with a look which expressed assent as clearly 
as words could have done, and with a sweetness which words 
could not have conveyed. 

' Noble girl ! ' rejoined the woman. ' And your Curate, 
too, being at our village, (for there are numbers assembled 
from all the country round to elect four public officers,) the 
Signor Cardinal thought it better to send him with us; but 
he has been of little use : I had before heard that he was a 
poor-spirited creature; but, on this occasion, I couldn't help 
seeing that he was as frightened as a chicken in a bundle 
of hemp.' 

'And this man . . .' asked Lucia, 'this person who has 
become good . . . who is he ? ' 

' What ! don't you know him ? ' said the good woman, 
mentioning his name. 

' Oh, the mercy of the Lord ! ' exclaimed Lucia. How 
often had she heard that name repeated with horror in more 
than one story, in which it always appeared as, in other 
stories, that of the monster Orcus ! And at the thought of 
having once been in his dreaded power, and being now 
under his merciful protection — at the thought of such fear- 
ful danger, and such unlooked-for deliverance; and at the 
remembrance of whose face it was that had at first appeared 
to her so haughty, afterwards so agitated, and then so hum- 
bled, she remained in a kind of ecstasy, only occasionally 
repeating, ' Oh, what a mercy ! ' 

' It is a great mercy, indeed ! ' said the good woman. ' It 
will be a great relief to half the world, to all the country 
round. To think how many people he kept in fear ; and now, 
as our Curate told me . . . and then, only to see his 



I PROxMESSI SPOSI 401 

face, he is become a saint! And the fruits are seen so 

directly.' , , , ... 

To assert this worthy person did not feel much curiosity 
to know rather more explicitly the wonderful circumstances 
in which she was called upon to bear a part, would not be 
the truth But we must say, to her honour, that, restrained 
by a respectful pity for Lucia, and feeling, in a manner, the 
gravity and dignity of the charge which had been entrusted 
to her, she never even thought of putting an indiscreet or 
idle question; throughout the whole journey, her words 
were those of comfort and concern for the poor girl. 

' Heaven knows how long it is since you have eaten any- 
thing ! ' . , 

'I don't remember ... not for some time. 

' Poor thing ! you must want something to strengthen 

you ? ' 

' Yes ' replied Lucia, in a faint voice. 

'Thank God, we shall get something at home directly. 
Take heart, for it's not far now.' 

Lucia then sank languidly to the bottom of the litter as if 
overcome with drowsiness, and the good woman left her 

quietly to repose. . v. 

To Don Abbondio the return was certainly not so harass- 
in- as the journey thither not long before; but, nevertheless, 
ev'en this was not a ride of pleasure. When his overwhelm- 
ing fears had subsided, he felt, at first, as if relieved from 
every burden; but very shortly a hundred other fancies 
be-an to haunt his imagination; as the ground whence a 
lar^-e tree has been uprooted remains bare and empty for a 
tim^e but is soon abundantly covered with weeds. He had 
become more sensitive to minor causes of alarm ; and in 
thoughts of the present, as well as the future, failed not to 
find only too many materials for self-torment. He felt now,, 
much more than in coming, the inconveniences of a mode 
of travelling to which he was not at all accustomed, and 
particularly in the descent from the castle to the bottom 
of the valley. The mule-driver, obedient to a sign from the 
Unnamed, drove on the animals at a rapid pace; the two 
riders followed in a line behind, with corresponding speed. 
so that, in sundry steep places, the unfortunate Don Ad- 



402 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

bondio, as if forced up by a lever behind, rolled forward, 
and was obliged to keep himself steady by grasping the 
pommel of the saddle ; not daring to request a slower pace, 
and anxious, also, to get out of the neighbourhood as quickly 
as he could. Besides this, wherever the road was on an 
eminence, on the edge of a steep bank, the mule, according 
to the custom of its species, seemed as if aiming, out of 
contempt, always to keep on the outside, and to set its feet 
on the very brink; and Don Abbondio saw, almost perpen- 
dicularly beneath him, a good leap, or, as he thought, a 
precipice. — Even you, — said he to the animal, in his heart, — 
have a cursed inclination to go in search of dangers, when 
there is such a safe and wide path. — And he pulled the bridle 
to the opposite side, but in vain; so that, grumbling with 
vexation and fear, he suffered himself, as usual, to be guided 
at the will of others. The ruffians no longer gave him so 
much alarm, now that he knew for certain how their master 
regarded them. — But, — reflected he, — if the news of this 
grand conversion should get abroad among them while we 
are still here, who knows how these fellows would take it? 
Who knows what might arise from it? What, if they should 
get an idea that I am come hither as a missionary ! Heaven 
preserve me ! they would martyr me ! — The haughty brow 
of the Unnamed gave him no uneasiness. — To keep those 
visages there in awe, — thought he, — it needs no less than 
this one here; I understand that myself; but why has it 
fallen to my lot to be thrown amongst such people? — ■ 

But enough ; they reached the foot of the descent, and 
at length also issued from the valley. The brow of the Un- 
named became gradually smoother. Don Abbondio, too, 
assumed a more natural expression, released his head some- 
what from imprisonment between his shoulders, stretched his 
legs and arms, tried to be a little more at his ease, which, in 
truth, made him look like a different creature, drew his breath 
more freely, and, with a calmer mind, proceeded to contem- 
plate other and remoter dangers. — What will that villain 
of a Don Rodrigo say? To be left in this way, wronged, 
and open to ridicule ; just fancy whether that won't be a bit- 
ter dose. Now's the time when he'll play the devil out- 
right. It remains to be seen whether he won't be angry with 



T PROMESSI SPOSI 403 

me because I have been mixed up with this business. If 
he 'has already chosen to send these two demons to meet me 
on the high road with such an intimation, what will he do 
now, Heaven knows ! He can't quarrel with his illustrious 
Lordship, for he's rather out of his reach; hell be obliged 
to enaw the bit with him. But all the while the venom will 
be in his veins, and he'll be sure to vent it upon somebody 
How will all these things end? The blow must always fall 
somewhere; the lash must be uplifted. Of course, his illus- 
trious Lordship intends to place Lucia in safety : that other 
unfortunate misguided youth is beyond reach, and has already 
had his share; so behold the lash must fall upon my shoul- 
ders It will indeed be cruel, if, after so many inconveniences 
and so much agitation, without my deserving it too, in the 
least I should have to bear the punishment. What will his 
most illustrious Grace do now to protect me, after having 
brought me into the dance? Can he ensure that this cursed 
wretch won't play me a worse trick than before? And 
besides, he has so many things to think of ; he puts his hand 
to so many businesses. How can he attend to all? Matters 
are sometimes left more entangled than at first. Those who 
do good, do it in the gross; when they have enjoyed this 
satisfaction, they've had enough, and won't trouble them- 
selves to look after the consequences; but they who have 
such a taste for evil-doings, are much more diligent; they 
follow it up to the end, and give themselves no rest because 
they have an ever-devouring canker within them. Must I go 
and say that I came here at the express command of his 
illustrious Grace, and not with my own good will? That 
would seem as if I favoured the wicked side. Oh, sacred 
Heaven' I favour the wicked side! For the pleasure it 
gives me' Well; the best plan will be to tell Perpetua the 
case as it is and then leave it to her to circulate it, provided 
my Lord doesn't take a fancy to make the whole matter 
public, and bring even me into the scene. At any rate as 
soon as ever we arrive, if he's out of church, 1 11 go and take 
my leave of him as quickly as possible ; if he s not 1 11 leave 
an apology, and go off hopie at once. Lucia is wel attended 
to- there's no need for me; and after so much trouble, T too, 
may claim a little repose. And besides . . . what if my 



404 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

Lord should feel some curiosity to know the whole history, 
and it should fall to me to give an account of that wedding 
business ! This is all that is wanting to complete it. And 
if he should come on a visit to my parish? . . . Oh, let it 
be what it will, I will not trouble myself about it before- 
hand; I have troubles enough already. For the present, 1 
shall shut myself up at home. As long as his Grace is in 
this neighbourhood, Don Rodrigo won't have the face to 
make a stir. And afterwards . . . oh, afterwards ! Ah, I 
see that my last years are to be spent in sorrow! — 

The party arrived before the services in the church were 
over; they passed through the still assembled crowd, which 
manifested no less emotion than on the former occasion, 
and then separated. The two riders turned aside into a 
small square, at the extremity of which stood the Curate's 
residence, while the litter went forward to that of the good 
woman. 

Don Abbondio kept his word: scarcely dismounted, he 
paid the most obsequious compliments to the Unnamed, and 
begged him to make an apology for him to his Grace, as he 
must return immediately to his parish on urgent business. 
He then went to seek for what he called his horse, that is 
to say, his walking-stick, which he had left in a corner of the 
hall, and set off on foot. The Unnamed remained to wait till 
the Cardinal returned from church. 

The good woman, having accommodated Lucia with the 
best seat in the best place in her kitchen, hastened to pre- 
pare a little refreshment for her, refusing, with a kind of 
rustic cordiality, her reiterated expressions of thanks and 
apology. 

Hastily putting some dry sticks under a vessel, which she 
had replaced upon the fire, and in which floated a good 
capon, she quickly made the broth boil ; and then, filling 
from it a porringer, already furnished with sops of bread, 
she was at length able to offer it to Lucia. And on seeing 
the poor girl refreshed at every spoonful, she congratulated 
herself aloud, that all this had happened on a day when, as 
she said, the cat was not sitting on the hearth-stone. 'Every- 
body contrives to set out a table to-day,' added she, ' unless 
it be those poor creatures who can scarcely get bread of 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 405 

vetches, and a polenta of millet; however, they all hope to 
be^ something to-day, from such a charitable Signor We, 
thJnk Heaven, are not so badly off: what with my husbands 
business, and a little plot of ground, we can live very well, 
so that you needn't hesitate to eat with a good appetite; 
the chicken will soon be done, and you can then refresh 
yourself with something better.' And, receivmg the little 
porringer from her hand, she turned to prepare the dinner, 
and to* set out the table for the family. , 

Invigorated in body, and gradually revived in heart, Lucia 
now began to settle her dress, from an instinctive habit of 
cleanliness and modesty : she tied up and arranged afresh 
her loose and dishevelled tresses, and adjusted the hand- 
kerchief over her bosom, and around her neck I « doing 
this her fingers became entangled in the chaplet she had 
hun'cr there: her eve rested upon it; aroused an instan- 
tane'ous agitation in her heart; the remembrance of her 
vow hitherto suppressed and stifled by the presence of so 
many other sensations, suddenly rushed upon her mmd, and 
presented itself clearly and distinctly to her view. The 
scarcely recovered powers of her soul were again at once 
overcome- and had she not been previously prepared by a 
life of innocence, resignation, and confiding faith, the con- 
sternation she experienced at that moment would have 
amounted to desperation. After a tumultuous burst of such 
thoughts as were not to be expressed in words, the only ones 
she could form in her mind were,-Oh, poor me, whatever 

have I done ! — ,.,,.11, 4:^1*. 

But scarcely had she indulged the thought, when she felt 
a kind of terror at having done so. She recollected all the 
circumstances of the vow, her insupportable anguish, her 
despair of all human succour, the fervency of^ her prayer, 
the entireness of feeling with which the promise had been 
made And after having obtained her petition, to repent 
of her promise seemed to her nothing less than sacrilegious 
ingratitude and perfidy towards God and the Virgin; she 
ima-ined that such unfaithfulness would draw down upon 
her ''new and more terrible misfortunes, in which she could 
not find consolation even 'in prayer; and she hastened to 
abjure her momentary regret. Reverently taking the rosary 



406 ALESSANDRO MAXZONI 

from her neck, and holding it in her trembling hand, she 
confirmed and renewed the vow, imploring, at the same time, 
with heartrending earnestness, that strength might be given 
her to fulfill it ; and that she might be spared such thoughts 
and occurrences as would be likely, if not to disturb her 
resolution, at least to harass her beyond endurance. The 
distance of Renzo, without any probability of return, that 
distance which she had hitherto felt so painful, now seemed 
to her a dispensation of Providence, who had made the two 
events work together for the same end; and she thought to 
find in the one a motive of consolation for the other. And, 
following up this thought, she began representing to herself 
that the same Providence, to complete the work, would 
know what means to employ to induce Renzo himself to be 
resigned, to think no more . . . But scarcely had such an 
idea entered her mind, when all was again overturned. The 
poor girl, feeling her heart still prone to regret the vow, 
again had recourse to prayer, confirmation of the promise, 
and inward struggles, from which she arose, if we may be 
allowed the expression, like the wearied and wounded victor 
from his fallen enemy. 

At this moment she heard approaching footsteps and 
joyous cries. It was the little family returning from church. 
Two little girls and a young boy bounded into the house, 
who, stopping a moment to cast an inquisitive glance at 
Lucia, ran to their mother, and gathered around her ; one 
inquiring the name of the unknown guest, and how, and 
why ; another attempting to relate the wonderful things they 
had just witnessed ; while the good woman replied to each 
and all, ' Be quiet, be quiet.' With a more sedate step, but 
with cordial interest depicted on his countenance, the master 
of the house then entered. He was, if we have not yet said 
so, the tailor of the village and its immediate neighbour- 
hood ; a man who knew how to read, who had, in fact, read 
more than once // Leggendario de' Santi, and / Reali di 
Francia, and who passed among his fellow-villagers as a 
man of talent and learning; a character, however, which 
he modestly disclaimed, only saying, that he had mistaken his 
vocation, and that, had he applied himself to study, instead 
of so many others . . . and so on. With all this, he was the 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 407 

best-tempered creature in the world. Having been present 
when his wife was requested by the Curate to undertake her 
charitable journey, he had not only given his approbation, 
but would also have added his persuasion, had it been neces- 
sary. And now that the services, the pomp, the concourse, 
and above all, the sermon of the Cardinal, had, as the saying 
is, elevated all his best feelings, he returned home with eager 
anticipations, and an anxious desire to know how the thing 
had succeeded, and to find the innocent young creature safe. 

' See, there she is ! ' said his good wife, as he entered, 
pointing to Lucia, who blushed, and rose from her seat, be- 
ginning to stammer forth some apology. But he, advancing 
towards her, interrupted her excuses, congratulating her on 
her safety, and exclaiming, ' Welcome, welcome ! You are 
the blessing of Heaven in this house. How glad I am to see 
you here ! I was pretty sure you would be brought out 
safely ; for I've never found that the Lord began a miracle 
without bringing it to a good end ; but I'm glad to see you 
here. Poor girl ! but it is indeed a great thing to have re- 
ceived a miracle ! ' 

Let it not be thought that he was the only person who 
thus denominated this event, because he had read the 
Legendary ; as long as the remembrance of it lasted, it was 
spoken of in no other terms in the whole village, and 
throughout the neighbourhood. And, to say truth, consid- 
ering its attendant and following consequences, no other 
name is so appropriate. 

Then, sidling up to bio wife, who was takmg the kettle 
off the hook over the fire, he whispered, ' Did everything go 
on well ? ' 

' Very well ; I'll tell you afterwards.' 
' Yes, yes, at your convenience.' 

Dinner now being quickly served up, the mistress of the 
house went up to Lucia, and leading her to the table, made 
her take a seat; then cutting off a wing of the fowl, she set 
it before her, and she and her husband sitting down, they 
both begged their dispirited and bashful guest to make her- 
self at home, and take something to eat. Between every 
mouthful, the tailor began fo talk with great eagerness, m 
spite of the interruptions of the children, who stood round 



408 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

the table to their meal, and who, in truth, had seen too many 
extraordinary things, to play, for any length of time, the 
part of mere listeners. He described the solemn ceremonies, 
and then passed on to the miraculous conversion. But that 
which had made the most impression upon him, and to which 
he most frequently returned, was the Cardinal's sermon. 

' To see him there before the altar/ said he, ' a gentleman 
like him, like a Curate . . .' 

* And that gold thing he had on his head . . .' said a little 
girl. 

* Hush. To think, I say, that a gentleman like him, such 
a learned man, too, that from what people say, he has read 
all the books there are in the world ; a thing which nobody 
else has ever done, not even in Milan — to think that he knew 
how to say things in such a way, that every one under- 
stood . . .' 

' Even I understood very well,' said another little prattler 

Hold your tongue ; what may you have understood, I 
wonder ? ' 

' I understood that he was explaining the Gospel, instead 
of the Signor Curate.' 

' Well, be quiet. I don't say those who know something, 
for then one is obliged to understand; but even the dullest 
and most ignorant could follow out the sense. Go now and 
ask them if they could repeat the words that he spoke: I'll 
engage they could not remember one; but the meaning they 
will have in their heads. And without ever mentioning the 
name of that Signor, how easy it was to see that he was 
alluding to him ! Besides, to understand that, one had only 
to observe him with the tears standing in his eye. And 
then the whole church began to weep . . .' 

'Yes, indeed, they did,' burst forth the little boy; 'but 
why were they all crying in that way, like children ? ' 

* Hold your tongue. Surely there are some hard hearts in 
this country. And he made us see so well, that though 
there is a famine here, we ought to thank God, and be 
content ; do whatever we can, work industriously, help one 
another, and then be content, because it is no disgrace to 
suffer and be poor ; the disgrace is to do evil. And these 
are not only fine words ; for everybody knows that he lives 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 409 

like a poor man himself, and takes the bread out of his 
own mouth to give to the hungry, when he might be enjoy- 
ing good times better than any one. Ah ! then it gives one 
satisfaction to hear a man preach: not Hke so many others: 
" Do what I say, and not what I do." And then he showed 
us that even those who are not what they call gentlemen, 
if they have more than they actually want, are bound to 
share it with those who are suffering.' 

Here he interrupted himself, as if checked by some 
thought. He hesitated a moment ; then filling a platter from 
the several dishes on the table, and adding a loaf of bread, 
he put it into a cloth, and taking it by the four corners, said 
to his eldest girl : ' Here, take this.' He then put into her 
other hand a little flask of wine, and added : ' Go down to the 
widow Maria, leave her these things, and tell her it is to make 
a little feast with her children. But do it kindly and nicely, 
you know; that it may not seem as if you were doing her a 
charity. And don't say anything, if you meet any one; 
and take care you break nothing.' 

Lucia's eyes glistened, and her heart glowed with tender 
emotion; as from the conversation she had already heard, 
she had received more comfort than an expressly consola- 
tory sermon could possibly have imparted to her. Her 
mind, attracted by these descriptions, these images of pomp, 
and these emotions of piety and wonder, and sharing in 
the very enthusiasm of the narrator, was detached from the 
consideration of its own sorrows ; and on returning to them, 
found itself strengthened to contemplate them. Even the 
thought of her tremendous sacrifice, though it had not lost 
its bitterness, brought with it something of austere and 
solemn joy. 

Shortly afterwards, the Curate of the village entered, 
and said that he was sent by the Cardinal to inquire after 
Lucia, and to inform her that his Grace wished to see her 
some time during the day; and then, in his Lordship's 
name, he returned many thanks to the worthy couple. 
Surprised and agitated, the three could scarcely find words 
to reply to such messages from so great a personage. 

'And your mother hasn't. yet arrived?' said the Curate 
to Lucia. 



410 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

' My mother ! ' exclaimed the poor girl. Then hearing 
from him how he had been sent to fetch her by the order and 
suggestion of the Archbishop, she drew her apron over 
her eyes, and gave way to a flood of tears, which continued 
to flow for some time after the Curate had taken his leave. 
When, however, the tumultuous feelings which had been 
excited by such an announcement began to yield to more 
tranquil thoughts, the poor girl remembered that the now 
closely impending happiness of seeing her mother again, 
a happiness so unhoped-for a few hours previous, was what 
she had expressly implored in those very hours, and almost 
stipulated as a condition of her vow. Bring me in safety 
to my mother, she had said ; and these words now pre- 
sented themselves distinctly to her memory. She strength- 
ened herself more than ever in the resolution to maintain 
her promise, and afresh and more bitterly lamented the 
struggle and regret she had for a moment indulged. 

Agnese, indeed, while they were talking about her, was 
but a very little way off. It may easily be imagined how 
the poor woman felt at this unexpected summons, and at 
the announcement, necessarily defective and confused, of 
an escaped but fearful danger, — an obscure event, which 
the messenger could neither circumstantiate nor explain, 
and of which she had not the slightest ground of explana- 
tion in her own previous thoughts. After tearing her hair, 
— after frequent exclamations of ' Ah, my God ! Ah, Ma- 
donna ! ' — after putting various questions to the messenger 
which he had not the means of satisfying, she threw herself 
impetuously into the vehicle, continuing to utter, on her 
way, numberless ejaculations and useless inquiries. But 
at a certain point she met Don Abbondio, trudging on, step 
after step, and before each step, his walking-stick. After 
an ' oh ! ' from both parties, he stopped ; Agnese also stopped 
and dismounted; and drawing him apart into a chestnut- 
grove on the roadside, she there learnt from Don Ab- 
bondio all that he had been able to ascertain and observe. 
The thing was not clear; but at least Agnese was assured 
that Lucia was in safety ; and she again breathed freely. 

After this Don Abbondio tried to introduce another sub- 
ject, and give her minute instructions as to how she ought 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 411 

to behave before the Archbishop, if, as was likely, he should 
wish to see her and her daughter; and, above all, that it 
would not do to say a word about the wedding . . . But 
Agnese, perceiving that he was only speaking for his own 
interest, cut him short, without promising, indeed without 
proposing, anything, for she had something else to think 
about; and immediately resumed her journey. 

At length the cart arrived, and stopped at the tailor's 
house. Lucia sprang up hastily: Agnese dismounted and 
rushed impetuously into the cottage, and, in an instant, they 
were locked in each other's arms. The good dame, who 
alone was present, tried to encourage and calm them, and 
shared with them in their joy; then, with her usual discre- 
tion, she left them for a while alone, saying that she would 
go and prepare a bed for them, for which, indeed, she had 
the means, though, in any case, both she and her hus- 
band would much rather have slept upon the ground, than 
suffer them to go in search of shelter elsewhere for that 

night. 

The first burst of sobs and embraces bemg over, Agnese 
longed to hear Lucia's adventures, and the latter began, 
mournfully, to relate them. But, as the reader is aware, 
it was a history which no one knew fully; and to Lucia 
herself there were some obscure passages, which were, in 
fact, quite inextricable: more particularly the fatal coin- 
cidence of that terrible carriage being in the road, just 
when Lucia was passing on an extraordinary occasion. 
On this point, both mother and daughter were lost in con- 
jecture, without ever hitting the mark, or even approach- 
ing the real cause. 

As to the principal author of the plot, neither one nor 
the other could for a moment doubt but that it was Don 
Rodrigo. , 

'Ah, the black villain! ah, the infernal firebrand! ex- 
claimed Agnese : ' but his hour will come. God will reward 
him according to his works ; and then he, too, will feel . . .' 

' No, no, mother ; no ! ' interrupted Lucia ; ' don't pre- 
dict suffering for him; don't predict it to any one! If you 
knew what it was to suffer !_ If you had tried it! No, no! 
rather let us pray God and the Madonna for him : that God 



412 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

would touch his heart, as he has done to this other poor 
Signer, who zvas worse than he is, and is now a saint.' 

The shuddering horror that Lucia felt in retracing such 
recent and cruel scenes, made her more than once pause 
in the midst; more than once she said she had not courage 
to go on ; and, after many tears, with difficulty resumed her 
account. But a different feeling checked her at a certain 
point of the narration, — at the mention of the vow. The 
fear of being blamed by her mother as imprudent and precipi- 
tate; or that, as in the affair of the wedding, she should bring 
forward one of her broad rules of conscience, and try to 
make it prevail ; or that, poor woman, she should tell it to 
some one in confidence, if nothing else, to obtain light and 
counsel, and thus make it publicly known, from the bare 
idea of which Lucia shrank back with insupportable shame; 
together with a feeling of present shame, an inexplicable 
repugnance to speak on such a subject; — all these things 
together determined her to maintain absolute silence on this 
important circumstance, proposing, in her own mind, to 
open herself first to Father Cristoforo. But what did 
she feel, when, in inquiring after him, she heard that 
he was no longer at Pescarenico ; that he had been sent 
to a town far, far away, to a town bearing such and such 
a name ! 

'And Renzo?' said Agnese. 

'He's in safety, isn't he?' said Lucia, hastily. 

' That much is certain, because everybody says so ; it 
is thought, too, pretty surely, that he's gone to the territory 
of Bergamo; but the exact place nobody knows: and hitherto 
he has sent no news of himself. Perhaps he hasn't yet 
found a way of doing so.' 

' Ah, if he's in safety, the Lord be praised ! ' said Lucia ; 
and she was seeking some other subject of conversation, 
when they were interrupted by an unexpected novelty — the 
appearance of the Cardinal Archbishop. 

This holy prelate, having returned from church, where 
we last left him, and having heard from the Unnamed of 
Lucia's safe arrival, had sat down to dinner, placing his 
new friend on his right hand, in the midst of a circle of 
priests, who were never weary of casting glances at that 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 413 

countenance, now so subdued without weakness, so humble 
without dejection, and of comparing him with the idea 
they had so long entertained of this formidable personage. 
Dinner being removed, the two again withdrew together. 
After a conversation, which lasted much longer than the 
first, the Unnamed set off anew for his Castle, on the same 
mule which had borne him thither in the morning; and the 
Cardinal, calling the priest of the parish, told him that he 
wished to be guided to the house where Lucia had found 
shelter. 

' Oh, my Lord ! ' replied the parish priest, allow me, and 
I will send directly to bid the young girl come here,^ with 
her mother, if she has arrived, and their hosts too, if my 
Lord wishes— indeed, all that your illustrious Grace desires 
to see.' 

' I wish to go myself to see them,' replied Federigo. ^ 
'There's no necessity for your illustrious Lordship to 
give yourself that trouble; I will send directly to fetch 
them : it's very quickly done/ insisted the persevering spoiler 
of his plans, (a worthy man on the whole,) not compre- 
hending that' the Cardinal wished by this visit to do honour 
at once to the unfortunate girl, to innocence, to hospitality, 
and to his own ministry. But the superior having again ex- 
pressed the same desire, the inferior bowed, and led the 
way. 

When the two companions were seen to enter the street 
every one immediately gathered round them; and, in a few 
moments, people flocked from every direction, forming two 
wings at' their sides, and a train behind. The Curate of- 
ficiously repeated, ' Come, come, keep back, keep off ; fye ! 
f ye ! ' Federigo, however, forbade him ; ' Let them alone, 
let them alone ; ' and he walked on, now raising his hand to 
bless the people, now lowering it to fondle the children, 
who gathered round his feet. In this way they reached the 
house, and entered, the crowd hedging round the door out- 
side. In this crowd the tailor also found himself, havmg 
followed behind, like the rest, with eager eyes and open 
mouth, not knowing whither they were going. When he 
saw, however, this unexpected whither, he forced the throng 
to make way, it may be imagined with what bustle, crymg 



414 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

over and over again, ' Make way for one who has a right to 
pass ; ' and so went into the house. 

Agnese and Lucia heard an increasing murmur in the 
street, and while wondering what it could be, saw the door 
thrown open, and admit the purple-clad prelate, and the 
priest of the parish. 

' Is this she ? ' demanded Federigo of the Curate ; and on 
receiving a sign in the affirmative, he advanced towards 
Lucia, who was holding back with her mother, both of them 
motionless, and mute with surprise and bashfulness; but 
the tone of his voice, the countenance, the behaviour, and, 
above all, the words of Federigo, quickly reanimated them. 
' Poor girl,' he began, ' God has permitted you to be put 
to a great trial; but He has surely shown you that His 
eye was still over you, that He had not forgotten you. 
He has restored you in safety, and has made use of you 
for a great work, to show infinite mercy to one, and to re- 
lieve, at the same time, many others.' 

Here the mistress of the house came into the apartment, 
who, at the bustle outside, had gone to the window upstairs, 
and seeing who was entering the house, hastily ran down, 
after sHghtly arranging her dress; and almost at the same 
moment the tailor made his appearance at another door. 
Seeing their guests engaged in conversation, they quietly 
withdrew into one corner, and waited there with profound 
respect. The Cardinal, having courteously saluted them, 
continued to talk to the women, mingling with his words 
of comfort many inquiries, thinking he might possibly gather 
from their replies some way of doing good to one who had 
undergone so much suffering. 

* It would be well if all priests were like your Lordship, 
if they would sometimes take the part of the poor, and 
not help to put them into difficulties to get themselves out,' 
said Agnese, emboldened by the kind and affable behaviour 
of Federigo, and annoyed at the thought that the Signor 
Don Abbondio, after having sacrificed others on every 
occasion, should now even attempt to forbid their giving 
vent to their feelings, and complaining to one who was set 
in authority over him, when, by an unusual chance, the 
occasion for doing so presented itself. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 415 

' Just say all that you think,' said the Cardinal : ' speak 

freely.' , , , i.- 

' I mean to say, that if our Signor Curate^ had done his 
duty, things wouldn't have gone as they have.' 

But the Cardinal renewing his request that she should 
explain herself more fully, she began to feel rather per- 
plexed at having to relate a story in which she, too, had 
borne a part she did not care to make known, especially 
to such a man. However, she contrived to manage it, with 
the help of a little curtailing. She related the intended 
match, and the refusal of Don Abbondio ; nor was she silent 
on the pretext of the superiors which he had brought for- 
ward (ah, Agnese!) ; and then she skipped on to Don Rod- 
rigo's attempt, and how, having been warned of it, they 
had been able to make their escape. ' But indeed,' added 
she, in conclusion, ' we only escaped to be again caught m 
the snare. If instead, the Signor Curate had honestly told 
us the whole, and had immediately married my poor chil- 
dren, we would have gone away all together directly, pri- 
vately, and far enough off, to a place where not even the 
wind would have known us. But, in this way, time was 
lost; and now has happened what has happened.' 

'The Signor Curate shall render me an account of this 
matter,' said the Cardinal. 

' Oh, no, Signor, no ! ' replied Agnese : ' I didn't speak 
on that account: don't scold him; for what is done, is done; 
and, besides, it will do no good; it is his nature; and on 
another occasion he would do just the same.' 

But Lucia, dissatisfied with this way of relating the story, 
added : ' We have also done wrong : it shows it was not the 
Lord's will that the plan should succeed.' 

'What can you have done wrong, my poor girl?' asked 
Federigo. 

And, in spite of the threatening glances which her mother 
tried to give her secretly, Lucia, in her turn, related the 
history of their attempt in Don Abbondio's house; and 
concluded by saying, ' We have done wrong, and God has 
punished us for it.' 

' Take, as from His hand,, the sufferings you have under- 
gone, and be of good courage,' said Federigo ; ' for who 



416 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

have reason to rejoice and be hopeful, but those who have 
suffered, and are ready to accuse themselves ? ' 

He then asked where was the Betrothed; and hearing- 
from Agnese (Lucia stood silent, with her head bent, and 
downcast eyes) how he had been outlawed, he felt and 
expressed surprise and dissatisfaction, and asked why it 
was. 

Agnese stammered out what little she knew of Renzo's 
history. 

' I have heard speak of this youth,' said the Cardinal ; ' but 
how happens it that a man involved in affairs of this sort 
is in treaty of marriage with this young girl ? ' 

' He was a worthy youth,' said Lucia, blushing, but in 
a firm voice. 

' He was even too quiet a lad,' added Agnese ; ' and vou 
may ask this of anybody you like, even of the Signer Curate. 
Who knows what confusion they may have made down 
there, what intrigues? It takes little to make poor people 
seem rogues.' 

' Indeed, it's too true,' said the Cardinal ; ' I'll certainly 
make inquiries about him;' and learning the name and resi- 
dence of the youth, he made a memorandum of them on his 
tablets. He added, that he expected to be at their village 
in a few days, that then Lucia might go thither without 
fear, and that, in the mean while, he would think about pro- 
viding her some secure retreat, till everything was arranged 
for the best. 

Then, turning to the master and mistress of the house, 
who immediately came forward, he renewed the acknowl- 
edgment which he had already conveyed through the priest 
of the parish, and asked them whether they were willing 
to receive, for a few days, the guests which God had sent 
them. 

' Oh yes, sir ! ' replied the woman, in a tone of voice and 
with a look which meant much more than the bare words 
seemed to express. But her husband, quite excited by the 
presence of such an interrogator, and by the wish to do him 
honour on so important an occasion, anxiously sought for 
some fine reply. He wrinkled his forehead, strained and 
squinted with his eyes, compressed his lips, stretched his 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 417 

intellect to its utmost extent, strove, fumbled about m his 
mind, and there found an overwhelming medley of unfinished 
ideas and half-formed words: but time pressed; the Cardinal 
signified that he had already interpreted his silence ; the 
poor man opened his mouth and pronounced the words, 
' You may imagine ! ' At this point not another word would 
occur to him. This failure not only disheartened and vexed 
him at the moment, but the tormenting remembrance ever 
after spoiled his complacency in the great honour he had 
received. And how often, in the thinking it over, and fancy- 
ing himself again in the same circumstances, did numberless 
words crowd upon his mind, as it were, out of spite, any of 
which would have been better than that silly. You may 
imagine! But are not the very ditches full of wisdom — too 
late! 

The Cardinal took his leave, saying, ' The blessing of 
God be upon this house.' 

The same evening he asked the Curate in what way he 
could best compensate to the tailor, who certainly could not 
be rich, for the expenses he must have incurred, especially 
in these times, by his hospitality. The Curate replied, that, 
in truth, neither the profits of his business nor the produce 
of some small fields which the good tailor owned, would 
be enough this year to allow of his being liberal to others; 
but that, having laid by a little in the preceding years, he 
was among the most easy in circumstances in the neighbour- 
hood, and could afford to do a kindness without incon- 
venience, as he certainly would with all his heart; and that, 
under any circumstances, he would deem it an insult to be 
offered money in compensation. 

'He will, probably,' said the Cardinal, 'have demands 
on people unable to pay.' 

' You may judge yourself, my most illustrious Lord: these 
poor people pay from the overplus of the harvest. Last year 
there was no overplus; and this one, everybody falls short 
of absolute necessaries.' 

' Very well,' replied Federigo, ' I will take all these debts 
upon myself; and you will do me the pleasure of getting 
from him a list of the sums,- and discharging them for me.' 

' It will be a tolerable sum.' 

HC - 14— VOL. XXI 



418 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

' So much the better : and you will have, I dare say, many 
more wretched, and ahnost destitute of clothing, who have 
no debts, because they can get no credit.' 

'Alas ! too many ! One does what one can ; but how can 
we supply all in times like these ? ' 

' Tell him to clothe them at my expense, and pay him well. 
Really, this year, all that does not go for bread seems a kind 
of robbery ; but this is a particular case.' 

We cannot close the history of this day, without briefly 
relating how the Unnamed concluded it. 

This time the report of his conversion had preceded him 
in the valley, and quickly spreading throughout it, had ex- 
cited among all the inhabitants consternation, anxiety, and 
angry whisperings. To the first bravoes or servants (it 
mattered not which) whom he met, he made signs that they 
should follow him; and so on, on either hand. All fell 
behind with unusual perplexity of mind, but with their ac- 
customed submission; so that, with a continually increasing 
train, he at length reached the Castle. He beckoned to those 
who were loitering about the gate to follow him with the 
others; entered the first court, went towards the middle, and 
here, seated all the while on his saddle, uttered one of his 
thundering calls: it was the accustomed signal at which 
all his dependents, who were within hearing, immediately 
flocked towards him. In a moment, all those who were 
scattered throughout the Castle attended to the summons, 
and mingled with the already assembled party, gazing eagerly 
at their master. 

'Go, and wait for me in the great hall,' said he; and, from 
his higher station on horseback, he watched them all move 
off. He then dismounted, led the animal to the stables him- 
self, and repaired to the room where he was expected. On 
his appearance, a loud whispering was instantly hushed, 
and retiring to one side, they left a large space in the hall 
quite clear for him: there may have been, perhaps, about 
thirty. 

The Unnamed raised his hand, as if to preserve the silence 
his presence had already created, raised his head, which tow- 
ered above all those of the assemblage, and said : ' Listen, all 
of you, and let no one speak unless I bid him. My friends ! 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 419 

the path we have hitherto followed leads to the depths of 
hell I do not mean to upbraid you, I, who have been fore- 
most of you all, the worst of all; but listen to what I have to 
say The merciful God has called me to change my life; 
and I will change it, I have already changed it: so may 
He do with you all! Know, then, and hold it for certain, 
that I am resolved rather to die than to do anything more 
against His holy laws. I revoke all the wicked commands 
you may any of you have received from me ; you understand 
me • indeed, I command you not to do anything I have before 
commanded. And hold it equally certain, that no one, from 
this time forward, shall do evil with my sanction, m my serv- 
ice He who will remain with me under these conditions 
shall be to me as a son; and I shall feel happy at the close 
of that day in which I shall not have eaten, that I may supply 
the last of you with the last loaf I have left in the house. 
He who does not wish to remain, shall receive what is due 
of his salary, and an additional gift : he may go away, but 
must never again set foot here, unless it be to change his 
life • for this purpose he shall always be received with open 
arm's Think about it to-night : to-morrow morning I will 
ask you one by one for your reply, and will then give you 
new orders. For the present retire, every one to his post. 
And God, who has exercised such mercy towards me, incline 
you to good resolutions ! ' 

Here he ceased, and all continued silent. How various 
and tumultuous soever might be the thoughts at work in 
their hardened minds, they gave no outward demonstration 
of emotion. They were accustomed to receive the voice ot 
their master as the declaration of a will from which there 
was no appeal : and that voice, announcing that the will 
was changed, in no wise denoted that it was enfeebled. It 
never crossed the mind of one of them that, because he was 
converted, they might therefore assume over him, and reply 
to him as to another man. They beheld in him a saint, but 
one of those saints who are depicted with a lofty brow, and 
a sword in their hands. Besides the fear he inspired, they 
also entertained for him (especially those born in his service, 
and they were a large propdrtion) the affection of subjects; 
they had all, besides, a kindly feeling of admiration for 



420 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

him, and experienced in his presence a species of, I will even 
say, modest humihty, such as the rudest and most wanton 
spirits feel before an authority which they have once recog- 
nized. Again, the things they had just heard from his lips 
were doubtless odious to their ears, but neither false nor 
entirely alien to their understandings: if they had a thousand 
times ridiculed them, it was not because they disbelieved 
them; but to obviate, by ridicule, the fear which any serious 
consideration of them would have awakened And now on 
seeing the effect of this fear on a mind like that of their 
master, there was not one who did not either more or less 
sympathize with him, at least for a little while. In addition 
to all this, those among them who had first heard the grand 
news beyond the valley, had at the same time witnessed and 
related the joy, the exultation of the people, the new favour 
with which the Unnamed was regarded, and the veneration 
so suddenly exchanged for their former hatred— their former 
terror. So that in the man whom they had always regarded 
so to say, as a superior being, even while they in a great 
measure, themselves constituted his strength, they now beheld 
the wonder, the idol of a multitude; they beheld him exalted 
above others, in a different but not less real, manner • ever 
above the common throng, ever at the head. They 'stood 
now confounded, uncertain one of another, and each one of 
himself. Some murmured ; some began to plan whither they 
could go to find shelter and employment; some questioned 
with themselves whether they could make up their minds to 
become honest men ; some even, moved by his words felt a 
sort of inclination to do so ; others, without resolving upon 
anything, proposed to promise everything readily, to remain 
in the mean while where they could share the loaf so willin-ly 
offered, and in those days so scarce, and thus gain time 
for decision : no one, however, uttered a syllable. And when 
at the close of his speech, the Unnamed again raised his 
authoritative hand, and beckoned to them to disperse they 
all moved off in the direction of the door as quietly as a flock 
of sheep. He followed them out, and placing himself in the 
middle of the courtyard, stood to watch them by the dim 
evening light, as they separated from each other and re- 
paired to their several posts. Then, returning to fetch a 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 421 

lantern, he again traversed the courts, corridors, and halls, 
visited every entrance, and after seeing that all was quiet, at 
length retired to sleep. Yes, to sleep, because he was sleepy. 
Never, though he had always industriously courted them, 
had he, in any conjuncture, been so overburdened with in- 
tricate, and at the same time urgent, affairs, as at the present 
moment : yet he was sleepy. The remorse, which had robbed 
him of rest the night before, was not only unsubdued, but 
even spoke more loudly, more sternly, more absolutely : yet he 
was sleepy. The order, the kind of government established by 
him in that Castle for so many years, with so much care, and 
such a singular union of rashness and perseverance, he had 
now himself overturned by a few words ; the unlimited de- 
votion of his dependents, their readiness for any undertaking, 
their ruffian-like fidelity, on which he had long been accus- 
tomed to depend,— these he had himself shaken ; his various 
engagements had become a tissue of perplexities; he had 
brought confusion and uncertainty into his household: yet 
he was sleepy. 

He went, therefore, into his chamber, approached that 
bed, which, the night before, he had found such a thorny 
couch, and knelt down at its side with the intention of pray- 
ing. He found, in fact, in a deep and hidden corner of his 
mind, the prayers he had been taught to repeat as a child; 
he began to recite them, and the words so long wrapped up, 
as it were, together, flowed one after another, as if emerging 
once more to light. He experienced in this act a mixture of 
undefined feelings; a kind of soothing pleasure, in this actual 
return to the habits of innocent childhood; a doubly bitter 
contrition at the thought of the gulf that he had placed be- 
tween those former days and the present; an ardent desire 
to attain, by works of expiation, a clearer conscience, a state 
more nearly resembling that of innocence, to which he could 
never return ; together with a feeling of deep gratitude, and 
of confidence in that mercy which could lead him towards it, 
and had already given so many tokens of willingness to do 
so. Then, rising from his knees, he lay down, and was 
quickly wrapt in sleep. 

Thus ended a day still so much celebrated when our anony- 
mous author wrote : a day of which, had he not written, noth- 



422 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

ing would have been known, at least nothing of the particu- 
lars; for Ripamonti and Rivola, whom we have quoted 
above, merely record that, after an interview with Federigo, 
this remarkable tyrant wonderfully changed his course of 
life, and for ever. And how few are there who have read 
the works of these authors ! Fewer still are there who will 
read this of ours. And who knows whether in the valley 
itself, if any one had the inclination to seek, and the ability 
to find it, there now remains the smallest trace, the most 
confused tradition, of such an event? So many things have 
taken place since that time ! 



CHAPTER XXV 

NEXT day, there was no one spoken of in Lucia's vil- 
lage and throughout the whole territory of Lecco, 
bu^t herself, the Unnamed, the Archbishop, and one 
other person, who, however ambitious to have his name m 
men's mouths, would willingly, on this occasion, have dis- 
pensed with the honour: we mean the Signor Don Rodrigo. 
Not that his doings had not before been talked about; 
but they were detached, secret conversations ; and that man 
must have been very well acquainted with his neighbour 
who would have ventured to discourse with him freely on 
such a subject. Nay, people did not even exercise those 
feelings on the subject of which they were capable; for, 
generally speaking, when men cannot give vent to their 
indignation without imminent danger, they not only show 
less than they feel, or disguise it entirely, but they feel less 
in realitv. But now, who could refrain from inquiring and 
reasoning about so notorious an event, in which the hand 
of Heaven had been seen, and in which two such person- 
ages bore a conspicuous part? One, in whom such a spirited 
love of justice was united to so much authority; the other 
who with all his boldness, had been induced, as it were, to 
lay down his arms, and submit. By the side of these rivals 
Don Rodrigo looked rather insignificant. Now, all understood 
what it was to torment innocence with the wish to dishonour 
i^- to persecute it with such insolent perseverance, with such 
atrocious violence, with such abominable treachery. They 
reviewed, on this occasion, all the other feats of the Signor, 
and said what they thought about all, each one being em- 
boldened by finding everybody else of the same opinion. 
There were whisperings, and general murmurs; cautiously 
uttered, however, on account of the numberless bravoes he 

had around him. _ , ,, , t,v 

A large share of public animadversion fell also upon his 

friends and flatterers. They said of the Signor Podesta 

what he richly deserved, always deaf, and blind, and dumb, 

423 



424 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

on the doings of this tyrant ; but this also cautiously, for the 
Podesta had bailiffs. With the Doctor Azsecca-Garbugli, 
who had no weapons but gossiping and cabals, and with other 
flatterers like himself, they did not use so much ceremony; 
these were pointed at, and regarded with very contemptuous 
and suspicious glances, so that, for some time, they judged it 
expedient to keep as much within doors as possible. 

Don Rodrigo, astounded at this unlooked-for news, so 
different to the tidings he had expected day after day, and 
hour after hour, remained ensconced in his den-like palace, 
with no one to keep him company but his bravoes, devouring 
his rage, for two days, and on the third set off for Milan. 
Had there been nothing else but the murmuring of the people, 
perhaps since things had gone so far, he would have stayed 
on purpose to face it, or even to seek an opportunity of mak- 
ing an example to others of one of the most daring; but the 
certain intelligence that the Cardinal was coming into the 
neighbourhood fairly drove him away. The Count, his uncle, 
who knew nothing of the story but what he had been told by 
Attilio, would certainly expect that on such an occasion, 
Don Rodrigo should be the first to wait upon the Cardinal^ 
and receive from him in public the most distinguished re- 
ception : every one must see how he was on the road to this 
consummation ! The Count expected it, and would have re- 
quired a minute account of the visit; for it was an important 
opportunity of showing in what esteem his family was held 
by one of the head powers. To extricate himself from so 
odious a dilemma, Don Rodrigo, rising one morning before 
the sun, threw himself into his carriage, Griso and some 
other bravoes outside, both in front and behind ; and leaving 
orders that the rest of his household should follow him, 
took his departure, like a fugitive— like, (it will, perhaps, be 
allowed us to exalt our characters by so illustrious a com- 
parison)— like Catiline from Rome, fretting and fuming, 
and swearing to return very shortly in a different guise to 
execute his vengeance. 

In the mean while, the Cardinal proceeded on his visitation 
among the parishes in the territory of Lecco, taking one 
each day. On the day in which he was to arrive at Lucia's 
village, a large part of the inhabitants were early on the 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 425 

road to meet him. At the entrance of the village, close by the 
cottage of our two poor women, was erected a triumphal 
arch, constructed of upright stakes, and poles laid cross- 
wise, covered with straw and moss, and ornamented with 
green boughs of holly, distinguishable by its scarlet berries, 
and other shrubs. The front of the church was adorned 
with tapestry ; from every window-ledge hung extended quihs 
and sheets, and infants swaddling-clothes, disposed like 
drapery ; in short, all the few necessary articles which could 
be converted, either bodily or otherwise, into the appearance 
of something superfluous. Towards evening, (the hour at 
which Federigo usually arrived at the church, on his visita- 
tion-tours,) all who had remained within doors, old men, 
women and children, for the most part, set off to meet him, 
some in procession, some in groups, headed by Don Abbondio, 
who, in the midst of the rejoicing, looked disconsolate 
enough, both from the stunning noise of the crowd, and the 
continual hurrying to and fro of the people, which, as he him- 
self expressed it, quite dimmed his sight, together with a 
secret apprehension that the women might have been babbling 
and that he would be called upon to render an account of the 
wedding. 

At length the Cardinal came in sight, or, to speak. more 
correctly, the crowd in the midst of which he was carried 
in his litter, surrounded by his attendants; for nothing could 
be distinguished of his whole party, but a signal towering in 
the air above the heads of the people, part of the cross, 
which was borne by the chaplain, mounted upon his mule. 
The crowd, which was dancing with Don Abbondio, hurried 
forward in a disorderly manner to join the approaching 
party; while he, after ejaculating three or four times, 
'Gently; in procession; what are you doing?' turned back 
in vexation, and muttering to himself, ' It's a perfect Babel, 
it's a perfect Babel ' went to take refuge in the church until 
they had dispersed; and here he awaited the Cardinal. 

The holy prelate in the mean while advanced slowly, 
bestowing benedictions with his hand, and receiving them 
from the mouths of the multitude, while his followers had 
enough to do to keep theif places behind him. As Lucia's 
countrymen, the villagers were anxious to receive the Arch- 



426 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

bishop with more than ordinary honours, but this was no 
easy matter ; for it had long been customary, wherever he 
went, for all to do the most they could. At the very begin- 
ning of his episcopate, on his first solemn entry into the 
cathedral, the rush and crowding of the populace upon him 
were such as to excite fears for his life; and some of the 
gentlemen who were nearest to him, had actually drawn 
their swords to terrify and repulse the press. Such were 
their violent and uncouth manners, that even in making 
demonstrations of kindly feeling to a bishop in church, and 
attempting to regulate them, it was necessary almost to 
have recourse to bloodshed. And that defence would not, 
perhaps, have proved sufficient, had not two priests, strong 
in body, and bold in spirit, raised him in their arms, and 
carried him at once from the door of the temple to the very 
foot of the high altar. From that time forward, in the 
many episcopal visits he had to make, his first entrance into 
the church might, without joking, be reckoned among his 
pastoral labours, and sometimes even among the dangers 
he had incurred. 

On this occasion, he entered as he best could, went up 
to the altar, and thence, after a short prayer, addressed, as 
was his custom, a few words to his auditors, of his affec- 
tion for them, his desire for their salvation, and the way 
in which they ought to prepare themselves for the services 
of the morrow. Then retiring to the parsonage, among 
many other things he had to consult about with the Curate, 
he questioned him as to the character and conduct of Renzo. 
Don Abbondio said that he was rather a brisk, obstinate, 
hot-headed fellow. But, on more particular and precise in- 
terrogations, he was obliged to admit that he was a worthy 
youth, and that he himself could not understand how he 
could have played all the mischievous tricks at Milan, which 
had been reported of him. 

' And about the young girl,' resumed the Cardinal ; ' do 
you think she may now return in security to her own home ? ' 

' For the present,' replied Don Abbondio, ' she might come 
and be as safe — the present, I say — as she wishes; but,' 
added he with a sigh, ' your illustrious Lordship ought to 
be always here, or, at least, near at hand.' 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 427 

'The Lord is always near,' said the Cardinal: 'as to 
the rest, I will think about placing her in safety.' And he 
hastily gave orders that, next morning early, a litter should 
be despatched, with an attendant, to fetch the two women. 

Don Abbondio came out from the interview quite de- 
lighted that the Cardinal had talked to him about the two 
young people, without requiring an account of his refusal 
to marry them. — Then he knows nothing about it,— said 
he to himself:— Agnese has held her tongue. Wonderful! 
They have to see him again; but I will give them further 
instructions, that I will.— He knew not, poor man, that Fed- 
erigo had not entered upon the discussion, just because he 
intended to speak to him about it more at length when they 
were disengaged; and that he wished, before giving hmi 
what he deserved, to hear his side of the question. 

But the intentions of the good prelate for the safe placmg 
of Lucia had, in the mean while, been rendered unnecessary: 
after he had left her, other circumstances had occurred 
which we will now proceed to relate. 

The two women, during the few days which they had to 
pass in the tailor's hospitable dwelling, had resumed, as 
far as they could, each her former and accustomed manner 
of living. Lucia had very soon begged some employment; 
and, as at the monastery, diligently plied her needle ma 
small retired room shut out from the gaze of the people. 
Agnese occasionally went abroad, and at other times sat 
sewing with her daughter. Their conversations were more 
melancholy, as well as more affectionate; both were pre- 
pared for a separation; since the lamb could not return to 
dwell so near the wolf's den: and when and what would 
be the end of this separation? The future was dark, inex- 
tricable; for one of them in particular. Agnese, never- 
theless, indulged in her own mind many cheerful antici- 
pations, that Renzo, if nothing evil had happened to him, 
would, sooner or later, send some news of himself, and if 
he had found some employment to which he could settle, 
if (and how could it be doubted?) he still intended to keep 
faith with Lucia ; why could they not go and live with him ? 
With such hopes she often* entertained her daughter, who 
found it, it is difficult to say, whether more mournful to 



428 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

listen to them, or painful to reply. Her great secret she 
had always kept to herself ; and uneasy, certainly, at con- 
cealing anything from so good a mother, yet restrained, 
invincibly as it were, by shame, and the different fears wc 
have before mentioned, she went from day to day without 
speaking. Her designs were very different from those of 
her mother, or rather, she had no designs; she had en- 
tirely given herself up to Providence. She always there- 
fore endeavoured to divert or let drop the conversation ; or 
else said, in general terms, that she had no longer any hope 
or desire for anything in this world except to be soon re- 
stored to her mother ; more frequently, however, tears came 
opportunely instead of words. 

'Do you know why it appears so to you?' said Agnese; 
' because you've suffered so much, and it doesn't seem pos- 
sible that it can turn out for good to you. But leave it 
to God; and if . . . Let a ray come, but one ray; and then 1 
know whether you will always care about nothing.' Lucia 
kissed her mother, and wept. 

Besides this, a great friendship quickly sprang up be- 
tween them and their hosts : where, indeed, should it exist, 
unless between benefactors and the benefited, when both 
one and the other are worthy, good people? Agnese, par- 
ticularly, had many long chats with the mistress of the 
house. The tailor, too, gave them a little amusement with 
his stories and moral discourses : and, at dinner especially, 
had always some wonderful anecdote to relate of Buovo 
d'Antona, or the Fathers of the Desert. 

A few miles from this village resided, at their country- 
house, a couple of some importance, Don Ferrante and 
Donna Prassede: their family, as usual, is unnamed by 
our anonymous author. Donna Prassede was an old lady, 
very much inclined to do good, the most praise-worthy 
employment, certainly, that a person can undertake ; but 
which, like every other, can be too easily abused. To do 
good, we must know how to do it; and, like everything else, 
we can only know this through the medium of our own 
passions, our own judgment, our own ideas; v^^hich not un- 
frequently are rather as correct as they are capable of 
being, than as they ought to be. Donna Prassede acted 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 429 

towards her ideas as it is said one ought to do towards one's 
friends; she had few of them; but to those few she was 
very much attached. Among the few, there were, unfortu- 
nately, many distorted ones ; nor was it these she loved the 
least. Hence it happened, either that she proposed to herself 
as a good end what was not such in reality, or employed 
means which would rather produce an opposite effect, or 
thought them allowable when they were not at all so, from a 
certain vague supposition, that he who does more than his 
duty, may also go beyond his right; it happened that she 
could not see in an event what was actually there, or did 
see what was not there; and many other similar things, 
which may and do happen to all, not excepting the best; 
but to Donna Prassede far too often, and, not unfrequently, 

all at once. 

On hearing Lucia's wonderful case, and all that was 
reported on this occasion of the young girl, she felt a great 
curiosity to see her, and sent a carriage, with an aged at- 
tendant, to fetch both mother and daughter. The latter 
shrugged her shoulders, and besought the tailor, who was 
the bearer of the message, to find some sort of excuse for 
her. So long as it only related to the common people, who 
tried to make acquaintance with the young girl who had 
been the subject of a miracle, the tailor had willingly ren- 
dered her that service ; but in this instance, resistance seemed 
in his eyes a kind of rebeUion. He made so many faces, 
uttered so rnany exclamations, used so many arguments— 
' that it wasn't customary to do so, and that it was a grand 
house, and that one shouldn't say " No " to great people, and 
that it might be the making of their fortune, and that the 
Signora Donna Prassede, besides all the rest, was a saint 
too ! '—in short, so many things, that Lucia was obliged to 
give way: more especially, as Agnese confirmed all these 
reasonings with a corresponding number of ejaculations: 
' Certainly, surely.' 

Arrived in the lady's presence, she received them with 
much courtesy and numberless congratulations; questioning 
and advising them with a kind of almost innate superiority, 
but corrected by so many humble expressions, tempered by 
so much interest in their behalf, and sweetened with so 



430 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

many expressions of piety, that Agnese, almost immediately, 
and Lucia not long afterwards, began to feel relieved from 
the oppressive sense of awe with which the presence of such 
a lady had inspired them; nay, they even found something 
attractive in it. In short, hearing that the Cardinal had 
undertaken to find Lucia a place of retreat, and urged by a 
desire to second, and, at the same time, anticipate his good 
intention. Donna Prassede proposed to take the young girl 
into her own house, where no other services would be re- 
quired of her than the use of her needle, scissors, and 
spindle; adding, that she would take upon herself the charge 
of informing his Lordship. 

Beyond the obvious and immediate good in this work 
Donna Prassede saw in it, and proposed to herself another, 
perhaps a more considerable one in her ideas, that of direct- 
ing a young mind, and of bringing into the right way one 
who greatly needed it; for, from the first moment she had 
heard Lucia mentioned, she became instantly persuaded, 
that, in a young girl who could have promised herself to a 
scoundrel, a villain, in short, a scape-gallows, there must be 
some fault, some hidden wickedness lurking within: Tell 
me what company you keep, and I'll tell you what you are. 
Lucia's visit had confirmed this persuasion : not that", on the 
whole, as the saying is, she did not seem to Donna Prassede 
a good girl ; but there were many things to favour the idea. 
That head hung down till her chin was buried in her neck; 
her not replying at all, or only in broken sentences, as if by 
constraint, might indicate modesty; but they undoubtedly 
denoted a great deal of wilfulness: it did not require much 
discernment to discover that that young brain had its own 
thoughts on the subject. And those blushes every moment, 
and those suppressed sighs . . . Two such eyes, too, which 
did not please Donna Prassede at all. She held it for cer- 
tain, as if she knew it on good grounds, that all Lucia's mis- 
fortunes were a chastisement from Heaven for her attach- 
ment to a rascal, and a warning to her to give him up 
entirely; and these premises being laid down, she proposed 
to co-operate towards so good an end. Because, as she often 
said both to herself and others, she made it her object to 
second the will of Heaven; but she often fell into the mis- 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 431 

conception of taking for the will of Heaven the fancies of 
her own brain. However, she took care not to give the least 
hint of the second intention we have named. It was one 
of her maxims, that, to bring a good design to a useful issue, 
the first requisite, in the greater number of instances, is not 
to let it be discovered. 

The mother and daughter looked at each other. Consider- 
ing the mournful necessity of their separating, the offer 
seemed to both of them most acceptable, when they had no 
choice for it, on account of the vicinity of the residence to 
their village, whither, let the worst come to the worst, they 
would return, and be able to meet at the approaching fes- 
tivity. Seeing assent exhibited in each other's eyes, they 
both turned to Donna Prassede with such acknowledgments 
as expressed their acceptance of the proposal. She renewed 
her kind affability and promises, and said that they would 
shortly have a letter to present to his Lordship. After the 
women had taken their departure, she got Don Ferrante 
to compose the letter. He, being a learned person, as we 
shall hereafter relate more particularly, was always em- 
ployed by her as secretary on occasions of importance. On 
one of such magnitude as this, Don Ferrante exerted his 
utmost stretch of ingenuity; and on delivering the rough 
draught to his partner to copy, warmly recommended the 
orthography to her notice ; this being one of the many things 
he had studied, and the few over which he had any command 
in the house. Donna Prassede copied it very diligently, and 
then despatched the letter to the tailor's. This was two or 
three days before the Cardinal sent the litter to convey the 
two women home. 

Arriving at the village before the Cardinal had gone to 
church, they alighted at the curate's house. There was an 
order to admit them immediately : the chaplain, who was the 
first to see them, executed the order, only detaining them 
so long as was necessary to school them very hastily in the 
ceremonials they ought to observe towards his Lordship, 
and the titles by which they should address him, his usual 
practice wherever he could effect it unknown to his Grace. 
It was a continual annoyance to the poor man to see the 
little ceremony that was used towards the Cardinal m this 



432 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

particular. 'All,' said he to the rest of the household 
through the excess of kindness of that saintly man— from 
his great familiarity.' And then he related how, with his 
own ears, he had more than once even heard the replv 
' Yes, sir' and ' No, sir.' 

The Cardinal was, at this moment, busily talking with Don 
Abbondio on some parish matters : so that the latter had not 
the desired opportunity of giving his instructions also to the 
women. He could only bestow upon them in passing, as he 
withdrew and they came forward, a glance, which meant to 
say how well-pleased he was with them, and conjuring them 
like good creatures, to continue silent. 

After the first kind greetings on one hand, and the first 
reverent salutations on the other, Agnese drew the letter 
from her bosom, and handed it to the Cardinal, saying: 'It 
is from the Signora Donna Prassede, who says, she knows 
your most illustrious Lordship well, my Lord; it's natural 
enough, among such great people, that they should know 
each other. When you have read it, you'll see.' 

' Very well,' said Federigo, when he had read the letter 
and extracted the honey from Don Ferrante's flowers of 
rhetonc.^ He knew the family well enough to feel certain 
that Lucia had been invited thither with good intentions, and 
that there she would be secure from the machinations and 
violence of her persecutor. What opinion he entertained 
o^f Donna Prassede's head, we have no positive information 
1 robably she was not the person whom he would have chosen 
for such a purpose ; but, as we have said, or hinted, elsewhere, 
It was not his custom to undo arrangements made by those 
whose duty it was to make them, that he might do them 
over again better. 

Take this separation also, and the uncertainty in which 
you are placed, calmly,' added he; 'trust that it will soon 
be over, and that God will bring matters to that end to 
which He seems to have directed them; but rest assured, 
that^ whatever He wills shall happen, will be the best for 
you.' To Lucia, in particular, he gave some further kind 
advice; another word or two of comfort to both; and then, 
bestowing on them his blessing, he let them go. At the street- 
door they found themselves surrounded by a crowd of friends 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 433 

of both sexes, the whole population, we may almost say, who 
were waiting for them, and who conducted them home, as 
r riumph. Among the women there was qmte a rivalry in 
TonSations, sympathy, and inquiries; and a 1 exclaimed 
S dtsatisfac'tiol., on hearing that Lucia would leave hem 
The next day. The men vied with each other in offering their 
servkes-every one wished to keep guard at the cottage 
rth night, 'upon this fact, our anonymous author thinks 
fit to ground a proverb: Would yor^ have many ready to help 
vou? be sure not to need them. 

^ So many welcomes confounded and almost stunned Lucia ; 
though, on the whole, they did her good, by somewhat dis- 
tracting her mind from those thoughts and recollections 
whkh even in the midst of the bustle and excitement, rose 
Tnlyt^o readily on crossing that threshold, on entering those 
rooms, at the sight of every object. _ ^^nmach 

When the bells began to rmg, announcing the approach 
of the hour for Divine service, everybody moved towards 
the church and, to our newly-returned friends, it was a 

^^sTrtilfbtglvTr: Don Abbondio, who had hastened for- 
ward to see if Perp;tua had everything well arranged for 
linner was informed that the Cardinal wished to speak with 
him He went immediately to his noble guest s apartment, 
w^o waiting till he drew near; ' Signor Curate,' he began- 
Tnd t^ese words were uttered in such a way as to convey 
Ae idea tLt they were the preface to a long and serious 
conversation-' Signor Curate why did you not unite m 
marriage this Lucia with her betrothed husband? 

iThose people have emptied the sack this morning,- 
thought Don Abbondio, as he stammered forth m reply- 
'your most illustrious Lordship will, doubtless have heard 
sneak of the confusions which have arisen out of this affair 
t has a 1 been so intricate, that, to this very day, one cannot 
ee one s way clearly in it: as your illustrious Lordship may 
yourself conclude from this, that the y^^^^f . S^^^^. ^^^^h^ 
after so many accidents, as it were by miracle; and that the 
br degroom, after other accidents, is nobody knows where 

'I Isk° replied the Cardinal, ' whether it is true that, be- 
for all ihe circumstances took place, you refused to cele- 



434 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

brate the marriage, when you were requested to do so, on 
the appointed day; and if so, why? ' 

' Really ... if your illustrious Lordship knew . . . what 
intimations . . . what terrible injunctions I have received 
not to speak . . .' And he paused, without concluding, with 
a certain manner intended respectfully to insinuate, that it 
would be indiscreet to wish to know more. 

'But,' said the Cardinal, with a voice and look much more 
serious than usual, ' it is your Bishop who, for his own duty's 
sake, and for your justification, wishes to learn from you 
why you have not done what, in your regular duties, you 
were bound to do? ' 

'My Lord,' said Don Abbondio, shrinking almost into a 
nut-shell, ' I did not like to say before . . . But it seemed 
to me that, things being so entangled, so long gone by, and 
now irremediable, it was useless to bring them up again' . 
However— however, I say, I know your illustrious Lordship 
will not betray one of your poor priests. For you see, my 
Lord, your illustrious Lordship cannot be everywhere at 
once; and I remain here exposed . . . But, when you com- 
mand it, I will tell you ... I will tell you all.' 

' Tell me : I only wish to find you free from blame.' 
Don Abbondio then began to relate the doleful history; 
but suppressing the principal name, he merely substituted 
a great Signor; thus giving to prudence the little that he 
could in such an emergency. 

'And you had no other motive ? ' asked the Cardinal, having 
attentively heard the whole. 

' Perhaps I have not sufficiently explained myself,' replied 
Don Abbondio. ' I was prohibited, under pain of death, to 
perform this marriage.' 

^ 'And does this appear to you a sufficient reason for omit- 
ting a positive duty ? ' 

' I have always endeavoured to do my duty, even at very 
great inconvenience; but when one's life is concerned . . .' 
'And when you presented yourself to the Church,' said 
Federigo, in a still more solemn tone, ' to receive Holy 
Orders, did she caution you about your life? Did she tell 
you that the duties belonging to the ministry were free from 
every obstacle, exempt from every danger? or did she tell 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 435 

vou that where danger begins, there duty would end? Did 
she not expressly say the contrary? Did she not warn you, 
that she sent you forth as a sheep among wolves? Did you 
not know that there are violent oppressors, to whom what 
you are commanded to perform would be displeasmg? He 
from whom we have received teaching and example m imita- 
tion of whom we suffer ourselves to be called, and call our- 
selves shepherds; when He descend,ed upon earth to execute 
His office did He lay down as a condition the safety of His 
life? And to save it, to preserve it, I say, a few days longer 
upon earth, at the expense of charity and duty, did he in- 
stitute the holy unction, the imposition of hands, the gift ot 
the priesthood? Leave it to the world to teach this virtue 
to advocate this doctrine. What do I say? Oh, shame ! 
the world itself rejects it: the world also makes its own 
laws which fix the limits of good and evd ; it, too, has its 
eospel a gospel of pride and hatred; and it will not have 
it said that the love of life is a reason for transgressing its 
precepts. It will not, and it is obeyed. And we ! children 
and proclaimers of the promise! What would the Church 
be, if such language as yours were that of all your brethren ? 
Where would she be, had she appeared m the world with 

these doctrines ? ' . , , • ^u ^ 

Don Abbondio hung his head. His mmd during these 
arguments was like a chicken in the talons of a hawk, which 
holds its prey elevated to an unknown region to an at- 
mosphere it has never before breathed. Finding that he must 
make some reply, he said in an unconvinced tone of sub- 
mission ' My Lord, I shall be to blame. When one is not 
to consider one's life, I don't know what to say. But when 
one has to do with some people, people who possess power 
and won't hear reason, I don't see what is to be gained by it, 
even if one were willing to play the bravo. This Signor is 
one whom it is impossible either to conquer, or win over. 

'And don't you know that suffering for righteousness sake 
is our conquest? If you know not this, what do you preach? 
What are you teacher of? What is the good nczvs you an- 
nounce to the poor? Who requires from you that you should 
conquer force by force? Surely you will not one day be 
asked, if you were able to overcome the powerful; for 



436 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

this purpose neither your mission nor rule was mven to 
you. But you will assuredly be demanded, whether you em- 
ployed the means you possessed to do what was required of 
you, even when they had the temerity to prohibit you ' 

-These saints are very odd,-thought Don Abbondio 
meanwhile:— m substance, to extract the plain meanin- he 
has more at heart the affections of two young people than the 
Me of a poor priest.— And, as to himself, he would have 
been very well satisfied had the conversation ended here- 
but he saw the Cardinal, at every pause, wait with the air 
of one who expects a reply, a confession, or an apolo-v —in 
short, something. 

' I repeat, my Lord,' answered he, therefore, ' that I shall 
be to blame . . . One can't give one's self courage ' 

'And why then, I might ask you, did you undertake an office 
which binds upon you a continual warfare with the passions 
of the world? But I will rather say, how is it you do not 
remember that, if in this ministry, however you may have 
been placed there, courage is necessary to fulfil your obliga- 
tions, there is One who will infallibly bestow it upon vou 
when you ask Him? Think you all the millions of martyrs 
naturally possessed courage? that they naturally held life in 
contempt? So many young persons, just beginning to enjoy 
it-so many aged ones, accustomed to regret that it is so near 
Its end— so many children— so many mothers? All possessed 
courage, because courage was necessary, and they relied upon 
God. Knowing your own weakness, and the duties to which 
you were called have you ever thought of preparing your- 
self for the difficult circumstances in which you mi-ht be 
placed, in which you actually are placed at present?*' Ah i 
If for so many years of pastoral labours you have loved your 
tlock (and how could you not love them?)— if you have 
placed in them your affections, your cares, your happiness, 
courage ought not to fail you in the moment of need love 
IS intrepid. Now, surely, if you loved those who have been 
committed to your spiritual care, those whom you call chil- 
dren, when you saw two of them threatened, as well as your- 
self, ah surely ! as the weakness of the flesh made you 
tremble for yourself, so love would have made you tremble 
for them. You would feel humbled for your former 



1 PROMESSI SPOSI 437 

fears, as the effect of your corrupt nature; you would 
have' implored strength to overcome them, to expel 
them as a temptation. But a holy and noble fear 
for others, for your children, this you would have lis- 
tened to, this would have given you no peace; this would 
have incited— constrained you to think and do all you could 
to avert the dangers that threatened them . . . With what 
has this fear, this love, inspired you? What have you done 
for them ? What have you thought for them ? ' 
And he ceased, in token of expectation. 



CHAPTER XXVI 

AT such a question, Don Abbondio, who had been 
/-\ studying to find some reply in the least precise terms 
-^-^ possible, stood without uttering a word. And, to 
speak the truth, even we, with the manuscript before' us, 
and pen in hand, having nothing to contend with but words,' 
nor anything to fear but the criticisms of our readers, even 
we, I say, feel a kind of repugnance in proceeding; w'e feel 
somewhat strange in this setting forth, with so little trouble 
such_ admirable precepts of fortitude and charity, of active 
solicitude for others, and unlimited sacrifice of self. But 
remembering that these things were said by one who also 
practised them, we will confidently proceed. 

' You give me no answer ! ' resumed the Cardinal. ' Ah, 
if you had done, on your part, what charity and duty re- 
quired of you, however things had turned out, you would 
now have something to answer! You see, then, yourself 
what you have done. You have obeyed the voice of In- 
iquity, unmindful of the requirements of duty. You have 
obeyed her punctually: she showed herself to you to signify 
her desire; but she wished to remain concealed from those 
who could have sheltered themselves from her reach, and 
been on their guard against her; she did not wish to resort 
to arms, she desired secrecy, to mature her designs of 
treachery and force at leisure; she required of you trans- 
gression and silence. You have transgressed, and kept 
silence. I ask you, now, whether you have not done more ?— 
you will tell me whether it be true that you alleged false 
pretexts for your refusal, that you might not reveal the true 
motive.' And he paused awhile, awaiting a reply. 

— The tell-tales have reported this too, — thought Don Ab- 
bondio; but as he gave no token in words of having any- 
thing to say, the Cardinal continued: 'If it be true, then, 
that you told these poor people what was not the case, to 
keep them in the ignorance and darkness in which iniquity 
wished them to be ... I must believe it, then; it only re- 

138 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 439 

mains for me to blush for it with you, and to hope that 
you will weep for it with me! See, then, to what this 
solicitude (good God! and but just now you adduced it as 
a justification!) this solicitude for your temporal life has 
led you! It has led you . . . repel freely these words, if 
you think them unjust; take them as a salutary humiliation, 
if they are not . . . it has led you to deceive the weak, to He 
to your own children.' 

—Just see now how things go !— thought Don Abbondio 
again to himself: to that fiend,— meaning the Unnamed,— 
his arms round his neck; and to me, for a half-lie, uttered 
for the sole purpose of saving my life, all this fuss and 
noise. But they are our superiors; they're always in the 
right. It's my ill star that everybody sets upon me; even 
saints. — And, speaking aloud, he said: 'I have done wrong; 
I see that I've done wrong; but what could I do in an 
extremity of that kind?' 

'Do you still ask this? Have not I told you already? 
Must I tell you again? You should have loved, my son; 
loved and prayed. Then you would have felt that iniquity 
may, indeed, have threats to employ, blows to bestow, but 
not commands to give; you would have united, according 
to the law of God, those whom man wished to put asunder ; 
you would have extended towards these unhappy innocents 
the ministry they had a right to claim from you: God Him- 
self would have been surety for the consequences, because 
you had followed His will : by following another's, you have 
come in as answerable : and for what consequences ! But 
supposing all human resources failed you, supposing no way 
of escape was open, when you looked anxiously around you, 
thought about it, sought for it? Then you might have 
known, that when your poor children were married, they 
would themselves have provided for their escape, that they 
were ready to flee from the face of their powerful enemy, 
and had already designed a place of refuge. But even with- 
out this, did you not remember that you had a superior? 
How would he have this authority to rebuke you for having 
been wanting in the duties of. your office, did he not feel 
himself bound to assist you in fulfilling them? Why did 
you not think of acquaintirig your bishop with the impedi- 



440 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

ment that infamous violence had placed in the way of the 
exercise of your ministry? 

— The very advice of Perpetua ! — thought Don Abbondio, 
pettishly, who, in the midst of this conversation, had most 
vividly before his eyes the image of the bravoes, and the 
thought that Don Rodrigo was still alive and well, and that 
he would, some day or other, be returning in glory and 
triumph, and furious with revenge. And though the pres- 
ence of so high a dignitary, together with his countenance 
and language, filled him with confusion, and inspired him 
with fear; yet it was not such fear as completely to subdue 
him, or expel the idea of resistance: because this idea was 
accompanied by the recollection, that, after all, the Cardinal 
employed neither musket, nor sword, nor bravoes. 

' Why did you not remember,' pursued the bishop, ' that 
if there were no other retreat open to these betrayed inno- 
cents, I at least was ready to receive them, and put them 
in safety, had you directed them to me — the desolate to a 
bishop, as belonging to him, as a precious part, I don't say, 
of his charge, but of his riches? And as to yourself, I 
should have become anxious for you; I should not have 
slept till I was sure that not a hair of your head would be 
injured. Do you think I had not the means of securing your 
life? Think you, that he who was so very bold, would have 
remitted nothing of his boldness, when he was aware that 
his plots and contrivances were known elsewhere, were 
known to me, that I was watching him, and was resolved to 
use all the means within my power in your defence? Didn't 
you know that if men too often promise more than they can 
perform, so they not unfrequently threaten more than they 
would attempt to execute? Didn't you know that iniquity 
depends not only on its own strength, but often also on the 
fears and credulity of others?' 

— Just Perpetua's arguments, — again thought Don Abbon- 
dio, never reflecting that this singular concurrence of his 
servant and Federigo Borromeo, in deciding on what he 
might and should have done, would tell very much against 
him. 

' But you,' pursued the Cardinal, in conclusion, ' saw 
nothing, and would see nothing, but your own temporal dan- 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 441 

ger ; what wonder that it seemed to you sufficient to outweigh 
every other consideration?' 

' It was because I myself saw those terrible faces,' escaped 
from Don Abbondio in reply ; ' I myself heard their words. 
Your illustrious Lordship can talk very well ; but you ought 
to be in a poor priest's shoes, and find yourself brought to 
the point.' 

No sooner, however, had he uttered these words, than he 
bit his tongue with vexation; he saw that he had allowed 
himself to be too much carried away by petulance, and said 
to himself,— Now comes the storm !— But raising his eyes 
doubtfully, he was utterly astonished to see the countenance 
of that man, whom he never could succeed in divining or 
comprehending, pass from the solemn air of authority and 
rebuke, to a sorrowful and pensive gravity. 

' 'Tis too true ! ' said Federigo ; ' such is our miserable and 
terrible condition. We must rigorously exact from others 
what God only knows whether xve should be ready to yield: 
we must judge, correct, reprove; and God knows what we 
ourselves should do in the same circumstances, what we 
actually have done in similar ones ! But woe unto me, had 
I to take my own weakness as the measure of other people's 
duties, or the rule of my own teaching ! Yet I certainly ought 
to give a good example, as well as good instruction, to others, 
and not be like the Pharisees, who " lade men with burdens 
grievous to be borne, while they themselves touch not the 
burden with one of their fingers." Well then, my son, my 
brother ; as the errors of those in authority are often better 
known to others than to themselves ; if you are aware of my 
having, from pusillanimity, or from any other motive, failed 
in any part of my duty, tell me of it candidly, and help me to 
amend ; so that where example has been wanting, confession 
at least may supply its place. Remonstrate freely with me 
on my weaknesses; and then my words will acquire more 
value in my mouth, because you will feel more vividly that 
they are not mine, but are the words of Him who can give 
both to you and me the necessary strength to do what they 
prescribe.' 

Oh, what a holy man ! but what a tormentor ! — thought 

Don Abbondio;— he doesn't even spare himself: that I 



442 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

should examine, interfere with, criticize, and accuse even 
himself — He then said aloud: ' Oh, my Lord, you are joking 
with me ! Who does not know the fortitude of mind, the 
intrepid zeal of your illustrious Lordship? ' And in his heart 
he added — Even too much so. — 

' I did not ask you for praise, which makes me tremble,' 
said Federigo ; ' f o,r God knows my failings, and what I know 
of them myself is enough to confound me ; but I wished that 
we should humble ourselves together before Him, that we 
might depend upon Him together. I would, for your own 
sake, that you should feel how your conduct has been, and 
your language still is, opposed to the law you nevertheless 
preach, and according to which you will be judged.' 

'AH falls upon me,' said Don Abbondio : ' but these people, 
who have told you this, didn't probably, tell you, too, of their 
having introduced themselves treacherously into my house, 
to take me by surprise, and to contract a marriage contrary 
to the laws.' 

* They did tell me, my son : but it is this that grieves, that 
depresses me, to see you still anxious to excuse yourself ; still 
thinking to excuse yourself by accusing others; still accusing 
others of what ought to make part of your own confession. 
Who placed them, I don't say under the necessity, but under 
the temptation, to do what they have done? Would they 
have sought this irregular method, had not the legitimate 
one been closed against them? Would they have thought of 
snaring their pastor, had they been received to his arms, as- 
sisted, advised by him? or of surprising him, had he not 
concealed himself? And do you lay the blame upon them? 
And are you indignant, because, after so many misfor- 
tunes, — what do I say? in the midst of misfortune, — they 
have said a word or two, to give vent to their sorrows, 
to their and your pastor? That the appeals of the oppressed, 
and the complaints of the afflicted, are odious to the world, 
is only too true ; but we ! . . . But what advantage would 
it have been to you, had they remained silent? Would it 
turn to your profit that their cause should be left entirely 
to the judgment of God? Is it not a fresh reason why you 
should love these persons, (and you have many already,) 
that they have afforded you an opportunity of hearing the 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 443 

sincere voice of your pastor, that they have given you the 
means of knowing more clearly, and in part discharging, 
the great debt you owe them? Ah! if they have provoked, 
offended, annoyed you, I would say to you, (and need I say 
it?) love them exactly for that reason. Love them, because 
they have suffered, because they still suffer, because they are 
yours, because they are weak, because you have need of 
pardon, to obtain which, think of what efficacy their prayer 
may be.' 

Don Abbondio was silent, but it was no longer an uncon- 
vinced and scornful silence : it was that of one w^ho has more 
things to think about than to say. The words he had heard 
were unexpected consequences, novel applications, of a doc- 
trine he had nevertheless long believed in his heart, without 
a thought of disputing it. The misfortunes of others, from 
the contemplation of which his fear of personal misfortune 
had hitherto diverted his mind, now made a new impression 
upon him. 

And if he did not feel all the contrition which the ad- 
dress was intended to produce (for this same fear was 
ever at hand to execute the office of defensive advocate), 
yet he felt it in some degree ; he experienced dissatisfaction 
with himself, a kind of pity for others,— a mixture of com- 
punction and shame. It was, if we may be allowed the com- 
parison, like the crushed and humid wick of a candle, which, 
on being presented to the flame of a large torch, at first 
smokes, spirts, crackles, and will not ignite; but it lights 
at length, and, well or ill, burns. He would have accused 
himself bitterly, he would even have wept, had it not been 
for the thought of Don Rodrigo; and, as it was, betrayed 
sufficient ernotion to convince the Cardinal that his words 
had not been entirely without effect. 

'Now,' pursued he, 'the one a fugitive from his home, 
the other on the point of abandoning it, both with too good 
reasons for absenting themselves, and without a probability 
of ever meeting again here, even if God purposes to re-unite 
them ; now, alas ! they have too little need of you, now you 
have no opportunity of doing them any service ; nor can our 
limited foresight predict any for the future. But who knows 
.whether a God of mercy may not be preparing some for you ? 



444 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

Ah ! suffer them not to escape ! Seek them, be on the watch 
for them ; beseech Him to create them for you.' 

' I will not fail, my Lord, I will not fail, I assure you,' 
replied Don Abbondio, in a tone that showed it came from 
the heart. 

'Ah yes, my son, yes!' exclaimed Federigo; and with a 
dignity full of affection, he concluded, ' Heaven knows how 
I should have wished to hold a different conversation with 
you. We have both lived long; Heaven knows if it has not 
been painful to me to be obliged thus to grieve your gray 
hairs with reprimands; how much more gladly I would 
have shared with you our common cares and sorrows, and 
conversed with you on the blessed hope to which we have 
so nearly approached. God grant that the language which 
I have been compelled to use, may be of use to us both. You 
would not wish that He should call me to account at the 
last day, for having countenanced you in a course of conduct 
in which you have so unhappily fallen short of your duty. 
Let us redeem the time; the hour of midnight is at hand; 
the Bridegroom cannot tarry; let us, therefore, keep our 
lamps burning. Let us offer our hearts, miserable and empty 
as they are, to God that He may be pleased to fill them 
with that charity which amends the past, which is a pledge 
of the future, which fears and trusts, weeps and rejoices, 
with true wisdom ; which becomes, in every instance, the 
virtue of which we stand in need.' 

So saying, he left the room, followed by Don Abbondio. 

Here our anonymous author informs us, that this was 
not the only interview between these two persons, nor Lucia 
the only subject of these interviews; but that he has con- 
fined himself to the mention of this one, that he might not 
digress too far from the principal object of his narrative. 
And, for the same reason, he does not make mention of 
other notable things, said and done by Federigo, throughout 
the whole course of his visitation; or of his liberality, or 
of the dissensions composed, and the ancient feuds between 
individuals, families, and entire towns, extinguished, or 
(which was, alas! far more frequent) suppressed; or of 
sundry ruffians, and petty tyrants, tamed either for life, or 
for some time;— all of them things which occurred more 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 445 

or less in every part of the diocese where this excellent man 
made any stay. 

He then goes on to say how, next morning, Donna Prassede 
came, according to agreement, to fetch Lucia, and to pay 
her respects to the Cardinal, who spoke in high terms of 
the young girl, and recommended her warmly to the Signora. 
Lucia parted from her mother, it may be imagined with 
what tears, left her cottage, and a second time said farewell 
to her native village, with that sense of doubly titter sorrow, 
which is felt on leaving a spot which was once dearly loved, 
and can never be so again. But this parting from her 
mother was not the last ; for Donna Prassede had announced 
that she should still reside some time at their country house, 
which was not very far off; and Agnese had promised her 
daughter to go thither, to give an 1 receive a more mournful 
adieu. 

The Cardinal was himself just starting for another parish, 
when the Curate of that in which the castle of the Un- 
named was situated, arrived, and requested to speak to him. 
On being admitted, he presented a packet and a letter from 
that nobleman, wherein he besought Federigo to prevail 
upon Lucia's mother to accept a hundred scudi of gold, which 
were contained in the parcel, to serve either as a dowry for 
the young girl, or for any other use which the two women 
might deem more suitable; requesting him at the same 
time to tell them, that if ever, on any occasion, they thought 
he could render them any service, the poor girl knew too 
well where he lived; and that, for him, this would be one 
of the most desirable events that could happen. The Cardinal 
immediately sent for Agnese, who listened with equal pleasure 
and amazement to the courteous message, and suffered the 
packet to be put into her hand without much scrupulous 
ceremony. ' May God reward this Signor for it,' said she ; 
' and will your illustrious Lordship thank him very kindly? 
And don't say a word about it to anybody, because this is 
a kind of country . . . Excuse me, Sir; I know very well 
that a gentleman like you won't chatter about these things; 
but . . . you understand me.' 

Home she went as quickly as possible; shut herself up 
in her room, unwrapped the parcel, and, however prepared 



446 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

by anticipation, beheld with astonishment so many of those 
coins all together, and all her own. of which she had, perhaps, 
never seen more than one at once before, and that but seldom ; 
she comited them over, and then had some trouble in putting 
them together again, and making the whole.hundred stand up 
upon their edges; for every now and then, they would jut 
out, and slide from under her inexpert fingers ; at length, 
however, she succeeded in rolling them up, after a fashion, 
put them in a handkerchief, so as to make quite a large 
parcel, and wrapping a piece of cord several times round it, 
went and tucked it into a corner of her straw mattress. The 
rest of the day was spent in castle-building, devising plans 
for the future, and longing for the morrow. After going to 
bed, she lay for a long time awake, with the thought of the 
hundred scudi she had beneath her to keep her company; 
and when asleep she saw them in her dreams. By break of 
day she arose, and set off in good time towards the villa 
where her daughter was residing. 

Though Lucia's extreme reluctance to speak of her vow 
was in no degree diminished, she had, on her part, resolved 
to force herself to open her mind to her mother in this inter- 
view, as it would be the last they should have for a long 
time. 

Scarcely were they left alone, when Agnese, with a look 
full of animation, and, at the same time, in a suppressed tone 
of voice, as if there were some one present who she was 
afraid would hear, began: 'I've a grand thing to tell you;' 
and proceeded to relate her unexpected good fortune. 

' God bless this Signor,' said Lucia : ' now you have 
enough to be well off yourself, and you can also do good to 
others.' 

' Why ! ' replied Agnese, ' don't you see how many things 
we may do with so much money? Listen; I have nobody 
but you — but you two, I may say; for, from the time that 
he began to address you, I've always considered Renzo as 
my son. The whole depends upon whether any misfortune 
has happened to him, seeing he gives no sign of being alive: 
but oh ! surely all won't go ill with us? We'll hope not, we'll 
hope not. For me, I should have liked to lay my bones in 
my native country; but now that you can't be there, thanks 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 447 

to that villain ! and when I remember that he is near, even 
my country has become hateful to me; and with you two I 
can be happy anywhere. I was always inclined to go with 
you both to the very end of the world, and have ever been 
in readiness; but how could we do it without money? Do 
you understand, now? The little sum that the poor fellow 
had been scarcely able to lay by, with all his frugality, justice 
came, and cleared it away ; but the Lord has sent us a fortune 
to make up for it. Well, when he has found a way of letting 
us know that he's alive, where he is, and what are his inten- 
tions, I'll come to Milan and fetch you ; ay, I'll come myself. 
Once upon a time, I should have thought twice about such 
a thing, but misfortunes make one experienced and inde- 
pendent ; I've gone as far as Monza, and know what it is to 
travel. I'll bring with me a proper companion, — a relation, 
as I may say, — Alessio, of Maggianico ; for, to say the truth 
a fit person isn't to be found in the country at all. I'll come, 
with him; we will pay the expense, and ... do you under- 
stand?' 

But perceiving that, instead of cheering up, Lucia be- 
came more and more dejected, and only exhibited emotion 
unmixed with pleasure, she stopped abruptly in the midst 
of her speech, and said, 'But what's the matter with you? 
Don't you see it ? ' 

' Poor mamma ! ' exclaimed Lucia, throwing her arm 
round her neck, and burying her weeping face in her 
bosom. 

' What is the matter ? ' again asked her mother, anxiously. 

' I ought to have told you at first,' said Lucia, raising 
her head, and composing herself, ' but I never had the heart 
to do it: pity me.' 

' But tell me then, now.' 

* I can no longer be that poor fellow's wife ! ' 

* How? how? ' 

With head hung down, a beating heart, and tears roll- 
ing down her cheeks, like one who relates something which, 
though a misfortune, is unalterable, Lucia disclosed her vow; 
and, at the same time, clasping her hands, again besought her 
mother's forgiveness for havirig hitherto concealed it from 
her; she implored her not to speak of such a thing to any 



448 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

living being, and to give her help, and facilitate the fulfil- 
ment of what she had promised. 

Agnese remained stupefied with consternation. She would 
have been angry with her for her silence to her mother, but 
the more serious thoughts the case itself aroused stifled 
this personal vexation; she would have reproached her for 
the act, but it seemed to her that that would be a murmur- 
ing against Heaven ; the more so, as Lucia began to depict, 
more vividly than ever, the horrors of that night, the abso- 
lute desolation, and the unhoped-for deliverance, between 
which the promise had been so expressly, so solemnly made. 
And all the while, example after example rose to the recol- 
lection of the listener, which she had often heard repeated, 
and had repeated herself to her daughter, of strange and 
terrible punishments following upon the violation of a vow. 
After a few moments of astonishment, she said, ' And what 
will you do now? ' 

'Now,' replied Lucia, 'it is the Lord who must think 
for us; the Lord, and the Madonna. I have placed myself 
in their hands; they have not forsaken me hitherto; they 
will not forsake me now, that . . . The mercy I ask for my- 
self of the Lord, the only mercy, after the salvation of my 
soul, is, that He will let me rejoin you; and He will grant it 
me— yes, I feel sure He will. That day . . . in that carriage 
. . . Ah, most holy Virgin ! . . . those men ! . . . who would 
have told me that they were bringing me to this, that they 
would bring me to join my mother the next day?' 

* But not to tell your mother of it at once ! ' said Agnese, 
with a kind of anger, subdued by affection and pity. 

' Oh, pity me ! I had not the heart . . . and what use would 
it have been to grieve you so long ago?' 

' And Renzo ? ' said Agnese, shaking her head. 

' Ah ! ' exclaimed Lucia, with a sudden start, ' I must 
think nothing more of that poor fellow. Long ago God 
had not destined . . . See how it appears that it was His will 
we should be kept asunder. And who knows? ... but no, 
no; the Lord will have preserved him from danger, and will 
make him even happier without me.' 

'But now, you see,' replied Agnese, 'if it were not that 
you are bound for ever, for all the rest, if no misfortune 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 449 

has happened to Renzo, I might have found a remedy with 
so much money.' . ^ 

' But should we have got this money,' repHed Lucia, if 
I had not passed through such a night? ... It is the Lord 
who has ordered everything as it is; His will be done.' 
And here her voice was choked with tears. 

At this unexpected argument, Agnese remained silent and 
thoughtful. In a few moments, however, Lucia, suppressing 
her sobs, resumed : ' Now that the deed is done, we must sub- 
mit to it with cheerfulness; and you, my poor mother, you 
can help me, first, by praying to the Lord for your unhappy 
daughter, and then . . . that poor fellow must be told of it, 
you know. Will you see to this, and do me also this kind- 
ness; for you can think about it. When you can find out 
where he is, get some one to write to him; find a man ... 
Oh, your cousin, Alessio, is just the man, a prudent and kind 
person, who has always wished us well, and won't gossip and 
tell tales ; get him to write the thing just as it is, where I 
have been, how I have suffered, and that God has willed it 
should be thus ; and that he must set his heart at rest, and 
that I can never, never be anybody's wife! And tell him 
of it in a kind and clever way ; explain to him that I have 
promised, that I have really made a vow . . . When he knows 
that I have promised the Madonna ... he has always been 
good and religious . . . And you, the moment you have any 
news of him, get somebody to write to me; let me know 
that he is well, and then ... let me never hear anything 

more.' 

Agnese, with much feeling, assured her daughter that 
everything should be done as she desired. 

' There's one thing more I have to say,' resumed Lucia ; 
'this poor fellow ... if he hadn't had the misfortune to 
think of me, all that has happened to him never would have 
happened. He's a wanderer in the wide world; they've 
ruined him on setting out in life ; they've carried away all he 
had, all those little savings he had made, poor fellow ; you 
know why . . . And we have so much money ! Oh, mother . 
as the Lord has sent us so much wealth, and you look upon 
this poor fellow, true enough-, as belonging to you . . . yes, 
as your son, oh! divide it between you; for, most assuredly, 

Hc - I5-V0L. XXI 



450 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

God won't let us want. Look out for the opportunity of 
a safe bearer, and send it him; for Heaven knows how 
much he wants it ! ' 

'Well, what do you think?' replied Agnese : Til do 
it, indeed. Poor youth ! Why do you think I was so glad 
of this money ? But ! . . . I certainly came here very glad, 
so I did. Well, I'll send it him ; poor youth ! But he, too 
... I know what I would say; certainly, money gives pleas- 
ure to those who want it ; but it isn't this that will make him 
rich.' 

Lucia thanked her mother for her ready and liberal as- 
sent, with such deep gratitude and affection, as would have 
convinced an observer that her heart still secretly clung to 
Renzo, more, perhaps, than she herself believed. 

' And what shall 1, a poor solitary woman, do without 
you?' said Agnese, weeping in her turn. 

' And I without you, my poor mother ! and in a stranger's 
house ! and down there in Milan ! . . . But the Lord will be 
with us both, and afterwards will bring us together again. 
Between eight and nine months hence, we shall see each 
other once more here ; and by that time, or even before it, I 
hope, He will have disposed matters to our comfort. Leave it 
to Him. I will ever, ever beseech the Madonna for this mercy. 
If I had anything else to offer her, I would do it; but she is 
so merciful, that she will obtain it for me as a gift.' 

With these, and other similar and oft-repeated words of 
lamentation and comfort, of opposition and resignation, of 
interrogation and confident assurance, with many tears, and 
after long and renewed embraces, the women tore them- 
selves apart, promising, by turns, to see each other the 
next autumn, at the latest; as if the fulfilment of these 
promises depended upon themselves, and as people always 
do, nevertheless, in similar cases. 

Meanwhile, a considerable time passed away, and Ag- 
nese could hear no tidings of Renzo. Neither letter nor 
message reached her from him; and among all those whom 
she could ask from Bergamo, or the neighbourhood, no 
one knew anything at all about him. 

Nor was she the only one who made inquiries in vain; 
Cardinal Federigo, who had not told the poor woman merely 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 451 

out of compliment that he would seek for some informa- 
tion concerning the unfortunate man, had, in fact, imme- 
diately written to obtain it. Having returned to Milan 
after his visitation, he received a reply, in which he was in- 
formed that the address of the person he had named could 
not be ascertained; that he had certainly made some stay 
in such a place, where he had given no occasion for any 
talk about himself; but that, one morning, he had sud- 
denly disappeared; that a relative of his, with whom he had 
lod-ed there, knew not what had become of him, and could 
only repeat certain vague and contradictory rumours which 
were afloat, that the youth had enlisted for the Levant, 
had passed into Germany, or had perished in fording a river ; 
but that the writer would not fail to be on the watch, and it 
any better authenticated tidings came to light, would imme- 
diately convey them to his most illustrious and very reverend 

Lordship. , , , 

These and various other reports, at length spread 
throughout the territory of Lecco, and, consequently, 
reached the ears of Agnese. The poor woman did her 
utmost to discover which was the true account, and to 
arrive at the origin of this and that rumour ; but she never 
succeeded in tracing it further than they say, which, even 
at the present day, suffices, by itself, to attest the truth of 
facts. Sometimes she had scarcely heard one tale, when 
some one would come and tell her not a word of it was 
true- only, however, to give her another in compensation, 
equally strange and disastrous. The truth is, all these 
rumours were alike unfounded. 

The Governor of Milan, and Captain-General m Italy, 
Don Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova, had complained bitterly 
to the Venetian minister, resident at Milan, because a 
rogue, and public robber, a promoter of plundering and 
massacre, the famous Lorenzo Tramaglino, who, while in 
the very hands of justice, had excited an insurrection to 
force his escape, had been received and harboured m the 
Bergamascan territory. The minister in residence replied, 
that he knew nothing about it; he would write to Venice, 
that he might be able to gi^^e his Excellency any explana- 
tion that could be procured on the subject. 



452 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

It was a maxim of Venetian policy to second and cul- 
tivate the inclination of Milanese silk-weavers to emigrate 
into the Bergamascan territory, and, with this object, to 
provide many advantages for them, more especially that 
without which every other was worthless ; we mean, se- 
curity. As, however, when two great diplomatists dispute, 
in however trifling a matter, third parties must always 
have a taste in the shape of consequences, Bortolo was 
warned, in confidence, it was not known by whom, that 
Renzo was not safe in that neighbourhood, and that he 
would do wisely to place him in some other manufacture 
for a while, even under a false name. Bortolo understood 
the hint, raised no objections, explained the matter to his 
cousin, took him with him in a carriage, conveyed him to 
another new silk-mill, about fifteen miles off, and pre- 
sented him, under the name of Antonio Rivolta, to the 
owner, who was a native of the Milanese, and an old ac- 
quaintance. This person, though the times were so bad, 
needed little entreaty to receive a workman who was recom- 
mended to him as honest and skilful by an intelligent man 
like Bortolo. On the trial of him afterwards, he found 
he had only reason to congratulate himself on the acquisi- 
tion; excepting that, at first, he thought the youth must 
be naturally rather stupid, because, when any one called 
Antonio, he generally did not answer. 

Soon after, an order came from Venice, in peaceable 
form, to the sheriff of Bergamo, requiring him to obtain 
and forward information, whether, in his jurisdiction, and 
more expressly in such a village, such an individual was 
to be found. The sheriff, having made the necessary re- 
searches in the manner he saw was desired, transmitted a 
reply in the negative, which was transmitted to the minister 
at Milan, who transmitted it to Don Gonzalo Fernandez de 
Cordova. 

There were not wanting inquisitive people who tried to 
learn from Bortolo why this youth was no longer with him, 
and where he had gone. To the first inquiry he replied, 
'Nay, he has disappeared!' but afterwards, to get rid of 
the most pertinacious without giving them a suspicion of 
what was really the case, he contrived to entertain them. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 453 

some with one, some with another, of the stories we have 
before mentioned: always, however, as uncertain reports, 
which he also had heard related, without having any posi- 
tive accounts. 

But when inquiries came to be made of hnn by com- 
mission from the Cardinal, without mentioning his name, 
and with a certain show of importance and mystery, merely 
giving him to understand that it was in the name of a great 
personage, Bortolo became the more guarded, and deemed 
it the more necessary to adhere to his general method of 
reply; nay, as a great personage was concerned, he gave 
out by wholesale all the stories which he had published, one 
by one, of his various disasters. 

Let it not be imagined that such a person as Don Gon- 
zalo bore any personal enmity to the poor mountain silk- 
weaver; that informed, perhaps, of his irreverence and ill- 
language towards his Moorish king, chained by the throat, 
he would have wreaked his vengeance upon him; or that 
he thought him so dangerous a subject as to be worth 
pursuing even in flight, and not suffered to live even at a 
distance, like the Roman senate with Hannibal. Don Gon- 
zalo had too many and too important affairs in his head to 
trouble himself about Renzo's doings; and if it seems that 
he did trouble himself about them, it arose from a singular 
combination of circumstances, by which the poor unfortu- 
nate fellow, without desiring it, and without being aware 
of it, either then, or ever afterwards, found himself linked, 
as by a very subtile and invisible chain, to these same too 
many and too important affairs. 



CHAPTER XXVII 

IT has already occurred to us more than once to 
make mention of the war which was at this time raging, 
for the succession to the states of the Duke Vincenzo 
Gonzaga, the second of that name; but it has always oc- 
curred in a moment of great haste, so that we have never 
been able to give more than a cursory hint of it. Now, 
however, for the due understanding of our narrative, a more 
particular notice of it is required. They are matters which 
any one who knows anything of history must be acquainted 
with; but as, from a just estimate of ourselves, we must 
suppose that this work can be read by none but the ignorant, 
it will not be amiss that we should here relate as much as 
will suffice to give some idea of them to those who need it. 

We have said that on the death of this duke, the first in 
the line of succession. Carlo Gonzaga, head of a younger 
branch now established in France, where he possessed the 
duchies of Nevers and Rhetel, had entered upon the pos- 
session of Mantua, and we may now add, of Monferrat: for 
our haste made us leave this name on the point of the pen. 
The Spanish minister, who was resolved at any com- 
promise (we have said this too) to exclude the new prince 
from these two fiefs, and who, to exclude him, wanted some 
pretext (because wars made without any pretext would be 
unjust), had declared himself the upholder of the claims 
which another Gonzaga Ferrante, prince of the Guastalla, 
pretended to have upon Mantua; and Carlo Emanuele I., 
duke of Savoy, and Margherita Gonzaga, duchess dowager 
of Lorraine, upon Monferrat. Don Gonzalo, who was of 
the family of the great commander, and bore his name, who 
had already made war in Flanders, and was extremely 
anxious to bring one into Italy, was perhaps the person who 
made most stir that this might be undertaken: and in the 
mean while, interpreting the intentions, and anticipating the 
orders of the above-named minister, he concluded a treaty 
with the Duke of Savoy for the invasion and partition of 

454 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 455 

Monferraf and afterwards readily obtained a ratification 
of it from the Count Duke, by persuading him that the 
acquisition of Casale would be very easy, which was the 
most strongly defended point of the portion assigned to the 
Kine of Spain. He protested, however, in the kings name, 
against any intention of occupying the country further than 
uSder the name of a deposit, until the sentence of the Em- 
peror should be declared; who, partly from the ^nAf "^^ o^ 
others, partly from private motives of his own, had in the 
mean while, denied the investiture to the new duke, and 
intimated to him that he should give up to him m seques- 
tration the controverted states: afterwards, having heard 
the different sides, he would restore them to him who had 
the best claim. To these conditions the Duke of Nevers 

would not consent. _ • , r- ^- t 

He had however, friends of some eminence in the Cardinal 
de Richelieu, the Venetian noblemen, and the Pope. But 
the first of these, at that time engaged in the siege of La 
Rochelle and in a war with England, and thwarted by the 
party of the queen-mother, Maria de' Medici, who for cer- 
tain reasons of her own, was opposed to the house of Nevers 
could give nothing but hopes. The Venetians would not 
stir nor even declare themselves in his favour, unless a 
French army were first brought into Italy; and while secretly 
aiding the duke as they best could, they contented themselves 
with putting off the Court of Madrid and the Governor of 
Milan with protests, propositions, and peaceable or threat- 
ening admonitions, according to circumstances Urban Viii. 
recommended Nevers to his friends, interceded m his favour 
with his enemies, and designed projects of accommodation; 
but would not hear a word of sending men into the field. 
- By this means the two confederates for offensive meas- 
ures were enabled the more securely to begin their concerted 
operations. Carlo Emanuele invaded Monferrat from his 
side- Don Gonzalo wilUngly laid siege to Casale, but did not 
find 'in the undertaking all the satisfaction he had promised 
himself: for it must not be imagined that war is a rose 
without a thorn. The Court did not provide him with nearly 
all the means he demanded;. his ally, on the contrary, assisted 
him too much: that is to say, after having taken his own 



456 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

portion, he went on to take that which was assigned to the 
King of Spain. Don Gonzalo was enraged beyond expres- 
sion; but fearing that, if he made any noise about it, this 
duke, as active in intrigues and fickle in treaty, as bold and 
valiant in arms, would revolt to the French, he was obliged 
to shut his eyes to it, gnaw the bit, and put on a satisfied 
air. The siege, besides, went on badly, being protracted to 
a great length, and sometimes thrown back, owing to the 
steady, cautious, and resolute behaviour of the besieged, the 
lack of sufficient numbers on the part of the besiegers, and, 
according to the report of some historian, the many false 
steps taken by Don Gonzalo; on which point we leave truth 
to choose her own side, being inclined even, were it really 
so, to consider it a very happy circumstance, if it were the 
cause that in this enterprise there were some fewer than 
usual slain, beheaded, or wounded; and, ccoteris paribus, 
rather fewer tiles injured in Casale. In the midst of these 
perplexities, the news of the sedition at Milan arrived, to 
the scene of which he repaired in person. 

Here, in the report which was given him, mention was 
also made of the rebellious and clamorous flight of Renzo, 
and of the real or supposed doings which had been the oc- 
casion of his arrest; and they could also inform him that 
this person had taken refuge in the territory of Bergamo. 
This circumstance arrested Don Gonzalo's attention. He 
had been informed from another quarter, that great interest 
had been felt at Venice in the insurrection at Milan ; that 
they had supposed he would be obliged on this account to 
abandon the siege of Casale ; and that they imagined he was 
reduced to great despondency and perplexity about it: the 
more so, as shortly after this event, the tidings had arrived, 
so much desired by these noblemen, and dreaded by himself, 
of the surrender of La Rochelle. Feeling considerably an- 
noyed, both as a man and a politician, that they should 
entertain such an opinion of his proceedings, he sought 
every opportunity of undeceiving them, and persuading them, 
by induction, that he had lost none of his former boldness; 
for to say, explicitly, I have no fear, is just to say nothing. 
One good plan is to show displeasure, to complain, and to 
expostulate: accordingly, the Venetian ambassador having 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 457 

waited upon him to pay his respects, and at the same time 
to read in his countenance and behaviour how he felt withm, 
Don Gonzalo, after having spoken Hghtly of the tumult, 
like a man who had already provided a remed> for every- 
thincr made those complaints about Renzo which the reader 
already knows ; as he is also acquainted with what resulted 
from them in consequence. From that time, he took no 
further interest in an affair of so little importance, which, 
as far as he was concerned, was terminated; and when, a 
long time afterwards, the reply came to him at the camp 
at Casale, whither he had returned, and where he had very 
different 'things to occupy his mind, he raised and threw 
back his head, like a silkworm searching for a leaf; reflected 
for a moment, to recall more clearly to his memory a fact 
of which he only retained a shadowy idea; remembered 
the circumstance, had a vague and momentary recollection 
of the person ; passed on to something else, and thought no 

more about it. ,.,,,,,11 

But Renzo, who, from the little which he had darkly com- 
prehended, was far from supposing so benevolent an in- 
difference, had, for a time, no other thought, or rather, to 
speak more correctly, no other care, than to keep himself 
concealed. It may be imagined whether he did not ardently 
long to send news of himself to the women, and receive 
some from them in exchange; but there were two great 
difficulties in the way. One was, that he also would have 
been forced to trust to an amanuensis, for the poor fellow 
knew not how to write, nor even read, in the broad sense 
of the word • and if, when asked the question, as the reader 
may perhaps remember, by the Doctor Azzecca-Garbugh, 
he replied in the affirmative, it was not, certainly, a boast, 
a mere bravado, as thev say ; it was the truth, that he could 
manage to read print, when he could take his time over it : 
writing, however, was a different thing. He would be 
obliged then, to make a third party the depositary of his 
affairs,' and of a secret so jealousy guarded: and it was not 
easy in those times to find a man who could use his pen, 
and in whom confidence could be placed, particularly in a 
country where he had no .old acquaintances. The other 
difficulty was to find a bearer; a man who was going just 



458 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

to the place he wanted, who would take charge of the letter, 
and really recollect to deliver it; all these, too, qualifications 
rather difficult to be met with in one individual. 

At length, by dint of searching and sounding, he found 
somebody to write for him; but ignorant where the women 
were, or whether they were still at Monza, he judged it bet- 
ter to enclose the letter directed to Agnese under cover to 
Father Cristoforo, with a line or two also for him. The 
writer undertook the charge, moreover, of forwarding the 
packet, and delivered it to one who would pass not far from 
Pescarenico; this person left it with many strict charges, at 
an inn on the road, at the nearest point to the monastery; 
and, as it was directed to a convent, it reached this destina- 
tion; but what became of it afterwards was never known. 
Renzo, receiving no reply, sent off a second letter, nearly 
like the first, which he enclosed in another to an acquaint- 
ance or distant relation of his at Lecco. He sought for 
another bearer, and found one; and this time the letter 
reached the person to whom it was addressed. Agnese 
posted off to Maggianico, had it read and interpreted to her 
by her cousin Alessio; concerted with him a reply, which he 
put down in writing for her, and found means of sending it to 
Antonio Rivolta in his present place of abode: all this, how- 
ever, not quite so expeditiously as we have recounted it. 
Renzo received the reply, and in time sent an answer to it. 
In short, a correspondence was set on foot between the two 
parties, neither frequent nor regular, but still kept up by 
starts, and at intervals. 

To form some idea, however, of this correspondence, it is 
necessary to know a little how such things went on in those 
days — indeed, how they go on now; for in this particular, I 
believe, there is little or no variation. 

The peasant who knows not how to write, and finds him- 
self reduced to the necessity of communicating his ideas to 
the absent, has recourse to one who understands the art, 
taking him, as far as he can, from among those of his own 
rank, — for, with others, he is either shamefaced, or afraid 
to trust them; he informs them, with more or less order 
and perspicuity, of past events; and in the same manner, 
describes to him the thoughts he is to express. The man of 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 459 

letters understands part, misunderstands part, gives a little 
advice, proposes some variation, says, ' Leave it to me ;' then 
he takes the pen, transfers the idea he has received, as he 
best can, from speaking to writing, corrects it his own way, 
improves it, puts in flourishes, abbreviates, or even omits, 
according as he deems most suitable for his subject; for so it 
is, and there is no help for it, he who knows more than his 
neighbours will not be a passive instrument in their hands; 
and when he interferes in other people's affairs, he will 
force them to do things his own way. In addition to all this, 
it is not always quite a matter of course that the above- 
named literate himself expresses all that he intended; nay, 
sometimes it happens just the reverse, as, indeed, it does even 
to us who write for the press. When the letter thus com- 
pleted reaches the hands of the correspondent, who is equally 
unpractised in his a, b, c, he takes it to another learned 
genius of that tribe, who reads and expounds it to him. 
Questions arise on the matter of understanding it, because 
the person interested, presuming upon his acquaintance with 
the antecedent circumstances, asserts that certain words 
mean such and such a thing; the reader, resting upon his 
greater experience in the art of composition, affirms that 
they mean another. At last, the one who does not know, is 
obliged to put himself into the hands of the one who does, 
and trusts to him the task of writing a reply ; which, exe- 
cuted like the former example, is liable to a similar style of 
interpretation. If, in addition, the subject of the corre- 
spondence be a rather delicate topic, if secret matters be 
treated of in it, which it is desirable should not be understood 
by a third party, in case the letter should go astray ; if with 
this view there be a positive intention of not expressing 
things quite clearly, then, however short a time the corre- 
spondence is kept up, the parties invariably finish by under- 
standing each other as well as the two schoolmen who had 
disputed for four hours upon abstract mutations; not to 
take our simile from living beings, lest we expose ourselves 
to have our ears boxed. 

Now, the case of our two correspondents was exactly 
what we have described. The first letter written in Renzo's 
name, contained many subjects. Primarily, besides an ac- 



460 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

count of the flight, by far more concise, but, at the same 
time, more confused, than that which we have given, was a 
relation of his actual circumstances, from which both Agnese 
and her interpreter were very far from deriving any lucid 
or tolerably correct idea. Then he spoke of secret intelli- 
gence, change of name, his being in safety, but still requir- 
ing concealment; things in themselves not very familiar to 
their understandings, and related in the letter rather enig- 
matically. Then followed warm and impassioned inquiries 
about Lucia's situation, with dark and mournful hints of the 
rumours which had reached even his ears. There were, 
finally, uncertain and distant hopes and plans in reference to 
the future ; and for the present promises and entreaties to 
keep their plighted faith, not to lose patience or courage, 
and to wait for better days. 

Some time passed away, and Agnese found a trusty mes- 
senger to convey an answer to Renzo, with the fifty scudi 
assigned to him by Lucia. At the sight of so much gold, 
he knew not what to think ; and, with a mind agitated by 
wonder and suspense, which left no room for gratification, 
he set off in search of his amanuensis, to make him interpret 
the letter, and find the key to so strange a mystery. 

Agnese's scribe, after lamenting, in the letter, the want 
of perspicuity in Renzo's epistle, went on to describe, in a 
way at least quite as much to be lamented, the tremendous 
history of that person (so he expressed himself) ; and here 
he accounted for the fifty scudi; then he went on to speak 
of the vow, employing much circumlocution in the expres- 
sion of it, but adding, in more direct and explicit terms, the 
advice to set his heart at rest, and think no more about it. 

Renzo very nearly quarrelled with the reader; he trem- 
bled, shuddered, became enraged with what he had under- 
stood, and with what he could not understand. Three or 
four times did he make him read over the melancholy 
writing, now comprehending better, now finding what had 
at first appeared clear, more and more incomprehensible. 
And. in this fervour of passion, he insisted upon his aman- 
uensis immediately taking pen in hand, and writing a reply. 
After the strongest expressions imaginable of pity and horror 
at Lucia's circumstances — ' Write,' pursued he, as he dictated 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 461 

to his secretary, ' that I won't set my heart at rest, and that 
I never will ; and that this is not advice to be giving to a lad 
like me; and that I won't touch the money; that I'll put it 
by, and 'keep it for the young girl's dowry ; that she already , 
belongs to me; and that I know nothing about a vow; and 
that I have often heard say that the Madonna interests her- 
self to help the afflicted, and obtains favours for them; but 
that she encourages them to despise and break their word, 
I never heard ; and that this vow can't hold good ; and that 
with this money we have enough to keep house here; and 
that I am somewhat in difficulties now, it's only a storm 
which will quickly pass over;' and other similar things. 
Agnese received this letter also, and replied to it; and the 
correspondence continued in the manner we have described. 

Lucia felt greatly relieved when her mother had con- 
trived, bv some means or other, to let her know that Renzo was 
alive, 'safe, and acquainted with her vow, and desired noth- 
ing more 'than that he should forget her ; or, to express it 
more exactly, that he should try to forget her. She, on her 
part, made a similar resolution a hundred times a day with 
respect to him; and employed, too, every means she could 
think of to put it into effect. She continued to work inde- 
fatigably with her needle, trying to apply her whole mind 
to it; and when Renzo's image presented itself to her view, 
would begin to repeat or chant some prayers to herself. But 
that image, just as if it were actuated by pure malice, did 
not generally come so openly; it introduced itself stealthily 
behind others, so that the mind might not be aware of having 
harboured it, till after it had been there for some time. 
Lucia's thoughts were often with her mother; how should 
it have been otherwise? and the ideal Renzo would gently 
creep in as a third party, as the real person had so often 
done. So, with everybody, in every place, in every remem- 
brance of the past, he never failed to introduce himself. 
And if the poor girl allowed herself sometimes to penetrate 
in fancy into the obscurity of the future, there, too, he would 
appear, if it were onlv to say: I, ten to one, shall not be 
there. However, if not to think of him at all were a hopeless 
undertaking, yet Lucia succeeded up to a certain point, in 
thinking less about him, and less intensely than her heart 



462 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

would have wished. She would even have succeeded bet- 
ter, had she been alone in desiring to do so. But there was 
Donna Prassede, who, bent on her part, upon banishing the 
youth from her thoughts, had found no better expedient than 
constantly talking about him. ' Well,' she would say, ' have 
you given up thinking of him? ' 

' I am thinking of nobody,' replied Lucia. 

Donna Prassede, however, not to be appeased by so 
evasive an answer, replied that there must be deeds, not 
words; and enlarged upon the usual practices of young 
girls, ' who,' said she, ' when they have set their hearts upon 
a dissolute fellow, (and it is just to such they have a lean- 
ing,) won't consent to be separated from them. An honest 
and rational contract to a worthy man, a well-tried charac- 
ter, which, by some accident, happens to be frustrated, — 
they are quickly resigned ; but let it be a villain, and it is 
an incurable wound.' And then she commenced a panegyric 
upon the poor absentee, the rascal who had come to Milan 
to plunder the town, and massacre the inhabitants ; and 
tried to make Lucia confess all the knavish tricks he had 
played in his own country. 

Lucia, with a voice tremulous with shame, sorrow, and 
such indignation as could find place in her gentle breast and 
humble condition, affirmed and testified that the poor fellow 
had done nothing in his country to give occasion for any- 
thing but good to be said of him ; ' she wished,' she said, 
'that some one were present from his neighbourhood, iliat 
the lady might hear his testimony.' Even on his adventures 
at Milan, the particulars of which she could not learn, she 
defended him merely from the knowledge she had had of 
him and his behaviour, from his very childhood. She de- 
fended him, or intended to defend him, from the simple duty 
of charity, from her love of truth, and, to use just the ex- 
pression by which she described her feelings to herself, as 
her neighbour. But Donna Prassede drew fresh arguments 
from these apologies, to convince Lucia that she had quite 
lost her heart to this man. And, to say the truth, in these 
moments it is difficult to say how the matter stood. The 
disgraceful picture the old lady drew of the poor youth, 
revived, from opposition, more vividly and distinctly than 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 463 

ever in the mind of the young girl, the idea which long habit 
had established there; the recollections she had stifled by 
force returned in crowds upon her; aversion and contempt 
recalled all her old motives of esteem and sympathy, and 
blind and violent hatred only excited stronger feelings of 
nitv With these feelings, who can say how much there 
might or might not be of another affection which follows 
7XLn., Ind introduces itself so easily into the mind 
Let it be imagined what it would do in one whence it was 
attempted to e^ect it by force. However it .^^y^e the con- 
versation, on Lucia's side, was never carried to any great 
length, for words were very soon resolved into tears. 

Had Donna Prassede been induced to treat her m th 
way from some inveterate hatred towards her, these tears 
might, perhaps, have vanquished and silenced her; but as 
she s;oke with the intention of doing good, she went on 
vi bout allowing herself to be moved by them as groans 
and imploring cries may arrest the weapons of an enemy 
but not' the instrument of the surgeon Having, how ver^ 
discharged her duty for that time, she would turn from 
reproaches and denunciations to exhortation and advice, 
sweetened also by a little praise; thus designing to temper 
the bitter with the sweet, the better to obtain her purpose, 
by working upon the heart under every state of feeling. 
These quarrels, however, (which had always nearly the same 
be-inning, middle, and end,) left no resentment properly 
speaking, in the good Lucia's heart against the harsh ser- 
monizer, who, after all, treated her, in f ."^^^^ ^%^ "f^^^ ' 
and even in this instance, evinced a good mten ion. Yet they 
left her in such agitation, with such a tumult of thoughts and 
affections, that it required no little time, and much effort, to 
regain her former degree of calmness. 

It was well for her that she was not the only one to 
whom Donna Prassede had to do good; for by this means, 
these disputes could not occur so frequently. Besides the 
rest of the family, all of whom were persons more or less 
needing amendment and guidance-besides all the other 
occasions which offered themselves to her, or she contrived 
to find, of extending the satoe kind office, of her own free 
will to many to whom she was under no obligations; she 



464 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

had also five daughters, none of whom were at home, but 
who gave her much more to think about than if they' had 
been. Three of these were nuns, two were married: hence 
Donna Prassede naturally found herself with three monas- 
teries and two houses to superintend; a vast and compHcated 
undertaking, and the more arduous, because two husbands, 
backed by fathers, mothers, and brothers; three abbesses' 
supported by other dignitaries, and by many nuns, would not 
accept her superintendence. It was a complete warfare, 
alias five warfares, concealed, and even courteous, up to a 
certain point, but ever active, ever vigilant. There was in 
every one of these places a continued watchfulness to avoid 
her solicitude, to close the door against her counsels, to 
elude her inquiries, and to keep her in the dark, as far as 
possible, on every undertaking. We do not mention the 
resistance, the difficulties she encountered in the management 
of other still more extraneous affairs: it is well known that 
one must generally do good to men by force. The place 
where her zeal could best exercise itself, and have full play, 
was in her own house: here everybody was subject in every- 
thing, and for everything, to her authority, saving Don 
Ferrante, with whom things went on in a manner entirely 
peculiar. 

A man of studious turn, he neither loved to command 
nor obey. In all household matters, his wife was the mis- 
tress, with his free consent; but he would not submit to be 
her slave. And if, when requested, he occasionally lent her 
the assistance of his pen, it was because it suited his taste; 
and after all, he knew how to say no, when he was not con- 
vinced of what she wished him to write. 'Use your own 
sense,' he would say, in such cases ; ' do it yourself, since it 
seems so clear to you.' Donna Prassede, after vainly en- 
deavouring for some time to induce him to recant, and do 
what she wanted, would be obliged to content herself with 
murmuring frequently against him, with calling him one who 
hated trouble, a man who would have his own way, and a 
scholar: a title which, though pronounced with contempt, 
was generally mixed with a little complacency. 

Don Ferrante passed many hours in his study, where he 
had a considerable collection of books, scarcely less than 



I 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 465 

three hundred volumes: all of them choice works, and the 
most highly esteemed on their numerous several subjects, 
fneLh of which he was more or less versed. I" astrology, 
he was deservedly considered as more than a dilettante, 
for he not only possessed the generical notions and common 
vocabulary of influences, aspects, and conjunctions; but he 
knew how to talk very aptly, and as it were ex cathedra, o 
the twelve houses of the heavens, of the great circles, of 
lucid and obscure degrees, of exultation and dejection, of 
transitions and revolutions-in short, of the most assured 
and most recondite principles of the science And it was 
for perhaps twenty years that he maintained, m long and 
frequent disputes, the system of ^ardano against another 
learned man who was staunchly attached to that of Alca- 
bizio from mere obstinacy, as Don Ferrante said; who 
readily acknowledging the superiority of the ancients, could 
not, however, endure that unwillingness to Y^^ld ^o the 
moderns, even when they evidently have reason on their 
side He was also more than indifferently acquainted with 
the history of the science; he could, on an occasion, quote 
the most celebrated predictions which had been verified and 
reason clearly and learnedly on other celebrated predictions 
which had failed, showing that the fault was not m the 
science but in those who knew not how to apply it. 

He had learnt as much of ancient philosophy as might 
have sufficed him, but still went on acquiring more from 
the study of Diogenes Laertius. As, however, these sys ems 
how beautiful soever they may be, cannot all be held at 
once; and as, to be a philosopher, it is necessary to choose 
an author, so Don Ferrante had chosen Aristotle, who, he 
used to say, was neither ancient nor modern; he was the 
philosopher, and nothing more. He possessed also various 
works of the wisest and most ingenious disciples of that 
school among the moderns: those of its impugners he would 
never read, not to throw away time, as he said; nor buy 
not to throw away money. Surely, by way of exception, did 
he find room in his library for those celebrated two-and- 
twenty volumes De SuhtiUtate, and for some other anti- 
peripatetic work of Cardano'S, in consideration o/J^^^ J^^'^^ 
in astrology. He said, that he who could write the treatise 



466 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

De Restitutione temporum et motuuni coelestium, and the 
book Duodecim geniturarmn, deserved to be listened to even 
when he erred; that the great defect of this man was, that 
he had too much talent ; and that no one could conceive what 
he might have arrived at, even in philosophy, had he kept 
himself in the right way. In short, although, in the judg- 
ment of the learned, Don Ferrante passed for a consum- 
mate peripatetic, yet he did not deem that he knew enough 
about it himself; and more than once he was obliged to con- 
fess, with great modesty, that essence, universals, the soul 
of the world, and the nature of things, were not so very 
clear as might be imagined. 

He had made a recreation rather than a study of natural 
philosophy; the very works of Aristotle on this subject he 
had rather read than studied: yet, with this slight perusal, 
with the notices incidentally gathered from treatises on 
general philosophy, with a few cursory glances at the Magia 
naturale of Porta, at the three histories, lapidum, animaUnm, 
plantarum, of Cardano, at the treatise on herbs, plants, and 
animals, by Albert Magnus, and a few other works of less 
note, he could entertain a party of learned men, for a while, 
with dissertations on the most wonderful virtues and most 
remarkable curiosities of many medicinal herbs; he could 
minutely describe the forms and habits of sirens and the 
solitary phoenix; and explain how the salamander exists in 
the fire without burning; how the remora, that diminutive 
fish, has strength and ability completely to arrest a ship of 
any size in the high seas ; how drops of dew become pearls 
in the shell; how the chameleon feeds on air; how ice, by 
being gradually hardened, is formed into crystal, in 'the 
course of time; with many other of the most wonderful 
secrets of nature. 

Into those of magic and witchcraft he had penetrated 
still more deeply, as it was a science, says our anonymous 
author, much more necessary and more in vogue in those 
days, in which the facts were of far higher importance, and 
it was more within reach to verify them. It is unnecessary 
to say that he had no other object in view in such a study, 
than to inform himself, and to become acquainted with the 
very worst arts of the sorcerers, in order that he might guard 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 467 

against them and defend ^-"-^^^-^ f"'' T if^defltre 
pHncipally of the great Martino De rio (a leader of the 
science), he was capable of discoursing .^ ^ZITLZ^ 
the fascination of love, the fascmation of sleep, the fascina- 
tion of hatred, and the infinite varieties of these three p nn- 
cipal genuses of enchantment, which are only too often 
a^ain savs our anonymous author, beheld m practice at the 
present dav, attended by such lamentable effects 

Not less vast and profound was his knowledge of his- 
tory particularly universal history, in which his authors 
wer^ Tarcagnota, Dolce. Bugatti. Campana, and Guazzo; 
in short, all the most highly esteemed. 

'But what is history.' said Don Ferrante, frequently, 
'without politics ?-A guide who walks on and on with no 
one following to learn the road, and who consequently throws 
away his steps; as politics without history is one who 
walks without a guide/ There was therefore a place as- 
signed to statistics on his shelves; where,_ among many of 
humbler rank and less renown, appeared, in all their glory, 
Bedino, Cavalcanti, Sansovino, Paruta. and Boccalim. 
There were two books, however, which Don Ferrante in- 
finitely preferred above all others on this subject; two which, 
up to a certain time, he used to call the first, without ever 
being able to decide to which of the two this rank should 
exclusively belong: one was the Principe and Discorstoi he 
celebrated Florentine secretary; 'a great rascal, certainly, 
said Don Ferrante, 'but profound:' the other, the Ragwn 
di Stato of the no less celebrated Giovanni Botero; an 
honest man, certainly.' said he again, 'but shrewd. Shortly 
after however, iust at the period which our story embraces, 
a work came to" light which terminated the question of pre- 
eminence, by surpassing the works of even these two Mata- 
dorcs said Don Ferrante; a book in which was enclosed 
and condensed every trick of the system, that it might be 
known, and every virtue, that it might be P^^^tised ; a book 
of small dimensions, but all of gold; m one word, t\^t Stahsta 
Reenante of Don Valeriano Castiglione, that most celebrated 
man, of whom it might be said that the greatest scholars 
rivalled each other in sounding his praises, and the greatest 
personages in trying to rob him of them; that man, whom 



468 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

Pope Urban VIII. honoured, as is well known, with mag- 
nificent encomiums; whom the Cardinal Borghese and the 
Viceroy of Naples, Don Pietro di Toledo, entreated to re- 
late, — one, the doings of Pope Paul V., the other, the wars 
of his Catholic Majesty in Italy, and both in vain; that man, 
whom Louis XIII., King of France, at the suggestion of 
Cardinal de Richelieu, nominated his historiographer; on 
whom Duke Carlo Emanuele, of Savoy, conferred the same 
office; in praise of whom, not to mention other lofty testi- 
monials, the Duchess Cristina, daughter of the most Christian 
King Henry IV., could, in a diploma, among many other 
titles, enumerate ' the certainty of the reputation he is ob- 
taining in Italy of being the first writer of our times.' 

But if, in all the above-mentioned sciences, Don Fer- 
rante might be considered a learned man, one there was 
in which he merited and enjoyed the title of Professor — 
the science of chivalry. Not only did he argue on it in 
a really masterly manner, but, frequently request^ed to in- 
terfere in affairs of honour, always gave some decision. 
He had in his library, and one may say, indeed, in his head, 
the works of the most renowned writers on this subject: 
Paris del Pozzo, Fausto da Longiano, Urrea, Muzio, Romei, 
Albergato, the first and second Forno of Torquato Tasso, 
of whose other works, ' Jerusalem Delivered,' as well as 
' Jerusalem Taken,' he had ever in readiness, and could 
quote from memory, on occasion, all the passages which 
might serve as a text on the subject of chivalry. The au- 
thor, however, of all authors, in his estimation, was our 
celebrated Francesco Birago, with whom he was more than 
once associated in giving judgment on cases of honour; and 
who, on his side, spoke of Don Ferrante in terms of par- 
ticular esteem. And from the time that the Discorsi Caval- 
lereschi of this renowned writer made their appearance, he 
predicted, without hesitation, that this work would destroy 
the authority of Olevano, and would remain, together with 
its other noble sisters, as a code of primary authority among 
posterity: and every one may see, says our anonymous au- 
thor, how this prediction has been verified. 

From this he passes on to the study of belles lettres; 
but we begin to doubt whether the reader has really any 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 469 

great wish to go forward with us in this review, and even 
to fear that we may already have won the title of servile 
copyist for ourselves, and that of a bore, to be shared with 
the anonymous author, for having followed him out so 
simply, even thus far, into a subject foreign to the prin- 
cipal narrative, and in which, probably, he was only so 
diffuse, for the purpose of parading erudition, and show- 
ing that he was not behind his age. However, leaving 
written what is written, that we may not lose our labour, 
we will omit the rest to resume the thread of our story: 
the more willingly, as we have a long period to traverse 
without meeting with any of our characters, and a longer 
still, before finding those in whose success the reader vvill 
be most interested, if anything in the whole story has in- 
terested him at all. 

Until the autumn of the following year, 1629, they all re- 
mained, some willingly, some by force, almost in the state 
in which we left them, nothing happening to any one, and 
no one doing anything worthy of being recorded. The 
autumn at length approached, in which Agnese and Lucia 
had counted upon meeting again; but a great public event 
frustrated that expectation : and this certainly was one of 
its most trifling effects. Other great events followed, which, 
however, made no material change in the destinies of our 
characters. At length, new circumstances, more general, 
more influential, and more extensive, reached even to them, 
—even to the lowest of them, according to the world's scale. 
It was like a vast, sweeping, and irresistible hurricane, 
which, uprooting trees, tearing off roofs, levelling battle- 
ments, and scattering their fragments in every direction, stirs 
up the straws hidden in the grass, pries into every corner 
for the light and withered leaves, which a gentler breeze 
would only have lodged there more securely, and bears them 
off in its headlong course of fury. 

Now, that the private events which yet remain for us 
to relate may be rendered intelligible, it will be abso- 
lutely necessary for us, even here, to premise some kind 
of account of these public ones, and thus make a still further 
digression. 



CHAPTER XXVIII 

AFTER the sedition of St Martin's, and the follow- 
l\ ing day, it seemed that abundance had returned to 
-^ — ^ Milan, as by enchantment. The bread shops were 
plentifully supplied; the price as low as in the most prolific 
years, and flour in proportion. They who during those two 
days had employed themselves in shouting, or doing some- 
thing worse, had now (excepting a few who had been seized) 
reason to congratulate themselves : and let it not be imagined 
that they spared these congratulations, after the first fear 
of being captured had subsided. In the squares, at the 
corners of the streets, and in the taverns, there was undis- 
guised rejoicing, a general murmur of applauses, and half- 
uttered boasts of having found a way to reduce bread to a 
moderate price. 

In the midst, however, of this vaunting and festivity, 
there was (and how could it be otherwise?) a secret feeling 
of disquietude, and presentiment that the thing could not 
last long. They beseiged the bakers and meal-sellers, as 
they had before done in the former artificial and 
transient abundance procured by the first tariff of Antonio 
Ferrer ; he who had a little money in advance, invested it in 
bread and flour, which were stored up in chests, small 
barrels, and iron vessels. By thus emulating each other in 
enjoying present advantage, they rendered (I do not say, 
its long duration impossible, for such it was of itself already, 
but even) its continuance from moment to moment ever 
more difficult. And lo ! on the 15th November, Antonio 
Ferrer, De orden de su Excelencia, issued a proclamation, 
in which all who had any corn or flour in their houses were 
forbidden to buy either one or the other, and every one 
else to purchase more than would be required for two days, 
under pain of pecuniary and corporal punishments, at the 
will of his Excellency. It contained, also, intimations to 
the elders, (a kind of public officer,) and insinuations to 
all other persons, to inform against offenders; orders to 

470 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 471 

magistrates to make strict search in any houses which might 
be reported to them ; together with fresh commands to the 
bakers to keep their shops well furnished with bread, under 
pain, in case of failure, of iive years in the galleys, or even 
greater penalties, at the will of his Excellency. He who 
can imagine such a proclamation executed, must have a very 
clever imagination; and, certainly, had all those issued at 
that time taken effect, the duchy of Milan would have had 
at least as many people on the seas as Great Britam itself 
may have at present. 

At any rate, as they ordered the bakers to make so 
much bread, it was also necessary to give some orders that 
the materials for making it should not fail. They had con- 
trived (as, in times of scarcity, the endeavour is always 
renewed to reduce into bread different alimentary materials, 
usually consumed under another form,) they had con- 
trived I say, to introduce rice into a composition, called 
mixed bread. On the 23rd November, an edict was pub- 
lished to limit to the disposal of the superintendent, and 
the twelve members who constituted the board of provision, 
one-half of the dressed rice (risone it was then, and is still, 
called there) which every one possessed; with the threat, to 
any one who should dispose of it without the permission of 
these noblemen, of the loss of the article, and a fine of 
three crowns a bushel. The honesty of this proceeding every 
one can appreciate. 

But it was necessarv to pay for this nee, and at a price 
very disproportioned to that of bread. The burden of 
supplying the enormous inequality had been imposed upon 
the city but the Council of the Decurioni, who had under- 
taken to' discharge the debt in behalf of the city, dehberated 
the same dav, 23rd of November, about remonstrating with 
the governor on the impossibility of any longer maintaining 
such an engagement ; and the governor, m a decree of the 
7th December, fixed the price of the above-named rice at 
twelve hvres per bushel. To those who should demand a 
higher price, as well as to those who should refuse to sell 
he threatened the loss of the article, and a fine of equal 
value and greater pecuniary, 'and even corporal punishment, 
including the galleys, at the will of his Excellency, ac- 



472 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

cording to the nature of the case, and the rank of the 
offender. 

The price of undressed rice had been already limited be- 
fore the insurrection ; as the tariff, or, to use that most 
famous term of modern annals, the maximum of wheat, and 
other of the commonest grains, had probably been estab- 
lished in different decrees, which we have not happened 
to meet with. 

Bread and flour being thus reduced to a moderate price 
at Milan, it followed of consequence that people flocked 
thither in crowds to obtain a supply. To obviate this in- 
convenience, as he said, Don Gonzalo, in another edict of 
the 15th December, prohibited carrying bread out of the 
city, beyond the value of twenty pence, under penalty of 
the loss of the bread itself, and twenty-five crowns; or, 
in case of inability, of two stripes in public, and greater 
punishment still, as usual, at the zvill of his Excellency. On 
the 22nd of the same month, (and why so late, it is difficult 
to say,) a similar order was issued with regard to flour and 
grain. 

The multitude had tried to procure abundance by pillage 
and incendiarism ; the legal arm would have maintained 
it with the galleys and the scourge. The means were con- 
venient enough in themselves, but what they had to do 
with the end, the reader knows ; how they actually an- 
swered their purpose, he will see directly. It is easy, too, 
to see, and not useless to observe, the necessary connection 
between these stranger measures; each was an inevitable 
consequence of the antecedent one ; and all of the first, 
which fixed a price upon bread so different to that which 
would have resulted from the real state of things. Such 
a provision ever has, and ever must have, appeared to the 
multitude as consistent with justice, as simple and easy of 
execution: hence, it is quite natural that, in the depriva- 
tions and grievances of a famine, they should desire it, im- 
plore it, and, if they can, enforce it. In proportion, then, 
as the consequences begin to be felt, it is necessary that they 
whose duty it is should provide a remedy for each, by a 
regulation, prohibiting men to do what they were impelled 
to do by the preceding one. We may be permitted to re- 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 473 

mark here in passing a singular coincidence. In a country 
and at a period by no means remote, a period the most clam- 
orous and most renowned of modern history, m snnilar cir- 
cumstances, similar provisions obtained, (the same, we might 
almost say, in substance, with the sole difference of pro- 
portions and in nearly the same succession;) they obtained, 
in spite of the march of intellect, and the knowledge which 
had spread over Europe, and in that country, perhaps, more 
than any other ; and this, principally, because the great niass 
of the people, whom this knowledge had not yet reached, 
could in the long run, make their judgment prevail, and, 
as it were there said, compel the hands of those who made 

the laws. . r i, - 

But to return to our subject. On a review of the cir- 
cumstances, there were two principal fruits of the insur- 
rection : destruction and actual loss of provision, in the in- 
surrection itself, and a consumption, while the tariff lasted, 
immense, immeasurable, and, so to say, jovial, which rapidly 
diminished the small quantity of grain that was to have 
sufficed till the next harvest. To these general effects may 
be added, the punishment of four of the populace, who were 
hung as ringleaders of the tumult, two before the bake- 
house of the Crutches, and two at the end of the street 
where the house of the superintendent of provisions was 

situated. . 

As to the rest, the historical accounts of those times have 
been written so much at random, that no information is to 
be found as to how and when this arbitrary tariff ceased. 
If in the failure of positive notices, we may be allowed to 
fo'rm a conjecture, we are inclined to believe that it was 
withdrawn shortly before, or soon after, the 24th Decem- 
ber which was the day of the execution. As to the procla- 
mations after the last we have quoted, of the 22nd of the 
same month, we find no more on the subject of provisions; 
whether it be that they have perished, or have escaped our 
researches, or, finally, that the government discouraged, if 
not instructed, by the inefficiency of these its remedies, and 
quite overwhelmed with different matters, abandoned them 
to their own course. We find, indeed, in the records of 
more than one historian, (inclined, as they were, rather to 



474 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

describe great events, than to note the causes and progress 
of them,) a picture of the country, and chiefly of the city, 
in the already advanced winter, and following spring, when 
the cause of the evil, the disproportion, i. e., between food 
and the demand for it, (which, far from being removed, 
was even increased, by the remedies which temporarily 
suspended its effects,) when the true cause, I say, of the 
scarcity, or, to speak more correctly, the scarcity itself, 
was operating without a check, and exerting its full force. It 
was not even checked by the introduction of a sufficient 
supply of corn from without, to which remedy were opposed 
the insufficiency of public and private means, the poverty 
of the surrounding countries, the prevailing famine, the 
tediousness and restrictions of commerce, and the laws them- 
selves, tending to the production and violent maintenance 
of moderate prices. We will give a sketch of the mournful 
picture. 

At every step, the shops closed; manufactories for the 
most part deserted; the streets presenting an indescribable 
spectacle, an incessant train of miseries, a perpetual abode 
of sorrows. Professed beggars of long standing, now be- 
come the smallest number, mingled and lost in a new swarm, 
and sometimes reduced to contend for alms with those 
from whom, in former days, they had been accustomed to 
receive them. Apprentices and clerks dismissed by shop- 
keepers and merchants, who, when their daily profits di- 
minished, or entirely failed, were living sparingly on their 
savings, or on their capital; shopkeepers and merchants 
themselves, to whom the cessation of business had brought 
failure and ruin ; workmen, in every trade and manufacture, 
the commonest as well as the most refined, the most neces- 
sary as well as those more subservient to luxury, wandering 
from door to door, and from street to street, leaning against 
the corners, stretched upon the pavement, along the houses 
and churches, begging piteously, or hesitating between want 
and a still unsubdued shame, emaciated, weak, and trem- 
bUng, from long fasting, and the cold that pierced through 
their tattered and scanty garments, which still, however, in 
many instances, retained traces of having been once in a 
better condition; as their present idleness and despondency 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 475 

ill disguised indications of former habits of industry and 
courage. Mingled in the deplorable throng, and forming no 
small part of it, were servants dismissed by their masters, 
who either had sunk from mediocrity into poverty, or other- 
wise, from wealthy and noble citizens, had become unable 
in sttch a year, to maintain their accustomed pomp of reti- 
nue. And for each one, so to say, of these different needy 
objects, was a number of others, accustomed, in part, to live 
by their gains ; children, women, and aged relatives, grouped 
around their old supporters, or dispersed in search of relief 
elsewhere. 

There were, also, easily distinguishable by their tangled 
locks, by the relics of their showy dress, or even by some- 
thing in their carriage and gestures, and by that expression 
which habits impress upon the countenance, the more marked 
and distinct as the habits are strange and unusual,— many 
of that vile race of bravoes, who, having lost in the common 
calamity^ their wickedly acquired substance, now went about 
imploring it for charity. Subdued by hunger, contending 
with others only in entreaties, and reduced in person, they 
dragged themselves along through the streets, which they 
had so often traversed with a lofty brow, and a suspicious 
and ferocious look, dressed in sumptuous and fantastic liv- 
eries, furnished with rich arms, plumed, decked out, and 
perfumed; and humbly extended the hand which had so 
often been insolently raised to threaten, or treacherously, 
to wound. 

But the most frequent, the most squalid, the most hideous 
spectacle, was that of the country people, alone, in couples, 
or even in entire families ; husbands and wives, with infants 
in their arms, or tied up in a bundle upon their backs, with 
children dragged along by the hand, or with old people be- 
hind. Some there were who, having had their houses in- 
vaded and pillaged by the soldiery, had fled thither, either as 
residents or passengers, in a kind of desperation ; and among 
these there were some who displayed stronger incentives to 
compassion, and greater distinction in misery, in the scars 
and bruises from the wounds they had received in the defence 
of their few remaining provisions; while others gave way 
to a blind and brutal licentiousness. Others, again, unreached 



476 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

by that particular scourge, but driven from their homes by 
those two, from which the remotest corner was not exempt, 
sterility and prices more exorbitant than ever, to meet what 
were called the necessities of war, had come, and were con- 
tinually pouring into the city, as to the ancient seat and 
ultimate asylum of plenty and pious munificence. The newly 
arrived might be distinguished, not only by a hesitating step, 
and novel air, but still more by a look of angry astonish- 
ment, at finding such an accumulation, such an excess, such 
a rivalry of misery, in a place where they had hoped to ap- 
pear singular objects of compassion, and to attract to them- 
selves all assistance and notice. The others, who, for more 
or less time, had haunted the streets of the city, prolonging 
life by the scanty food obtained, as it were, by chance, in 
such a disparity between the supply and the demand, bore 
expressed in their looks and carriage still deeper and more 
anxious consternation. Various in dress, (or rather rags,) 
as well as appearance, in the midst of the common prostra- 
tion, there were the pale faces of the marshy districts, the 
bronzed countenances of the open and hilly country, and the 
ruddy complexion of the mountaineer, all alike wasted and 
emaciated, with sunken eyes, a stare between sternness and 
idiocy, matted locks, and long and ghastly beards ; bodies, 
once plump and inured to fatigue, now exhausted by want; 
shrivelled skin on their parched arms, legs, and bony breasts, 
which appeared through their disordered and tattered gar- 
ments; while different from, but not less melancholy than, 
this spectacle of wasted vigour, was that of a more quickly 
subdued nature; of languor, and a more self-abandoning de- 
bility, in the weaker sex and age. 

Here and there, in the streets and cross-ways, along 
the walls, and under the eaves of the houses, were layers 
of trampled straw and stubble, mixed with dirty rags. 
Yet such revolting filth was the gift and provision of charity; 
they were places of repose prepared for some of those mis- 
erable wretches, where they might lay their heads at night. 
Occasionally, even during the day, some one might be seen 
lying there, whom faintness and abstinence had robbed of 
breath, and the power of supporting the weight of his body. 
Sometimes these wretched couches bore a corpse ; sometimes 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 477 

a poor exhausted creature would suddenly sink to the ground, 
and remain a lifeless body upon the pavement. 

Bending over some of these prostrated sufferers, a neigh- 
bour or passer-by might frequently be seen, attracted by a 
sudden impulse of compassion. In some places assistance 
was tendered, organized with more distant foresight, and 
proceeding from a hand rich in the means, and experienced 
in the exercise, of doing good on a large scale; — the hand 
of the good Federigo. He had made choice of six priests, 
whose ready and persevering charity was united with, and 
ministered to by, a robust constitution ; these he divided into 
pairs, and assigned to each a third part of the city to peram- 
bulate, followed by porters laden with various kinds of food, 
together with other more effective and more speedy re- 
storatives, and clothing. Every morning these three pairs 
dispersed themselves through the streets in different direc- 
tions, approached those whom they found stretched upon 
the ground, and administered to each the assistance he was 
capable of receiving. Some in the agonies of death, and 
no longer able to partake of nourishment, received at their 
hands the last succours and consolations of religion. To 
those whom food might still benefit, they dispensed soup, 
eggs, bread, or wine; while to others, exhausted by longer 
abstinence, they offered jellies and stronger wines, reviving 
them first, if need were, with cordials and powerful acids. 
At the same time they distributed garments to those who 
were most indecorously and miserably clothed. 

Nor did their assistance end here : it was the good bishop's 
wish that, at least where it could be extended, efficacious and 
more permanent relief should be administered. Those poor 
creatures, who felt sufficiently strengthened by the first reme- 
dies to stand up and walk, were also provided, by the same 
kindly ministry, with a little money, that returning need, 
and the failure of further succour, might not bring them 
again immediately into their first condition ; for the rest, they 
sought shelter and maintenance in some of the neighbouring 
houses. Those among the inhabitants who were well off in 
the world, afforded hospitality out of charity, and on the 
recommendation of the Cardinal ; and where there was the 
will, without the means, the priests requested that the poor 



478 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

creature might be received as a boarder, agreed upon the 
terms, and immediately defrayed a part of the expense. They 
then gave notice of those who were thus lodged to the 
parish priests, that they might go to see them ; and they them- 
selves would also return to visit them. 

It is unnecessary to say that Federigo did not confine 
his care to this extremity of suffering, nor wait till the 
evil had reached its height, before exerting himself. His 
ardent and versatile charity must feel all, be employed in 
all, hasten where it could not anticipate, and take, so to 
say, as many forms as there were varieties of need. In 
fact, by bringing together all his means, saving with still 
more rigorous economy, and applying sums destined to 
other purposes of charity, now, alas ! rendered of secondary 
importance, he had tried every method of making money, 
to be expended entirely in alleviating poverty. He made 
large purchases of corn, which he despatched to the most 
indigent parts of his diocese; and as the succours were far 
from equalling the necessity, he also sent plentiful supplies 
of salt, ' with which,' says Ripamonti, relating the circum- 
stances, 'the herbs of the field, and bark from the trees, 
might be converted into human sustenance.' He also dis- 
tributed corn and money to the clergy of the city ; he himself 
visited it by districts, dispensing alms ; he relieved in secret 
many destitute families; in the archiepiscopal palace large 
quantities of rice were daily cooked; and according to the 
account of a contemporary writer, (the physician, Alessan- 
dro Tadino, in his Raggiiaglio, which we shall frequently 
have occasion to quote in the sequel,) two thousand por- 
ringers of this food were here distributed every morning. 

But these fruits of charity, which we may certainly 
specify as wonderful, when we consider that they pro- 
ceeded from one individual, and from his sole resources, 
(for Federigo habitually refused to be made a dispenser of 
the hberality of others,) these, together with the bounty of 
other private persons, if not so copious, at least more nu- 
merous, and the subsidies granted by the Council of the 
Decurioni to meet this emergency, the dispensation of which 
was committed to the Board of Provision, were, after all, in 
comparison of the demand, scarce and inadequate. While 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 479 

some few mountaineers and inhabitants of the valleys, who 
were ready to die of hunger, had their lives prolonged by 
the Cardinal's assistance, others arrived at the extreniest 
vero-e of starvation; the former, having consumed their 
mea^sured supplies, returned to the same state; m other parts, 
not forgotten, but considered as less straitened by a charity 
which was compelled to make distinctions, the sufferings be- 
came fatal; in every direction they perished, from every di- 
rection they flocked to the city. Here two thousand, we wil 
say of famishing creatures, the strongest and most skilful 
in surmounting competition, and making way for themselves, 
obtained, perhaps, a bowl of soup, so as not to die that day; 
but many more thousands remained behind, envying those, 
shall we say, more fortunate ones, when among them who 
remained behind, were often their wives, children or par- 
ents? And while, in two or three parts of the city, some of 
the most destitute and reduced were raised from the ground, 
revived recovered, and provided for, for some time, in a 
hundred other quarters, many more sank, languished, or even 
expired, without assistance, without alleviation. 

Throucrhout the day a confused humming of lamentable 
entreatie's was to be heard in the streets; at night, a mur- 
mur of rroans, broken now and then by howls, suddenly 
bursting upon the ear, by loud and long accents of com- 
plaint, or by deep tones of invocation, terminating in wild 

shrieks. -^ r * 

It is worthv of remark, that in such an extremity of want, 
in such a variety of complaints, not one attempt was ever 
made not one rumour ever raised, to bring about an insur- 
rection- at least, we find not the least mention of such a 
thing Yet, among those who lived and died in this way, 
there was a great number of men brought up to anythmg 
rather than patient endurance; there were, indeed, in hun- 
dreds those very same individuals who, on St Martin s-day, 
had made themselves so sensibly felt. Nor must it be im- 
agined that the example of those four unhappy men, who 
bore in their own persons the penalty of all, was what now 
kept them in awe: what force could, not the sight, but the 
remembrance, of punishments have, on the mmds of a dis- 
persed and reunited multitude, who saw themselves con- 



480 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

demned. as it were, to a prolonged punishment, which they 
were already suffering? But so constituted are we mortals 
in general, that we rebel indignantly and violently against 
medium evils, and how in silence under extreme ones; we 
bear, not with resignation, but stupefaction, the weight of 
what at first we had called insupportable. 

The void daily created by mortality in this deplorable 
multitude, was every day more than replenished: there was 
an incessant concourse, first, from the neighbouring towns, 
then from all the country, then from the cities of the state, 
to the very borders, even, of others. And in the mean while' 
old inhabitants were every day leaving Milan; some to 
withdraw from the sight of so much suffering; others, being 
driven from the field, so to say, by new competitors for 
support, in a last desperate attempt to find sustenance else- 
where, anywhere— anywhere, at least, where the crowds and 
rivalry in begging were not so dense and importunate. These 
oppositely bound travellers met each other on their different 
routes, all spectacles of horror, and disastrous omens of 
the fate that awaited them at the end of their respective 
journeys. They prosecuted, however, the way they had once 
undertaken, if no longer with the hope of changing their 
condition, at least not to return to a scene which had become 
odious to them, and to avoid the sight of a place where they 
had been reduced to despair. Some, even, whose last vital 
powers were destroyed by abstinence, sank down by the way, 
and were left where they expired, still more fatal' tokens to 
their brethren in condition, — an object of horror, perhaps 
of reproach, to other passengers. ' I saw,' writes Ripamonti, 
'lying in the road surrounding the wall, the corpse of a 
woman . . . Half-eaten grass was hanging out of her mouth, 
and her contaminated lips still made almost a convulsive 
effort . . . She had a bundle at her back, and, secured by 
bands to her bosom, hung an infant, which with bitter cries 
was calling for the breast . . . Some compassionate persons 
had come up, who, raising the miserable little creature from 
the ground, brought it some sustenance, thus fulfilling in a 
measure the first maternal office.' 

The contrast of gay clothing and rags, of superfluity and 
misery, the ordinary spectacle of ordinary times, had, in 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 481 

these peculiar ones, entirely ceased. Rags and misery had 
invaded almost every rank; and what now at all distin- 
guished them was but an appearance of frugal mediocrity. 
The nobility were seen walking in becoming and modest, or 
even dirty and shabby, clothing; some, because the common 
causes of misery had affected their fortunes to this degree, 
or even given a finishing hand to fortunes already much 
dilapidated; others, either from fear of provoking public 
desperation by display, or from a feeling of shame at thus in- 
sulting public calamity. Petty tyrants, once hated and looked 
upon with awe, and accustomed to wander about with an in- 
solent train of bravoes at their heels, now walked almost unat- 
tended, crest-fallen, and with a look which seemed to offer 
and entreat peace. Others who, in prosperity also, had been 
of more humane disposition and more civil bearing, appeared 
nevertheless confused, distracted, and, as it were, overpow- 
ered by the continual view of a calamity, which excluded 
not only the possibility of relief, but, we may almost say, 
the powers of commiseration. They who were able to afford 
any assistance, were obliged to make a melancholy choice 
between hunger and hunger, between extremity and ex- 
tremity. And no sooner was a compassionate hand seen to 
drop anything into the hand of a wretched beggar, than a 
strife immediately rose between the other miserable wretches; 
those who retained still a little strength, pressed forward to 
solicit with more importunity; the feeble, aged people, and 
children, extended their emaciated hands; mothers, from 
behind, raised and held out their weeping infants, miserably 
clad in their tattered swaddling-clothes, and reclining lan- 
guidly in their arms. 

Thus passed the winter and the spring : for some time the 
Board of Health had been remonstrating with the Board of 
Provision, on the danger of contagion which threatened the 
city from so much suffering, accumulated in, and spread 
throughout it ; and had proposed, that all the vagabond men- 
dicants should be collected together into the different hos- 
pitals. While this plan was being debated upon and ap- 
proved; while the means, methods, and places, were being 
devised' to put it into effect, coxpses multiplied in the streets, 
every day bringing additional numbers; and in proportion 

jj^, , l6— VOL. XXI 



482 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

to this, followed all the other concomitants of loathsomeness, 
misery, and danger. It was proposed by the Board of Pro- 
vision as more practicable and expeditious, to assemble all 
the mendicants, healthy or diseased, in one place, the Laz- 
zaretto, and there to feed and maintain them at the public 
expense; and this expedient was resolved upon, in spite of 
the Board of Health, which objected that, in such an assem- 
blage, the evil would only be increased which they wished 
to obviate. 

The Lazzaretto at Milan (perchance this story should 
fall into the hands of any one who does not know it, either 
by sight or description), is a quadrilateral and almost equi- 
lateral enclosure, outside the city, to the left of the gate 
called the Porta Orientale, and separated from the br.stions 
by the width of the fosse, a road of circumvallation, and a 
smaller moat running round the building itself. The two 
larger sides extend to about the length of five hundred paces; 
the other two, perhaps, fifteen less; all, on the outside, 
divided into little rooms on the ground floor; while, running 
round three sides of the interior, is a continuous, vaulted 
portico, supported by small light pillars. The number of the 
rooms was once two hundred and eighty-eight, some larger 
than others; but in our days, a large aperture made in 
the middle, and a smaller one in one corner of the side 
that flanks the highway, have destroyed I know not how 
many. 

At the period of our story there were only two entrances, 
one in the centre of the side which looked upon the city- 
wall, the other facing it in the opposite side. In the midst 
of the clear and open space within, rose a small octagonal 
temple, which is still in existence. The primary object of the 
whole edifice, begun in the year 1489, with a private legacy, 
and afterwards continued with the public money, and that 
of other testators and donors, was, as the name itself de- 
notes, to afford a place of refuge, in cases of necessity, to 
such as were ill of the plague ; which, for some time before 
that epoch, and for a long while after it, usually appeared 
two, four, six, or eight times a century, now in this, now in 
that European country, sometimes taking a great part of it, 
sometimes even traversing the whole, so to say, from one 



I PROMESSI SPOSI "IBS 

end to the other. At the time of which we are speaking, the 
Lazzaretto was merely used as a repository for goods sus- 
pected of conveying infection. , . • u 

To prepare it on this occasion for its new destmation, the 
usual forms were rapidly gone through ; and having hastily 
made the necessary cleansings and prescribed experiments 
all the goods were immediately liberated. Straw was spread 
out in every room, purchases were made of provisions, of 
whatever kind and in whatever quantities they could be pro- 
cured ; and, by a public edict, all beggars were invited to 
take sheher there. 

Many willingly accepted the offer; all those who were 
Ivincr ill in the streets or squares were carried thither; and 
in a'few days there was akogether more than three thousand 
who had taken refuge there. But far more were they who 
remained behind. Whether it were that each one expected 
to see others go, and hoped that there would thus be a smaller 
party left to share the relief which could be obtamed in the 
city or from a natural repugnance to confinement, or from 
the distrust felt by the poor of all that is proposed to them 
by those who possess wealth or power (a distrust always 
proportioned to the common ignorance of those who feel 
it and those who inspire it— to the number of the poor, and 
the strictness of the regulations), or from the actual knowl- 
edge of what the offered benefit was in reality, or whether 
it were all these put together, or whatever else it might be, 
certain it is that the greater number, paying no attention 
to the invitation, continued to wander about begging through 
the city. This being perceived, it was considered advisable 
to pass from invitation to force. Bailiffs were sent round, 
who drove all the mendicants to the Lazzaretto, who even 
brought those bound who made any resistance ; for each one 
of whom a premium of ten soldi" was assigned to them ; so 
true is it that, even in the scarcest times, public money may 
alwavs be found to be employed foolishly. And though, as 
it had been imagined, and even expressly intended by the 
provision, a certain number of beggars made their escape 
from the city to go and live or die elsewhere, if it were only 
in freedom, yet the compulsion was such, that m a short 

} Tenpence. 



484 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

time the number of refugees, what with guests and prison- 
ers, amounted to nearly ten thousand. 

We must naturally suppose that the women and children 
were lodged in separate quarters, though the records of the 
time make no mention of it. Regulations, besides, and pro- 
visions for the maintenance of good order, would certainly 
not be wanting; but the reader may imagine what kind of 
order could be established and maintained, especially in those 
times, and under such circumstances, in so vast and diversi- 
fied an assemblage, where the unwilling inmates associated 
with the willing, — those to whom mendicity was a mournful 
necessity, and subject of shame, with those whose trade 
and custom it had long been ; many who had been trained 
to honest industry in the fields or warehouses, with many 
others who had been brought up in the streets, taverns, or 
some other vile resorts, to idleness, roguery, scoffing, and 
violence. 

How they fared all together for lodging and food, might 
be sadly conjectured, had we no positive information on the 
subject; but we have it. They slept crammed and heaped 
together, by twenty and thirty in each little cell, or lying 
under the porticoes, on pallets of putrid and fetid straw, or 
even on the bare ground: it was ordered, indeed, that the 
straw should be fresh and abundant, and frequently changed ; 
but, in fact, it was scarce, bad, and never renewed. There 
were orders, likewise, that the bread should be of a good 
quality ; for what administration ever decreed that bad com- 
modities should be manufactured and dispensed? But how 
obtain, under the existing circumstances, and in such con- 
fusion, what in ordinary cases could not have been procured, 
even for a less enormous demand ? It was affirmed, as we 
find in the records of the times, that the bread of the Laz- 
zaretto was adulterated with heavy but unnutritious mate- 
rials; and it is too likely that this was not a mere unfounded 
complaint. There was also a great deficiency of water, that 
is to say, of wholesome spring-water : the common beverage 
must have been from the moat that washed the walls of the 
enclosure, shallow, slow, in places even muddy; and become, 
too, what the use and the vicinity of such and so vast a 
multitude must have rendered it. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 485 

To all these causes of mortality, the more effective as 
they acted upon diseased or enfeebled bodies, was added the 
most unpropitious season; obstinate rains, followed by a 
drought still more obstinate, and with it, an anticipated and 
violent heat. To these evils were added a keen sense of 
them ; the tedium and frenzy of captivity ; a longing to return 
to old habits; grief for departed friends; anxious remem- 
brances of absent ones; disgust and dread, inspired by the 
misery of others; and many other feelings of despair, or 
madness, either brought with them, or first awakened there ; 
together with the apprehension and constant spectacle of 
death, which was rendered frequent by so many causes, and 
had become itself a new and powerful cause. Nor is it to 
be wondered at, that mortality increased and prevailed in 
this confinement, to such a degree, as to assume the aspect, 
and with many the name, of pestilence. Whether it were 
that the union and augmentation of all these causes only 
served to increase the activity of a merely epidemic influ- 
enza, or (as it seems frequently to happen in less severe and 
prolonged famines) that a real contagion had gained ground 
there, which, in bodies disposed and prepared for it by the 
scarcity and bad quality of food, by unwholesome air, by 
uncleanliness, by exhaustion, and by consternation, found 
its own temperature, so to say, and its own season ;— the 
conditions, in short, necessary for its birth, preservation, 
and multiplication; (if one unskilled in these matters may 
be allowed to put forth these sentiments, after the hypothesis 
propounded by certain doctors of medicine, and re-pro- 
pounded at length, with many arguments, and much caution, 
by one as diligent as he is talented f) or whether, again, the 
contagion first broke out in the Lazzaretto itself, as, ac- 
cording to an obscure and inexact account, it seems was 
thought by the physicians of the Board of Health; or 
whether it were actually in existence and hovering about 
before that time, (which seems, perhaps, the most likely, 
if we recollect that the scarcity was already universal, and 
of long date, and the mortality frequent,) and that, when 
once introduced there, it spread with fresh and terrible ra- 

s On the Spotted Plague . . . and on other contagions in general, by the 
learned F. Enrico Acerbi, Ch. iii. § i and 2. 



486 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

pidity, owing to the accumulation of bodies, which were 
rendered still more disposed to receive it, from the increas- 
ing efficacy of the other causes; whichever of these con- 
jectures be the true one, the daily number of deaths in the 
Lazzaretto shortly exceeded a hundred. 

While all the rest here was languor, suffering, fear, lam- 
entations, and horror, in the Board of Provision there was 
shame, stupefaction, and incertitude. They consulted and 
listened to the advice of the Board of Health, and could 
find no other course than to undo what had been done with 
so much preparation, so much expense, and so much unwill- 
ingness. They opened the Lazzaretto, and dismissed all 
who had any strength remaining, who made their escape 
with a kind of furious joy. The city once more resounded 
with its former clamour, but more feeble and interrupted; 
it again saw that more diminished, and ' more miserable ' 
crowd, says Ripamonti, when remembering how it had been 
thus diminished. The sick were transported to Santa 
Maria della Stella, at that time an hospital for beggars; 
and here the greater part perished. 

In the mean while, however, the blessed fields began to 
whiten. The mendicants from the country set off, each one 
to his own parts, for this much-desired harvest. The good 
Federigo dismissed them with a last effort and new in- 
vention of charity; to every countryman who presented 
himself at the archiepiscopal palace, he gave a giulio,^ and 
a reaping sickle. 

With the harvest, the scarcity at length ceased; the 
mortality, however, whether epidemic or contagious, though 
decreasing from day to day, was protracted even into the 
season of autumn. It was on the point of vanishing, when, 
behold, a new scourge made its appearance. 

Many important events, of that kind which are more 
peculiarly denominated historical facts, had taken place 
during this interval. The Cardinal Richelieu having, as 
we have said, taken La Rochelle, and having patched up 
an accommodation with the King of England, had proposed 
and carried by his potential voice in the French Council, 
that some effectual succour should be rendered to the 

3 A piece of money, in value about sixpence sterling. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 487 

Duke of Nevers, and had, at the same time, persuaded the 
King himself to conduct the expedition in person. While 
making the necessary preparations, the Count de Nassau, 
imperial commissary, suggested at Mantua to the new Duke, 
that he should give up the states into Ferdinand's hands, 
or that the latter would send an army to occupy them. The 
Duke, who, in more desperate circumstances, had scorned 
to accept so hard and little-to-be-trusted a condition, and 
encouraged now by the approaching aid from France, scorned 
it so much the more; but in terms in which the no was 
wrapped up and kept at a distance, as much as might be, 
and with even more apparent, but less costly, proposals of 
submission. 

The commissary took his departure, threatening that 
they would come to decide it by force. In the month of 
March the Cardinal Richelieu made a descent, with the King, 
at the head of an army; he demanded a passage from the 
Duke of Savoy, entered upon a treaty, which, however, was 
not concluded; and after an encounter, in which the French 
had the advantage, again negotiated and concluded an agree- 
ment, in which the Duke stipulated, among other things, 
that Cordova should raise the siege of Casale ; pledging him- 
self, in case of his refusal, to join with the French, for the 
invasion of the Duchy of Milan. Don Gonzalo, reckon- 
ing it, too, a very cheap bargain, withdrew his army from 
Casale, which was immediately entered by a body of French 
to reinforce the garrison. 

It was on this occasion that AchiUini addressed to King 
Louis his famous sonnet : — 

'Sudate, o, fochi, a preparar metalli;' 

and another, in which he exhorted him to repair immedi- 
ately to the deliverance of Terra-Santa. But there is a 
fatal decree, that the advice of poets should not be followed; 
and if any doings happen to be found in history, in con- 
formity with their suggestions, we may safely affirm that 
they were resolved upon beforehand. The Cardinal Rich- 
elieu determined, instead, to return to France on affairs 
which he considered more 'urgent. Qirolamo Soranzo, the 
Venetian envoy, urged, indeed, much stronger reasons 



488 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

to divert his resolution ; but the King and the Cardinal, pay- 
ing no more attention to his prose than to the verses of 
Achillini, returned with the greater part of the army, leav- 
ing only six thousand men in Susa, to occupy the pass, and 
maintain the treaty. 

While this army was retiring on one hand, that of Fer- 
dinand, headed by the Count di CoUalto, approached on the 
other; it invaded the country of Orisons and Valtelline, 
and prepared to descend upon the Milanese. Besides all 
the terrors to which the announcement of such a migration 
gave rise, the alarming rumour got abroad, and was con- 
firmed by express tidings, that the plague was lurking in the 
army, of which there were always some symptoms at that 
time in the German troops, according to Varchi, in speaking 
of that which, a century before, had been introduced into 
Florence by their means. Alessandro Tadino, one of the 
Conservators of the public health, (there were six, besides 
the president; four magistrates and two physicians,) was 
commissioned by the Board, as he himself relates in his Rag- 
guaglio already quoted,^ to remonstrate with the governor 
on the fearful danger which threatened the country, if 
that vast multitude obtained a passage through it to Mantua, 
as the report ran. From the whole behaviour of Don Gon- 
zalo, it appears he had a great desire to make a figure in his- 
tory, which, in truth, cannot avoid giving an account of some 
of his doings; but (as often happens) it knew not, or took 
no pains to record, an act of his, the most worthy of re- 
membrance and attention — the answer he gave to the physi- 
cian Tadino on this occasion. He replied, ' That he knew 
not what to do; that the reasons of interest and reputation 
which had caused the march of that army, were of greater 
weight than the represented danger; but that, nevertheless, 
he must try to remedy it as well as he could, and must then 
trust in Providence.' 

To remedy it, therefore, as well as he could, the two 
physicians of the Board of Health (the above-mentioned 
Tadino, and Senatore Settala, son of the celebrated Lodo- 
vico,) proposed in this committee to prohibit, under severe 

* Account of the Origin and Daily Progress of the great Plague, com- 
municated by infection, poison, and sorcery, which visited the City of 
Milan, &c. — Milan, 1648, p. 16. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 489 

penalties, the purchase of any kind of commodities what- 
soever from the soldiers who were about to pass; but it 
was impossible to make the president understand the ad- 
vantage of such a regulation; 'A kind-hearted man,' says 
Tadino,^ ' who would not believe that the probability of the 
death of so many thousands must follow upon traffic with 
these people and their goods/ We quote this extract, as 
one of the singularities of those times: for certainly, since 
there have been Boards of Health, no other president of 
one of them ever happened to use such an argument — if 
argument it be. 

As to Don Gonzalo, this reply was one of his last perform- 
ances here ; for the ill success of the war, promoted and con- 
ducted chiefly by himself, was the cause of his being re- 
moved from his post, in the course of the summer. On his 
departure from Milan, a circumstance occurred which, by 
some contemporary writer, is noticed as the first of that 
kind that ever happened there to a man of his rank. On leav- 
ing the palace, called the City Palace, surrounded by a great 
company of noblemen, he encountered a crowd of the popu- 
lace, some of whom preceded him in the way, and others fol- 
lowed behind, shouting, and upbraiding him with impreca- 
tions, as being the cause of the famine they had suffered, by 
the permission, they said, he had given to carry corn and rice 
out of the city. At his carriage, which was following the 
party, they hurled worse missiles than words : stones, bricks, 
cabbage-stalks, rubbish of all sorts— the usual ammunition, 
in short, of these expeditions. Repulsed by the guards, they 
drew back ; but only to run, augmented on the way by many 
fresh parties, to prepare themselves at the Porta Ticinese, 
through which gate he would shortly have to pass in his car- 
riage. When the equipage made its appearance, followed by 
many others, they showered down upon them all, both with 
hands and slings, a perfect torrent of stones. The matter, 
however, went no further. 

The Marquis Ambrogio Spinola was despatched to supply 
his place, whose name had already acquired, in the wars of 
Flanders, the mihtary renown it still retains. 

In the mean while, the German army had received definite 

6 Page 17. 



490 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

orders to march forward to Mantua, and, in the month of 
September, they entered the Duchy of Milan. 

The miHtary forces in those days were still chiefly com- 
posed of volunteers, enlisted under commanders by profes- 
sion, sometimes by commission from this or that prince; 
sometimes, also, on their own account, that they might 
dispose of themselves and their men together. These were 
attracted to this employment, much less by the pay, than by 
the hopes of plunder, and all the gratifications of military 
license. There is no fixed and universal discipline in an 
army so composed; nor was it possible easily to bring into 
concordance the independent authority of so many different 
leaders. These too, in particular, were not very nice on the 
subject of discipline, nor, had they been willing, can we see 
how they could have succeeded in establishing and maintain- 
ing it; for soldiers of this kind would either have revolted 
against an innovating commander, who should have taken 
it into his head to abolish pillage, or, at least, would have left 
him by himself to defend his colours. Besides, as the princes 
who hired these troops sought rather to have hands enough 
to secure their undertakings, than to proportion the number 
to their means of remuneration, which were generally very 
scanty, so the payments were for the most part late, on 
account, and by little at a time; and the spoils of the coun- 
tries they were making war upon, or over-ran, became, as 
it were, a compensation tacitly accorded to them. It was a 
saying of Wallenstein's, scarcely less celebrated than his 
name, that it was easier to maintain an army of a hundred 
thousand men, than one of twelve thousand. And that of 
which we are speaking, was in great part, composed of men 
who, under his command, had desolated Germany in that 
war, so celebrated among other wars both for itself and for 
its effects, which afterwards took its name from the thirty 
years of its duration; it was then the eleventh year. There 
was, besides, his own special regiment, conducted by one of 
his lieutenants; of the other leaders, the greatest part had 
commanded under him ; and there were, also, more than one 
of those who, four years afterwards, had to assist in bringing 
him to that evil end which everybody knows. 

There were twenty-eight thousand foot, and seven thou- 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 491 

sand horse ; and in descending from Valtelline to reach the 
territory of Mantua, they had to follow, more or less closely, 
the course of the Adda where it forms two branches of a lake, 
then again as a river to its junction with the Po, and after- 
wards for some distance along the banks of this river; on 
the whole eight days' march in the Duchy of Milan. 

A great part of the inhabitants retired to the mountains, 
taking with them their most valuable effects, and driving their 
cattle before them ; others stayed behind, either to tend upon 
some sick person, or to defend their houses from the flames, 
or to keep an eye upon precious things which they had con- 
cealed under-ground ; some because they had nothing to lose ; 
and a few villains, also, to make acquisitions. When the first 
detachment arrived at the village where they were to halt, 
they quickly spread themselves through this and the neigh- 
bouring ones, and plundered them directly ; all that could be 
eaten or carried off, disappeared: not to speak of the de- 
struction of the rest, of the fields laid waste, of the houses 
given to the flames, the blows, the wounds, the rapes, 
committed. 

All the expedients, all the defences employed to save prop- 
erty, often proved useless, sometimes even more injurious to 
the owners. The soldiers, far more practised in the stratagems 
of this kind of war, too, rummaged every corner of the dwell- 
ings; tore down walls; easily discovered in the gardens the 
newly disturbed soil; penetrated even to the hills, to carry 
off the cattle ; went into caves, under the guidance of some 
villain, as we have said, in search of any wealthy inhabitant 
who might be concealed there ; despoiled his person, dragged 
him to his house, and, by dint of threats and blows, compelled 
him to point out his hidden treasure. 

At length, however, they took their departure, and the dis- 
tant sounds of drums or trumpets gradually died away on the 
ear : this was followed by a few hours of death-like calm : and 
then a new hateful clashing of arms, a new hateful rumbling, 
announced another squadron. These, no longer finding any- 
thing to plunder, applied themselves with the more fury to 
make destruction and havoc of the rest, burning furniture, 
door-posts, beams, casks, wine-vats, and sometimes even the 
houses; they seized and ill-used the inhabitants with double 



^92 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

ferocity ;-and so on, from worse to worse, for twenty days • 
for mo th.s number of detachments the army was divided' 

Cohco was the first town of the Duchy invaded by these 
fiends ; afterwards, they threw themselves into Belano thence 
they entered and spread themselves through Valsassi'na, and 
then poured down mto the territory of Lecco 



CHAPTER XXIX 

A ND here we find that persons of our acquaintance were 
\ sharers in the wide-spread alarm. 
Jl\ One who saw not Don Abbondio, the day that the news 
were suddenly spread of the descent of the army, of its near 
approach, and destructive proceedings, knows very little ot 
what embarrassment and consternation really are. They are 
coming! there are thirty, there are forty, there are fifty 
thousand ! they are devils, heretics, antichrists ! they ve sacked 
Cortenuova ! they've set fire to Primaluna ! they've devastated 
Introbbio, Pasturo, Barsio ! they've been seen at Balabbio! 
they'll be here to-morrow !— such were the reports that passed 
from mouth to mouth ; some hurrying to and fro, others stand- 
ing in little parties ; together with tumultuous consultations, 
hesitation whether to fly or remain, the women assembling 
in groups, and all utterly at a loss what to do. Don Abbondio, 
who had resolved before any one else, and more than any 
one else to fly, by any possible mode of flight, and to any 
conceivable place of retreat, discovered insuperable obstacles 
and fearful dangers. 'What shall I do?' exclaimed he: 
'Where shall I go?' The mountains, letting alone the diffi- 
culty of getting there, were not secure: it was well known 
that the German foot soldiers climbed them like cats, where 
they had the least indication or hope of finding booty. The 
lake was wide; there was a very high wind: besides, the 
greater part of the boatmen, fearing they might be compelled 
to convey soldiers or baggage, had retreated with their boats 
to the opposite side : the few that had remained, were gone 
off overladen with people, and, distressed by their own weight 
and the violence of the storm, were considered in greater peril 
every moment. It was impossible to find a vehicle, horse, or 
conveyance of any kind, to carry him away from the road the 
army had to traverse; and on foot Don Abbondio could not 
manage any great distance, and feared being overtak-n by 
the wav. The confines of the Bergamascan territory were 
not so Very far off, but that his limbs could have borne him 

493 



494 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

thither at a stretch ; but a report had been already spread, 
that a squadron of cappelletti had been despatched from 
Bergamo in haste, who were occupying the borders to keep 
the German troops in order ; and those were neither more nor 
less devils incarnate than these, and on their part did the 
worst they could. The poor man ran through the house with 
eyes starting from his head, and half out of his senses; he 
kept following Perpetua to concert some plan with her; but 
Perpetua, busied in collecting the most valuable household 
goods, and hiding them under the floor, or in any other out- 
of-the-way place, pushed by hurriedly, eager and pre-occu- 
pied, with her hands or arms full, and replied : ' I shall have 
done directly putting these things away safely, and then we'll 
do what others do.' Don Abbondio would have detained her, 
and discussed with her the different courses to be adopted; 
i)Ut she, what with her business, and her hurry, and the fear 
which she, too, felt within, and the vexation which that of 
her master excited, was, in this juncture, less tractable than 
she had ever been before. ' Others do the best they can ; and 
so will we. I beg your pardon : but you are good for nothing 
but to hinder one. Do you think that others haven't skins 
to save, too? That the soldiers are only coming to fight with 
you? You might even lend a hand at such a time, instead 
of coming crying and bothering at one's feet.' With these 
and similar answers she at length got rid of him, having al- 
ready determined, when this bustling operation was finished 
as well as might be, to take him by the arm like a child, and 
to drag him along to one of the mountains. Left thus alone, 
he retreated to the window, looked, listened ; or, seeing some 
one passing, cried out in a half-crying and half-reproachful 
tone : ' Do your poor Curate this kindness, to seek some horse, 
some mule, some ass, for him ! Is it possible that nobody 
will help me ! Oh, what people ! Wait for me,, at least, that 
I may go with you ! wait till you are fifteen or twenty, to 
take me with you, that I may not be quite forsaken ! Will 
you leave me in the hand of dogs ? Don't you know they are 
nearly all Lutherans, who think it a meritorious deed to 
murder a priest? Will you leave me here to be martyred? 
Oh, what a set ! Oh, what a set ! ' 

But to whom did he address these words? To men who 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 495 

were passing along bending under the weight of their humble 
Turniture, aSd their thoughts turned towards that which they 
^ere leading at home exposed to plunder; one driving before 
h^m a young cow, another dragging after him his children, 
also laden as heavily as they could bear, whi e his wife car- 
ried in her arms such as were unable to walk. Some went 
on their way without replying or looking up; others said, 
' Eh sir you too must do as you can! happy you, who have 
no family to think for! you must help yourself, and do the 
best you can.' ,. ^ , , , 

' Oh poor me! ' exclaimed Don Abbondio; oh, what peo- 
ple ' what hard hearts ! There's no charity : everybody thinks 
of himself; but nobody'll think for me!' And he set off 
again in search of Perpetua. 

' Oh, I just wanted you ! ' said she. Your money? 

' What shall we do ? ' . t. u 

' Give it me, and I'll go and bury it m the garden here by 
the house, together with the silver and kmves and forks. 

' Rut ' 

'But,'but; give it here; keep a few pence for whatever 

mav happen; and then leave it to me.' , , , • ,-,.i 

Don Abbondio obeyed, went to his trunk, took out his little 
treasure, and handed it to Perpetua, who said: I m gomg 
to bury it in the garden, at the foot of the fig-tree; and went 
out Soon afterwards she reappeared with a packet m her 
hand containing some provision for the appetite, and a small 
empty basket, in the bottom of which she hastily placed 
a little linen for herself and her master, saying, at the same 
time, ' You'll carry the breviary, at least !' 
'But where are we going?' 

'Where are all the rest going? First of all, weU go into 
the street; and there we shall see and hear what s best to 

be done.' . . i, i 4. 

At this moment Agnese entered, also carrymg a basket 
slung over her shoulder, and with the air of one who comes 
to make an important proposal. _ 

Agnese herself, equally resolved not to await guests of this 
sort alone as she was in the house, and with a little of the 
money of the Unnamed still left, had been hesitating for 
some time about a place of retreat. The remainder of those 



496 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

scudi, which in the months of famine had been of such use 
to her, was now the principal cause of her anxiety and irre- 
solution, from having heard how, in the already invaded 
countries, those who had any money had found themselves 
in a worse condition than anybody else, exposed alike to the 
violence of the strangers and the treachery of their fellow- 
countrymen. True it was that she had confided to no one, save 
Don Abbondio, the wealth that had fallen, so to say, into her 
lap; to him she had applied, from time to time, to change her 
a scudo into silver, always leaving him something to give to 
some one who was poorer than herself. But hidden riches, 
particularly with one who is not accustomed to handle much, 
keep the possessor in continual suspicion of the suspicion of 
others. While, however, she was going about hiding here 
and there, as she best could, what she could not manage to 
take with her, and thinking about the sciidi, which she kept 
sewn up in her stays, she remembered that, together with 
them, the Unnamed had sent her the most ample proffers of 
service; she remembered what she had heard related about 
his castle's being in so secure a situation, where nothing 
could reach it, against its owner's will, but birds; and she 
resolved to go and seek an asylum there. Wondering how 
she was to make herself known to the Signor, Don Abbondio 
quickly occurred to her mind; who, after the conversation 
yve have related with the Archbishop, had always shown her 
particular marks of kindness; the more heartily, as he could 
do so without committing himself to any one, and, the two 
young people being far enough off, the probability was also 
distant that a request would be made him which would have 
put this kindness to a very dangerous test. Thinking that 
in such confusion the poor man would be still more perplexed 
and dismayed than herself, and that this course might appear 
desirable also to him, she came to make the proposal. Find- 
ing him with Perpetua, she suggested it to them both together. 

' What say you to it, Perpetua ? ' asked Don Abbondio. 

' I say that it is an inspiration from Heaven, and that we 
mustn't lose time, but set off at once on our journey.' 

'And then . . .' 

'And then, and then, when we get there, we shall find our- 
selves very well satisfied. It is well known now that the 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 497 

Signer desires nothing more than to benefit his fellow- 
creatures; and I've no doubt he'll be glad to receive us. 
There, on the borders, and as it were in the air, the soldiers 
certainly won't come. And then, and then, we shall find some- 
thing to eat there; for up in the mountains, when this little 
store is gone,' and, so saying, she placed it in the basket upon 
the linen, ' we should find ourselves very badly off,'^ 
'He's converted, he's really converted, isn't he?' 
' Why should we doubt it any longer, after all that^s known 
about him, nay, after what you yourself have seen? ' 

'And supposing we should be going to put ourselves in 

prison?' 

'What prison? I declare, with all your silly objections, 
(I beg your pardon,) you'd never come to any conclusion. 
Well "done, Agnese ! it was certainly a capital thought of 
yours ! ' And setting the basket on a table, she passed her 
arms through the straps, and lifted it upon her back. 

' Couldn't we find some man/ said Don Abbondio, ' who 
would come with us as a guard to his Curate? If we should 
meet any ruffians, for there are plenty of them roving about, 
what help could you two give me ? ' 

'Another plan, to waste time ! ' exclaimed Perpetua. * To 
go now and look for a man, when everybody has to mind 
himself ! Up with you ; go and get your breviary and hat, 
and let us set off.' 

Don Abbondio obeyed, and soon returned with the breviary 
under his arm, his hat on his head, and his staff in his hand; 
and the three companions went out by a little door which led 
into the churchyard, Perpetua locked it after her, rather 
not to neglect an accustomed form, than from any faith she 
placed in bolts and door-posts, and put the key in her pocket. 
Don Abbondio cast a glance at the church in passing, and 
muttered between his teeth: 'It's the people's business to 
take care of it, for it's they who use it. If they've the least 
love for their church, they'll see to it; if they've not, why, 
it's their own look-out.' 

They took the road through the fields, each silently pur- 
suing his way, absorbed in thought on his own particular 
circumstances, and looking rather narrowly around; more 
particularly Don Abbondio, who was in continual apprehen- 



498 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

sion of the apparition of some suspicious figure, or some- 
thing not to be trusted. However, they encountered no one : 
all the people were either in their houses to guard them, to 
prepare bundles, and to put away goods, or on the roads 
which led directly to the mountain-heights. 

After heaving a few deep sighs, and then giving vent to 
his vexation in an interjection or two, Don Abbondio began 
to grumble more connectedly. He quarrelled with the duke 
of Nevers, who might have been enjoying himself in France, 
and playing the prince there, yet was determined to be duke 
of Mantua in spite of the world; with the Emperor, who 
ought to have sense for the follies of others, to let matters 
take their own course, and not stand so much upon punctilio ; 
for, after all, he would always be Emperor, whether Titius 
or Sempronius were duke of Mantua; and, above all, with 
the governor, whose business it was to do everything he 
could to avert these scourges of the country, while, in fact, 
he was the very person to invite them— all from the 'pleasure 
he took in making war. ' I wish,' said he, ' that these gentry 
were here to see and try how pleasant it is. They will have 
a fine account to render ! But, in the mean while, we have 
to bear it who have no blame in the matter.' 

*^Do let these people alone, for they'll never come to help 
us,' said Perpetua. 'This is some of your usual prating, (I 
beg your pardon,) which just comes to nothing. What 
rather gives me uneasiness . . / 
'What's the matter? ' 

Perpetua, who had been leisurely going over in her mind, 
during their walk, her hasty packing and stowing away, now 
began her lamentations at having forgotten such a thing, and 
badly concealed such another; here she had left traces which 
might serve as a clue to the robbers, there 

' Well done ! ' cried Don Abbondio, gradually sufficiently 
relieved from fear for his life to allow of anxiety for his 
worldly goods and chattels: ' Well done ! Did you really do 
so? Where was your head?' 

' What ! ' exclaimed Perpetua, coming to an abrupt pause 
for a moment, and resting her hands on her sides, as well as 
the basket she carried Avould allow: 'What! do you begin 
now to scold me in this way, when it was you who almost 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 499 

turned my brain, instead of helping and encouraging me? 
1 believe I've taken more care of the thmgs of the house 
than of my own; I'd not a creature to lend me a hand- I ve 
been obliged to play the parts of both Martha and Magdalene, 
if anything goes wrong, I've nothing to say: Ive done more 
than my duty now.' . . „ • i,.- 

ARnese interrupted these disputes, by begmnmg m her 
turn? to talk about her own grievances; she lamented not so 
much the trouble and damage, as finding all her hopes of 
soon meeting her Lucia dashed to the ground: ^o^- the ^J^^^^ 
may remember, this was the very autumn on which they had 
so Lg calculated. It was not at all likely that_ Donna Pras- 
sede would come to reside in her country-house m that neigh- 
bourhood, under such circumstances: on the contrary she 
would more probably have left it, had she happened to be 
there as all the other residents in the country were doing. 

The sight of the different places they passed brought these 
thoughts to Agnese's mind more vividly, and increased the 
ardoSr of her desires. Leaving the footpath through the 
fields they had taken the public road, the very same along 
which Agnese had come when bringing h°nie her daughter 
for so short a time, after having stayed with her at the 
tailor's. The village was already in sight. , , , 

'We will just say "how d'ye do" to these good people, 

'^'Yt^"and rest there a little; for I begin to have had 
enough of this basket; and to get a mouthful to eat too, said 

^''onTondition we don't lose time; for we are not journey- 
ing for our amusement,' concluded Don Abbondio. 

They were received with open arms, and welcomed with 
much pleasure; it reminded them of a former deed of be- 
nevolence. 'Do good to as many as you can,' here remarks 
our author, 'and you will the more frequently happen to 
meet with countenances which bring you pleasure. 

Agnese burst into a flood of tears oV"^bracing he good 
womln, which was a great rehef to her; -"^ ^^^^f °^^^^ 
reply with sobs to the questions which she and her husband 

''' stTs S off than we are,' said Don Abbondio; ' she's 



I 



500 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

at Milan, out of all danger, and far away from these dia- 
bolical dangers. 

' Are the Signor Curate, and his companion, making their 
escape, then ? ' asked the tailor. 

'Certainly,' replied both master and servant, in one 
breath. 

' Oh, how I pity you both ! ' 

'We are on our way,' said Don Abbondio, 'to the 
Castle of * * *.' 

_ 'That's a very good thought; you'll be as safe there as 
m Paradise.' 

^' And you've no fear here ? ' said Don Abbondio. 
' I'll tell you, Signor Curate : they won't have to come here 
to halt, or, as you know the saying is, in polite language 
tn ospitazione: we are too much out of their road, thank 
Heaven. At the worst, there'll only be a little party of 
foragers, which God forbid !— but, in any case, there's plenty 
of time. We shall first hear the intelligence from the other 
unfortunate towns, where they go to take up their quarters ' 
It was determined to stop here and take a little rest • and 
as It was just the dinner-hour, ' My friends,' said the tailor, 
will do me the favour of sharing my poor table : at any rate 
you will have a hearty welcome.' 

Perpetua said she had brought some refreshment with 
them; and after exchanging a few complimentary speeches, 
they agreed to put all together, and dine in company. 

The children gathered with great glee round their old 
friend Agnese. Very soon, however, the tailor desired one 
of his little girls (the same that had carried that gift of 
chanty to the widow Maria ; who knows if any reader re- 
members it?) to go and shell a few early chestnuts which 
were deposited in one corner, and then put them to roast 

And you,' said he to a little boy, 'go into the garden, and 
shake the peach-tree till some of the fruit falls, and bring 
them all here; go. And you,' said he to another, 'go, climb 
the fig-tree, and gather a few of the ripest figs. You know 
that business too well already.' He himself went to tap a 
httle barrel of wine; his wife to fetch a clean table-cloth- 
Perpetua took out the provisions; the table was spread- a 
napkin and earthenware plate were placed at the most hon- 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 501 

curable seat for Don Abbondio, with a knife and fork which 
Perpetua had in the basket; the dinner was dished, and the 
party seated themselves at the table, and partook of the re- 
past, if not with great merriment, at least with much more 
than any of the guests had anticipated enjoying that day. 

' What say you, Signor Curate, to a turn out of this sort? ' 
said the tailor; 'I could fancy I was reading the history of 
the Moors in France.' 

' What say I ? To think that even this trouble should fall 
to my lot ! ' 

'Well, you've chosen a good asylum,' resumed his host; 
'people would be puzzled to get up there by force. And 
you'll find company there; it's already reported that many 
have retreated thither, and many more are daily arriving.' 

' I would fain hope,' said Don Abbondio, ' that we shall be 
well received. I know this brave Signor ; and when I once 
had the pleasure of being in his company, he was so exceed- 
ingly polite.' 

'And he sent word to me,' said Agnese, 'by his most 
illustrious Lordship, that if ever I wanted anything, I had 
only to go to him.' 

' A great and wonderful conversion ! ' resumed Don Ab- 
bondio: 'and does he really continue to persevere?' 

' Oh yes,' said the tailor ; and he began to speak at some 
length upon the holy life of the Unnamed, and how, from 
being a scourge to the country, he had become its example 
and benefactor. 

' And all those people he kept under him . . . that house- 
hold . . .' rejoined Don Abbondio, who had more than once 
heard something about them, but had never been sufficiently 
assured of the truth. 

' They are most of them dismissed,' replied the tailor ; ' and 
they who remain have altered their habits in a wonderful 
way! In short, this castle has become like the Thebaid. 
You, Signor, understand these things.' 

He then began to recall, with Agnese, the visit of the Car- 
dinal. ' A great man,' said he, ' a great man ! Pity that he 
left us so hastily ; for I did not, and could not, do him^ any 
honour. How often I wish \ could speak to him again, a 
little more at my ease.' 



502 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

Having left the table, he made them observe an engraved 
likeness of the Cardinal, which he kept hung up on one of 
the door-posts, in veneration for the person, and also that he 
might be able to say to any visitor, that the portrait did not 
resemble him ; for he himself had had an opportunity of 
studying the Cardinal, close by, and at his leisure, in that 
very room. 

' Did they mean this thing here for him ? ' said Agnese. 
'It's like him in dress; but . . .' 

' It doesn't resemble him, does it ? ' said the tailor. ' I al- 
ways say so, too; but it bears his name, if nothing more; it 
serves as a remembrance.' 

Don Abbondio was in a great hurry to be going ; the tailor 
undertook to find a conveyance to carry them to the foot of 
the ascent, and having gone in search of one, shortly re- 
turned to say that it was coming. Then, turning to Don 
Abbondio, he added, ' Signor Curate, if you should ever like 
to take a book with you up there to pass away the time, I 
shall be glad to serve you in my poor way; for I sometimes 
amuse myself a little with reading. They're not things to 
suit you, being all in the vulgar tongue ; but, perhaps . . .' 

' Thank you, thank you,' replied Don Abbondio ; ' under 
present circumstances, one has hardly brains enough to 
attend to what we are bid to read.' 

While offering and refusing thanks, and exchanging con- 
dolence, good wishes, invitations, and promises to make an- 
other stay there on their return, the cart arrived at +he front 
door. Putting in their baskets, the travelling party mcmnted 
after them, and undertook, with rather more ease and tran- 
quillity of mind, the second half of their journey. 

The tailor had related the truth to Don Abbondio about 
the Unnamed. From the day on which we left him, he had 
steadily persevered in the course he had proposed to himself, 
atoning for wrongs, seeking peace, relieving the poor, and 
performing every good work for which an opportunity pre- 
sented itself. The courage he had formerly manifested in 
offence and defence now showed itself in abstaining from 
both one and the other. He had laid down all his weapons, 
and always walked alone, willing to encounter the possible 
consequences of the many deeds of violence he had com- 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 503 

mitted and persuaded that it would be the commission of an 
additional one to employ force in defence of a life which 
owed so much to so many creditors; and persuaded, too that 
every evil which might be done to him would be an offence 
offered to God, but, with respect to himself, a just retribu- 
tion • and that he, above all, had no right to constitute him- 
self a punisher of such offences. However, he had continued 
not less inviolate than when he had kept in readiness for his 
security, so many armed hands, and his own. The remem- 
brance of his former ferocity, and the sight of his present 
meekness, one of which, it might have been expected, would 
have left so many longings for revenge, while the other ren- 
dered that revenge so easy, conspired, instead, to procure and 
maintain for him an admiration, which was the principal 
auarantee for his safety. He was that very man whom no 
one could humble, and who had now humbled himself. 
Every feeling of rancour, therefore, formerly irritated by 
his contemptuous behaviour, and by the fears of others, van- 
ished before this new humility: they whom he had offended 
had now obtained, beyond all expectation, and without dan- 
ger a satisfaction which they could not have promised them- 
selves from the most complete revenge— the satisfaction of 
seein- such a man mourning over the wrongs he had com- 
mitted, and participating, so to say, in their indignation 
More than one, whose bitterest and greatest sorrow had 
been, for many years, that he saw no probability of ever 
finding himself, in any instance, stronger than this powerful 
oppressor, that he might revenge himself for some great in- 
jury meeting him afterwards alone, unarmed, and with the 
air of one who would offer no resistance, felt only an im- 
pulse to salute him with demonstrations of respect. In his 
voluntary abasement, his countenance and behaviour had ac- 
quired without his being aware of it, something more lofty 
and noble ; because there was in them, more clearly than ever, 
the absence of all fear. The most violent and pertinacious 
hatred felt, as it were, restrained and held m awe by the 
public veneration for so penitent and beneficent a man This 
was carried to such a length, that he often found it difficult 
to avoid the public expression -of it which was addressed to 
him and was obliged to be careful that he did not evince too 



504 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

plainly in his looks and actions the inward compunction he 
felt, nor abuse himself too much, lest he should be too much 
exalted. He had selected the lowest place in church, and 
woe to any one who should have attempted to pre-occupy it ! 
it would have been, as it were, usurping a post of honour. 
To have offended him, or even to have treated him disre- 
spectfully, would have appeared not so much a criminal or 
cowardly, as a sacrilegious act : and even they who would 
scarcely have been restrained by this feeling on ordinary oc- 
casions, participated in it, more or less. 

These and other reasons sheltered him also from the more 
remote animadversions of public authority, and procured for 
him, even in this quarter, the security to which he himself 
had never given a thought. His rank and family, which had 
at all times been some protection to him, availed him more 
than ever, now that personal recommendations, the renown 
of his conversion, was added to his already illustrious and 
famous, or rather infamous, name. Magistrates and nobles 
publicly rejoiced with the people at the change; and it would 
have appeared very incongruous to come forward irritated 
against a man who was the subject of so many congratula- 
tions. Besides, a government occupied with a protracted, and 
often unprosperous, war against active and oft-renewed re- 
bellions, would have been very well satisfied to be freed from 
the most indomitable and irksome, without going in search of 
another: the more so, as this conversion produced repara- 
tions which the authorities were not accustomed to obtain, 
nor even to demand. To molest a saint seemed no very good 
means to ward off the reproach of having never been able to 
repress a villain; and the example they would have made of 
him would have had no other effect than to dissuade others, 
like him, from following his example. Probably, too, the 
share that Cardinal Federigo had had in his conversion, and 
the association of his name with that of the convert, served 
the latter as a sacred shield. And, in the state of things and 
ideas of those times, in the singular relations between the 
ecclesiastical authority and the civil power, which so fre- 
quently contended with each other without at all aiming at 
mutual destruction, nay, were always mingling expressions 
of acknowledgment, and protestations of deference, with hos- 



I PROMESSI SPOSI SOS 

tilities, and which not unfrequently co-operated towards a 
common end, without ever making peace —in such a state of 
thincxs it might almost seem, in a manner, that the reconciha- 
tion1)f the first carried along with it, if not the absolution, at 
least the forgetfulness, of the second; when the former alone 
had been employed to produce an effect equally desired by 

Thus that very individual, who, had he fallen from his 
eminence would have excited emulation among small and 
cxreat in 'trampling him under-foot, now, having spontane- 
ously humbled himself to the dust, was reverenced by many, 
and spared by all. . 

True it is, that there were, indeed, many to whom this 
much-talked-'of change brought anything but satisfaction: 
many hired perpetrators of crime, many other associates in 
auilt who therebv lost a great support on which they had 
been accustomed ' to depend, and who beheld the threads 
of a deeply-woven plot suddenly snapped, at the moment, 
perhaps, when they were expecting the intelligence of its 

completion. 

But we have already seen what various sentiments were 
awakened by the announcement of this conversion in the 
ruffians who were with their master at the time, and heard it 
from his own lips: astonishment, grief, depression, vexation; 
a little indeed, of everything, except contempt and hatred. 
The same was felt by the others whom he kept dispersed at 
different posts, and the same by his accomplices o* '^Jgher 
rank, when they first learned the terrible tidings; and by all 
for the same reasons. Much hatred, however, as we find in 
the passage elsewhere cited from Ripamonti, fell to the share 
of the Cardinal Federigo. They regarded him as one who 
had intruded like an enemy into their affairs; the Unnamed 
would see to the salvation of his own soul; and nobody had 
anv right to complain of what he did. , 

From time to time, the greater part of the ruffians in his 
household, unable to accommodate themselves to the new dis- 
cipline, and seeing no probability that it would ever change 
gradually took their departure. Some went in search of 
other masters, and found emplqyment, perchance, among the 
old friends of the patron they had left; others enlisted in 



506 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

some terzd^ of Spain or Mantua, or any other belligerent 
power; some infested the highways, to make war on a 
smaller scale, and on their own account; and others, again, 
contented themselves with going about as beggars at liberty! 
The same courses were pursued by the rest who had acted 
under his orders in different countries. Of those who had 
contrived to assimilate themselves to his new mode of life, or 
had embraced it of their own free will, the greater number, 
natives of the valley, returned to the fields, or to the trades 
which they had learnt in their early years, and had after- 
wards abandoned for a life of villany; the strangers re- 
mained in the castle as domestic servants; and both natives 
and strangers, as if blessed at the same time with their 
master, lived contentedly, as he did, neither giving nor re- 
ceiving injuries, unarmed, and respected. 

But when, on the descent of the German troops, several 
fugitives from the threatened or invaded dominions arrived 
at his castle to request an asylum, he, rejoiced that the weak 
and oppressed sought refuge within his walls, which had so 
long been regarded by them at a distance as an enormous 
scarecrow, received these exiles with expressions of grati- 
tude rather than courtesy; he caused it to be proclaimed that 
his house would be open to any one who should choose to 
take refuge there; and soon proposed to put, not only his 
castle, but the valley itself, into a state of defence, if ever 
any of the German or Bergamascan troops should attempt to 
come thither for plunder. He assembled the servants who 
still remained with him (like the verses of Torti, few and 
valiant) ; addressed them on the happy opportunity that God 
was giving both to them and himself of employing them- 
selves for once in aid of their fellow-creatures, whom they 
had so often oppressed and terrified; and with that ancient 
tone of command which expressed a certainty of being 
obeyed, announced to them in general what he wished them 
to do, and, above all, impressed upon them the necessity of 
keeping a restraint over themselves, that they who took 
refuge there might see in them only friends and protectors. 
He then had brought down from one of the garrets all the 
fire-arms, and other warlike weapons, which had been for 

^ A regiment consisting of tiiree thousand soldiers. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 507 

some time deposited there, and distributed them among his 
household; ordered that all the peasants and tenants of the 
valley, who were willing to do so, should come with arms to 
the castle; provided those who had none with a sufficient 
supply; selected some to act as officers, and placed others 
under their command; assigned to each his post at the en- 
trance, and in various parts of the valley, on the ascent, 
and at the gates of the castle ; and established the hours and 
methods of relieving the guards, as in a camp, or as he had 
been accustomed to do in that very place during his Ufe of 
rebellion. 

In one corner of this garret, divided from the rest, were 
the arms which he alone had borne, his famous carabine, 
muskets, swords, pistols, huge knives, and poniards, either 
lying on the ground, or set up against the wall. None of the 
servants laid a finger on them; but they determined to ask 
the Signor which he wished to be brought to him. ' Not one 
of them,' replied he ; and whether from a vow or intentional 
design, he remained the whole time unarmed, at the head of 
this species of garrison. 

He employed, at the same time, other men and women of 
his household or dependents, in preparing accommodation in 
the castle for as many persons as possible, in erecting bed- 
steads, and arranging straw beds, mattresses, and sacks 
stuffed with straw, in the apartments which were now con- 
verted into dormitories. He also gave orders that large 
stores of provisions should be brought in for the mamtenance 
of the guests whom God should send him, and who thronged 
in in daily increasing numbers. He, in the mean while, was 
never stationary ; in and out of the castle, up and down the 
ascent, round about through the valley, to establish, to fortify 
to visit the different posts, to see and to be seen, to put and 
to keep all in order by his directions, oversight, and presence. 
Indoors, and by the way, he gave hearty welcomes to all the 
new comers whom he happened to meet; and all, who had 
either seen this wonderful person before, or now beheld him 
for the first time, gazed at him in rapture, forgetting for a 
moment the misfortunes and alarm which had driven them 
thither, and turning to look at him, when, having severed 
himself from them, he again pursued his way. 



CHAPTER XXX 

THOUGH the greatest concourse was not from the quar- 
ter by which our three fugitives approached the valley, 
but rather at the opposite entrance ; yet in this second 
half of their journey, they began to meet with fellow-travel- 
lers, companions in misfortune, who, from cross-roads or 
by-paths, had issued, or were issuing, into the main road. In 
circumstances like these all who happen to meet each other 
are acquaintances. Every time that the cart overtook a pedes- 
trian traveller, there was an exchanging of questions and re- 
plies. Some had made their escape, like our friends, without 
awaiting the arrival of the soldiers; some had heard the 
clanging of arms and kettle-drums ; while others had actually 
beheld them, and painted them as the terror-stricken usually 
paint the objects of their terror. 

' We are fortunate, however,' said the two women : ' let 
us thank Heaven for it. Our goods must go; but, at least, 
we are out of the way.' 

But Don Abbondio could not find so much to rejoice at; 
even this concourse, and still more the far greater one which 
he heard was pouring in from the opposite direction, began 
to throw a gloom over his mind. ' Oh, what a state of things !' 
muttered he to the women, at a moment when there was 
nobody at hand : ' oh, what a state of things ! Don't you see, 
that to collect so many people into one place is just the same 
thing as to draw all the soldiers here by force? Everybody is 
hiding, everybody carries ofif his things ! nothing's left in the 
houses : so they'll think^there must be some treasures up here. 
They'll surely come ! Oh poor me ! What have I embarked 
in?' 

'What should they have to come here for? ' said Perpetua : 
'they are obliged to go straight on their way. And besides, 
I've always heard say, that it's better to be a large party when 
there's any danger.' 

'A large party? a large party?' replied Don Abbondio. 
'Foolish woman! Don't you know that a single German 

508 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 509 

soldier could devour a hundred of such as they? And then, 
if they should take into their heads to play any pranks, it 
would'be a fine thing, wouldn't it, to find ourselves in the midst 
of a battle ? Oh poor me ! It would have been less dangerous 
to have gone to the mountains. Why should everybody choose 
to o-o to one place ? . . . Tiresome folks ! ' muttered he in a 
stiU lower voice. 'All here: still coming, coming, coming; 
one after the other, like sheep that have no sense.' 

' In this way,' said Agnese, ' they might say the same of us.' 

' Hush, hush ! ' said Don Abbondio, ' all this talk does no 

good. What's done is done : we are here, and now we must 

stay here. It will be as Providence wills : Heaven send it may 

be good ! 

But his horror was greatly increased when, at the entrance 
of the valley, he saw a large body of armed men, some at 
the door of a house, and others quartered in the lower rooms. 
He cast a side glance at them : they were not the same faces 
which it had been his lot to see on his former melancholy en- 
trance, or if there were any of the same, they were strangely 
altered; but, with all this, it is impossible to say what uneasi- 
ness this sight gave him. — Oh poor me! — thought he.— See, 
now, if they won't play pranks! It isn't likely it could be 
otherwise; I ought to have expected it from a man of this 
kind. But what will he want to do? Will he make war? 
will he play the king, eh? Oh poor me ! In circumstances 
when one would wish to bury oneself under-ground, and 
this man seeks every way of making himself known, and 
attracting attention ; it seems as if he wished to invite them ! — 
'You see now, Signor master,' said Perpetua, addressing 
him, 'there are brave people here who will know how to 
defend us. Let the soldiers come now : these people are not 
like our clowns, who are good for nothing but to drag their 
legs after them.' 

' Hold your tongue,' said Don Abbondio, in a low and angry 
tone, ' hold your tongue ; you don't know what you are talking 
about. Pray Heaven that the soldiers may make haste, or 
that they may never come to know what is doing here, and 
that the place is being fortified like a fortress. Don't you 
know it's the soldiers' business to take fortresses? They wish 
nothing better ; to take a place by storm is to them like going 



510 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

to a wedding ; because all they find they take to themselves, 
and the inhabitants they put to the edge of the sword. Oh 
poor me ! Well, I'll surely see if there's no way of putting 
oneself in safety on some of these peaks. They won't reach 
me there in a battle ! oh, they won't reach me there ! ' 

' If you're afraid, too, of being defended and helped . . .' 
Perpetua was again beginning; but Don Abbondio sharply 
interrupted her, though still in a suppressed tone : ' Hold your 
tongue ; and take good care you don't report what we've said : 
woe unto us if you do ! Remember that we must always put 
on a pleasant countenance here, and approve all we see.' 

At Malanotte they found another watch of armed men, to 
whom Don Abbondio submissively took off his hat, saying, in 
the mean while, in his heart— Alas ! alas ! I've certainly come 
to an encampment !— Here the cart stopped ; they dismounted ; 
Don Abbondio hastily paid and dismissed the driver; and 
with his two companions silently mounted the steep. The 
sight of those places recalled to his imagination and mingled 
with his present troubles the remembrance of those which he 
had suffered here once before. And Agnese, who had never 
seen these scenes, and who had drawn to herself an imaginary 
picture, which presented itself to her mind whenever she 
thought of the circumstances that had occurred here, on 
seeing them now as they were in reality, experienced a^new 
and more vivid feeling of these mournful recollections. ' Oh, 
Signor Curate ! ' exclaimed she, ' to think that my poor Lucia 
has passed along this road! . . .' 

' Will you hold your tongue, you absurd woman ? ' cried 
Don Abbondio in her ear. ' Are those things to be bringing 
up here? Don't you know we are in his place? It was well 
for us nobody heard you then ; but if you talk in this way . . .' 
' Oh ! ' said Agnese ; * now that he's a saint ! . . . ' 
' Well, be quiet ! ' replied Don Abbondio again in her 
ear. ' Do you think one may say without caution, even 
to saints, all that passes through one's mind? Think rather 
of thanking him for his goodness to you.' 

'Oh, I've already thought of that: do you think I don't 
know even a little civility ?' 

'Civility is, not to say things that may be disagreeable 
to a person, particularly to one who is not accustomed 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 511 

to hear them. And understand well, both of you, that 
this is not a place to go chattering about, and saying 
whatever may happen to come into your heads. It is a 
great Signor's house, you know that already : see what a 
household there is all around: people of all sorts come 
here: so be prudent, if you can; weigh your words; and 
above all, let there be few of them, and only when there 
is a necessity: one can't get wrong when one is silent.' 

' You do far worse, with all your . . .' Perpetua began : 
but, ' Hush ! ' cried Don Abbondio, in a suppressed voice, 
at the same time hastily taking off his hat, and making a 
profound bow : for, on looking up, he had discovered the 
Unnamed coming down to meet them. He, on his part, 
had noticed and recognized Don Abbondio, and was now 
hastening to welcome him. 

' Signor Curate,' said he, when he had reached him, ' I 
should have liked to offer you my house on a pleasanter 
occasion; but, under any circumstances, I am exceedingly 
glad to be able to be of some service to you.' 

' Trusting in your illustrious Lordship's great kindness,' 
replied Don Abbondio, 'I have ventured to come, under 
these melancholy circumstances, to intrude upon you: and, 
as your illustrious Lordship sees, I have also presumed 
to bring company with me. This is my housekeeper . . .' 

' She is welcome,' said the Unnamed. 

'And this,' continued Don Abbondio, ' is a woman to 
whom your Lordship has already been very good: the 
mother of that ... of that . . .' 

* Of Lucia,' said Agnese. 

' Of Lucia ! ' exclaimed the Unnamed, turning with a 
look of shame towards Agnese. ' Been very good, I ! Im- 
mortal God ! You are very good to me, to come here . . . 
to me ... to this house. You are most heartily welcome. 
You bring a blessing with you.' 

' Oh, sir,' said Agnese, ' I come to give you trouble. I 
have, too,' continued she, going very close to his ear, ' to 
thank you . . .' 

The Unnamed interrupted these words, by anxiously 
making inquiries about Ludia : and having heard the in- 
telligence they had to give, he turned to accompany his new 



512 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

guests to the castle, and persisted in doing so, in spite of 
their ceremonious opposition. Agnese cast a glance at the 
Curate, which meant to say, — You see, now, whether there's 
any need for you to interpose between us with your advice !— 
'Have they reached your parish?' asked the Unnamed, 
addressing Don Abbondio. 

' No, Signer ; for I would not willingly await the arrival 
of these devils,' replied he. 'Heaven knows if I should 
have been able to escape alive out of their hands, and come 
to trouble your illustrious Lordship.' 

'Well, well, you may take courage,' resumed the noble- 
man, * for you are now safe enough. They'll not come up 
here; and if they should wish to make the trial, we're ready 
to receive them.' 

'We'll hope they won't come/ said Don Abbondio. 'I 
hear,' added he, pointing with his finger towards the moun- 
tains which enclosed the valley on the opposite side, ' I hear 
that another band of soldiers is wandering about in that 
quarter too, but . . . but . . .' 

' True,' replied the Unnamed ; ' but you need have no fear : 
we are ready for them also.' — Between two fires; in the 
mean while said Don Abbondio to himself, — exactly 'between 
two fires. Where have I suffered myself to be drawn ? and 
by two silly women! And this man seems actually in his 
element in it all ! Oh, what people there are in the world !— 
On entering the castle, the Signor had Agnese and Per- 
petua conducted to an apartment in the quarter assio-ned 
to the women, which occupied three of the four sides of 
the inner court, in the back part of the building, and was 
situated on a jutting and isolated rock, overhanging a preci- 
pice. The men were lodged in the sides of the other court 
to the right and left, and in that which looked on the es- 
planade. The central block, which separated the two quad- 
rangles, and ^ afiforded a passage from one to the other 
through a wide archway opposite the principal gate, was 
partly occupied with provisions, and partly served as 'a de- 
pository for any little property the refugees might wish to 
secure in this retreat. In the quarters appropriated to the 
men, was a small apartment destined for the use of any 
clergy who might happen to take refuge there. Hither 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 513 

the Unnamed himself conducted Don Abbondio, who was 
the first to take possession of it. 

Three or four and twenty days our fugitives remained 
at the castle, in a state of continual bustle, forming a large 
company, which at first received constant additions, but 
without any incidents of importance. Perhaps, however, 
not a single day passed without their resorting to arms. 
Lansquenets were coming in this direction; cappelletti had 
been seen in that. Every time this intelligence was brought, 
the Unnamed sent men to reconnoitre; and, if there were 
any necessity, took with him some whom he kept in readi- 
ness for the purpose, and accompanied them beyond the 
valley, in the direction of the indicated danger. And it 
vi^as a singular thing to behold a band of brigands, armed 
cap-a-pie, and conducted Hke soldiers by one who was him- 
self unarmed. Generally it proved to be only foragers and 
disbanded pillagers, who contrived to make oflf before they 
were taken by surprise. But once, when driving away some 
of these, to teach them not to come again into that neigh- 
bourhood, the Unnamed received intelligence that an adjoin- 
ing village was invaded and given up to plunder. They 
were soldiers of various corps, who, having loitered be- 
hind to hunt for booty, had formed themselves into a band, 
and made a sudden irruption into the lands surrounding that 
where the army had taken up its quarters; despoiHng the 
inhabitants, and even levying contributions from them. The 
Unnamed made a brief harangue to his followers, and bid 
them march forward to the invaded village. 

They arrived unexpectedly: the plunderers, who had 
thought of nothing but taking the spoil, abandoned their 
prey in the midst, on seeing men in arms, and ready for 
battle, coming down upon them, and hastily took to flight, 
without waiting for one another, in the direction whence 
they had come. He pursued them a little distance; then, 
making a halt, waited awhile to see if any fresh object pre- 
sented itself, and at length returned homewards. It is im- 
possible to describe the shouts of applause and benediction 
which accompanied the troop of deliverers and its leader, 
on passing through the rescued village. 

Among the multitude of- refugees assembled in the castle, 

HC 17 — VOL. XXI 



514 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

strangers to each other, and differing in rank, habit, sex, 
and age, no disturbance of any moment occurred. ' The 
Unnamed had placed guards in various posts, all of whom 
endeavoured to ward off any unpleasantness with the care 
usually exhibited by those who are held accountable for 
any misdemeanours. 

He had also requested the clergy, and others of most 
authority among those to whom he afforded shelter, to 
walk round the place, and keep a watch; and, as often 
as he could, he himself went about to show himself in 
every direction, while, even in his absence, the remem- 
brance of who was in the house served as a restraint to 
those who needed it. Besides, they v/ere all people that 
had fled from danger, and hence generally inclined to peace : 
while the thoughts of their homes and property, and in 
some cases, of relatives and friends whom they had left 
exposed to danger, and the tidings they heard from without, 
depressed their spirits, and thus maintained and constantly 
increased this disposition. 

There were, however, some unburdened spirits, some men 
of firmer mould and stronger courage, who tried to pass 
these days merrily. They had abandoned their homes be- 
cause they were not strong enough to defend them; but 
they saw no use in weeping and sighing over things that 
could not be helped, or in picturing to themselves, and con- 
templating beforehand, in imagination, the havoc they would 
only too soon witness with their own eyes. Families ac- 
quainted with each other had left their homes at the same 
time, and had met with each other again in this retreat; 
new friendships were formed ; and the multitude were divided 
into parties, according to their several habits and disposi- 
tions. They who had money and consideration went to dine 
down in the valley, where eating-houses and inns had been 
hastily run up for the occasion: in some, mouthfuls were 
interchanged with lamentations, or no subject but their 
misfortunes was allowed to be discussed; in others, mis- 
fortunes were never remembered, unless it were to say 
that they must not think about them. To those who either 
could not, or would not, bear part of the expenses, bread, 
soup, and wine were distributed, in the castle; besides other 



I PROMESSI SPOSI SIS 

tables which were laid out daily for those whom the Signor 
had expressly invited to partake of them; and our acquaint- 
ances were among this number. 

Ao-nese and Perpetua, not to eat the bread of idleness, 
had "begged to be employed in the services which, m so 
large an establishment, must have been required; and m 
these occupations they spent a great part of the day, while 
the rest was passed in chatting with some friends, whose 
acquaintance thev had made, or with the unfortunate Don 
Abbondio This individual, though he had nothing to do, 
was nevertheless, never afflicted with ennui : his fears kept 
him company. The direct dread of an assault had, I believe 
subsided • or, if it still remained, it was one which gave him 
the least uneasiness ; because, whenever he bestowed upon it 
the slightest thought, he could not help seeing how un- 
founded it was. But the idea of the surrounding country, 
inundated on both sides with brutal soldiers, the armour 
and armed men he had constantly before his eyes, the re- 
membrance that he was in a castle, together with the thought 
of the many things that might happen any moment in such 
a situation, all contributed to keep him in indistmct, general, 
constant alarm; let alone the anxiety he felt when he thought 
of his poor home. During the whole time he remained in 
this asylum he never once went more than a stone s throw 
from the building, nor ever set foot on the descent: his 
sole walk was to go out upon the esplanade, and pace 
up and down, sometimes to one, sometimes to the other 
side of the castle, there to look down among the cliffs 
and precipices, in hopes of discovering some practicable 
passage, some kind of footpath, by which he might go in 
search of a hiding-place, in case of being very closely 
pressed. On meeting any of his companions in this asylum, 
he failed not to make a profound bow, or respectful salu- 
tation, but he associated with very few; his most frequent 
conversations were with the two women, as we have re- 
lated- and to them he poured out all his griefs, at the 
risk 'of being sometimes silenced by Perpetua, and com- 
pletely put to shame even by Agnese. At table, however, 
where he sat but little, and talked still less, he heard the 
news of the terrible marc4i which arrived daily at the castle, 



516 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

either reported from village to village, and from mouth to 
mouth, or brought thither by some one who had at first 
determined to remain at home, and had, after all, made his 
escape, without having been able to save anything, and 
probably, also, after receiving considerable ill-treatment; 
and every day brought with it some fresh tale of misfor- 
tune. Some, who were newsmongers by profession, diligently 
collected the different rumours, weighed all the various 
accounts, and then gave the substance of them to the others, 
rhey disputed which were the most destructive regiments, 
and whether infantry or cavalry were the worst; they re- 
ported, as well as they could, the names of some of the 
leaders ; related some of their past enterprises, specified the 
places of halting, and the daily marches. That day such 
a regiment would spread over such a district; to-morrow, 
it would ravage such another^ where, in the mean while, 
another had been playing the very devil, and worse. They 
chiefly, however, sought information and kept count of 
the regiments which from time to time crossed the bridge 
of Lecco, because these might be considered as fairly gone, 
and really out of the territory. The cavalry of Wallen- 
stein passed it, and the infantry of Marradas; the cavalry 
of Anzlalt, and the infantry under Brandeburgo ; the troops 
of Montecuccoli, then those of Ferrari ; then followed 
Altringer, then Furstenburg, then Colloredo ; after them 
came the Croatians, Torquato Conti, and this, that, and the 
other leader ; and last of all, in Heaven's good time, came 
at length Galasso. The flying squadron of Venetians made 
their final exit; and the whole country, on either hand, 
was once more set at liberty. Those belonging to the in- 
vaded villages which were first cleared of their ravagers, 
had already begun to evacuate the castle, and every day 
people continued to leave the place : as after an autumnal 
storm, the birds may be seen issuing on every side from 
the leafy branches of a great tree, where they had sought 
a shelter from its fury. Our three refugees were, perhaps, 
the last to take their departure, owing to Don Ab- 
bondio's extreme reluctance to run the risk, if they re- 
turned home immediately, of meeting some straggling soldiers 
who might still be loitering in the rear of the army. It 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 517 

was in vain Perpetua repeated and insisted, that the longer 
they delayed, the greater opportunities they afforded to the 
thieves of the neighbourhood to enter the house and finish 
the business : whenever the safety of life was at stake, Don 
Abbondio invariably gained the day ; unless, indeed, the 
imminence of the danger were such as to deprive him of 
the power of self-defence. 

On the day fixed for their departure, the Unnamed had 
a carriage in readiness at Malanotte, in which he had al- 
ready placed a full supply of clothes for Agnese. Drawing 
her a little aside, he also forced her to accept a small store 
of sciidi, to compensate for the damages she would find at 
home ; although, striking her breast, she kept repeating that 
she had still some of the first supply left. 

' When you see your poor good Lucia . . ,' said he, the 
last thing: 'I am already convinced she prays for me, be- 
cause I have done her so much wrong; tell her, then, that 
I thank her, and trust in God her prayers will return, also, 
in equal blessings upon her own head.' 

He then insisted upon accompanying his three guests 
to the carriage. The obsequious and extravagant acknowl- 
edgments of Don Abbondio, and the complimentary speeches 
of Perpetua, we leave to the reader's imagination. They 
set off, made a short stay, according to agreement, at the 
tailor's cottage, and there heard a hundred particulars of 
the march, the usual tale of theft, violence, destruction, 
and obscenity; but there, fortunately, none of the soldiery 
had been seen. 

'Ah, Signor Curate ! ' said the tailor, as he offered him 
his arm to assist him again into the carriage, ' they'll have 
matter enough for a printed book in a scene of destruction 
like this.' 

As they advanced a little on their journey, our travellers 
began to witness, with their own eyes, something of what 
they had heard described ; vineyards despoiled, not as by 
the vintager, but as though a storm of wind and hail com- 
bined had exerted their utmost energies; branches strewn 
upon the earth, broken off, and trampled under-foot ; stakes 
torn up, the ground trodden and covered with chips, 
leaves, and twigs; trees uprooted, or their branches lopped; 



518 ALESSANDRO MANZONl 

hedges broken down ; stiles carried away. In the villages, 
too, doors shivered to pieces, windows destroyed, straw, 
rags, rubbish of all kinds, lying in heaps, or scattered all 
over the pavement; a close atmosphere, and horrid odours 
of a more revolting nature proceeding from the houses ; some 
of the villagers busy in sweeping out the accumulation of 
filth within them ; others in repairing the doors and windows 
as they best could; some again weeping in groups, and in- 
dulging in lamentations together ; and as the carriage drove 
through, hands stretched out on both sides at the doors of the 
vehicle imploring alms. 

With these scenes, now before his eyes, now pictured in 
their minds, and with the expectation of finding their 
own houses in just the same state, they at length arrived 
there, and found that their expectations were indeed realized. 
Agnese deposited her bundles in one corner of her little 
yard, the cleanest spot that remained about the house; 
she then set herself to sweep it thoroughly, and collect 
and rearrange the little furniture which had been left her; 
she got a carpenter and blacksmith to come and mend the 
doors and window frames, and then, unpacking the linen 
which had been given her, and secretly counting over her 
fresh store of coins, she exclaimed to herself, — I've fallen 
upon my feet! God, and the Madonna, and that good 
Signor, be thanked! I may indeed say, I've fallen upon 
my feet ! — 

Don Abbondio and Perpetua entered the house without 
the aid of keys, and at every step they took in the passage 
encountered a fetid odour, a poisonous effluvia, which al- 
most drove them back. Holding their noses, they advanced 
to the kitchen-door; entered on tip-toe, carefully picking 
their way to avoid the most disgusting parts of the filthy 
straw which covered the ground, and cast a glance around. 
Nothing was left whole; but relics and fragments of what 
once had been, both here and in other parts of the house, 
were to be seen in every corner: quills and feathers from 
Perpetua's fowls, scraps of linen, leaves out of Don Ab- 
bondio's calendars, remnants of kitchen utensils; all heaped 
together, or scattered in confusion upon the floor. Or ^-he 
hearth might be discovered tokens of a riotous scene of 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 519 

destruction, like a multitude of ordinary ideas scattered 
through a widely diffused period by a professional orator. 
There were the vestiges of extinguished faggots and billets 
of wood, which showed them to have been once the arm 
of a chair, a table-foot, the door of a cupboard, a bed-post, 
or a stave of the little cask which contained the wine, so 
beneficial to Don Abbondio's stomach. The rest was cinders 
and coal; and with some of these very coals, the spoilers, 
by way of recreation, had scrawled on the walls distorted 
figures, doing their best, by the help oi sundry square caps, 
shaven crowns, and large bands, to represent priests stu- 
diously exhibited m all manner of horrible and ludicrous 
attitudes: an intention, certainly, in which such artists could 
not possibly have failed. 

*Ah, the dirty pigs ! ' exclaimed Perpetua. 'Ah, the 
thieves ! ' cried Don Abbondio ; and, as if making their es- 
cape, they went out by another door, that led into the gar- 
den. Once more drawing their breath, they went straight 
up to the fig-tree; but, even before reaching it, they dis- 
covered that the ground had been disturbed, and both to- 
gether uttered an exclamation of dismay, and, on coming up, 
they found in truth, instead of the dead, only the empty tomb. 
This gave rise to some disputes. Don Abbondio began to 
scold Perpetua for having hidden it so badly: it may be 
imagined whether she would fail to retort: and after indul- 
ging in mutual recrimination till they were tired, they re- 
turned, with many a lingering look cast back at the empty 
hole, grumbling into the house. They found things nearly 
in the same state everywhere. Long and diligently they 
worked to cleanse and purify the house, the more so as it 
was then extremely difficult to get any help; and they re- 
mained for I know not what length of time, as if in encamp- 
ment, arranging things as they best could— and bad was the 
best — and gradually restoring doors, furniture, and utensils, 
with money lent to them by Agnese. 

In addition to these grievances, this disaster was, for 
some time afterwards, the source of many other very ticklish 
disputes ; for Perpetua, by djnt of asking, peeping, and hunt- 
ing out, had come to know for certain that some of her 
master's household goods^ which were thought to have been 



520 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

carried off or destroyed by the soldiers, were, instead, safe 
and sound with some people in the neighbourhood ; and she 
was continually tormenting her master to make a stir about 
them, and claim his own. A chord more odious to Don 
Abbondio could not have been touched, considering that his 
property was in the hands of ruifians, of that species of per- 
sons, that is to say, with whom he had it most at heart to 
remain at peace. 

' But if I don't want to know about these things . . .' said 
he. ' How often am I to tell you that what is gone, is gone? 
Am I to be harassed in this way, too, because my house has 
been robbed ? ' 

' I tell you,' replied Perpetua, ' that you would let the very 
eyes be eaten out of your head. To rob others is a sin, but 
with you, it is a sin not to rob you.' 

' Very proper language for you, certainly ! ' answered Don 
Abbondio. ' Will you hold your tongue ? ' 

Perpetua did hold her tongue, but not so directly ; and 
even then everything was a pretext for beginning again ; so 
that the poor man was at last reduced to the necessity of 
suppressing every lamentation on the lack of this or that 
article of furniture, at the moment he most wanted to give 
vent to his regrets ; for more than once he had been doomed 
to hear : ' Go seek it at such a one's, who has it, and who 
wouldn't have kept it till now, if he hadn't had to deal with 
such an easy man.' 

Another and more vivid cause of disquietude, was the 
intelligence that soldiers continued daily to be passing in 
confusion, as he had too well conjectured; hence he was 
ever in apprehension of seeing a man, or even a band of 
men, arriving at his door, which he had had repaired in 
haste the first thing, and which he kept barred with the 
greatest precaution ; but, thank Heaven ! this catastrophe 
never occurred. These terrors, however, were not appeased, 
when a new one was added to their number. 

But here we must leave the poor man on one side: for 
other matters are now to be treated of than his private 
apprehensions, the misfortunes of a few villages, or a tran- 
sient disaster. 



CHAPTER XXXI 

THE plague, which the Board of Health had feared 
might enter with the German troops into the Mil- 
anese, had entered it indeed, as is well known; and 
it is likewise well known, that it paused not here, but in- 
vaded and ravaged a great part of Italy. Following the 
thread of our story, we now come to relate the principal in- 
cidents of this calamity in the Milanese, or rather in Milan 
almost exclusively: for almost exclusively of the city do the 
records of the times treat, nearly as it always and every- 
where happens, for good reasons or bad. And, to say the 
truth, it is not only our object, in this narrative, to represent 
the state of things in which our characters will shortly be 
placed; but at the same time to develop, as far as may 
be in so limited a space, and from our pen, an event in 
the history of our country more celebrated than well known. 
Of the many contemporary accounts, there is not one 
which is sufficient by itself to convey a distinct and con- 
nected idea of it; as there is not, perhaps, one which may 
not give us some assistance in forming that idea. In every 
one, not excepting that of Ripamonti,^ which considerably 
exceeds all the rest, both in copiousness and in its selection 
of facts, and still more in its method of viewing them, es- 
sential facts are omitted which are recorded in others; in 
every one there are errors of material importance, which 
may be detected and rectified with the help of some other, 
or of the few printed or manuscript acts of public authority 
which still remain ; and we may often discover in one, those 
causes, the effects of which were found partially developed 
in another. In all, too, a strange confusion of times and 
things prevailed, and a perpetual wandering backward and 
forward, as it were at random, without design, special or 
general: the character, by the by, of books of all classes in 
those days, chiefly among such as were written in the vulgar 



ijosenhi Ripamontii, canonici scalen^is. chronistse urbis Mediolani 
Peste quK fuit anno 1630, Lib. \'. ^Tcdiolani, 1640. Apud Malatesta; 

521 



522 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

tongue, at least in Italy ; whether, also, in the rest of Europe, 
the learned will know, and we shrewdly suspect it so to have 
been. No writer of later date has attempted to examine and 
compare these memoirs, with the view of extracting thence 
a connected series of events, a history of this plague; so 
that the idea generally formed of it must necessarily be 
very uncertain and somewhat confused, a vague idea of 
great evils and great errors, (and assuredly there were both 
one and the other beyond what can possibly be imagined,) 
— an idea composed more of opinions than of facts, mingled, 
indeed, with a few scattered events, but unconnected, some- 
times, with their most characteristic circumstances, and with- 
out distinction of time, that is to say, without perception of 
cause and effect, of course and progress. We, having ex- 
amined and compared, with at least much diligence, all the 
printed accounts, more than one unpublished one, and (in 
comparison of the few that remain on the subject) many 
official documents, have endeavoured to do, not, perhaps, all 
that is needed, but something which has n:t hitherto been 
done. We do not purpose relating every public act, nor all 
the results worthy, in some de-gree, of remembrance. Still 
less do we pretend to render needless to such as would gain 
a more complete acquaintance with the subject, the perusal 
of the original writings : we are too well aware what lively, 
peculiar, and, so to say, incommunicable force invariably be- 
longs to works of that kind, in whatever manner designed 
and executed. We have merely endeavoured to distinguish 
and ascertain the most general and important facts, to ar- 
range them in their real order of succession, so far as the 
matter and the nature of them will allow, to observe their 
reciprocal effect, and thus to give, for the present, and until 
some one else shall do better, a succinct, but plain and con- 
tinuous, account of this calamity. 

Throughout the whole track, then, of the territory trav- 
ersed by the army, corpses might be found either in the 
houses, or lying upon the highway. Very shortly, single in- 
dividuals, or whole families, began to sicken and die of 
violent and strange complaints, with symptoms unknown to 
the greater part of those who were then alive. There were 
only a few who had ever seen them before: the few, that is, 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 523 

who could remember the plague which, fifty-three years pre- 
viously, had desolated a great part of Italy indeed, but es- 
pecially the Milanese, where it was then, and is still, called 
the plague of San Carlo. So powerful is Charity! Among 
the various and awful recollections of a general calamity, 
she could cause that of one individual to predominate; be- 
cause she had inspired him with feelings and actions more 
memorable even than the evils themselves ; she could set him 
up in men's minds as a symbol of all these events, because 
in all she had urged him onward, and held him up to view 
as guide, and helper, example, and voluntary victim; and 
could frame for him, as it were, an emblematical device out 
of a public calamity, and name it after him as though it had 
been a conquest or discovery. 

The oldest physician of his time, Lodovico Settala, who 
had not only seen that plague, but had been one of its most 
active and intrepid, and, though then very young, most 
celebrated successful opponents; and who now, in strong 
suspicion of this, was on the alert, and busily collecting in- 
formation, leported, on the 20th of October, in the Council 
of the Board of Health, that the contagion had undoubtedly 
broken out in the village of Chiuso, the last in the territory 
of Lecco, and on the confines of the Bergamascan district. 
No resolution, however, was taken on this intelligence, as 
appears from the ' Narrative ' of Tadino." 

Similar tidings arrived from Lecco and Bellano. The 
Board then decided upon, and contented themselves with, 
despatching a commissioner, who should take a physician 
from Como.by the way, and accompany him on a visit to 
the places which had been signified. ' Both of them, either 
from ignorance or some other reason, suffered themselves 
to be persuaded by an old ignorant barber of Bellano that 
this sort of disease was not the pestilence;'^ but in some 
places the ordinary effect of the autumnal exhalations from 
the marshes, and elsewhere, of the privations and sufferings 
undergone during the passage of the German troops. This 
affirmation was reported to the Board, who seem to have 
been perfectly satisfied with it. 

But additional reports of the mortality in every quarter 

* Tadino, p. 24. ' /bid. 



524 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

pouring in without intermission, two deputies were de- 
spatched to see and provide against it— the above-named 
Tadino. and an auditor of the committee. When these ar- 
rived, the evil had spread so widely, that proofs offered 
themselves to their view without being sought for. They 
passed through the territory of Lecco, the Valsassina, the 
shores of the Lake of Como, and the districts denominated 
II Monte di Brianza and La Gera d'Adda; and everywhere 
found the towns barricaded, others almost deserted, and the 
inhabitants escaped and encamped in the fields, 'or scat- 
tered throughout the country; 'who seemed,' says Tadino, 
' like so many wild savages, carrying in their hands, one a 
sprig of mint, another of rue, another of rosemary, an- 
other, a bottle of vinegar." They made inquiries as to the 
number of deaths, which was really fearful; they visited 
the sick and dead, and everywhere recognized the dark and 
terrible marks of the pestilence. They then speedily con- 
veyed the disastrous intelligence by letter to the Board of 
Health, who, on receiving it, on the 30th of October, ' pre- 
pared,' says Tadino, 'to issue warrants to shut out of the 
city any persons coming from the countries where the 
plague had shown itself; and while preparing the decree," 
they gave some summary orders beforehand to the custom- 
house officers. 

In the mean while, the commissioners, in great haste 
and precipitation, made what provisions they knew, or could 
think of, for the best, and returned with the melancholy 
consciousness of their insufficiency to remedy or arrest an 
evil already so far advanced, and so widely disseminated. 

On the 14th of November, having made their report, both 
by word of mouth and afresh in writing, to the Board,' they 
received from this committee a commission to present them- 
selves to the governor, and to lay before him the state of 
things. They went accordingly, and brought back word, 
that he was exceedingly sorry to hear such news, and had 
shown a great deal of feeling about it; but the thoughts of 
war were more pressing: ' Scd belli graviores esse curas.' 
So says Ripamonti," after having ransacked the records of 
the Board of Health, and compared them with Tadino, who 

^Tadino, p. 26. ^ /bzd., p. 27. » Ripamonti, p.' 245. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 525 

had been specially charged with this mission: it was the 
second, if the reader remembers, for this purpose, and with 
this result. Two or three days afterwards, the i8th of 
November, the governor issued a proclamation, in which he 
prescribed' public rejoicings for the birth of the Prince 
Charles, the first-born son of the king, Philip IV., without 
thinking of, or without caring for, the danger of suffering 
a large concourse of people under such circumstances : every- 
thing as in common times, just as if he had never been 
spoken to about anything. 

This person was, as we have elsewhere said, the cele- 
brated Ambrogio Spinola, sent for the very purpose of ad- 
justing this war, to repair the errors of Don Gonzalo, and, 
incidentally, to govern; and we may here incidentally men- 
tion, that he died a few months later in that very war 
which he had so much at heart ; not wounded in the field of 
battle, but on his bed, of grief and anxiety occasioned by 
reproaches, affronts, and ill-treatment of every kind, re- 
ceived from those whom he had served. History has be- 
wailed his fate, and remarked upon the ingratitude of others; 
it has described with much diligence his military and polit- 
ical enterprises, and extolled his foresight, activity, and per- 
severance; it might also have inquired what he did with all 
these, when pestilence threatened and actually invaded a 
population committed to his care, or rather entirely given 
up to his authority. 

But that which, leaving censure, diminishes our wonder 
at his behaviour, which even creates another and greater 
feeling of wonder, is the behaviour of the people them- 
selves"; of those, I mean, who, unreached as yet by the con- 
tagion', had so much reason to fear it. On the arrival of 
the intelligence from the territories which were so grievously 
infected with it, territories which formed almost a semi-cir- 
cular line round the city, in some places not more than 
twenty, or even eighteen, miles distant from it, who would 
not have thought that a general stir would have been created, 
that they would have been diligent in taking precautions, 
whether well or ill selected, or at least have felt a barren 
disquietude? Nevertheless, if in anything the records of 
the times agree, it is in. attesting that there were none of 



526 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

these. The scarcity of the antecedent year, the violence of 
the soldiery, and their sufferings of mind, seemed to them 
more than enough to account for the mortaHty: and if any 
one had attempted, in the streets, shops, and houses, to 
throw out a hint of danger, and mention the plague, it 
would have been received with incredulous scoffs, or angry 
contempt. The same incredulity, or, to speak more cor- 
rectly, the same blindness and perversity, prevailed in the 
senate, in the Council of the Decurioni, and in all the mag- 
istrates. 

I find that Cardinal Federigo, immediately on learning the 
first cases of a contagious sickness, enjoined his priests, 
in a pastoral letter, among other things, to impress upon the 
people the importance and obligation of making known 
every similar case, and delivering up any infected or sus- 
pected goods :^ and this, too, may be reckoned among his 
praiseworthy peculiarities. 

The Board of Health soHcited precautions and co-opera- 
tion: it was all but in vain. And in the Board itself their 
solicitude was far from equaling the urgency of the case; 
it was the two physicians, as Tadino frequently affirms, and 
as appears still better from the whole context of his narra- 
tive, who, persuaded and deeply sensible of the gravity and 
imminence of the danger, urged forward that body, which 
was then to urge forward others. 

We have already seen how, on the first tidings of the 
plague, there had been indifference and remissness in acting, 
and even in obtaining information: we now give another 
instance of dilatoriness not less portentous, if indeed it were 
not compelled by obstacles interposed by the superior mag- 
istrates. That proclamation in the form of warrants, re- 
solved upon on the 30th of October, was not completed till 
the 23rd of the following month, nor published till the 29th. 
The plague had already entered Milan. 

Tadino and Ripamonti would record the name of the 
individual who first brought it thither, togethe." with other 
circumstances of the person and the fact: and, in truth, in 
observing the beginnings of a wide-spread destruction, in 

^ Life of Federigo Eorromeo, compiled by Francesco Rivola. Milan: 1666. 
P. 584- 



I PROINIESSI SPOSI 527 

which the victims not only cannot be distinguished by name, 
but their numbers can scarcely be expressed with any degree 
of exactness, even by the thousand, one feels a certain kind 
of interest in ascertaining those first and few names which 
could be noted and preserved: it seems as if this sort of 
distinction, a precedence in extermination, invests them, 
and all the other minutije, which would otherwise be most 
indifferent, with something fatal and memorable. 

But one and the other historian say that it was an 
Italian soldier in the Spanish service; but in nothing else 
do they agree, not even in the name. Accordmg to Tadmo, 
it was a person of the name of Pietro Antonio Lovato, 
quartered in the territory of Lecco : according to Ripamonti, 
a certain Pier Paolo Locati, quartered at Chiavenna. They 
differ also as to the day of his entrance into Milan; the 
first placing it on the 22nd of October, the second, on the 
same day in the following month ; yet it cannot be on either 
one or the other. Both the dates contradict others which 
are far better authenticated. Yet Ripamonti, writing by 
order of the General Council of the Decurioni, ought to 
have had many means at his command of gaining the neces- 
sary information ; and Tadino, in consideration of his office, 
mi^ht have been better informed than any one else on a 
subject of this nature. In short, comparing other dates, 
which as we have said, appear to us more authentic, it 
would seem that it was prior to the publication of the war- 
rants • and if it were worth while, it might even be proved, 
or nearly so, that it must have been very early in that month: 
but the reader will, doubtless, excuse us the task. 

However it may be, this soldier, unfortunate himself, and 
the bearer of misfortune to others, entered the city with 
a large bundle of clothes purchased or stolen from the Ger- 
man troops; he went to stay at the house of one of his 
relatives in the suburbs of the Porta Orientale, near to the 
Capuchin Convent. Scarcely had he arrived there, when he 
was taken ill ; he was conveyed to the hospital ; here, a spot, 
discovered under one of the armpits, excited some suspicion 
in the mind of the person who tended him, of what was 
in truth the fact; and on the fourth day he died. 

The Board of Health immediately ordered his family to 



528 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

be kept separate, and confined within their own house; and 
his clothes, and the bed on which he had lain at the 'hos- 
pital, were burned. Two attendants, who had there nursed 
him, and a good friar, who had rendered him his assistance, 
were all three, within a few days, seized with the plague' 
The suspicions which had here been felt, from the beginning, 
of the nature of the disease, and the precautions taken in 
consequence, prevented the further spread of the contagion 
from this source. 

But the soldier had left seed outside, which delayed not 
to spring up, and shoot forth. The first person in whom 
It broke out was the master of the house where he had 
lodged, one Carlo Colonna, a lute-player. All the inmates 
of the dwelling were then, by order of the Board, conveyed 
to the Lazzaretto; where the greater number took to their 
beds, and many shortly died of evident infection. 

In the city, that which had been already disseminated 
there by intercourse with the above-mentioned family, and 
by clothes and furniture belonging to them preserved by 
relations, lodgers, or servants, from the searches and flames 
prescribed by the Board, as well as that which was afresh 
introduced by defectiveness in the regulations, by negligence 
m executing them, and by dexterity in eluding them, con- 
tinued lurking about, and slowly insinuating itself among 
the inhabitants, all the rest of the year, and in the earlier 
months of 1630, the year which followed. From time to 
time, now in this, now in that quarter, some one was seized 
with the contagion, some one was carried off with it: and 
the very infrequency of the cases contributed to lull all sus- 
picions of pestilence, and confirmed the generality more and 
more in the senseless and murderous assurance that plague 
it was not, and never had been, for a moment. Many phy- 
sicians, too, echoing the voice of the people, (was it, in this 
instance also, the voice of Heaven?) derided the ominous 
predictions and threatening warnings of the few; and always 
had at hand the names of common diseases to qualify every 
case of pestilence which they were summoned to cure, with 
v^hat symptom or token soever it evinced itself. 

The reports of these instances, when they reached the 
Board of Health at all, reached it, for the most part, tardily 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 529 

and uncertainly. Dread of sequestration and the Lazzaretto 
sharpened every one's wits; they concealed the sick, they 
corrupted the grave-diggers and elders, and obtained false 
certificates, by means of bribes, from subalterns of the Board 
itself, deputed by it to visit and inspect the dead bodies. 

As' however, on every discovery they succeeded m mak- 
ing, the Board ordered the wearing apparel to be committed 
to the flames, put the houses under sequestration, and sent 
the inmates to the Lazzaretto, it is easy to imagine what 
must have been the anger and dissatisfaction of the gener- 
ality 'of the nobility, merchants, and lower orders," per- 
suaded, as they all were, that they were mere causeless vexa- 
tions without any advantage. The principal odium fell 
upon the two doctors, our frequently mentioned Tadino and 
Senatore Settala, son of the senior physician, and reached 
such a height, that thenceforward they could not publicly 
appear without being assailed with opprobrious language, if 
not with stones. And, certainly, the situation in which these 
individuals were placed for several months, is remarkable, 
and worthy of being recorded, seeing a horrible scourge 
advancing towards them, labouring, by every method, to re- 
pulse it, yet meeting with obstacles, not only in the arduous- 
ness of' the task, but from every quarter, in the unwilling- 
ness of the people, and being made the general object of 
execration, and regarded as the enemies of their country: 
'Pro patria hostibus,' says Ripamonti." 

Sharers, also, in the hatred were the other physicians, 
who, convinced like them of the reality of the contagion, 
suggested precautions, and sought to communicate to others 
their melancholy convictions. The most knowing taxed them 
with credulity and obstinacy ; while, with the many, it was 
evidently an imposture, a planned combination, to make 
a profit by the public fears. 

The aged physician, Lodovico Settala, who had almost 
attained \is eightieth year, who had been Professor of 
Medicine in the University of Pavia, and afterwards of 
Moral Philosophy at Milan, the author of many_ works at 
that time in very high repute, eminent for the invitations 
he had received to occupy the chairs of other universities, 

8 Tadino, p. 73. " Ripamonti, p. 261. 



530 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

Ingolstadt, Pisa, Bologna, and Padua, and for his refusal 
of all these honours, was certainly one of the most influ- 
ential men of his time. To his reputation for learning was 
added that of his life; and to admiration of his character, 
a feeling of good-will for his great kindness in curing and 
benefiting the poor. Yet there is one circumstance, which, 
m our minds, disturbs and overclouds the sentiment of es- 
teem inspired by these merits, but which at that time must 
have rendered it stronger and more general: the poor man 
participated in the commonest and most fatal prejudices of 
his contemporaries: he was in advance of them, but not dis- 
tinguished from the multitude; a station which only invites 
trouble, and often causes the loss of an authority acquired 
by other means. Nevertheless, that which he enjoyed in so 
great a degree, was not only insufficient to overcome the gen- 
eral opinion on this subject of the pestilence, but it could 
not even protect him from the animosity and the insults of 
that part of the populace, which most readily steps from 
opinions to their exhibition by actual deeds. 

One day, as he was going in a litter to visit his patients, 
crowds began to assemble round him, crying out that he was 
the head of those who were determined, in spite of everything, 
to make out that there was a plague ; that it was he who put 
the city in alarm, with his gloomy brow, and shaggy beard ; 
and all to give employment to the doctors ! The multitude and 
their fury went on increasing; so that the bearers, seeing their 
danger, took refuge with their master in the house of a friend, 
which fortunately happened to be at hand. All this occurred 
to him for having foreseen clearly, stated what was really the 
fact, and wished to save thousands of his fellow-creatures 
from the pestilence: when having, by his deplorable advice, 
co-operated in causing a poor unhappy wretch to be put to the 
torture, racked, and burnt as a witch, because one of her 
masters had suffered extraordinary pains in his stomach, and 
another, some time before, had been desperately enamoured 
of her,^" he had received from the popular voice additional 
reputation for wisdom, and, what is intolerable to think of, 
the additional title of the well-deserving. 

Towards the latter end of March, however, sickness and 

10 History of Milan, by Count Pietro Verri. Milan: 1825. Vol. iv. p. 155. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 531 

deaths began rapidly to multiply, first in the suburbs of the 
Porta Orientale, and then in all the other quarters of the city, 
with the unusual accompaniments of spasms, palpitation, 
lethargy, delirium, and those fatal symptoms, livid spots and 
sores ; and these deaths were, for the most part, rapid, violent, 
and not unfrequently sudden, without any previous tokens of 
illness. Those physicians who were opposed to the belief of 
contagion, unwilUng now to admit what they had hitherto 
derided, yet obliged to give a generical name to the new 
malady, which had become too common and too evident to go 
without one, adopted that of malignant or pestilential fevers ; 
—a miserable expedient, a mere play upon words, which was 
productive of much harm ; because, while it appeared to ac- 
knowledge the truth, it only contributed to the disbelief of 
what it was most important to believe and discern, viz., that 
the infection was conveyed by means of the touch. The 
magistrates, like one awaking from a deep sleep, began to lend 
a little more ear to the appeals and proposals of the Board of 
Health, to support its proclamations, and second the seques- 
trations prescribed, and the quarantines enjoined by this 
tribunal. The Board was also constantly demanding money to 
provide for the daily expenses of the Lazzaretto, now aug- 
mented by so many additional services; and for this they 
applied to the Decurioni, while it was being decided (which 
was never done, I believe, except by practice) whether such 
expenses should be charged to the city, or to the royal 
exchequer. The high chancellor also applied importunately 
to the Decurioni, by order, too, of the governor, who had 
again returned to lay siege to the unfortunate Casale ; the 
senate likewise applied to them, imploring them to see to the 
best method of victualing the city, before they should be lor- 
bidden, in case of the unhappy dissemination of the contagion 
to have any intercourse with other countries; and to find 
means of maintaining a large proportion of the population 
which was now deprived of employment. The Dccunom 
endeavoured to raise money by loans and taxes ; and of what 
they thus accumulated they gave a little to the Board of 
Health, a little to the poor, purchased a little corn, and thus, 
in some degree, supplied the existing necessity. The severest 
sufferings had not yet arrived. 



532 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

In the Lazzaretto, where the population, ahhough deci- 
mated daily, continued daily on the increase, there was 
another arduous undertaking, to insure attendance and sub- 
ordination, to preserve the enjoined separations, to maintain, 
in short, or rather to establish, the government prescribed 
by the Board of Health: for, from the very first, every thino- 
had been in confusion, from the ungovernableness of many 
of the inmates, and the negligence or connivance of the 
officials. The Board and the Decurioni, not knowing which 
way to turn, bethought themselves of applying to the Ca- 
puchins, and besought the Father Commissary, as he was 
called, of the province, who occupied the place of the Father 
Provincial, lately deceased, to give them a competent person 
to govern this desolate kingdom. The commissary proposed 
to them as their governor, one Father Felice Casati, a man 
of advanced age, who enjoyed great reputation for charity, 
activity, and gentleness of disposition, combined with a strong 
mind— a character which, as the sequel will show, was well 
deserved; and as his coadjutor and assistant, one Father 
Michele Pozzobonelli, still a young man, but grave and stern 
in mind as in countenance. Gladly enough were they ac- 
cepted ; and on the 30th of March they entered the Lazzaretto. 
The President of the Board of Health conducted them round, 
as it were, to put them in possession; and having assembled 
the servants and officials of every rank, proclaimed Father 
Felice, in their presence, governor of the place, with primary 
and unlimited authority. In proportion as the wretched mul- 
titude there assembled increased, other Capuchins resorted 
thither; and here were superintendents, confessors, adminis- 
trators, nurses, cooks, overlookers of the wardrobes, washer- 
women, in short, everything that was required. Father Felice, 
ever diligent, ever watchful, went about day and night, 
through the porticoes, chambers, and open spaces, sometimes 
carrying a spear, sometimes armed only with hair-cloth; he 
animated and regulated every duty, pacified tumults, settled 
disputes, threatened, punished, reproved, comforted, dried 
and shed tears. At the very outset he took the plague ; recov- 
ered, and with fresh alacrity resumed his first duties. Most 
of his brethren here sacrificed their lives, and all joyfully. 
Such a dictatorship was certainly a strange expedient; 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 533 

strange as was the calamity, strange as were the times ; and 
even did we know no more about it, this alone would suffice 
as an argument, as a specimen, indeed, of a rude and ill- 
legulated state of society. But the spirit, the deeds, the 
self-sacrifice, of these friars, deserve no less than that they 
should be mentioned with respect and tenderness, and with 
that species of gratitude which one feels, en masse as it 
were, for great services rendered by men to their fellows 
To die in a good cause is a wise and beautiful action, at any 
time, under any state of things whatsoever. ' For had not 
yse Fathers repayred hither,' says Tadino, * assuredly y« 
whole Citie would have been annihilated; for it was a 
miraculous thing that yse Fathers effected so much for y^ 
publick Benefit in so short a space of Time, and, receiving no 
Assistance, or at least, very little, from ye Citie, contrived, 
by their Industrie and Prudence, to maintain so many thou- 
sands of Foore in y^ Lazzaretto.'^^ 

Among the public, also, this obstinacy in denying the pesti- 
lence gave way naturally, and gradually disappeared, in pro- 
portion as the contagion extended itself, and extended itself, 
too, before their own eyes, by means of contact and inter- 
course ; and still more when, after having been for some time 
confined to the lower orders, it began to take effect upon the 
higher. And among these, as he was then the most eminent, 
so by us now, the senior physician Settala, deserves express 
mention. People must at least have said : The poor old man 
was right! But who knows? He, with his wife, two sons, 
and seven persons in his service, all took the plague. One of 
these sons and himself recovered ; the rest died. ' These 
Cases,' says Tadino, ' occurring in the Citie in the first fami- 
lies, disposed the Nobilitie and common People to think ; and 
the incredulous Physicians, and the ignorant and rash lower 
Orders, began to bite their Lips, grind their Teeth, and arch 
their Eyebrows in Amazement.'^" 

But the revolutions, the reprisals, the vengeance, so to say, 
of convinced obstinacy, are sometimes such as to raise a wish 
that it had continued unshaken and unconquered, even to the 
last, against reason and evidence: and this was truly one of 
these occasions. They who hkd so resolutely and persever- 

"■ Tadino, p. 98. ^- lb., p 96. 



534 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

ingly impugned the existence of a germ of evil near them, or 
among them, which might propagate itself by natural means, 
and make much havoc, unable now to deny its propagation, 
and unwilling to attribute it to those means (for this would 
have been to confess at once a great delusion and a great 
error), were so much the more inclined to find some other 
cause for it, and make good any that might happen to present 
itself. . Unhappily, there was one in readiness in the ideas 
and traditions common at that time, not only here, but in 
every part of Europe, of magical arts, diabolical practices, 
people sworn to disseminate the plague by means of con- 
tagious poisons and witchcraft. These and similar things 
had already been supposed and believed during many other 
plagues; and at Milan, especially, in that of half a century 
before. It may be added, that, even during the preceding 
year, a despatch, signed by King Philip IV., had been for- 
warded to the governor, in which he was informed that four 
Frenchmen had escaped from Madrid, who were sought upon 
suspicion of spreading poisonous and pestilential ointments; 
and requiring him to be on the watch, perchance they should 
arrive at Milan. The governor communicated the despatch 
to the Senate and the Board of Health; and thenceforward, it 
seems, they thought no more about it. When, however, the 
plague broke forth, and was recognized by all, the return of 
this intelligence to memory may have served to confirm and 
support the vague suspicion of an iniquitous fraud; it may 
even have been the first occasion of creating it. 

But two actions, one of blind and undisciplined fear, the 
other of I know not what malicious mischief, were what con- 
verted this vague suspicion of a possible attempt, into more 
than suspicion (and, with many, a certain conviction) of a 
real plot. Some persons, who fancied they had seen people, 
on the evening of the 17th of May, in the cathedral, anoint- 
ing a partition which was used to separate the spaces assigned 
to the two sexes, had this partition, and a number of benches 
enclosed within it, brought out during the night; although 
the President of the Board of Health, having repaired thither 
with four members of the committee, and having inspected the 
screen, the benches, and the stoups of holy water, and found 
nothing that could confirm the ignorant suspicion of a poison- 



I PROMESSI SPOST 535 

ous attempt, had declared, to humour other people's fancies, 
and rather to exceed in caution, than from any conviction of 
necessity, that it would be sufficient to have the partition 
washed.' This mass of piled-up furniture produced a strong 
impression of consternation among the multitude, to whom 
any object so readily became an argument. It was said, and 
generally believed, that all the benches, walls, and even the 
bell-ropes in the cathedral, had been rubbed over with unctu- 
ous matter. Nor was this affirmed only at the time : all the rec- 
ords of contemporaries (some of them written after a lapse 
of many years) which allude to this incident, speak of it with 
equal certainty of asseveration : and we should be obliged to 
conjecture its true history, did we not find it in a letter from 
the Board of Health to the governor, preserved in the archives 
of San Fedele, from which we have extracted it, and whence 
we have quoted the words we have written in italics. 

Next morning, a new, stranger, and more significant spec- 
tacle, struck the eyes and minds of the citizens. In every part 
of the city they saw the doors and walls of the houses stained 
and daubed with long streaks of I know not what filthiness, 
something yellowish and whitish, spread over them as if with 
a sponge. Whether it were a base inclination to witness a 
more clamorous and more general consternation, or a still 
more wicked,design to augment the public confusion, or what- 
ever else it may have been, the fact is attested in such a man- 
ner, that it seems to us less rational to attribute it to a dream 
of the imagination, than to a wickedly malicious trick, not 
entirely new, indeed, to the wit of man, — not, alas, deficient 
in corresponding effects, in every place, so to say, and every 
age. Ripamonti, who frequently on this subject of the 
anointing, ridicules, and still more frequently deplores, the 
popular credulity, here affirms that he had seen this plaster- 
ing, and then describes it." In the above-quoted letter, the 
gentlemen of the Board of Health relate the circumstance 
in the same terms; they speak of inspections, of experiments 
made with this matter upon dogs, without any injurious 
effect; and add, that they beheve such temerity proceeded 

1* . . . ' Et nos quoque ivimus viseje. Maculae erant sparsim inasquali- 
terque manantes, veluti si quis haustam spongia saniem adspersissit, ira- 
pressissetve parieti: et ianuae passim ostiaque aedium eadem adspergine 
contaminata cernebantur.' — Page 75. 



536 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

rather from insolence than from any guilty design: an 
opinion which evinces that, up to this time, they retained 
sufficient tranquillity of mind not to see what really did not 
exist. Other contemporary records, not to reckon their tes- 
timony as to the truth of the fact, signify, at the same time, 
that it was at first the opinion of many, that this beplastering 
had been done in joke, in a mere frolic; none of them speak 
of any one who denied it ; and had there been any, they cer- 
tainly would have mentioned them, were it only to call them 
irrational. I have deemed it not out of place to relate and 
put together these particulars, in part little known, in part 
entirely unknown, of a celebrated popular delirium ; because 
in errors, and especially in the errors of a multitude, what 
seems to me most interesting and most useful to observe, 
is, the course they have taken, their appearances, and the 
ways by which they could enter men's minds, and hold sway 
there. 

The city, already tumultuously inclined, was now turned 
upside down : the owners of the houses, with lighted straw, 
burned the besmeared spots; and passers-by stopped, gazed, 
shuddered, murmured. Strangers, suspected of this alone, 
and at that time easily recognized by their dress, were ar- 
rested by the people in the streets, and consigned to prison. 
Here interrogations and examinations were made of cap- 
tured, captors, and witnesses ; no one was found guilty : men's 
minds were still capable of doubting, weighing, understand- 
ing. The Board of Health issued a proclamation, in which 
they promised reward and impunity to any one who would 
bring to light the author or authors of the deed. 'In any 
wise, not thinking it expedient' say these gentlemen in the 
letter we have quoted, which bears date the 21 st of May, but 
which was evidently written on the 19th, the day signified in 
the printed proclamation, ' that this crime shoidd by any 
means remain unpunished, speciallie in times so perilous and 
suspicious, we have, for the consolation and peace of the 
people, this dale published an edicte/ &c. In the edict, how- 
ever, there is no mention, at least no distinct one, of that 
rational and tranquillizing conjecture they had suggested to 
the governor : a reservation which indicates at once a fierce 
prejudice in the people, and in themselves a degree of obse- 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 537 

quiousness, so much the more blamable as the consequences 
might prove more pernicious. 

While the Board was thus making inquiries, many of the 
public, as is usually the case, had already found the answer. 
Among those who believed this to be a poisonous ointment, 
some were sure it was an act of revenge of Don Gonzalo 
Fernandez de Cordova, for the insults received at his de- 
parture ; some, that it was an idea of Cardinal Richelieu's to 
desolate Milan, and make himself master of it without 
trouble; others, again — it is not known with what motives — ■ 
would have that the Count Collalto was the author of the 
plot, or Wallenstein, or this or that Milanese nobleman. 
There wanted not too, as we have said, those who saw 
nothing in this occurrence but a mischievous jest, and at- 
tributed it to students, to gentlemen, to officers who were 
weary of the siege of Casale. It did not appear, however, 
as had been dreaded, that infection and universal slaughter 
immediately ensued: and this was probably the cause that 
this first fear began by degrees to subside, and the matter 
was, or seemed to be, forgotten. 

There was, after all, a certain number of persons not yet 
convinced that it was indeed the plague; and because, both 
in the Lazzaretto and in the city, some were restored to 
health, 'it was affirmed,' (the final arguments for an opinion 
contradicted by evidence are always curious enough,) ' it was 
affirmed by the common people, and even yet by many partial 
physicians, that it was not really the plague, or all would have 
died."* To remove every doubt, the Board of Health em- 
ployed an expedient conformable to the necessity of the case, 
a means of speaking to the eye, such as the times may have 
required or suggested. On one of the festal days of Whit- 
suntide, the citizens were in the habit of flocking to the 
cemetery of San Gregorio, outside the Porta Orientale, to 
pray for the souls of those who had died in the former con- 
tagion, and whose bodies were there interred ; and borrowing 
from devotion an opportunity of amusement and sight-seeing, 
every one went thither in his best and gayest clothing. One 
whole family, amongst others, had this day died of the plague. 
At the hour of the thickest concourse, in the midst of car- 
»« Tadino, p. 93. 



538 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

riages, riders on horseback, and foot-passengers, the corpses 
of this family were, by order of the Board, drawn naked on a 
car to the above-named burying-ground ; in order that the 
crowd might behold in them the manifest token, the revoking 
seal and symptom, of the pestilence. A cry of horror and 
consternation arose wherever the car was passing; a pro- 
longed murmur was predominant where it had passed, another 
murmur preceded it. The real existence of the plague was 
more believed : besides, every day it continued to gain more 
belief by itself; and that very concourse would contribute not 
a little to propagate it. 

First, then, it was not the plague, absolutely not — by no 
means: the very utterance of the term was prohibited. Then, 
it was pestilential fevers : the idea was indirectly admitted 
in an adjective. Then, it was not the true nor real plague; 
that i^ to say, it was the plague, but only in a certain sense; 
not positively and undoubtedly the plague, but something to 
which no other name could be affixed. Lastly, it was the 
plague without doubt, without dispute : but even then another 
idea was appended to it, the idea of poison and witchcraft, 
which altered and confounded that conveyed in the word they 
could no longer repress. 

There is no necessity, I imagine, to be well versed in the 
history of words and ideas, to perceive that many others have 
followed a similar course. Heaven be praised that there have 
not been many of such a nature, and of so vast importance, 
which contradict their evidence at such a price, and to which 
accessories of such a character may be annexed ! It is possi- 
ble, however, both in great and trifling concerns, to avoid, in 
great measure, so lengthened and crooked a path, by following 
the method which has been so long laid down, of observing, 
listening, comparing, and thinking, before speaking. 

But speaking — this one thing by itself — is so much easier 
than all the others put together, that even we, I say, we men 
in general, are somewhat to be pitied. 



CHAPTER XXXII 

THE difficulty of providing for the mournful exigencies 
of the times becoming daily greater, it was resolved, 
on the 4th of May, in the Council of the Decurioni, 
to have recourse for aid and favour to the governor; and 
accordingly, on the 22nd, two members of that body were 
despatched to the camp, who represented to him the sufferings 
and poverty of the city : the enormous expenditure, the treas- 
ury exhausted and involved in debt, its future revenue in 
pledge, and the current taxes unpaid, by reason of the general 
impoverishment, produced by so many causes, and especially 
by the havoc of the military ; they submitted to his considera- 
tion that, according to laws and customs, which had never 
been repealed, and by a special decree of Charles V., the 
expenses of the pestilence ought to be defrayed from the 
king's exchequer: that, in the plague of 1576, the governor, 
the Marquis of Ayamonte, had not indeed remitted all the 
taxes of the Chamber, but had relieved the city with forty 
thousand scudi from that same Chamber; and, finally, they 
demanded four things :— that, as once before already, the 
taxes should not be exacted ; that the Chamber should grant 
some supplies of money; that the governor should acquaint 
the king with the misery of the city and the territory ; and 
that the duchy should be exempted from again quartering 
the military, as it had been already wasted and destroyed by 
the former troops. Spinola gave in reply condolences and 
fresh exhortations: he said he was sorry he did not happen 
to be in the city, that he might use all his endeavours for its 
reUef; but he hoped that all would be compensated for by 
the zeal of these gentlemen: that this was the time to expend 
without parsimony, and to do all they could by every means : 
and as to the express demands, he would provide for them in 
the best way the times and existing necessities would allow. 
Nor was there any further result : there were, indeed, more 
iourneys to and fro, new requisitions and replies; but I do not 
find that they came to any more determinate conclusions. 

639 



540 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

Some time later, when the plague was at its greatest height, 
the governor thought fit to transfer his authority, by letters 
patent, to the High Chancellor Ferrer, he having, as he said, 
to attend to the war. 

Together with this resolution, the Decicrioni had also taken 
another, to request the Cardinal Archbishop to appoint a 
solemn procession, bearing through the city the body of San 
Carlo. The good prelate refused, for many reasons. This con- 
fidence in an arbitrary measure displeased him ; and he feared 
that if the effect should not correspond to it, which he had 
also reason to fear, confidence would be converted into 
offence.'' He feared further, that, if indeed there were poison- 
ers about, the procession would afford too convenient oppor- 
tunities for crime; if there were not, such a concourse of 
itself should not fail to disseminate the contagion more 
widely: a danger far more real'^ For the suppressed sus- 
picions of poisonous ointments had, meanwhile, revived more 
generally and more violently than ever. 

People had again seen, or this time they fancied they had 
seen anointed walls, entrances to public buildings, doors of 
private houses, and knockers. The news of these discoveries 
flew from mouth to mouth ; and, as it happens even more 
than usually in great prepossessions, the report produced the 
same effect that the sight of it would have done. The minds 
of the populace, ever more and more embittered by the 
actual presence of suffering, and irritated by the pertinacity of 
the danger, embraced this belief the more willingly ; for anger 
burns to execute its revenge, and, as a very worthy man 
acutely observes on this same subject,' would rather attribute 
evils to human wickedness, tipon which it might vent its 
tormenting energies, than acknowledge them from a source 
which leaves no other remedy than resignation. A subtle, 
instantaneous, exceedingly penetrating poison, were words 
more than enough to explain the virulence, and all other 

1 Memoirs of successive Remarkable Events in Milan about the time of 
the Plague, in the year 1630, &c., compiled by D. Pio la Croce, Milan, 
1730. It is evidently taken from an unpublished writing of an author 
who lived at the time of the pestilence; if indeed it be not a simple edition, 
rather than a new compilation. 

2 ' Si unguenta scelerata et unctores in urbe essent ... Si non essent 
. . . Certiusque adeo Tm]um.'—Ripamonti, p. 185. 

^ P. Verri. Observations on Torture: Italian Writers on Modern Political 
Economy, vol. xvii. p. 205. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 541 

most mysterious and unusual accompaniments of the con- 
tagion. It was said that this venom was composed of toads, 
of serpents, of saliva and matter from infectedpersons, of worse 
still, of everything, in short, that wild and perverse fancy 
could invent which was foul and atrocious. To these was 
added witchcraft, by which any effect became possible, every 
objection lost its force, every difficulty was resolved. If the 
anticipated effects had not immediately followed upon the 
first anointing, the reason was now clear — it had been the 
imperfect attempt of novices in the art of sorcery; now it 
was more matured, and the wills of the perpetrators were 
more bent upon their infernal project. Now, had any one 
still maintained that it had been a mere trick, had any one still 
denied the existence of a conspiracy, he would have passed 
for a deluded or obstinate person ; if, indeed, he would not 
have fallen under the suspicion of being interested in divert- 
ing public scrutiny from the truth, of being an accomplice, a 
poisoner. The term very soon became common, solemn, tre- 
mendous. With such a persuasion, that poisoners there were, 
some must almost infallibly be discovered: all eyes were on 
the look-out; every act might excite jealousy; and jealousy 
easily became certainty, and certainty fury. 

Ripamonti relates two instances, informing us that he had 
selected them, not as the most outrageous among the many 
which daily occurred, but because, unhappily, he could speak 
of both as an eye-witness.* 

In the church of Sant' Antonio, on the day of I know not 
what solemnity, an old man, more than eighty years of age, 
was observed, after kneeling in prayer, to sit down, first, how- 
ever, dusting the bench with his cloak. * That old man is 
anointing the benches ! ' exclaimed with one voice some 
women, who witnessed the act. The people who happened 
to be in church, (in church !) fell upon the old man ; they tore 
his gray locks, heaped upon him blows and kicks, and dragged 
him out half dead, to convey him to prison, to the judges, to 
torture. ' I beheld him dragged along in this way,' says Ripa- 
monti, ' nor could I learn anything further about his end ; but, 
indeed, I think he could not have survived many moments.' 

The other instance, which occurred the following day, was 
* Pag^e 96. 



542 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

equally strange, but not equally fatal. Three French youths, 
in company, one a scholar, one a painter, and the third a 
mechanic, who had come to see Italy, to study its antiquities, 
and to try and make money, had approached I know not 
exactly what part of the exterior of the cathedral, and stood 
attentively surveying it. One, two, or more passers-by, 
stopped, and formed a little group, to contemplate and keep 
their eye on these visitors, whom their costume, their head- 
dress, and their wallets, proclaimed to be strangers, and, what 
was worse. Frenchmen. As if to assure themselves that it 
was marble, they stretched out their hands to touch it. This 
was enough. They were surrounded, seized, tormented, and 
urged by blows to prison. Fortunately, the hall of justice was 
not far from the cathedral, and by still greater good fortune, 
they were found innocent, and set at liberty. 
' Nor did such things happen only in the city ; the frenzy had 
spread like the contagion. The traveller who was met by 
peasants out of the highway, or on the public road was seen 
loitering and amusing himself, or stretched upon the ground 
to rest; the stranger in whom they fancied they saw some- 
thing singular and suspicious in countenance or dress — these 
were poisoners; at the first report of whomsoever it might be 
• — at the cry of a child — the alarm was given, and the people 
flocked together ; the unhappy victims were pelted with stones, 
or, if taken, were violently dragged to prison. And the 
prison, up to a certain period, became a haven of safety." 

But the Decurioni, not discouraged by the refusal of the 
judicious prelate, continued to repeat their entreaties, which 
were noisily seconded by the popular vote. The Bishop per- 
severed for some time, and endeavoured to dissuade them: 
so much and no more could the discretion of one man do 
against the judgment of the times, and the pertinacity of the 
many. In this state of opinion, with the idea of danger, con- 
fused as it was at that period, disputed, and very far from 
possessing the evidence which we have for it, it will not be 
difficult to comprehend how his good reasons might, even in 
his own mind, be overcome by the bad ones of others. 
Whether, besides, in his subsequent concession, a feebleness 
of will had or had not any share, is a mystery of the human 

^ Ripamonti, pp. 91, 92. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 543 

heart. Certainly if, in any case, it be possible to attribute 
error wholly to the intellect, and to reheve the conscience of 
responsibility, it is when one treats of those rare persons, 
(and, assuredly, the Cardinal was of the number,) throughout 
whose whole life is seen a resolute obedience to conscience, 
without regard to temporal interests of any kind. On the repe- 
tition of the entreaties, then, he yielded, gave his consent to 
the procession, and further, to the desire, the general eager- 
ness, that the urn which contained the relics of San Carlo 
should afterwards remain exposed for eight days to the public 
concourse, on the hig'- altar of the cathedral. 

I do not find that the Board of Health, or the other authori- 
ties, made any opposition or remonstrance of any kind. The 
above-named Board merely ordered some precautions, which, 
without obviating the danger, indicated their apprehension 
of it. They gave more strict regulations about the admission 
of persons into the city, and to insure the execution of them, 
kept all the gates shut : as also, in order to exclude from the 
concourse, as far as possible, the infected and suspected, they 
caused the doors of the condemned houses to be nailed up; 
which, so far as the bare assertion of a writer — and a writer 
of those times — is to be valued in such matters, amounted to 
about five hundred." 

Three days were spent in preparations; and on the nth of 
June, which was the day fixed, the procession started by early 
dawn from the cathedral. A long file of people led the way, 
chiefly women, their faces covered with ample silken veils, 
and many of them barefoot, and clothed in sackcloth. Then 
followed bands of artificers, preceded by their several banners, 
the different fraternities, in habits of various shades and 
colours; then came the brotherhoods of monks, then the 
secular clergy, each with the insignia of his rank, and bearing 
a lighted wax taper. In the centre, amidst the brilliancy of 
stiirmore numerous torches, and the louder tones of the 
chanting, came the coffin, under a rich canopy, supported 
alternately by four canons, most pompously attired. Through 
the crystal sides appeared the venerated corpse, the limbs 
enveloped in splendid pontifical robes, and the skull covered 

6 Alleviation of the State of Milan, &c., by C. G. Cavatio della Somaglia. 
Milan, 1653, p. 248. 



544 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

with a mitre; and under the mutilated and decomposed fea- 
tures, some traces might still be distinguished of his former 
countenance, such as it was represented in pictures, and as 
some remembered seeing and honouring it during his life. 
Behind the mortal remains of the deceased pastor, (says Ripa- 
monti,^ from which we chiefly have taken this description,) 
and near him in person, as well as in merit, blood, and dignity, 
came the Archbishop Federigo. Then followed the rest of the 
clergy, and close behind them the magistrates, in their best 
robes of office; after them the nobility, some sumptuously 
apparelled, as for a solemn celebration of worship, others in 
token of humiliation, clothed in mourning, or walking bare- 
foot, covered with sackcloth, and the hoods drawn over their 
faces, all bearing large torches. A mingled crowd of people 
brought up the rear. 

The whole street was decked out as at a festival ; the rich 
had brought out their most showy decorations; the fronts of 
the poorer houses were oramented by their wealthier neigh- 
bours, or at the public expense; here and there, instead of 
ornaments, or over the ornaments themselves, were leafy 
branches of trees ; everywhere were suspended pictures, mot- 
toes, and emblematical devices; on the window-ledges were 
displayed vases, curiosities of antiquity, and valuable orna- 
ments ; and in every direction were torches. At many of these 
windows the sick, who were put under sequestration, beheld 
the pomp, and mingled their prayers with those of the pas- 
sengers. The other streets were silent and deserted, save where 
some few listened at the windows to the floating murmur in 
the distance ; while others, and among these even nuns might 
be seen, mounted on the roofs, perchance they might be able to 
distinguish afar off the coffin, the retinue — in short, something. 

The procession passed through all quarters of the city; at 
each of the crossways, or small squares, which terminate the 
principal streets in the suburbs, and which then preserved the 
ancient name of carrohii, now reduced to only one, they made 
a halt, depositing the coffin near the cross which had been 
erected in every one by San Carlo, during the preceding pesti- 
lence, some of which are still standing; so that they returned 
not to the cathedral till considerably past midday. 

' Pages 62-66. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 545 

But lo ! the day following, just while the presumptuous con- 
fidence, nay, in many, the fanatical assurance prevailed, that 
the procession must have cut short the progress of the plague, 
the mortality increased in every class, in every part of the 
city, to such a degree, and with so sudden a leap, that there 
was scarcely any one who did not behold in the very pro- 
cession itself, the cause and occasion of this fearful increase. 
But, oh wonderful and melancholy force of popular preju- 
dices ! the greater number did not attribute this effect to so 
great and so prolonged a crowding together of persons, nor 
to the infinite multiplication of fortuitous contact, but rather 
to the facilities afforded to the poisoners of executing their 
iniquitous designs on a large scale. It was said that, mixing 
in the crowd, they had infected with their ointment everybody 
they had encountered. But as this appeared neither a suffi- 
cient nor appropriate means for producing so vast a mortality, 
which extended itself to every rank ; as, apparently, it had not 
been possible, even for an eye the most watchful, and the most 
quick-sighted from suspicion, to detect any unctuous matter, 
or spots of any kind, during the march, recourse was had for 
the explanation of the fact to that other fabrication, already 
ancient, and received at that time into the common scientific 
learning of Europe, of magical and venomous powders ; it was 
said that these powders, scattered along the streets, and chiefly 
at the places of halting, had clung to the trains of the dresses, 
and still more to the feet of those who had that day, in great 
numbers, gone about barefoot. 'That very day, therefore, 
of the procession,' says a contemporary writer,* ' saw piety 
contending with iniquity, perfidy with sincerity, and loss with 
acquisition.' It was, on the contrary, poor human sense con- 
tending with the phantoms it had itself created. 

From that day, the contagion continued to rage with in- 
creasing violence ; in a little while, there was scarcely a house 
left untouched ; and the population of the Lazzaretto, accord- 
ing to Somaglia, above quoted, amounted to from two to 
twelve thousand. In the course of time, according to almost 
all reports, it reached sixteen thousand. On the fourth of 
July, as I find in another letter from the conservators of health 

8Agostino Lampugnano: Of the Pestilence that happened in Milan, in 
the year 1630. Milan, 1634, p. 44* 

^Q 18 — VOL. XXI 



546 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

to the Governor, the daily mortaHty exceeded five hundred. 
Still later, when the plague was at its height, it reached, and 
for some time remained at, twelve or fifteen hundred, accord- 
ing to the most common computation; and if we may credit 
Tadino,* it sometimes even exceeded three thousand five 
hundred. 

It may be imagined what must now have been the difficulties 
of the Decurioni, upon whom was laid the burden of providing 
for the public necessities, and repairing what was still re- 
parable in such a calamity. They were obliged every day to 
replace, every day to augment, public officers of numerous 
kinds: Monatti, by which denomination (even then at Milan 
of ancient date, and uncertain origin,) were designated those 
who were devoted to the most painful and dangerous services 
of a pestilence, viz. taking corpses from the houses, out of the 
streets, and from the Lazzaretto, transporting them on carts 
to the graves, and burying them ; carrying or conducting the 
sick to the Lazzaretto, overlooking them there, and burning 
and cleansing infected or suspected goods : Apparitori^" whose 
special office it was to precede the carts, warning passengers, 
by the sound of a little bell, to retire : and Commissarii, who 
superintended both the other classes, under the immediate 
orders of the Board of Health. The Council had also to keep 
the Lazzaretto furnished with physicians, surgeons, medicines, 
food, and all the other necessaries of an infirmary ; and to 
provide and prepare new quarters for the newly arising needs. 
For this purpose, they had cabins of wood and straw hastily 
constructed, in the unoccupied space within the Lazzaretto ; 
and another Lazzaretto was erected, also of thatched cabins, 
with an enclosure of boards, capable of containing four thou- 
sand persons. These not being sufficient, two others were 
decreed; they even began to build them, but, from the de- 
ficiency of means of every kind, they remained uncompleted. 
Means, men, and courage failed, in proportion as the necessity 
for them increased. And not only did the execution fall so 
far short of the projects and decrees — not only were many 
too clearly acknowledged necessities deficiently provided for, 
even in words, but they arrived at such a pitch of impotency 
and desperation, that many of the most deplorable and urgent 

* Pages 11S-117. "A bailiff of the meanest kind. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 547 

cases were left without succour of any kind. A great number 
of infants, for example, died of absolute neglect, their mothers 
having been carried off by the pestilence. The Board of 
Health proposed that a place of refuge should be founded for 
these, and for destitute lying-in women, that something might 
be done for them, but they could obtain nothing. 'The 
Decurioni of the Citie,' says Tadino, ' were no less to be 
pityed, who found themselves harassed and oppressed by the 
Soldierie without any Bounds or Regarde whatsoever, as well 
as those in the unfortunate Duchy, seeing that they could get 
no Help or Prouision from the Gouernor, because it happened 
to be a Tyme of War, and they must needs treat the Soldierie 
well."' So important was the taking of Casale ! so glorious 
appeared the fame of victory, independent of the cause, of the 
object for which they contended! 

So, also, an ample but solitary grave which had been dug 
near the Lazzaretto being completely filled with corpses ; and 
fresh bodies, which became day by day more numerous, re- 
maining therefore in every direction unburied, the magis- 
trates, after having in vain sought for hands to execute the 
melancholy task, were compelled to acknowledge that they 
knew not what course to pursue. Nor was it easy to conjec- 
ture what would be the end, had not extraordinary relief 
been afforded. The President of the Board of Health solic- 
ited it almost in despair, and with tears in his eyes, from those 
two excellent friars who presided at the Lazzaretto; and 
Father Michele pledged himself to clear the city of dead 
bodies in the course of four days. At the expiration of eight 
days he had not only provided for the immediate necessity, 
but for that also which the most ominous foresight could have 
anticipated for the future. With a friar for his companion, 
and with officers granted him for this purpose by the Presi- 
dent, he set oft' out of the city in search of peasants; and 
partly by the authority of the Board of Health, partly by the 
influence of his habit and his words, he succeeded in col- 
lecting two hundred, whom he distributed in three separate 
places, to dig the ample graves. He then despatched monatti 
from the Lazzaretto to collect the dead, and on the day ap- 
pointed his promise was fulfilled. 

"^age 117. 



548 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

On one occasion, the Lazzaretto was left destitute of 
physicians; and it was only by offers of large salaries and 
honours, with much labour, and considerable delay, that 
they could procure them; and even then their number 
was far from sufficient for the need. It was often so 
reduced in provisions as to raise fears that the inmates 
would actually have to die of starvation; and more than 
once, while they were trying every method of raising money 
or supplies, with scarcely a hope of procuring them, — not 
to say of procuring them in time, — abundant assistance 
would most opportunely be afforded by the unexpected gift 
of some charitable private individual; for, in the midst 
of the common stupefaction and indifference to others, aris- 
ing from continual apprehensions for themselves, there were 
yet hearts ever awake to the call of charity, and others in 
whom charity first sprang up on the failure of all earthly 
pleasures; as, in the destruction and flight of many whose 
duty it was to superintend and provide, there were others, 
ever healthy in body and unshaken in courage, who were 
always at their posts; while some there even were who, 
urged by compassion, assumed, and perseveringly sustained,' 
cares to which their office did not call them. 

The most general and most willing fidelity to the trying 
duties of the times, was conspicuously evinced by the clergy. 
In the Lazzarettoes, and throughout the city, their assistance 
never failed; where suffering was, there were they; they 
were always to be seen mingled with and interspersed among 
the faint and dying— faint and dying sometimes themselves. 
Together with spiritual succours, they were lavish, as far 
as they could be, of temporal ones, and freely rendered 
whatever services happened to be required. More than 
sixty parish-priests, in the city alone, died of the contagion : 
about eight out of every nine. 

Federigo, as was to be expected from him, gave to all 
encouragement and example. Having seen almost the whole 
of his archiepiscopal household perish around him, solicited 
by relatives, by the first magistrates, and by the neighbour- 
ing princes, to withdraw from danger to some solitary 
country-seat, he rejected this counsel and entreaties in the 
spirit with which he wrote to his clergy: 'Be ready to 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 549 

abandon this mortal life, rather than the family, the children, 
committed to us; go forward into the plague, as to life, 
as to a reward, when there is one soul to be won to Christ."'^ 
He neolected no precautions which did not impede him 
in his duty; on which point he also gave instructions and 
regulations to his clergy; and, at the same time, he minded 
not, nor appeared to observe, danger, where it was necessary 
to encounter it, in order to do good. Without speaking of 
the ecclesiastics, whom he was constantly with, to commend 
and regulate their zeal, to arouse such as were lukewarm 
in the work, and to send them to the posts where others 
had perished, it was his wish that there should always be 
free access for any one who had need of him. He visited 
the Lazzarettoes, to administer consolation to the sick, and 
encouragement to the attendants; he traversed the city, 
carrying relief to the poor creatures sequestrated in their 
houses, stopping at the doors and under the windows to 
listen to their lamentations, and to offer in exchange words 
of comfort and encouragement. In short, he threw him- 
self into, and lived in the midst of the pestilence, and was 
himself astonished, at the end, that he had come out un- 
injured. 

Thus, in public calamities and in long-continued dis- 
turbances of settled habits, of whatever kind, there may 
always be beheld an augmentation, a sublimation of virtue; 
but, alas ! there is never wanting, at the same time, an aug- 
mentation, far more general in most cases, of crime. This 
occasion was remarkable for it. The villains, whom the 
pestilence spared and did not terrify, found in the common 
confusion, and in the relaxation of all public authority, a 
new opportunity of activity, together with new assurances 
of impunity; nay, the administration of public authority 
itself came, in a great measure, to be lodged in the hands 
of the worst among them. Generally speaking, none de- 
voted themselves to the ofifices of monatti and apparitori 
but men over whom the attractions of rapine and license 
had more influence than the terror of contagion, or any 
natural object of horror. 

The strictest orders were laid upon these people; the 

^ Ripamonti, p. 164. 



550 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

severest penalties threatened to them ; stations were assigned 
them; and commissaries, as we have said, placed over them: 
over both, again, magistrates and nobles were appointed 
in every district^ with authority to enforce good govern- 
ment summarily on every opportunity. Such a state of 
things went on and took effect up to a certain period; but, 
with the increase of deaths and desolation, and the terror 
of the survivors, these officers came to be, as it were, 
exempted from all supervision; they constituted themselves, 
the monatti especially, arbiters of everything. They entered 
the houses like masters, like enemies; and, not to mention 
their plunder, and how they treated the unhappy creatures 
reduced by the plague to pass through such hands, they laid 
them — these infected and guilty hands — on the healthy- 
children, parents, husbands, wives, threatening to drag 
them to the Lazzaretto, unless they redeemed themselves, 
or were redeemed, with money. At other times they se.t 
a price upon their services, refusing to carry away bodies 
already corrupted, for less than so many scitdi. It was 
believed (and between the credulity of one party and the 
wickedness of the other, belief and disbelief are equally 
uncertain), it was believed, and Tadino asserts it,'" that 
both monatti and apparitori purposely let fall from their 
carts infected clothes, in order to propagate and keep up 
the pestilence, which had become to them a means of living, 
a kingdom, a festival. Other wretches, feigning to be 
monatti, and carrying little bells tied to their feet, as these 
officers were required to do, to distinguish themselves and 
to give warning of their approach, introduced themselves 
into houses, and there exercised all kinds of tyranny. Some 
of these, open and void of inhabitants, or inhabited only 
by a feeble or dying creature, were entered by thieves 
in search of booty, with impunity; others were surprised 
and invaded by bailiffs, who there committed robberies and 
excesses of every description. 

Together with the wickedness, the folly of the people 
increased: every prevailing error received more or less 
additional force from the stupefaction and agitation of 
their minds, and was more widely and more precipitately 

^^ Page 102. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 551 

applied: while every one served to strengthen and aggravate 
that special mania about poisonings, which, in its effects 
and ebullitions, was often, as we have seen, itself another 
crime. The image of this supposed danger beset and tor- 
tured the minds of the people far more than the real and 
existing danger. 

'And while/ says Ripamonti, ' corpses, scattered here and 
there, or lying in heaps, ever before the eyes and surround- 
ing the steps of the living, made the whole city like one 
immense sepulchre, a still more appalling symptom, a more 
intense deformity, was their mutual animosity, their licen- 
tiousness, and their extravagant suspicions. , . . Not only 
did they mistrust a friend, a guest; but those names which 
are the bonds of human affection, husband and wife, father 
and son, brother and brother, were words of terror, and, 
dreadful and infamous to tell! the domestic board, the 
nuptial bed, were dreaded as lurking-places, as receptacles 
of poison.^* 

The imaginary vastness and strangeness of the plot dis- 
tracted people's understandings, and subverted every reason 
for reciprocal confidence. Besides ambition and cupidity, 
which were at first supposed to be the motives of the poison- 
ers, they fancied, they even believed at length, that there 
was something of diabolical, voluptuous delight in this 
anointing — an attraction predominating over the will. The 
ravings of the sick, who accused themselves of what they 
had apprehended from others, were considered as revela- 
tions, and rendered anything, so to say, credible of any one. 
And it would have far greater weight even than words, if 
it happened that delirious patients kept practising those 
manoeuvres which it was imagined must be employed by 
the poisoners : a thing at once very probable, and tending 
to give better grounds for the popular persuasion and the 
assertions of numerous writers. In the same way, during 
the long and mournful period of judicial investigation on 
the subject of witchcraft, the confessions and those not 
always extorted of the accused, served not a little to promote 
and uphold the prevailing opinion on this matter; for 
when an opinion obtains a* prolonged and extensive sway, 

. " rage 8i. 



552 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

it is expressed in every manner, tries every outlet, and 
runs through every degree of persuasion; and it is difficult 
for all, or very many, to believe for a length of time that 
something extraordinary is being done, without some one 
coming forward who believes that he has done it. 

Among the stories which this mania about poisoning 
gave rise to, one deserves to be mentioned for the credit 
it acquired, and the extended dissemination it met with. 
It was related, not, however, by everybody in the same 
way (for that would be too remarkable a privilege for 
stories), but nearly so, that such a person, on such a day, 
had seen a carriage and six standing in the Square of the 
Cathedral, containing some great personage with a large 
suite, of lordly aspect, but dark and sunburnt, with fiery 
eyes, hair standing on end, and a threatening expression 
about the mouth. The spectator, invited to enter the 
equipage, complied ; and after taking a turn or two, stopped 
and dismounted at the gate of a palace, where, entering 
with the rest, he beheld horrors and delights, deserts and 
gardens, caverns and halls; and in these were phantoms 
seated in council. Lastly, huge chests of money were 
shown to him, and he was told that he might take as much 
as he liked, if, at the same time, he would accept a little 
vessel of unctuous matter, and go about, anointing with it, 
through the city. Having refused to agree to the terms, he 
instantly found himself in the place whence he had been 
taken. 

This story, generally believed there by the people, and, 
according to Ripamonti, not sufficiently ridiculed by many 
learned men," travelled through the whole of Italy, and 
even further: an engraving of it was made in Germany; 
and the electoral Archbishop of Mayence wrote to Car- 
dinal Federigo, to ask what he must believe of the wonder- 
ful prodigies related at Milan, and received for answer 
that they were mere dreams. 

Of equal value, if not exactly of the same nature, were 
the dreams of the learned; and equally disastrous were 
they in their effects. Most of them saw the announcement 
at once and cause of their troubles, in a comet which ap- 

^^ Page Tj. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 553" 

peared in the year 1628, and in a conjunction of Saturn 
with Jupiter; 'the aforesaide Conjunction,' writes Tadino, 
' inclining so clearlie over this Yeare 1630, that every Bodie 
could understand it. Mortales parat morhos, miranda vi- 
dentur.'^^ This prediction, fabricated I know not when 
nor by whom, was upon the tongue, as Ripamonti informs 
us," of everybody who was able to utter it. Another comet, 
which unexpectedly appeared in the June of the very year 
of the pestilence, was looked upon as a fresh warning, as 
an evident proof, indeed, of the anointing. They ransacked 
books, and found only in too great abundance examples of 
pestilence produced, as they said, by human efforts; they 
quoted Livy, Tacitus, Dionysius, Homer, and Ovid, and 
the numberless other ancients who have related or alluded 
to similar events; and of modern writers they had a still 
greater abundance. They cited a hundred other authors, 
who have treated theoretically, or incidentally spoken, of 
poisons, sorceries, unctions, and powders ; Cesalpino was 
quoted, Cardano, Grevino, Salio, Pareo, Schenchio, Zachia, 
and finally, that fatal Delrio, who, if the renown of authors 
were in proportion to the good or evil produced by their 
works, would assuredly be one of the most eminent; that 
Delrio, whose Disquisitions on Magic (a digest of all that 
men, up to his time, had wildly devised on this subject), 
received as the most authoritative and irrefragable text-book, 
was, for more than a century, the rule and powerful im- 
pulse of legal, horrible, and uninterrupted murders. 

From the inventions of the illiterate vulgar, educated 
people borrowed what they could accommodate to their ideas ; 
from the inventions of the educated the vulgar borrowed 
what they could understand, and as they best could; and of 
all, an undigested, barbarous jumble was formed of public 
irrationality. 

But that which still further excites our surprise is to 
see the physicians, those physicians, I say, who from the 
beginning had believed in the plague, and especially Ta- 
dino, who had predicted it, beheld it enter, and kept his 
eye, so to say, on its progress ; who had affirmed and pub- 
lished that it was the plague, and was propagated by con- 
" Page 56, " Page 273. 



554 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

tact, and that if no opposition were made to it, it would 
become a general infection, — to see him, I say, draw a 
certain argument from these very consequences, for poison- 
ous and magical unctions : to behold him, who in Carlo 
Colonna, the second that died in Milan, had marked de- 
lirium as an accompaniment of the malady, afterwards 
adduce in proof of unctions and a diabolical plot an incident 
such as this : — two witnesses deposed to having heard one 
of their friends, under the influence of the contagion, relate 
how some persons came one night into his room, to proffer 
him health and riches, if he would anoint the houses in the 
vicinity, and how, on his repeated refusal, they had taken 
their departure, and left in their stead a wolf under the 
bed, and three great cats upon it, ' which remained there 
till break of day/^ Had such a method of drawing con- 
clusions been confined to one individual, it might have been 
attributed to his own extreme simplicity and want of common 
sense, and it would not have been worth our while to men- 
tion it; but, as it was received by many, it is a specimen of 
the human mind; and may serve to show how a well-regu- 
lated and reasonable train of ideas may be disordered by 
another train of ideas thrown directly across it. In other 
respects this Tadino was one of the most renowned men of 
his time at Milan. 

Two illustrious and highly deserving writers have as- 
serted that Cardinal Federigo entertained some doubt about 
these poisonings." We would gladly give still more complete 
commendation to the memory of this excellent and benevolent 
man, and represent the good prelate in this, as in many 
other things, distinguished from the multitude of his con- 
temporaries; but we are constrained, instead, to remark in 
him another example of the powerful influence of public 
opinion, even on the most exalted minds. It is evident, — 
from the way, at least, in which Ripamonti relates his 
thoughts on the subject, — that from the beginning he had 
some doubts about it; and throughout he always considered 
that credulity, ignorance, fear, and a wish to excuse their 
long negligence in guarding against the contagion, had a 

18 Pp. 123, 124. 

19 Muratori, on the Treatment of the Pestilence, Modena, 1714. P- n?- 
P, Verri, in the treatise before quoted, p. 261. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 555 

considerable share in this opinion: that there was a good 
deal of exaggeration in it; but at the same time something 
of truth. There is a small work on this pestilence, written by 
his own hand, preserved in the Ambrosian Library; and the 
following is one among many instances where such a senti- 
ment is expressed: — 'On the method of compounding and 
spreading such poisonous ointments many and various things 
are reported, some of which we consider as true, while 
others appear to us entirely imaginary.'^ 

Some there were who, to the very last, and ever after- 
wards, thought that it was all imagination; and we learn 
this, not from themselves, for no one had ever sufficient 
hardihood to expose to the public an opinion so opposed 
to that of the public; but from those writers who deride 
it, or rebuke it, or confute it, as the prejudice of a few, 
an error which no one had ever dared to make the subject 
of open dispute, but which nevertheless existed; and we 
learnt it, too, from one who had derived it from tradition. 
' I have met with sensible and well-informed people in 
Milan,' says the good Muratori in the above-quoted pas- 
sage, ' who had received trustworthy accounts from their 
ancestors, and who were by no means persuaded of the 
truth of the facts concerning these poisonous ointments.' 
It seems there was a secret outlet for truth, some remain- 
ing domestic confidence; good sense still existed; but it 
was kept concealed, for fear of the popular sense. 

The magistrates, reduced in number daily, and disheart- 
ened and perplexed in everything, turned all their little 
vigilance, so to say, all the little resolution of which they 
were any longer capable, in search of these poisoners. And 
too easily did they think they had found them. 

The judicial sentences which followed in consequence 
were not, certainly, the first of such a nature; nor, indeed, 
can they be considered as uncommon in the history of juris- 
prudence. For, to say nothing of antiquity, and to mention 
only some instances in times more nearly approaching those 
of which we are treating, in Palermo, in 1526; in Geneva, 

=0 ' Unguenta vero haec aiebant componi conficique multifariam, fraudisque 
vias esse complures: quarum sane fraudum et artium, ahis quidem assenti- 
mur, alias vero fictas fuisse commentitiasque arbitramur. -De i-este quje, 
Mediolani, anno 1630, magnam "stragem edidit. cap. v. 



556 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

in 1530, afterwards in 1545, and again in 1574; in Casale 
Monferrato, in 1536; in Padua, in 1555; in Turin, in 1599; 
and again in Turin, this same year 1630 ; here one, there many 
unhappy creatures were tried, and condemned to punish- 
ments the most atrocious, as guilty of having propagated the 
plague by means of powders, ointments, witchcraft, or all 
these together. But the affair of the so-called anointings at 
Milan, as it was, perhaps, the longest remembered and the 
most widely talked of, so, perhaps, it is the most worthy 
of observation ; or, to speak more exactly, there is further 
room to make observations upon it, from the remaining ex- 
istence of more circumstantial and niore extensive docu- 
ments. And although a writer we have, not long ago, com- 
mended,^ has employed himself on them, yet, his object 
having been, not so much to give the history, properly speak- 
ing, as to extract thence political suggestions, for a still 
more worthy and important purpose, it seemed to us that the 
history of the plague might form the subject of a new work. 
But it is not a matter to be passed over in a few words; 
and to treat it with the copiousness it deserves would carry 
us too far beyond our limits. Besides, after we should have 
paused upon all these incidents, the reader would certainly 
no longer care to know those that remain in our narrative. 
Reserving, therefore, for another publication the account 
of the former, we will, at length, return to our characters, 
not to leave them again till we reach the end. 

** P. Verri, work before mentioned. 



CHAPTER XXXIII 

ONE night, towards the end of August, exactly during 
the very height of the pestilence, Don Rodrigo re- 
turned to his residence at Milan, accompanied by 
the faithful Griso, one of the three or four who remained 
to him out of his whole household. He was returning from 
a company of friends, who were accustomed to assemble at 
a banquet, to divert the melancholy of the times; and on 
each occasion, some new friends were there, some old ones 
missing. That day he had been one of the merriest of the 
party; and among other things, had excited a great deal of 
laughter among the company, by a kind of funeral eulogium 
on the Count Attilio, who had been carried off by the plague 
two days before. 

In walking home, however, he felt a languor, a depres- 
sion, a weakness in his limbs, a difficulty of breathing, and 
an inward burning heat, which he would willingly have at- 
tributed entirely to the wine, to late hours, to the season. 
He uttered not a syllable the whole way ; and the first word 
was, when they reached the house, to order Griso to light 
him to his room. When they were there, Griso observed 
the wild and heated look of his master's face, his eyes al- 
most starting from their sockets, and peculiarly brilliant: 
he kept, therefore, at a distance ; for, in these circumstances 
every ragamuffin was obliged to look for himself, as the 
saying is, with a medical eye. 

' I'm well, you see,' said Don Rodrigo, who read in Griso's 
action the thoughts which were passing in his mind. ' I'm 
very well; but I've taken . . . I've taken, perhaps, a little 
too much to drink. There was some capital wine ! . . . But 
with a good night's sleep, it will go off. I'm very sleepy . . . 
Take that light away from before my eyes, it dazzles me . . . 
it teases me ! , . .' 

' It's all the effects of the wine,' said Griso, still keeping 
at a distance; 'but lie down. quickly, for sleep will do you 
good.' 

557 



558 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

' You're right ; if I can sleep . . . After all, I'm well 
enough. Put that little bell close by my bed, if I should 
want anything in the night: and be on the watch, you 
know, perchance you should hear me ring. But I shan't 
want anything , . . Take away that cursed light directly,' 
resumed he, while Griso executed the order, approaching 
him as little as possible. ' The ! it plagues me ex- 
cessively ! ' Griso then took the light, and wishing his 
master good night, took a hasty departure, while Rodrigo 
buried himself under the bed-clothes. 

But the counterpane seemed to him like a mountain. 
He threw it off, and tried to compose himself to rest; for, 
in fact, he was dying of sleep. But scarcely had he closed 
his eyes, when he awoke again with a start, as if some 
wickedly disposed person were giving him a shake; and he 
felt an increase of burning heat, an increase of delirium. 
His thoughts recurred to the season, the Avine, and his de- 
bauchery ; he would gladly have given them the blame of 
all; but there was constantly substituted, of its own accord, 
for these ideas, that which was then associated with all, 
which entered, so to say, by every sense, which had been 
introduced into all the conversations at the banquet, since 
it was much easier to turn it into ridicule, than to get out 
of its reach — the pestilence. 

After a long battle, he at length fell asleep, and began 
to dream the most gloomy and disquieting dreams in the 
world. He went on from one thing to another, till he 
seemed to find himself in a large church, in the first ranks, 
in the midst of a great crowd of people; there he was won- 
dering how he had got there, how the thought had ever 
entered his head, particularly at such a time; and he felt 
in his heart excessively vexed. He looked at the bystanders ; 
they had all pale, emaciated countenances, with staring and 
glistening eyes, and hanging lips ; their garments were tat- 
tered, and falling to pieces ; and through the rents appeared 
livid spots, and swellings. ' Make room, you rabble ! ' he 
fancied he cried, looking towards the door, which was far, 
far away; and accompanying the cry with a threatening ex- 
pression of countenance, but without moving a limb; nay, 
even drawing up his body to avoid coming in contact with 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 559 

those polluted creatures, who crowded only too closely upon 
him on every side. But not one of the senseless beings 
seemed to move, nor even to have heard him; nay, they 
pressed still more upon him; and, above all, it felt as if some 
one of them with his elbow, or whatever it might be, was 
pushing against his left side, between the heart and the arm- 
pit, where he felt a painful and, as it were, heavy pressure. 
And if he writhed himself to get rid of this uneasy feeling, 
immediately a fresh unknown something began to prick him 
in the very same place. Enraged, he attempted to lay his 
hand on his sword and then it seemed as if the thronging 
of the multitude had rais-^d it up level with his chest, and 
that it was the hilt of it which pressed so in that spot; 
and the moment he touched it he felt a still sharper stitch. 
He cried out, panted, and would have uttered a still louder 
cry, when behold! all these faces turned in one direction. 
He'looked the same way, perceived a pulpit, and saw slowly 
rising above its edge something round, smooth, and shining; 
then'^rose, and distinctly appeared, a bald head; then two 
eyes, a face, a long and white beard, and the upright figure 
of a friar, visible above the sides down to the girdle; it 
was friar Cristoforo. Darting a look around upon his audi- 
ence, he seemed to Don Rodrigo to fix his gaze on him, at 
the same time raising his hand in exactly the attitude he had 
assumed in that room on the ground floor in his palace. 
Don Rodrigo then himself hfted up his hand in fury, and 
made an effort, as if to throw himself forward and grasp 
that arm extended in the air ; a voice, which had been vainly 
and secretly struggling in his throat, burst forth in a great 
howl ; and he awoke. He dropped the arm he had in reality 
uplifted, strove, with some difficulty, to recover the right 
meaning of everything, and to open his eyes, for the light 
of the already advanced day gave him no less uneasiness 
than that of the candle had done; recognized his bed and his 
chamber ; understood that all had been a dream ; the church, 
the people, the friar, all had vanished— all, but one thing— 
that pain in his left side. Together with this, he felt^ a 
frightful acceleration of palpitation at the heart, a noise 
and humming in his ears, a raging fire within, and a weight 
in all his limbs, worse than when he lay down. He hesitated 



560 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

a little before looking at the spot that pained him ; at length, 
he uncovered it, and glanced at it with a shudder : — there was 
a hideous spot, of a livid purple hue. 

The man saw himself lost; the terror of death seized him, 
and, with perhaps still stronger feeling, the terror of be- 
coming the prey of monatti, of being carried off, of being 
thrown into the Lazzaretto. And as he deliberated on the 
way of avoiding this horrible fate, he felt his thoughts be- 
come more perplexed and obscure ; he felt the moment draw- 
ing near that would leave him only consciousness enough to 
reduce him to despair. He grasped the bell, and shook it 
violently. Griso, who was on the alert, immediately an- 
swered its summons. He stood at some distance from the 
bed, gazed attentively at his master, and was at once con- 
vinced of what he had conjectured the night before. 

' Griso ! ' said Don Rodrigo, with difficulty, raising him- 
self, and sitting up in his bed, ' you have always been my 
trusty servant.' 

' Yes, Signor.' 

' I have always dealt well by you.' 

' Of your bounty.' 

' I think I may trust you . . .' 

'The !' 

' I am ill, Griso.' 

' I had perceived it.' 

' H I recover, I will heap upon you more favours than 
I have ever yet done.' 

Griso made no answer, and stood waiting to see to what 
all these preambles would lead. 

' I will not trust myself to anybody but you,' resumed 
Don Rodrigo; 'do me a kindness, Griso.' 

' Command me,' said he, replying with this usual formula 
to that unusual one. 

' Do you know where the surgeon, Chiodo, lives ? ' 

' I know very well' 

' He is a worthy man, who, if he is paid, will conceal 
the sick. Go and find him ; tell him I will give him four, 
six scudi a visit ; more, if he demands more. Tell him to 
come here directly; and do the thing cleverly, so that nobody 
may observe it.' 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 561 

' Well thought of; said Griso ; ' I go, and return.' 

'Listen, Griso; give a drop of water first. I am so 
parched with thirst, I can bear it no longer.' 

' Signor, no,' replied Griso ; ' nothing without the doctor s 
leave.* These are tickHsh complaints; there is no time to 
be lost. Keep quiet— in the twinkling of an eye I'll be 
here with Chiodo.' . 

So saying, he went out, impatiently shuttmg the door 

behind him. . . 

Don Rodrigo lay down, and accompanied him, in imag- 
ination, to Chiodo's house, counting the steps, calculating 
the time. Now and then he would turn to look at his left 
side but quickly averted his face with a shudder. After 
some time, he began to listen eagerly for the surgeon's 
arrival; and this effort of attention suspended his sense 
of illness, and kept his thoughts in some degree of order. 
All of a sudden, he heard a distant sound, which seemed, 
however, to come from the rooms, not the street. He 
listened still more intently ; he heard it louder, more quickly 
repeated; and with it a trampling of footsteps. A horrid 
suspicion rushed into his mind. He sat up, and gave still 
greater attention ; he heard a dead sound in the next room 
as if a weight were being cautiously set down. He threw 
his legs out of bed, as if to get up; peeped at the door, saw 
it open, and beheld before his eyes, and advancing towards 
him, two ragged and filthy red dresses, two ill-looking faces 
—in one word, two monatti. He distinguished, too, half of 
Griso's face, who, hidden behind the almost closed door, re- 
mained there on the lookout. 

'Ah, infamous traitor! . . . Begone, you rascal! Bion- 
dino ! 'Carlotto ! help ! I'm murdered ! ' shouted Don Rodrigo. 
He thrust one hand under the bolster in search of a pistol; 
grasped it; drew it out; but, at his first cry, the monatti 
had rushed up to the bed; the foremost is upon him before 
he can do anything further; he wrenches the pistol out of 
his hand, throws it to a distance, forces him to lie down 
again, and keeps him there, crying with a grin of fury 
mingled with contempt, 'Ah, villain! against the monatti! 
against the officers of the Board ! against those who perform 
works of mercy I ' 



S62 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

* Hold him fast till we carry him off,' said his companion, 
going towards a trunk. Griso then entered, and began with 
him to force open the lock. 

' Scoundrel ! ' howled Don Rodrigo, looking at him from 
under the fellow who held him down, and writhing himself 
under the grasp of his sinewy arms. ' First let me kill that 
infamous rascal ! ' said he to the monatti, ' and afterwards 
do with me what you will.' Then he began to shout with 
loud cries to his other servants: but in vain he called; for 
the abominable Griso had sent them all off with pretended 
orders from their master himself, before going to propose 
to the monatti to come on this expedition, and divide the 
spoil. 

' Be quiet, will you,' said the villain who held him down 
upon the bed to the unfortunate Don Rodrigo. And turning 
his face to the two who were seizing the booty, he cried to 
them, ' Do your work like honest fellows.' 

' You ! you ! ' roared Don Rodrigo to Griso, whom he be- 
held busying himself in breaking open, taking out money and 
clothes, and dividing them. * You ! after ! . . , Ah, fiend of 
hell ! I may still recover ! I may still recover ! ' Griso spoke 
not, nor, more than he could help, even turned in the direc- 
tion whence these words proceeded. 

* Hold him fast,' said the other monatto; ' he's frantic' 
The miserable being became so indeed. After one last and 
more violent effort of cries and contortions, he suddenly sank 
down senseless in a swoon; he still, however, stared fixedly, 
as if spell-bound; and from time to time gave a feeble 
struggle, or uttered a kind of howl. 

The monatti took him, one by the feet and the other by 
the shoulders, and went to deposit him on a hand-barrow 
which they had left in the adjoining room; afterwards one 
returned to fetch the booty; and then, taking up their mis- 
erable burden, they carried all away. 

Griso remained behind to select in haste whatever more 
might be of use to him ; and making them up into a bundle, 
took his departure. He had carefully avoided touching the 
monatti, or being touched by them; but in the last hurry of 
plunder, he had taken from the bed-side his master's clothes 
and shaken them, without thinking of anything but of see- 



I PROMESSI SPOSl 563 

ine whether there were money in them. He was forced to 
think of it, however, the next day; for, while making merry 
in a public-house, he was suddenly seized with a cold shiver, 
his eyes became clouded, his strength failed him, and he sank 
to the ground. Abandoned by his companions, he fell into 
the hands of the monatti, who, despoiling him of whatever 
he had about him worth having, threw him upon a car, on 
which he expired before reaching the Lazzaretto, whither 
his master had been carried. _ 

Leaving the latter, for the present, m this abode of suffer- 
ing we must now go in search of another,_ whose history 
would never have been blended with his, if it had not been 
forced upon him whether he would or not; indeed we may 
safely say, that neither one nor the other would have had 
any history at all:-I mean Renzo, whom we left in the new 
silk-mill under the assumed name of Antonio Rivolta. 

He had been there about five or six months if 1 am not 
mistaken, when, enmity having been openly declared between 
the Republic and the King of Spain, and therefore every ap- 
prehension of ill-offices and trouble from that quarter haying 
ceased. Bortolo eagerly went to fetch him away, and take 
him again into his own employment, both because he was 
fond of him, and because Renzo, being naturally intelligent, 
and skilful in the trade, was of great use to the factotum m 
a manufactory, without ever being able to aspire at that 
office himself, from his inability to write. As this reason 
weighed with him in some measure, we were obliged, there- 
fore to mention it. Perhaps the reader would rather have 
had 'a more ideal Bortolo: but what can I say? he must 
imagine one for himself. We describe him as he was 

From that time Renzo continued to work with him. More 
than once or twice, and especially after having received one 
of those charming letters from Agnese, he had felt a great 
fancy to enlist as a soldier, and make an end of it; nor were 
opportunities wanting; for just during that interval, the 
Republic often stood in need of men. The tempta ion had 
sometimes been the more pressing to Renzo, because they even 
talked of invading the Milanese; and it naturally appeared 
to him that it would be a fine thing to return in the guise of 
a conqueror to his own home, to see Lucia again, and for once 



564 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

come to an explanation with her. But, by clever manao-e- 
ment, Bortolo had always contrived to divert him from the 
resolution. 'If they have to go there,' he would say, 'they 
can go well enough without you, and you can go there after- 
wards at your convenience; if they come back with a broken 
head, won't it be better to have been out of the fray? There 
won't be wanting desperate fellows on the highway for rob- 
beries. And before they set foot there! ... As for me, I 
am somewhat incredulous ; these fellows bark ; but let them ; 
the Milanese is not a mouthful to be so easily swallowed. 
Spain is concerned in it, my dear fellow: do you know what 
it is to deal with Spain? St. Mark is strong enough at home: 
but it will take something more than that. Have patience; 
ar'n't you well off here ? . . . I know what you would say to 
me; but if it be decreed above that the thing succeed, rest 
assured it will succeed better by your playing no fooleries. 
Some saint will help you. Believe me, it's no business of 
yours. Do you think it would suit you to leave winding silk 
to go and murder? What would you do among such a set 
of people? It requires men who are made for it' 

At other times Renzo resolved to go secretly, disguised, 
and under a false name. But from this project, too, Bortolo 
always contrived to divert him with arguments that may 
be too easily conjectured. 

The plague having afterwards broken out in the Milanese 
territory, and even, as we have said, on the confines of the 
Bergamascan, it was not long before it extended itself hither, 
and ... be not dismayed, for I am not going to give another 
history of this: if any one wishes it, it may be found in a 
work by one Lorenzo Ghirardelli, written by public order ; a 
scarce and almost unknown work, however, although it con- 
tains, perhaps, more fully than all the rest put together, 
the most celebrated descriptions of pestilences: on so many 
things does the celebrity of books depend! What I would 
say is, that Renzo also took the plague, and cured himself, 
that is to say, he did nothing; he was at the point of death, 
but his good constitution conquered the strength of the 
malady: in a few days he was out of danger. With the 
return of life, its cares, its wishes, hopes, recollections, and 
designs, were renewed with double poignancy and vigour; 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 565 

which is equivalent to saying that he thought more than ev^er 
of Lucia. What had become of her, during the time that hfe 
was, as it were, an exception? And at so short a distance 
from her, could he learn nothing? And to remain, God knew 
how long! in such a state of uncertainty! And even when 
this should be removed, when all danger being over, he should 
learn that Lucia still survived; there would always remain 
that other knot, that obscurity about the vow.— I'll go myself ; 
I'll go and learn about everything at once,— said he to him- 
self, and he said it before he was again in a condition to 
steady himself upon his feet.— Provided she lives! Ah, if 
she lives! Til find her, that I will; I'll hear once from her 
own lips what this promise is, I'll make her see that it cannot 
hold good, and I'll bring her away with me, her, and that 
poor Agnese, if she's living ! who has always wished me well, 
and I'm sure she does so still. The capture! aha! the sur- 
vivors have something else to think about now. People go 
about safely, even here, who have on them . . . Will there 
have been a safe-conduct only for bailiffs? And at Milan, 
everybody says that there are other disturbances there. If I 
let so good an opportunity pass— (the plague! Only see 
how that revered instinct of referring and making sub- 
servient everything to ourselves, may sometimes lead us to 
apply words!) — I may never have such another! — 

It is well to hope, my good Renzo. Scarcely could he drag 
himself about, when he set off in search of Bortolo, who had 
so far succeeded in escaping the pestilence, and was still 
kept in reserve. He did not go into the house, but, calling 
to him from the street, made him come to the window. 

' Aha ! ' said Bortolo : ' you've escaped it, then ! It's well 
for you ! ' 

' I'm still rather weak in my limbs, you see, but as to the 
danger, it's all over.' 

' Ay, I'd gladly be in your shoes. It used to be everything 
to say,'" I'm well ; " but now it counts for very little. He who 
is able to say, " I'm better," can indeed say something ! ' 

Renzo expressed some good wishes for his cousin, and 
imparted to him his resolution. 

' Go, this time, and Heaven prosper you ! ' replied he. ' Try 
to avoid justice, as I shall* try to avoid the contagion; and. 



566 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

if it be God's will that things should go well with us both, 
we shall meet again.' 

' Oh, I shall certainly come back : God grant I may not 
come alone ! Well ; we will hope.' 

'Come back in company; for, if God wills, we will all 
work together, and make up a good party. I only hope you 
may find me alive, and that this odious epidemic may have 
come to an end ! ' 

* We shall see each other again, we shall see each other 
again ; we must see each other again ! ' 

' I repeat, God grant it ! ' 

For several days Renzo practised taking a little exercise, 
to assay and recruit his strength ; and no sooner did he deem 
himself capable of performing the journey, than he prepared 
to set out. Under his clothes he buckled a girdle round his 
waist, containing those fifty scudi upon which he had never 
laid a finger, and which he had never confided to any one, 
not even to Bortolo ; he took a few more pence with him, 
which he had saved day after day, by living very economi- 
cally; put under his arm a small bundle of clothes, and in his 
pocket a character, with the name of Antonio Rivolta, which 
had been very willingly given him by his second master; in 
one pocket of his trowsers he placed a large knife, the least 
that an honest man could carry in those days ; and set off on 
his peregrinations, on the last day of August, three days 
after Don Rodrigo had been carried to the Lazzaretto. He 
took the way towards Lecco, wishing, before venturing him- 
self in Milan, to pass through his village, where he hoped to 
find Agnese alive, and to begin by learning from her some 
of the many things he so ardently longed to know. 

The few who had recovered from the pestilence were, 
among the rest of the population, indeed like a privileged 
class. A great proportion of the others languished or died; 
and those who had been hitherto untouched by the contagion 
lived in constant apprehension of it. They walked cautiously 
and warily about, with measured steps, gloomy looks, and 
haste at once and hesitation : for everything might be a 
weapon against them to inflict a mortal wound. These, on 
the contrary, almost certain of safety (for to have the plague 
twice was rather a prodigious than a rare instance), went 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 567 

about in the midst of the contagion, freely and boldly, like 
the knights during one part of the middle ages ; who, encased 
in steel, wherever steel might be, and mounted on chargers, 
themselves defended as impenetrably as possible, went ram- 
bling about at hazard (whence their glorious denommation 
of k'nights-errant), among a poor pedestrian herd of burgh- 
ers and villagers, who, to repel and ward off their blows, had 
nothing on them but rags. Beautiful, sapient, and useful 
profession! a profession fit to make the first figure m a 
treatise on political economy ! 

With such security, tempered, however, by the anxiety 
with which our readers are acquainted, and by the frequent 
spectacle and perpetual contemplation of the universal calam- 
ity, Renzo pursued his homeward way, under a beautiful sky 
and through a beautiful country, but meeting nothing, after 
passing wide tracts of most mournful solitude, but some wan- 
dering shadow rather than a living being, or corpses carried 
to the grave, unhonoured by funeral rites, unaccompanied 
by the funeral dirge. About noon he stopped in a little wood, 
to eat a mouthful of bread and meat which he had brought 
with him. Of fruit, he had only too much at his command 
the whole length of the way— figs, peaches, plums, and apples 
at will ; he had only to enter a vineyard, and extend his arm 
to gather them from the branches, or to pick them up from 
the ground, which was thickly strewn with them ; for the year 
was extraordinarily abundant in fruit of every kind, and 
there was scarcely any one to take any care of it. The 
grapes even hid themselves beneath the leaves, and were left 
for the use of the first comer. 

Towards evening he discovered his own village. At this 
sight, though he must have been prepared for it, he felt his 
heart begin to beat violently ; he was at once assailed by a 
host of mournful recollections and presentiments : he seemed 
to hear ringing in his ears those inauspicious tolls of the bell 
which had, as it were, accompanied and followed him in 
his flight from the village ; and, at the same time, he heard, 
so to say, the deathlike silence which actually reigned around. 
He experienced still stronger agitation on entering the 
churchyard; and worse still awaited him at the end of his 
walk; for the spot he had fixed upon as his resting-place, was 



568 ALESSANDRO MANZONl 

the dwelling which he had once been accustomed to call 
Lucia's cottage. Now it could not be, at the best, more than 
Agnese's; and the only favour he begged of Heaven was, 
that he might find her living and in health. And in this cot- 
tage he proposed asking for a bed, rightly conjecturing that 
his own would no longer be a place of abode for anything 
but rats and polecats. 

To reach that point, therefore, without passing through 
the village, he took a little by-path that ran behind it, the 
very one along which he had gone, in good company, on that 
notorious night when he tried to surprise the Curate. About 
half-way stood, on one side, his own house, and on the 
other, his vineyard; so that he could enter both for a 
moment in passing, to see a little how his own affairs were 
going on. 

He looked forward, as he pursued his way, anxious, and 
at the same time afraid, to meet with any one; and after a 
few paces, he saw a man seated in his shirt on the ground, 
resting his back against a hedge of jessamine, in the attitude 
of an idiot; and from this, and afterwards from his coun- 
tenance, he thought it was that poor simpleton Gervase, who 
had gone as the second witness in his ill-fated expedition. 
But going a little nearer, he perceived that it was, instead, 
the sprightly Tonio, who had brought his brother with him 
on that occasion. The contagion, robbing him at once of 
mental as well as bodily vigour, had developed in his look 
and every action the slight and veiled germ of likeness which 
he bore to his half-witted brother. 

' Oh Tonio I ' said Renzo, stopping before him, ' is it you? ' 

Tonio raised his eyes, without moving his head. 

' Tonio, don't you know me ? ' 

' Whoever has got it, has got it,' answered Tonio, gazing 
at him with open mouth. 

' It's on you, eh ? poor Tonio : but don't you know me 
again ? ' 

' Whoever has got it, has got it,' replied he, with a kind of 
idiotic smile. Seeing he could draw nothing further from 
him, Renzo pursued his way, still more disconsolate. Sud- 
denly he saw, turning the corner, and advancing towards 
him, a black object, which he quickly recognized as Don 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 569 

Abbondio. He walked slowly, carrying his stick like one 
who is alternately carried by it; and the nearer he ap- 
proached, the more plainly might it be discerned, in his 
pale and emaciated countenance, and in every look, that he, 
too, had had to pass through his share of the storm. He 
looked askance at Renzo ; it seemed, and it did not seem, like 
him ; there was something like a stranger in his dress ; but it 
was a stranger from the territory of Bergamo. 

It is he, and nobody else! — said he to himself, raising 

his hands to Heaven, with a motion of dissatisfied surprise, 
and the staff he carried in his right hand suddenly checked 
in its passage through the air; and his poor arms might be 
seen shaking in his sleeves, where once there was scarcely 
room for them. Renzo hastened to meet him, and made a 
low reverence ; for, although they had quitted each other in 
the way the reader knows, he was always, nevertheless, his 
Curate. 

' Are you here — you ? ' exclaimed the latter. 

'I am indeed, as you see. Do you know anything of 
Lucia ? ' 

'What do you suppose I can know? I know nothing. 
She's at Milan, if she's still in this world. But you . . .' 

'And Agnese, is she alive? ' 

' She may be ; but who do you suppose can tell ? She's not 
here. But . . .' 

' Where is she? ' 

' She's gone to live at Valsassina, among her relations at 
Pasture, you know; for they say the plague doesn't make 
the havoc there it does here. But you, I say . . .' 

'Oh, I'm very sorry. And Father Cristoforo?. . .' 

' He's been gone for some time. But . . .' 

' I know that, they wrote and told me so much ; but I want 
to know if he hasn't yet returned to these parts.' 

' Nay ; they've heard nothing further about him. But 
you . . .' 

' I'm very sorry to hear this too,' 

' But you, I say, what, for Heaven's sake, are you coming 
to do in this part of the world? Don't you know about that 
affair of your apprehension?' 

' What does it matter ? They've something else to thmk 



570 AI.ESSANDRO MANZONI 

about. I was determined to come for once, and see about 
my affairs. And isn't it well enough known ? . . .' 

* What would you see about, I wonder ? for now there's 
no longer anybody, or anything. And is it wise of you, with 
that business of your apprehension, to come hither exactly 
to your own village, into the wolf's very mouth ? Do as an 
old man advises you, who is obliged to have more judgment 
than you, and who speaks from the love he bears you ; buckle 
on your shoes well, and set off, before any one sees you, to 
where you came from ; and if you've been seen already, 
return only the more quickly. Do you think that this is the 
air for you ? Don't you know they've been to look for you ? 
that they've ransacked everything, and turned all upside 
down ? . . .' 

* I know it too well, the scoundrels ! ' 
' But then . . .' 

' But if I tell you I don't care ! And is that fellow alive 
yet? is he here? ' 

' I tell you nobody's here ; I tell you, you mustn't think 
about things here ; I tell you . . .' 

' I ask if he's here? ' 

' Oh, sacred Heaven ! Speak more quietly. Is it possible 
you've all that fieriness about you after so many things have 
happened ? ' 

' Is he here, or is he not? ' 

' Well, well, he's not here. But the plague, my son, the 
plague ! Who would go travelling about in such times as 
these?' 

' If there was nothing else but the plague in this world 
. . , I mean for myself: I've had it, and am free.' 

'Indeed, indeed! what news is this? When one has es- 
caped a danger of this sort, it seems to me he should thank 
Heaven, and . . .' 

'And so I do.' 

' And not go to look for others, I say. Do as I advise.' 

' You've had it too, Signor Curate, if I mistake not.' 

' I had it ! Obstinate and bad enough it was ! I'm here 
by miracle; I need only say it has left me in the state you 
see. Now, I had just need of a little quiet, to set me to 
rights again. I was beginning to be a little better ... In 



1 PROMESSI SPOSI 571 

the name of Heaven, what have you come to do here? Go 

back . . .' 

'You're ahvavs at me with that go back. As for gohig 
back I have reasons enough for not stirring. You say, what 
are you come for? what are you come for? I've come home. 
' Home , . .' 

' Tell me, are manv dead here ? . . / _ ^ 

' Alas, alas ' ' exclaimed Don Abbondio ; and begmnuig 
with Pe'rpetua, he entered upon a long enumeration of indi- 
viduals and entire families. Renzo had certamly expected 
something of the kind, but, on hearing so many names of 
acquaintances, friends, and relatives, (he had lost his parents 
many years before,) he stood overcome with grief, his head 
hung down, and only exclaiming from time to time, ' Poor 
fellow ! poor girl ! poor creatures ! ' 

'You see/ continued Don Abbondio; 'and it isn t yet 
over If those who are left don't use their senses this time, 
and drive the whims out of their brains, there's nothing for 
it but the end of the world.' ^ 

' Don't be afraid; I've no intentions of stopping here. 
' Ah ! thank Heaven, you at last understand ! And you d 
better make up your mind to return ■ • ■' 
' Don't you trouble vourself about that.' 
' What f didn't you once want to do something more foolish 
than this even? ' 

' Never mind me. I sav ; that is my business ; I m more than 
seven years old. I hope, at any rate, you won't tell anybody 
you've seen me. You are^a priest; I am one of your 
flock ; you won't betray me ? ' • i i . t 

' I understand,' said Don Abbondio, sighing pettishly, i 
understand. You would ruin yourself and me too. You 
haven't gone through enough already. I suppose; and i 
haven't gone through enough either. I understand, I under- 
stand.' And continuing to mutter these last words between 
his teeth, he again resumed his way. 

Renzo stood there, chagrined and discontented, thinking 
where he could find a lodging. In the funereal list recounted 
by Don Abbondio, there was a family of peasants, who had 
been all swept off by the pestilence, excepting one youth, 
about Renzo's own age, who had been his companion from 



572 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

infancy; the house was out of the village, a very little way 
off. Hither he determined to bend his steps and ask for a 
night's lodging. 

He had nearly reached his own vineyard, and was soon 
able to infer from the outside in what state it was. Not a 
single tree, not a single leaf, which he had left there was 
visible above the wall. If anything blossomed there, it was 
all what had grown during his absence. He went up to the 
opening, (of a gate there was no longer the least sign;) he 
cast a glance around : poor vineyard ! For two successive 
winters the people of the neighbourhood had gone to chop 
firewood * in the garden of that poor fellow,' as they used 
to say. Vines, mulberry-trees, fruits of every kind, all had 
been rudely torn up, or cut down to the trunk. Vestiges, 
however, of former cultivation still appeared; young shoots, 
in broken lines, which retained, nevertheless, traces of their 
now desolated rows; here and there stumps and sprouts of 
mulberry, fig, peach, cherry, and plum-trees; but even these 
seemed overwhelmed and choked by a fresh, varied, and 
luxuriant progeny, born and reared without the help of man. 
There was a thick mass of nettles, ferns, tares, dog-grass, 
rye-grass, wild oats, green amaranths, succory, wild sorrel, 
fox-glove, and other similar plants ; all those, I mean, which 
the peasant of every country has included in one large class 
at his pleasure, denominating them weeds. There was a med- 
ley of stalks, each trying to out-top the others in the air, or 
rivalling its fellow in length upon the ground — aiming, in 
short, to secure for itself the post of honour in every direc- 
tion; a mixture of leaves, flowers, and fruit, of a hundred 
colours, forms, and sizes ; ears of corn, Indian corn, tufts, 
bunches, and heads of white, yellow, red, and blue. In the 
midst of this medley, other taller and more graceful, though 
not, for the most part, more valuable plants, were promi- 
nently conspicuous; the Turkish vine soared above all the 
rest, with its long and reddish branches, its large and mag- 
nificent dark-green leaves, some already fringed with purple 
at the top, and its bending clusters of grapes; adorned below 
with berries of bluish-grey tinge, higher up of a purple hue, 
then green, and at the very top with whitish little flowers. 
There was also the bearded yew, with its large rough leaves 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 573 

down to the ground, the stem rising perpendicularly to the 
sky, and the long pendent branches scattered, and, as it were, 
bespangled with bright yellow blossoms; thistles, too, with 
rough and prickly leaves and calyxes, from which issued 
little tufts of white or purple flowers, or else light and silvery 
plumes, which were quickly swept away by the breeze. Here 
a little bunch of bindweed, climbing up and twining around 
fresh suckers from a mulberry-tree, had entirely covered 
them with its pendent leaves, which pointed to the ground, 
and adorned them at the top with its white and delicate 
little bells. There a red-berried bryony had twisted itself 
among the new shoots of a vine, which, seeking in vain a 
firmer support, had reciprocally entwined its tendrils around 
its companion, and, mingling their feeble stalks, and their 
not very dissimilar leaves, they mutually drew each other 
upward, as often happens with the weak, who take one 
another for their stay. The bramble intruded everywhere; 
it stretched from one bough to another ; now mounting, and 
again turning downward, it bent the branches, or straight- 
ened them, according as it happened ; and crossing before the 
very threshold, seemed as if it were placed there to dispute 
the passage even with the owner. 

But he had no heart to enter such a vineyard, and probably 
did not stand as long looking at it as we have taken to make 
this little sketch. He went forward; a little way off stood 
his cottage ; he passed through the garden, trampling under- 
foot by hundreds the intrusive visitors with which, like the 
vineyard, it was peopled and overgrown. He just set foot 
within the threshold of one of the rooms on the ground 
floor ; at the sound of his footsteps, and on his looking in, 
there was a hubbub, a scampering to and fro of rats, a rush 
under the rubbish that covered the whole floor; it was the 
relics of the German soldiers' beds. He raised his eyes, and 
looked round upon the walls; they were stripped of plaster, 
filthy, blackened with smoke. He raised them to the ceiling 
— a mass of cobwebs. Nothing else was to be seen. He took 
his departure, too, from this desolate scene, twining his 
fingers in his hair; returned through the garden, retracing 
the path he had himself made a moment before, took another 
little lane to the left, which -led into the fields, and, without 

HC 37— VOL. XXI 



574 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

seeing or hearing a living creature, arrived close to the house 
he had designed as hi:? place of lodging. It was already 
evening; his friend was seated outside the door on a small 
wooden bench, his arms crossed on his breast, and his eyes 
fixed upon the sky, like a man bewildered by misfortunes, 
and rendered savage by long solitude. Hearing a footstep, 
he turned round, looked who was coming, and to what he 
fancied he saw in the twilight, between the leaves and 
branches, cried in a loud voice, as he stood up and raised 
both his hands, 'Is there nobody but me? didn't I do enough 
yesterday? Let me alone a little, for that, too, will be a 
work of charity.' 

Renzo, not knowing what this meant, replied to him, 
calling him by name. 

' Renzo . . .' said he, in a tone at once of exclamation 
and interrogation. 

' Myself,' said Renzo, and they hastened to meet each other. 

'Is it really you?' said his friend, when they were near. 
' Oh, how glad I am to see you ? Who would have thought 
it? I took you for Paolin de' Morti,^ who is always coming 
to torment me to go and bury some one. Do you know I 
am left alone? — alone ! alone ! as a hermit ! ' 

' I know it too v/ell,' said Renzo. And interchanging in 
this manner, and crowding upon one another, welcomings, 
and questions, and answers, they went into the house to- 
gether. Here, without interrupting the conversation, his 
friend busied himself in doing some little honour to his guest, 
as he best could on so sudden a warning, and in times like 
those. He set some water on the fire, and began to make 
the polenta; but soon gave up the pestle to Renzo, that he 
might proceed with the mixing, and went out, saying, ' I'm 
all by myself, you see, all by myself! ' 

By and by he returned with a small pail of milk, a little^ 
salt meat, a couple of cream-cheeses, and some figs and 
peaches; and all being ready, and the polenta poured out 
upon the trencher, they sat down to table, mutually thanking 
each other, one for the visit, the other for the reception he 
met with. And, after an absence of nearly two years, they 
suddenly discovered that they were much greater friends 

■ One o£ the friars of the Order of Death. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 575 

than they ever thought they were when they saw each other 
almost every day; for, as the manuscript here remarks, 
events had occurred to both which make one feel what a cor- 
dial to the heart is kindly feeling, both that which one ex- 
periences oneself, and that which one meets with in others. 

True, no one could supply the place of Agnese to Renzo, 
nor console him for her absence, not only on account of the 
old and special affection he entertained for her, but also 
because, among the things he was anxious to clear up, one 
there was of which she alone possessed the key. He stood 
for a moment in doubt whether he should not first go in 
search of her, since he was so short a distance off ; but, con- 
sidering that she would know nothing of Lucia's health, he 
kept to his first intention of going at once to assure himself 
of this, to confront the one great trial, and afterwards to 
bring the news to her mother. Even from his friend, how- 
ever"^ he learnt many things of which he was ignorant, and 
gained some light on many points with which he was but 
partially acquainted, both about Lucia's circumstances,^ the 
prosecutions instituted against himself, and Don Rodngo's 
departure thence, followed by his whole suite, since which 
time he had not been seen in the neighbourhood; in short, 
about all the intricate circumstances of the whole affair. 
He learnt also (and to him it was an acquisition of no little 
importance) to pronounce properly the name of Don Fer- 
rante's family ; Agnese, indeed, had written it to him by her 
secretary; but Heaven knows how it was written, and the 
Bergamascan interpreter had read it in such a way, — had 
given him such a word,— that, had he gone with it to seek 
direction to his house in Milan, he would probably have 
found no one who could have conjectured for whom he was 
making inquiry. Yet this was the only clue he possessed 
that could put him in the way of learning tidings of Lucia. 
As to justice, he was ever more and more convinced that 
this was a hazard remote enough not to give him much con- 
cern: the Signor Podesta had died of the plague; who knew 
when a substitute would be appointed? the greater part of 
the bailiffs were carried off ; .and those that remained had 
something else to do than look after old matters. He also 
related to his friend the vicissitudes he had undergone, and 



576 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

heard in exchange a hundred stories about the passage of 
the army, the plague, the poisoners, and other wonderful 
matters. ' They are miserable things,' said his friend, ac- 
companying Renzo into a little room which the contagion 
had emptied of occupants ; ' things which we never could 
have thought to see, and after which we can never expect 
to be merry again all our lives ; but nevertheless, it is a re- 
lief to speak of them to one's friends.' 

By break of day they were both down-stairs; Renzo 
equipped for his journey, with his girdle hidden under his 
doublet, and the large knife in his pocket, but otherwise light 
and unencumbered, having left his little bundle in the care of 
his host. " If all goes well v/ith me,' said he; 'if I find her 
alive; if . . . enough . . . I'll come back here; I'll run over 
Pasturo to carry the good news to poor Agnese, and then, 
and then . . . But if, by ill-luck, by ill-luck which God for- 
bid ! . . . then I don't know what I shall do ; I don't know 
where I shall go : only, assuredly, you will never see me 
again in these parts ! ' And, as he said so, standing in the 
doorway which led into the fields, he cast his eyes around, 
and contemplated, with a mixed feeling of tenderness and 
bitter grief, the sun-rising of his own country, which he had 
not seen for so long a time. His friend comforted him with 
bright hopes and prognostications, and made him take with 
him some little store of provision for that day; then, accom- 
panying him a mile or two on his way, he took his leave with 
renewed good wishes. 

Renzo pursued his way deliberately and easily, as all he 
cared for was to reach the vicinity of Milan that day, so 
that he might enter next morning early, and immediately 
begin his search. The journey was performed without acci- 
dent ; nor was there anything which particularly attracted 
his attention, except the usual spectacles of misery and 
sorrow. He stopped in due time, as he had done the day 
before, in a grove, to refresh himself and take breath. 
Passing through Monza, before an open shop where bread 
was displayed for sale, he asked for two loaves, that he might 
not be totally unprovided for under any circumstances. The 
shopkeeper, beckoning to him not to enter, held out to him, 
on a little shovel, a small basin containing vinegar and water, 



1 PROMESSI SPOSI 577 

into which he desired him to drop the money in payment; 
he did so ; and then the two loaves were handed out to him, 
one after another, with a pair of tongs, and deposited by 
Renzo one in each pocket. 

Towards evening he arrived at Greco, without, however, 
knowing its name ; but, by the help of some little recollection 
of the places which he retained from his former journey, and 
his calculation of the distance he had already come from 
Monza, he guessed that he must be tolerably near the city, 
and therefore left the high-road and turned into the fields 
in search of some cascinotto, where he might pass the night; 
for with inns he was determined not to meddle. He found 
more than he looked for : for seeing a gap in a hedge which 
surrounded the yard of a cow-house, he resolved at any rate 
to enter. No one was there : he saw in one corner a large 
shed with hay piled up beneath it, and against this a ladder 
was reared ; he once more looked round, and then, mounting 
at a venture, laid himself down to pass the night there, and 
quickly fell asleep, not to awake till morning. When he awoke 
he crawled towards the edge of this great bed, put his head 
out, and seeing no one, descended as he had gone up, went 
out where he had come in, pursued his way through little by- 
paths, taking the cathedral for his polar star; and, after a 
short walk, came out under the walls of Milan, between the 
Porta Orientale and the Porta Nuova, and rather nearer 
to the latter. 



HC • 1 9 — VOL. XXI 



CHAPTER XXXIV 

AS to the way of entering the city, Renzo had heard, m 

i\ general terms, that there were very strict orders not 
-*--^ to admit persons without a certificate of health; but 
that, in fact, it was easy enough for any one to effect an 
entrance who at all knew how to help himself, and to seize 
opportunities. So it was; and, letting alone the general 
causes why every order, in those days, was so imperfectly 
executed; letting alone the particular ones, which rendered 
the rigorous execution of this so impracticable, Milan was 
now reduced to such a pass that no one could see of what 
use it was to defend it, or against what it was to be defended; 
and whoever came thither might be considered rather to 
risk his own health than to endanger that of the inhabitants. 

Upon this information, Renzo's intention was to attempt 
a passage at the first gate upon which he might happen to 
light; and if any obstacle presented itself, to go round outside, 
until he found another more easy of access. And Heaven 
knows how many gates he thought Milan must have ! 

Arrived, then, before the walls, he stood still to look about 
him, as one does who, not knowing which way will be the 
best way to bend his steps, seems as if he awaited and asked 
direction from anything. But he could discover nothing 
either way but two reaches of a winding road, and before 
him a part of the wall : in no quarter was there a symptom 
of a human being, except that in one spot, on the platform, 
might be seen a dense column of black and murky smoke, 
which expanded itself as it mounted, and curled into ample 
circles, and afterwards dispersed itself through the gray and 
motionless atmosphere. They were clothes, beds, and other 
articles of infected furniture which were being committed 
to the flam.es : and such melancholy conflagrations were con- 
stantly to be seen, not only here, but on every side of the 
wall. 

The weather was close, the air thick and heavy, the whole 
sky veiled by a uniform sluggish cloud of mist, which seemed 

578 



I PROMESSl SPOSI 579 

to forbid the sun, without giving promise of rain ; the country 
round was partly uncultivated, and the whole looked parched ; 
vecretation was 'stunted, and not a drop of dew moistened 
the drooping and withered leaves. This solitude, this deep 
silence so near a large mass of habitations, added new con- 
sternation to Renzo's disquietude, and rendered his thoughts 

still more gloomy. ■ i. u a 

Having stood thus for a moment, he took the right hand, 
at a venture, directing his steps, without bemg aware of it, 
towards the Porta Nuova, which, though close at hand he 
had not been able to perceive, on account of a bastion behmd 
which it was concealed. After taking a few steps, a tinkling 
of little bells fell upon his ear, which ceased and was re- 
newed at intervals, and then the voices of men. He went 
forward; and having turned the corner of the bastion, the 
first thing that met his eye on the esplanade before the gate 
was a small wooden house, or sentry-box, at the doorway of 
which stood a guard, leaning on his musket with a langmd 
and negligent air ; behind was a fence, composed of stakes, 
and beyond that the gate, that is to say, two wings of the 
wall connected by a roof above, which served to shelter the 
door both leaves of which were wide open, as was also the 
wicket of the palisade. Exactly before the openmg, however, 
stood a melancholy impediment— a handbarrow, placed upon 
the ground, on which two nionatti were laying out a poor 
creature to bear him away: it was the head of the custom- 
house officers, in whom the plague had been discovered just 
before Renzo stood still where he was, awaiting the issue. 
The party being gone, and no one appearing to shut the gate 
again, now seemed to be his time, he hastened forward; but 
the ill-looking sentinel called out to him: Holla! He 
instantly stopped, and winking at the man, drew out a half- 
ducat, and showed it to him. The fellow, either having 
already had the pestilence, or fearing it less than he loved 
half-ducats, beckoned to Renzo to throw it to him ; and soon 
seeing it roll at his feet, muttered, ' Go forward quickly 
Renzo gave him no occasion to repeat the order ; he passed 
the palisade, entered the gate, and went forward without any 
one observing or taking any notice of him ; except that wheri 
he had gone perhaps forty paces, he heard another holla 



580 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

from a toll-gatherer who was calling after him. This he 
pretended not to hear, and instead of turning round only- 
quickened his pace. ' Holla ! ' cried the collector again, in 
a tone, however, which rather indicated vexation than a 
determination to be obeyed; and finding he was not obeyed, 
he shrugged his shoulders and returned into the house, like 
one who was more concerned about not approaching too 
near to passengers, than inquiring into their affairs. 

The street inside this gate, at that time, as now, ran 
straight forward as far as the canal called the Naviglio: at 
the sides were hedges or walls of gardens, churches, convents, 
and a few private dwellings ; and at the end of this street, 
in the middle of that which ran along the brink of the canal, 
was erected a cross, called the Cross of Sant' Eusebio. And, 
let Renzo look before him as he would, nothing but this cross 
ever met his view. Arrived at the cross road, which divided 
the street about half way, and looking to the right and left, 
he perceived in the right hand one, which bore the name of 
Santa Teresa, a citizen who was coming exactly towards him, 
— A Christian, at last ! — said he to himself, and he imme- 
diately turned into the street, with the intention of making 
some inquiries of him. The man stared at and eyed the 
stranger who was advancing towards him, with a suspicious 
kind of look, even at a distance; and still more, when he 
perceived, that, instead of going about his own business, he 
was making up to him. Renzo, when he was within a little 
distance, took off his hat, like a respectful mountaineer, such 
as he was ; and holding it in his left hand, put he whole fist 
of his right into the empty crown, and advanced more directly 
towards the unknown passenger. But he, wildly rolling his 
eyes, gave back a step, uplifted a knotty stick he carried, 
with a sharp spike at the end like a rapier, and pointing it 
at Renzo's breast, cried, ' Stand oft' ! stand off ! ' 

' Oho ! ' cried the youth, in his turn, putting on his hat 
again ; and willing to do anything, as he afterwards said in 
relating the matter, rather than pick a quarrel at that mo- 
ment, he turned his back upon the uncourteous citizen, and 
pursued his way, or to speak more correctly, that in which 
he happened to have set off. 

The citizen also continued his route, trembling from head 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 581 

to foot, and every now and then looking behind him. And 
having reached home, he related how a poisoner had come 
up to him, with a meek and humble air, but with the look 
of an infamous impostor, and with a box of ointment or 
a paper of powder (he was not exactly certain which) in his 
hand in the crown of his hat, with the intention of playing 
a trick upon him, if he hadn't known how to keep him at a 
distance. ' If he had come one step nearer,' added he, ' I'd 
have run him through before he'd had time to touch me, 
the scoundrel ! The misfortune was that we were in so 
unfrequented a place; had it been in the heart of Milan, 
I'd have called people, and bid them seize him. I'm sure we 
should have found that infamous poison in his hat. But 
there, all alone, I was obliged to be content with saving 
myself, without running the risk of getting the infection ; 
for a little powder is soon thrown, and these people are re- 
markably dexterous : besides, they have the devil on their 
side. He'll be about Milan now : who knows what murders 
he is committing ! ' And as long as he lived, which was many 
years, every time that poisoners were talked of, he repeated 
his own instance, and added: 'They who still maintain that 
it wasn't true, don't let them talk to me : for absolute facts 
one couldn't help seeing.' 

Renzo, far from imagining what a stab he had escaped, and 
more moved with anger than fear, reflected, in walking, on 
this reception, and pretty nearly guessed the opinion which 
the citizen had formed of his actions; yet the thing seemed 
to him so beyond all reason, that he came to the conclusion 
that the man must have been half a fool. — It's a bad begin- 
ning, — thought he, however; — it seems as if there were an 
evil star for me at this Milan. Everything seconds me 
readily enough in entering ; but afterwards, when I am in, 
I find disagreeabilities all prepared for me. Well . . . with 
God's help ... if I find ... if I succeed in finding . . . 
Oh ! all will have been nothing ! — 

Having reached the foot of the bridge, he turned without 
hesitation to the left, along a road called San Marco's Street, 
as it seemed to him this must lead into the heart of the 
city. As he went along, he kept constantly on the look-out, 
in hopes of discovering some human creature; but he could 



582 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

see none, except a disfigured corpse in the little ditch which 
runs between the few houses (which were then still fewer) 
and the street, for a part of the way. Having passed this 
part, he heard some cries wliich seemed to be addressed to 
him; and turning his eyes upwards in the direction whence 
the sound came, he perceived, at a little distance, on the bal- 
cony of an isolated dwelling, a poor woman, with a group 
of children around her, who, calling to him, was beckoning 
also with her hand to entreat him to approach. He ran 
towards her ; and when he came near, ' O young man,' said 
the woman, ' in the name of the friends you've lost, have the 
charity to go and tell the commissary that we are here for- 
gotten ! They've shut us up in the house as suspected per- 
sons, because my poor husband is dead; they've nailed up 
the door, as you see ; and since yesterday morning nobody 
has brought us anything to eat : for the many hours I've 
stood here, I haven't been able to find a single Christian who 
would do me this kindness : r,:id these {>Oor little innocents 
are dying of hunger ! ' 

' Of hunger ! ' exclaimed Renzo ; and putting his hands into 
his pocket, ' See here ! ' said he, drawing out the two loaves : 
* send something down to take them.' 

' God reward you for it ! wait a moment,' said the woman ; 
and she went to fetch a little basket, and a cord by which 
to lower it for the bread. Renzo at this moment recollected 
the two loaves he had found near the Cross on his first 
instance into Milan, and thought to himself: — See! it's a res- 
titution, and perhaps better than if I'd found the real owner; 
for this surely is a deed of charity ! — 

*As to the commissary you mention, my good woman,' said 
he putting the bread into the basket, * I'm afraid I can't serve 
you at all ; for, to tell you the truth, I'm a stranger, and have 
no acquaintance with any one in this country. However, if 
I meet any one at all civil and human to speak to, I'll tell him.' 

The woman begged he would do so, and told him the name 
of the street, by which he might describe the situation. 

' You, too, I think,' resumed Renzo, * can do me a service, 
a real kindness, without any trouble. A family of high rank, 
very great signors here in Milan, the family of * * *; can 
you tell nie where they live ? ' 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 583 

* I know very well there is such a family,' replied the 
woman : ' but where it is I haven't the least idea. If you go 
forward into the city, in this direction, you'll find somebody 
who will show you the way. And don't forget to tell him 
about us ! ' 

' Don't fear it,' said Renzo ; and he pursued his way. 

At every step he heard increasing, and drawing nearer, a 
noise which he had already begun to distinguish as he stood 
talking with the woman : a noise of wheels and horses, with 
a tinkling of little bells, and every now and then a cracking 
of whips, and loud vociferations. He looked before him, but 
saw nothing. Having reached the end of this winding street, 
and got a view of the square of San Marco, the objects which 
first met his eye were two erect beams, with a rope and 
sundry pulleys, which he failed not immediately to recognize 
(for it was a familiar spectacle in those days) as the abom- 
inable instrument of torture. It was erected in that place, 
(and not only there, but in all the squares and most spacious 
streets,) in order that the deputies of every quarter, fur- 
nished with this most arbitrary of all means, might be able 
to apply it immediately to any one whom they should deem 
deserving of punishment, whether it were sequestrated per- 
sons who left their houses, or officers rebelling against or- 
ders, and whatever else it might be: it was one of those 
extravagant and inefficacious remedies, of which, in those 
days, and at that particular period especially, they were so 
extremely prodigal. 

While Renzo was contemplating this machine, wondering 
why it was erected in that place, and listening to the closely 
approaching sound, behold, he saw appearing from behind 
the corner of the church a man ringing a little bell : it was 
an apparitore ; and behind him two horses, which, stretching 
their necks and pawing with their hoofs, could with difficulty 
make their way ; and drawn by these a cart full of dead 
bodies, and after that another, and then another, and an- 
other; and on each hand monafti walking by the side of the 
horses, hastening them on with whips, blows, and curses. 
These corpses were for thje most part naked, while some 
were miserably enveloped in tattered sheets, and were heaped 
up and twined together, almost like a nest of snakes slowly 



584 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

unfolding themselves to the warmth of a mild spring day; so 
that at every trifling obstacle, at every jolt, these fatal groups 
were seen quivering and falling into horrible confusion, 
heads dangling down, women's long tresses dishevelled, arms 
torn off and striking against the wheels, exhibiting to the 
already horror-stricken view how such a spectacle may be- 
come still more wretched and disgraceful. 

The youth had paused at the corner of the square, by 
the side of the railing of the canal, and was praying, mean- 
while, for these unknown dead. A horrible thought flashed 
across his mind: — Perhaps there, amongst these, beneath 
them ! ... Oh Lord ! let it not be true ! help me not to think 
of it !— 

The funeral procession having disappeared, he moved on, 
crossing the square, and taking the street along the left-hand 
side of the canal, without other reason for his choice than 
because the procession had taken the opposite direction. 
After going a few steps between the side of the church and 
the canal, he saw to the right the bridge Marcellino ; he 
crossed it, and by that unique passage arrived in the street 
of the Borgc Nuovo. Casting his eyes forward, on the 
constant look-out for some of whom he might ask direc- 
tion, he saw at the other end of the street a priest clothed in 
a doublet, with a small stick in his hand, standing near a half- 
open door, with his head bent, and his ear at the aperture; 
and very soon afterwards he saw him raise his hand to pro- 
nounce a blessing. He guessed, — what in fact was the case, 
— that he had just finished confessing some one; and said to 
himself: — This is my man. If a priest, in the exercise of his 
functions, hasn't a little charity, a little good-nature and 
kindness, I can only say there is none left in the world. — 

In the mean while, the priest, leaving the door-way, ad- 
vanced towards Renzo, walking with much caution in the 
middle of the road. When he was within four or five paces 
of him, Renzo took off his hat and signified that he wanted 
to speak to him, stopping, at the same time, so as to let him 
understand that he would not approach too indiscreetly. The 
priest also paused, with the air of one prepared to listen, 
planting his stick, however, on the ground before him, to 
serve, as it were, for a kind of bulwark. Renzo proposed 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 585 

his inquiries, which the good priest readily satisfied, not only 
telling him the name of the street where the house was sit- 
uated, but giving him also, as he saw the poor fellow had 
need of it, a little direction as to his way; pointing out to 
him, i. e. by the help of right and left hands, crosses and 
churches, those other six or eight streets he had yet to 
traverse before reaching the one he was inquiring after. 

' God keep you in good health, both in these days and 
always ! ' said Renzo : and as the priest prepared to go away, 
'Another favour,' added he; and he told him of the poor for- 
gotten woman. The worthy priest thanked him for having 
given him this opportunity of conveying assistance where it 
was so much needed; and saying that he would go and inform 
the proper authorities, took his departure. 

Renzo, making a bow, also pursued his way, and tried, as 
he went along, to recapitulate the instructions he had re- 
ceived, that he might be obliged as seldom as possible to ask 
further directions. But it cannot be imagined how difficult 
he found the task; not so much on account of the perplexity 
of the thing, as from a fresh uneasiness which had arisen 
in his mind. That name of the street, that tracing of the 
road, had almost upset him. It was the information he had 
desired and requested, without which he could do nothing; 
nor had anything been said to him, together with it, which 
could suggest a presage, not to say a suspicion, of misfor- 
tune. Yet how was it? The rather more distinct idea of an 
approaching termination to his doubts, when he might hear 
either, ' She is living;' or, on the other hand, ' She is dead ' — 
that idea had come before him with so much force, that at 
that moment he would rather have been in ignorance about 
everything, and have been at the beginning of that journey 
of which he now found himself so near the end. He gathered 
up his courage, however: — Ah! — said he to himself, — if we 
begin now to play the child, how will things go on ? — Thus 
re-emboldened as best might be, he pursued his way, ad- 
vancing further into the city. 

What a city? and who found time in those days to recollect 
what it had been the year before, by reason of the famine ! 

Renzo happened to have to pass through one of its most 
unsightly and desolated quarters; that junction of streets 



586 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

known by the name of the Carrohio of the Porta Nuova. 
(Here, at that time, was a cross at the head of the street, 
and opposite to it, by the side of the present site of San 
Francesco di Paola, an ancient church, bearing the name of 
San Anastasia.) Such had been the virulence of the con- 
tagion, and the infection of the scattered corpses in this 
neighbourhood, that the few survivors had been obliged to 
remove ; so that while the passer-by was stunned with such 
a spectacle of solitude and desertion, more than one sense 
was only too grievously incommoded and offended by the 
tokens and relics of recent habitation. Renzo quickened his 
steps, consoling himself with the thought that the end of his 
search could not yet be at hand, and hoping that before he 
arrived at it, he would find the scene, at least in part, 
changed ; and, in fact, a little further on, he came out into a 
part which might still be called the city of the living — but 
what a city, and what living ! All the doorways into the 
streets kept shut from either suspicion or alarm, except those 
which were left open because deserted or invaded; others 
nailed up and sealed outside, on account of the sick, or dead, 
who lay within ; others marked with a cross drawn with coal, 
as an intimation to the monatti that there were dead to be 
carried away : all more a matter of chance than otherwise, 
according as there happened to be here, rather than there, a 
commissary of health, or other officer, who was inclined 
either to execute the regulations, or to exercise violence and 
oppression. Everywhere were rags and corrupted bandages, 
infected straw, or clothes, or sheets, thrown from the win- 
dows ; sometimes bodies, which had suddenly fallen dead in 
the streets, and were left there till a cart happened to pass 
by and pick them up, or shaken from off the carts themselves, 
or even thrown from the windows. To such a degree had 
the obstinacy and virulence of the contagion brutalized men's 
minds and divested them of all compassionate care, of every 
feeling of social respect ! The stir of business, the clatter 
of carriages, the cries of sellers, the talking of passengers, 
all were everywhere hushed ; and seldom was the death-like 
stillness broken but by the rumbling of funeral cars, the 
lamentations of beggars, the groans of the sick, the shouts 
of the frantic, or the vociferations of the monatti. At day- 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 587 

break, middaj', and evening, one of the bells of the cathedral 
gave the signal for reciting certain prayers proposed by 
the Archbishop; its tones were responded to by the bells of 
the other churches ; and then persons might be seen repairing 
to the v^rindows to pray in common ; and a murmur of sighs 
and voices might be heard which inspired sadness, mingled at 
the same time with some feeling of comfort. 

Two-thirds, perhaps, of the inhabitants being by this time 
carried off, a great part of the remainder having departed, 
or lying languishing at home, and the concourse from with- 
out being reduced almost to nothing, perhaps not one indi- 
vidual among the few who still went about, would be met 
with in a long circuit, in whom something strange, and 
sufficient in itself to infer a fatal change in circumstances, 
was not apparent. Men of the highest rank might be seen 
without cape or cloak, at that time a most essential part of 
any gentleman's dress ; priests without cassocks, friars with- 
out cowls; in short, all kinds of dress were dispensed with 
which could contract anything in fluttering about, or give 
(which was more feared than all the rest) facilities to the 
poisoners. And besides this carefulness to go about as 
trussed up and confined as possible, their persons were 
neglected and disorderly ; the beards of such as were accus- 
tomed to wear them grown much longer, and suffered to 
grow by those who had formerly kept them shaven; their 
hair, too, long and undressed, not only from the neglect 
which usually attends prolonged depression, but because sus- 
picion had been attached to barbers ever since one of them, 
Giangiacomo Mora, had been taken and condemned as a 
famous poisoner ; a name which, for a long while afterwards, 
preserved throughout the duchy a pre-eminent celebrity in 
infamy, and deserved a far more extensive and lasting one 
in commiseration. The greater number carried in one hand 
a stick, some even a pistol, as a threatening warning to any 
one who should attempt to approach them stealthily ; and in 
the other, perfumed pastils, or little balls of metal or wood, 
perforated and filled with sponges steeped in aromatic vin- 
egar, which they applied fr.om time to time, as they went 
along, to their noses, or held there continually. Some carried 
a small vial hung round their neck, containing a little quick- 



588 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

silver, persuaded that this possessed the virtue of absorbing 
and arresting every pestilential effluvia ; this they were very 
careful to renew from time to time. Gentlemen not only 
traversed the streets without their usual attendants, but even 
went about with a basket on their arms, providing the com- 
mon necessaries of life. Even friends, when they met in the 
streets alive, saluted each other at a distance, with silent 
and hasty signs. Every one, as he walked along, had 
enough to do to avoid the filthy and deadly stumbling-blocks 
with which the ground was strewn, and in some places even 
encumbered. Every one tried to keep the middle of the road, 
for fear of some other obstacle, some other more fatal 
weight, which might fall from the windows; for fear of 
venomous powders, which it was affirmed were often thrown 
down thence upon the passengers ; for fear, too, of the walls, 
which might, perchance, be anointed. Thus ignorance, un- 
seasonably secure, or preposterously circumspect, now added 
trouble to trouble, and incited false terrors in compensation 
for the reasonable and salutary ones which it had withstood 
at the beginning. 

Such were the less disfigured and pitiable spectacles which 
were everywhere present; the sight of the whole, the 
wealthy: for after so many pictures of misery, and remem- 
bering that still more painful one which it remains for us to 
describe, we will not now stop to tell what was the condition 
of the sick who dragged themselves along, or lay in the 
streets — beggars, women, children. It was such that the 
spectator could find a desperate consolation, as it were, in 
what appears at first sight, to those who are far removed in 
place and time, the climax of misery ; the thought, I mean, — 
the constant observation, that the survivors were reduced 
to so small a number. 

Renzo had already gone some distance on his way through 
the midst of this desolation, when he heard, proceeding from 
a street a few yards off, into which he had been directed to 
turn, a confused noise, in which he readily distinguished the 
usual horrible tinkling. 

At the entrance of the street, which was one of the most 
spacious, he perceived four carts standing in the middle ; and 
as in a corn-market there is a constant hurrying to and fro 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 589 

of people, and an emptying and filling of sacks, such was the 
bustle here; monatti intruding into houses, monatti coming 
out, bearing a burden upon their shoulders, which they placed 
upon one or other of the carts; some in red livery, others 
without that distinction : many with another still mor( 
odious, plumes and cloaks of various colours, which these 
miserable wretches wore in the midst of the general mourn- 
ing, as if in honour of a festival. From time to time the 
mournful cry resounded from one of the windows : ' Here, 
monatti!' And, with a still more wretched sound, a harsh 
voice rose from this horrible source in reply : ' Coming 
directly ! ' Or else there were lamentations nearer at hand, 
or entreaties to make haste; to which the monatti responded 
with oaths. 

Having entered the street, Renzo quickened his steps, try- 
ing not to look at these obstacles further than was necessary 
to avoid them; his attention, however, was arrested by a 
remarkable object of pity, such pity as inclines to the con- 
templation of its object; so that he came to a pause almost 
without determining to do so. 

Coming down the steps at one of the door-ways, and 
advancing towards the convoy, he beheld a woman, whose 
appearance announced still-remaining, though somewhat ad- 
vanced youthfulness ; a veiled and dimmed, but not destroyed 
beauty, was still apparent, in spite of much suffering, and a 
fatal languor — that delicate, and, at the same time, majestic, 
beauty, which is conspicuous in the Lombard blood. Her 
gait was weary, but not tottering; no tears fell from her 
eyes, though they bore tokens of having shed many; there 
was something peaceful and profound in her sorrow, which 
indicated a mind fully conscious and sensitive enough to feel 
it. But it was not only her own appearance which, in the 
midst of so much misery, marked her out so especially as an 
object of commiseration, and revived in her behalf a feeling 
now exhausted — extinguished, in men's hearts. She carried 
in her arms a little child, about nine years old, now a lifeless 
body; but laid out and arranged, with her hair parted on 
her forehead, and in a white and remarkably clean dress, as 
if those hands had decked h^r out for a long-promised feast, 
granted as a reward. Nor was she lying there, but upheld 

HC 38— VOL. XXI 



590 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

and adjusted on one arm, with her breast reclining against 
her mother's like a living creature ; save that a delicate little 
hand, as vv'hite as wax, hung from one side with a kind of 
inanimate weight, and the head rested upon her mother's 
shoulder with an abandonment deeper than that of sleep; 
her mother, for even if their likeness to each other had not 
given assurance of the fact, the countenance which still de- 
picted any feeling would have clearly revealed it. 

A horrible-looking monatto approached the woman, and 
attempted to take the burden from her arms, with a kind of 
unusual respect, however, and with involuntary hesitation. 
But she, slightly drawing back, yet with the air of one who 
shows neither scorn nor displeasure, said, ' No ! don't take 
her from me yet ; I must place her myself on this cart : here.' 
So saying, she opened her hand, displayed a purse which she 
held in it, and dropped it into that which the monatto ex- 
tended towards her. She then continued: 'Promise me not 
to take a thread from around her, nor to let any one else 
attempt to do so, and to lay her in the ground thus.' 

The monatfo laid his right hand on his heart; and then 
zealously, and almost obsequiously, rather from the new 
feeling by which he was, as it were, subdued, than on account 
of the unlooked for reward, hastened to make a little room 
on the car for the infant dead. The lady, giving it a kiss on 
the forehead, laid it on the spot prepared for it, as upon a 
bed, arranged it there, covering it with a pure white linen 
cloth, and pronounced the parting words : ' Farewell, Cecilia ! 
rest in peace! This evening we, too, will join you, to rest 
together for ever. In the mean while, pray for us ; for I will 
pray for you and the others.' Then, turning to the monatto, 
' You,' said she, ' when you pass this way in the evening, may 
come to fetch me too, and not me only.' 

So saying, she re-entered the house, and, after an instant, 
appeared at the window, holding in her arms another more 
dearly-loved one, still living, but with the marks of death 
on its countenance. She remained to contemplate these so 
unworthy obsequies of the first child, from the time the car 
started until it was out of sight, and then disappeared. And 
what remained for her to do, but to lay upon the bed the only 
one that was left to her, and to stretch herself beside it, that 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 591 

they might die together? as the flower already full blown 
upon the stem, falls together with the bud still enfolded in 
its calyx, under the scythe which levels alike all the herbage 
of the field. 

' Oh Lord ! ' exclaimed Renzo, ' hear her ! take her to 
Thyself, her and that little infant one: they have suffered 
enough ! surely, they have suffered enough ! ' 

Recovered from these singular emotions, and while trying 
to recall to memory the directions he had received, to ascer- 
tain whether he was to turn at the first street, and whether 
to the right or left, he heard another and a different sound 
proceeding from the latter, a confused sound of imperious 
cries, feeble lamentations, prolonged groans, sobs of women, 
and children's moans. 

He went forward, oppressed at heart by that one sad and 
gloomy foreboding. Having reached the spot where the two 
streets crossed, he beheld a confused multitude advancing 
from one side, and stood still to wait till it had passed. It 
was a party of sick on their way to the Lazzaretto ; some 
driven thither by force, vainly offering resistance, vainly 
crying that they would rather die upon their beds, and reply- 
ing with impotent imprecations to the oaths and commands 
of the monatti who were conducting them; others who 
walked on in silence, without any apparent grief and with- 
out hope, like insensible beings; women with infants clinging 
to their bosoms ; children terrified by the cries, the mandates, 
and the crowd, more than by the confused idea of death, 
with loud cries demanding their mother and her trusted 
embrace, and imploring that they might remain at their well- 
known homes. Alas ! perhaps their mother, whom they sup- 
posed they had left asleep upon her bed, had there thrown 
herself down senseless, subdued in a moment by the disease, 
to be carried away on a cart to the Lazzaretto, — or the 
grave, if perchance the cart should arrive a little later. Per- 
haps — oh misfortune deserving of still more bitter tears — 
the mother, entirely taken up by her own sufferings, had 
forgotten everything, even her own children, and had no 
longer any wish but to die in quiet. 

In such a scene of confusion, however, some examples of 
constancy and piety might still be seen: parents, brothers, 



592 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

sons, husbands, supporting their loved ones, and accompany- 
ing them with words of comfort; and not adults only, but 
even boys and little girls escorting their younger brothers 
and sisters, and, with manly sense and compassion, exhorting 
them to obedience, and assuring them that they were going 
to a place where others would take care of them and try to 
restore them to health. 

In the midst of the sadness and emotions of tenderness 
excited by these spectacles, a far different solicitude pressed 
more closely upon our traveller, and held him in painful 
suspense. The house must be near at hand, and who knew 
whether among these people . . . But the crowd having all 
passed by, and this doubt being removed, he turned to a 
monatto \\ho was walking behind, and asked him for the 
street and dwelling of Don Ferrante. ' It's gone to smash, 
clown,' was the reply he received. Renzo cared not to an- 
swer again ; but perceiving a few yards distant, a commissary 
who brought up the convoy, and had a little more Christian- 
like countenance, he repeated to him the same inquiry. The 
commissary, pointing with a stick in the direction whence he 
had come, said, ' The first street to the right, the last gen- 
tleman's house on the left.' 

With new and still deeper anxiety of mind, the youth bent 
his steps thitherward, and quickly distinguished the house 
among others more humble and unpretending ; he approached 
the closed door, placed his hand on the knocker, and held it 
there in suspense, as in an urn, before drawing out the ticket 
upon which depends life or death. At length he raised the 
hammer, and gave a resolute knock. 

In a moment or two a window was slightly opened, and a 
woman appeared at it to peep out, looking towards the door 
with a suspicious countenance, which seemed to say, — 
Monattif robbers? commissaries? poisoners? devils? — 

' Signora,' said Renzo, looking upwards, in a somewhat 
tremulous tone, ' is there a young country girl here at service, 
of the name of Lucia ? ' 

' She's here no longer, go away,' answered the woman, 
preparing to shut the window. 

'One moment, for pity's sake I She's no longer here? 
Where is she ? ' 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 593 

*At the Lazzaretto ; ' and she was again about to close the 
window. 

'But one moment, for Heaven's sake! With the 

pestilence? ' 

' To be sure. Something new, eh ? Get you gone.' 
'Oh stay! Was she very ill? How long is it? . . .' 
But this time the window was closed in reaUty. 
'Oh Signora! Signora ! one word, for charity! for the 
sake of your poor dead! I don't ask you for anything of 
yours : alas ! oh ! ' But he might as well have talked to the 
wall. 

Afflicted by this intelligence, and vexed with the treatment 
he had received, Renzo again seized the knocker, and stand- 
ing close to the door, kept squeezing and twisting it in his 
hand, then lifted it to knock again, in a kind of despair, and 
paused, in act to strike. In this agitation of feeling, he 
turned to see if his eye could catch any person near at hand, 
from whom he might, perhaps, receive some more sober 
information, some direction, some light. But the first, the 
only person he discovered was another woman, distant, per- 
haps, about twenty yards ; who, with a look full of terror, 
hatred, impatience, and malice, with a certain wild expres- 
sion of eye which betrayed an attempt to look at him and 
something else at a distance at the same time, with a mouth 
opened as if on the point of shouting as loud as she could; 
but holding even her breath, raising two thin, bony arms, and 
extending and drawing back two wrinkled and clenched 
hands, as if reaching to herself something, gave evident 
signs of wishing to call people without letting somebody 
perceive it. On their eyes encountering each other, she, 
looking still more hideous, started like one taken by surprise. 

'What the ?' began Renzo, raising his fist towards 

the woman; but she, having lost all hope of being able to 
have him unexpectedly seized, gave utterance to the cry she 
had hitherto restrained: ' The poisoner ! seize him! seize 
him ! seize him ! the poisoner ! ' 

' Who ? I ! ah, you lying old witch ! hold your tongue 
there ! ' cried Renzo ; and he sprang towards her to frighten 
her and make her be silent. "He perceived, however, at this 
moment, that he must rather look after himself. At the 



594 ALESSANDRO MANZOXI 

screams of the woman people flocked from both sides ; not 
the crowds, indeed, which, in a similar case, would have 
collected three months before; but still more than enough 
to crush a single individual. At this very instant, the win- 
dow was again thrown open, and the same woman who had 
shown herself so uncourteous just before, displayed herself 
this time in full, and cried out, ' Take him, take him ; for he 
must be one of those wicked wretches who go about to anoint 
the doors of gentlefolks.' 

Renzo determined in an instant that it would be a better 
course to make his escape from them, than stay to clear 
himself; he cast an eye on each side to see where were the 
fewest people ; and in that direction took to his legs. He 
repulsed, with a tremendous push, one who attempted to stop 
his passage ; with another blow on the chest he forced a 
second to retreat eight or ten yards, who was running to 
meet him; and away he went at full speed, with his tightly 
clenched fist uplifted in the air, in preparation for whom- 
soever should come in his way. The street was clear before 
him ; but behind his back he heard resounding more and more 
loudly the savage cry : 'Seize him ! seize him ! a poisoner ! ' 
he heard, drawing nearer and nearer, the footsteps of the 
swiftest among his pursuers. His anger became fury, his 
anguish was changed into desperation ; a cloud seemed 
gathering over his eyes; he seized hold of his poniard, un- 
sheathed it, stopped, drew himself up, turned round a more 
fierce and savage face than he had ever put on in his whole 
life; and, brandishing in the air, with outstretched arm, the 
glittering blade, exclaimed, ' Let him who dares come for- 
ward, you rascals ! and I'll anoint him with this, in earnest.' 

But, with astonishment and a confused feeling of relief, 
he perceived that his persecutors had already stopped at some 
distance, as if in hesitation, and that while they continued 
shouting after him, they were beckoning with uplifted hands, 
like people possessed and terrified out of their senses, to 
others at some distance beyond him. He again turned round, 
and beheld before him, and a very little way off, (for his ex- 
treme perturbation had prevented his observing it a moment 
before,) a cart advancing, indeed a file of the usual funeral 
carts with their usual accompaniments; and beyond them 



I PROMESSI SPOSI S9S 

another small band of people, who were ready, on their part, 
to fall upon the poisoner, and take him in the midst ; these, 
however, were also restrained by the same impediment. 
Finding himself thus between two fires, it occurred to him 
that what was to them a cause of terror might be for himself 
a means of safety ; he thought that this was not a time for 
squeamish scruples ; so again sheathing his poniard, he drew 
a little on one side, resumed his way towards the carts, and 
pa'^sing by the first, remarked in the second a tolerably 
empty "space. He took aim, sprang up and lit with his right 
foot in the cart, his left in the air, and his arms stretched 

forward. . 

' Bravo ' bravo ! ' exclaimed the monatti with one voice, 
some of whom were following the convoy on foot, others 
were seated on the carts; and others, to tell the horrible 
fact as it reallv was, on the dead bodies, quafiing from a large 
flask which was going the round of the party. ' Bravo ! a 

capital hit ! ' , ■ c ^u 

' You've come to put yourself under the protection of the 
monatti: you may reckon yourself as safe as m church, said 
one of the two who were seated on the cart upon which he 
had thrown himself. ^ c 

The greater part of his enemies had, on the approach ot 
the train, turned their backs upon him and fled, crying at the 
same time, ' Seize him ! seize him ! a poisoner ! ' Some few 
of them however, retired more deliberately, stopping every 
now and then, and turning with a hideous grm of rage and 
threatening gestures towards Renzo; who rephed to them 
from the cart by shaking his fist at them. 

'Leave it to me,' said a monatto; and tearing a filthy rag 
from one of the bodies, he hastily tied it in a knot, and taking 
it by one of its ears, raised it like a sling towards these obsti- 
nate fellows, and pretended to hurl it at them, crying. Here 
you rascals!' At this action they all fled in horror ; and 
Renzo saw nothing but the backs of his enemies and heels 
which bounded rapidly through the air, like the hammers in 
a clothier's mill. 

A howl of triumph arose among the monatti, a stormy 
burst of laughter, a prolonged ' Eh ! ' as an accompaniment, 
so to say, to this fugue. 



596 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

' Aha ! look if we don't know how to protect honest fel- 
lows ! ' said the same monatto to Renzo : ' one of us is worth 
more than a hundred of those cowards ! ' 

' Certainly, I may say I owe you my life/ replied he; ' and 
I thank you with all my heart.' 

'Not a word, not a word,' answered the monatto: 'you 
deserve it; one can see you're a brave young fellow. You do 
right to poison these rascals ; anoint away, extirpate all those 
who are good for nothing, except when they're dead; for in 
reward for the life we lead, they only curse us, and keep 
saying that when the pestilence is over, they'll have us all 
hanged. They must be finished before the pestilence; the 
monatti only must be left to chant victory and revel in 
Milan.' 

' Long live the pestilence, and death to the rabble ! ' ex- 
claimed the other; and with this beautiful toast he put the 
flask to his mouth, and holding it with both his hands amidst 
the joltings of the cart, took a long draught, and then handed 
it to Renzo, saying, * Drink to our health.' 

' I wish it you all, with my whole heart,' said Renzo, ' but 
I'm not thirsty: I don't feel any inclination to drink just now.' 

' You've had a fine fright, it seems,' said the monatto. 
' You look like a harmless creature enough ; you should have 
another face than that to be a poisoner.' 

' Let everybody do as he can,' said the other. 

'Here, give it me,' said one of those on foot at the side 
of the car, ' for I, too, want to drink another cup to the health 
of his honour, who finds himself in such capital company 
. . . there, there, just there, among that elegant carriage- 
full.' 

And with one of his hideous and cursed grins he pointed 
to the cart in front of that upon which our poor Renzo was 
seated. Then, composing his face to an expression of 
seriousness still more wicked and revolting, he made a bow 
in that direction, and resumed : ' May it please you, my lord, 
to let a poor wretch of a monatto taste a little of this wine 
from your cellar? Mind you, sir: our way of life is only 
so so : we have taken you into our carriage to give you a ride 
into the country ; and then it takes very little wine to do harm 
to your lordships : the poor monatti have good stomachs.' 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 597 

And amidst the loud laughs of his companions, he took 
the flask, and lifted it up, but, before drinking, turned to 
Renzo, and fixed his eyes on his face, and said to him, with a 
certain air of scornful compassion : ' The devil, with whom 
you have made agreement, must be very young; for if we 
hadn't been by to rescue you, he'd have given you mighty 
assistance.' And amidst a fresh outburst of laughter, he 
applied the flagon to his lips. 

' Give us some ! What ! give us some ! ' shouted many 
voices from the preceding car. The ruffian, having swal- 
lowed as much as he wished, handed the great flask with both 
hands into those of his fellow-ruffians, who continued passing 
it round, until one of them, having emptied it, grasped it by 
the neck, slung it round in the air two or three times, and 
dashed it to atoms upon the pavement, crying, ' Long live 
the pestilence ! ' He then broke into one of their licentious 
ballads, and was soon accompanied by all the rest of this 
depraved chorus. The infernal song, mingled with the 
tinkling of the bells, the rattle of the cart, and the trampling 
of men and horses, resounded through the silent vacuity of 
the streets, and echoing in the houses, bitterly wrung the 
hearts of the few who still inhabited them. 

But what cannot sometimes turn to advantage? What 
cannot appear good in some case or another? The extremity 
of a moment before had rendered more than tolerable to 
Renzo the company of these dead and living companions; 
and now the sounds that relieved him from the awkwardness 
of such a conversation, were, I had almost said, acceptable, 
music to his ears. Still half bewildered, and in great agita- 
tion, he thanked Providence in his heart, as he best could, 
that he had escaped such imminent danger without receiving 
or inflicting injury; he prayed for assistance to deliver him- 
self now from his deliverers; and for his part kept on the 
look-out, watching his companions, and reconnoitring the 
road, that he might seize the proper moment to slide quietly 
down without giving them an opportunity of making any 
disturbance or uproar, which might stir up mischief in the 
passers-by. 

And lo ! on turning a corner, he seemed to recognize the 
place along which they w^re about to pass: he looked more 



598 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

attentively, and at once knew it by more certain signs. Does 
the reader know where he was? In the direct course to the 
Porta Orientale, in that very street along which he had gone 
so slowly, and returned so speedily, about twenty months 
before. He quickly remembered that from thence he could 
go straight to the Lazzaretto; and this finding of himself in 
the right way Avithout any endeavour of his own, and with- 
out direction, he looked upon as a special token of Divine 
guidance, and a good omen of what remained. At that 
moment a commissary came to meet the cars, who called out 
to the monatti to stop, and I know not what besides : it need 
only be said that they came to a halt, and the music was 
changed into clamorous dialogues. One of the monctti 
seated on Renzo's car jumped down: Renzo said to the 
other, 'Thank you for your kindness; God reward you for 
it ! ' and sprang down at the opposite side. 

' Get you gone, poor poisoner,' replied the man : ' you'll not 
be the fellow that'll ruin Milan ! ' 

Fortunately there was no one at hand who could overhear 
him. The party had stopped on the left hand of the street: 
Renzo hastily crossed over to the opposite side ; and, keeping 
close to the wall, trudged onward towards the bridge; 
crossed it; followed the well-known street of the Borgo, and 
recognized the Convent of the Capuchins; he comes close 
to the gate, sees the projecting corner of the Lazzaretto, 
passes through the palisade, and the scene outside the en- 
closure is laid open to his view; not so much an indication 
and specimen of the interior, as itself a vast, diversified, and 
indescribable scene. 

Along the two sides, which are visible to a spectator from 
this point, all was bustle and confusion; there was a great 
concourse; an influx and reflux of people; sick flocking in 
crowds to the Lazzaretto ; some sitting or lying on the edge 
of one or other of the moats that flanked the road, whose 
strength had proved insufficient to carry them within their 
place of retreat, or, when they had abandoned it in despair, 
had equally failed to convey them further away. Others 
were wandering about as if stupefied; and not a few were 
absolutely beside themselves : one would be eagerly relating 
his fancies to a miserable creature labouring under the mal- 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 599 

ady ; another would be actually raving ; while a third appeared 
with a smiling countenance, as if assisting at some gay spec- 
tacle. But the strangest and most clamorous kind of so 
melancholy a gaiety, was a loud and continual singing, which 
seemed to proceed from that wretched assembly, and even 
drowned all the other voices — a popular song of love, joyous 
and playful, one of those which are called rural; and follow- 
ing this sound by the eye to discover who could possibly be 
so cheerful, yonder, tranquilly seated in the bottom of the 
ditch that washes the walls of the Lazzaretto, he perceived a 
poor wretch, with upturned eyes, singing at the very stretch 
of his voice ! 

Renzo had scarcely gone a few yards along the south side 
of the edifice, when an extraordinary noise arose in the 
crowd, and a distant cry of 'Take care ! ' and ' Stop him ! ' 
He stood upon tiptoe, looked forward, and beheld a jaded 
horse galloping at full speed, impelled forward by a still 
more wretched looking rider: a poor frantic creature, who, 
seeing the beast loose and unguarded, standing by a cart, 
had hastily mounted his bare back, and striking him on the 
neck with his fists, and spurring him with his heels, was 
urging him impetuously onward; nionatti were following, 
shouting and howling; and all were enveloped in a cloud of 
dust, which whirled around their heads. 

Confounded and weary with the sight of so much misery, 
the youth arrived at the gate of that abode where perhaps 
more was concentrated than had been scattered over the 
whole space it had yet been his fortune to traverse. He 
walked up to the door, entered under the vaulted roof, and 
stood for a moment without moving in the middle of the 
portico. 



CHAPTER XXXV 

1ET the reader imagine the enclosure of the Lazza- 
. retto peopled with sixteen thousand persons ill of the 
^ plague ; the whole area encumbered, here with tents 
and cabins, there with carts, elsewhere with people; those 
two interminable ranges of portico to the right and left, 
covered, crowded, with dead or dying, stretched upon mat- 
tresses, or the bare straw; and throughout the whole of 
this, so to say, immense den, a commotion, a fluctuation, 
like the swell of the sea ; and within, people coming and 
going, stopping and running, some sinking under disease, 
others rising from their sick beds, either convalescent, 
frantic, or to attend upon others. Such was the spectacl',:^ 
which suddenly burst upon Renzo's view, and forced him 
to pause there, horror-struck and overpowered. We do nor 
intend to describe this spectacle by itself, for which, doubt- 
less, none of our readers would thank us; we will only 
follow our youth in his painful walk, stop where he stopped, 
and relate what he happened to witness, so far as is neces- 
sary to explain what he did, and what chanced to occur 
to him. 

From the gate where he stood, up to the temple in the 
middle, and from that again to the opposite gate, ran a kind 
of pathway, free from cabins, and every other substantial 
impediment; and, at a second glance, he observed a great 
bustle of removing carts, and making the way clear ; and 
discovered officers and Capuchins directing this operation, 
and at the same time dismissing all those who had no busi- 
ness there. Fearing lest he also should be turned out in 
this manner, he slipped in between the pavilions, on the side 
to which he had casually turned — the right. 

He went forward, according as he found room to set his 
foot down, from cabin to cabin, popping his head into each, 
casting his eye upon every one who lay outside, gazing upon 
countenances broken down by suffering, contracted by 
spasm, or motionless in death, perchance he might happen 

600 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 601 

to find that one which, nevertheless, he dreaded to find. 
He had already, however, gone some considerable distance, 
and often and often repeated this melancholy inspection, 
without having yet seen a single woman ; he concluded, 
therefore, that these must be lodged in a separate quarter. 
So far he guessed; but of the whereabouts he had no in- 
dication, nor could he form the least conjecture. From time 
to time he met attendants, as different in appearance, dress, 
and behaviour, as the motive was different and opposite 
which gave to both one and the other strength to live in the 
exercise of such offices: in the one, the extinction of all 
feelings of compassion; in the other, compassion more than 
human. But from neither did he attempt to ask directions, 
for fear of creating for himself new obstacles; and he re- 
solved to walk on by himself till he succeeded in discover- 
ing women. And as he walked along, he failed not to look 
narrowly around, though from time to time he was com- 
pelled to withdraw his eyes, overcome, and, as it were, 
dazzled by the spectacle of so great miseries. Yet, whither 
could he turn themi, where suffer them to rest, save upon 
other miseries as great? 

The very air and sky added, if anything could add, to the 
horror of these sights. The fog had condensed by degrees, 
and resolved itself into large clouds, which, becoming 
darker and darker, made it seem like the tempestuous clos- 
ing in of evening; except that towards the zenith of this 
deep and lowering sky, the sun's disk was visible as from 
behind a thick veil, pale, emitting around a very feeble 
light, which was speedily exhaled, and pouring down a 
death-like and oppressive heat. Every now and then, 
amidst the vast murmur that floated around, was heard a 
deep rumbling of thunder, interrupted, as it were, and ir- 
resolute; nor could the listener distinguish from which side 
it came. He might, indeed, easily have deemed it a distant 
sound of cars, unexpectedly coming to a stand. In the 
country round, not a twig bent under a breath of air, not a 
bird was seen to alight or fly away; the swallow alone, ap- 
pearing suddenly from the eaves of the enclosure, skimmed 
along the ground with extended wing, sweeping, as it were, 
the surface of the field; but, alarmed at the surrounding 



602 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

confusion, rapidly mounted again into the air, and flew 
away. It was one of those days in which, among a party 
of travellers, not one of them breaks the silence ; and the 
hunter walks pensively along, with his eyes bent to the 
ground; and the peasant, digging in the field, pauses in his 
song, without being aware of it; one of those days which 
are the forerunners of a tempest, in which nature, as if 
motionless without, while agitated by internal travail, seems 
to oppress every living thing, and to add an undefinable 
weight to every employment, to idleness, to existence itself. 
But in that abode specially assigned to suffering and death, 
men hitherto struggling with their malady might be seen 
sinking under this new pressure; they were to be seen by 
hundreds rapidly becoming worse ; and at the same time, 
the last struggle was more distressing, and, in the augmenta- 
tion of suffering, the groans w^ere still more stifled ; nor, 
perhaps, had there yet been in that place an hour of bitter- 
ness equal to this. 

The youth had already threaded his way for some time 
without success through this maze of cabins, when, in the 
variety of lamentations and confused murmurs, he began 
to distinguish a singular intermixture of bleatings and in- 
fants' cries. He arrived at length before a cracked and 
disjointed wooden partition, from within which this extra- 
ordinary sound proceeded; and peeping through a large 
aperture between two boards, he beheld an enclosure scat- 
tered throughout with little huts, and in these, as well as in 
the spaces of the small camp between the cabins, not the 
usual occupants of an infirmary, but infants, lying upon little 
beds, pillows, sheets, or cloths spread upon the ground, and 
nurses and other women busily attending upon them ; and, 
w^hich above everything else attracted and engrossed his 
attention, she-goats mingled with these, and acting as their 
coadjutrices : a hospital of innocents, such as the place and 
times could afford them. It was, I say, a novel sight, to 
behold some of these animals standing quietly over this or 
that infant, giving it suck, and another hastening at the 
cry of a child, as if endued with maternal feeling, and stop- 
ping by the side of the little claimant, and contriving to 
dispose itself over the infant, and bleating, and fidgeting, 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 603 

almost as if demanding some one to come to the assistance 

of both. • , • r ,. ^t 

Here and there nurses were seated with mfants at tne 
breast; some employing such expressions of affection as 
raised a doubt in the mind of the spectator whether they 
had been induced to repair thither by the promises of re- 
ward, or by that voluntary benevolence which goes m search 
of the needy and afflicted. One of these, with deep sorrow 
depicted in her countenance, drew from her breast a poor 
weeping little creature, and mournfully went to look for an 
animal which might be able to supply her place; another 
regarded with a compassionate look the little one asleep on 
her bosom, and gently kissing it, went to lay it on a bed in 
one of the cabins ; while a third, surrendering her breast to 
the stranger suckling, with an air not of negligence, but of 
pre-occupation, gazed fixedly up to heaven. What was she 
thinking of, with that gesture, with that look, but of one 
brought' forth from her own bowels, who, perhaps only a 
short" time before, had been nourished at that breast, per- 
chance had expired on that bosom ! 

Other women, of more experience, supplied different 
offices. One would run at the cry of a famished child, lift 
it from the ground, and carry it to a goat, feeding upon a 
heap of fresh herbage; and applying it to the creature's 
paps would chide, and, at the same time, coax the inex- 
perienced animal with her voice, that it might quietly lend 
itself to its new office; another would spring forward to 
drive off a goat which was trampling under-foot a poor 
babe, in its eagerness to suckle another; while a third was 
carrying about her own infant, and rocking it in her arms, 
now trying to lull it to sleep by singing, now to pacify it 
with soothing words, and calling it by a name she had her- 
self given it. At this moment a Capuchin, with a very 
white^ beard, arrived, bringing two screaming infants, one 
in each arm, which he had just taken from their dying 
mothers; and a woman ran to receive them, and went to 
seek among the crowd, and in the flocks, some one that 
would immediately supply the place of a mother. ^ 

More than once, the youth, urged by his anxiety, had 
torn himself from the opening to resume his way; and, 



604 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

after all, had again peeped in to watch another moment 
or two. 

Having at length left the place, he went on close along 
the partition, until a group of huts, which were propped 
against it, compelled him to turn aside. He then went 
round the cabins, with the intention of regaining the parti- 
tion, turning the corner of the enclosure, and making some 
fresh discoveries. But while he was looking forward to 
reconnoitre his way, a sudden, transient, instantaneous ap- 
parition, struck his eye, and put him in great agitation. He 
saw, about a hundred yards off, a Capuchin threading his 
way and quickly becoming lost among the pavilions : a 
Capuchin, who, even thus passingly, and at a distance, had 
all the bearing, motions, and figure of Father Cristoforo. 
With the frantic eagerness the reader can imagine, he 
sprang forward in that direction, looking here and there, 
winding about, backward, forward, inside and out, by cir- 
cles, and through narrow passages, until he again saw, with 
increased joy, the form of the self-same friar; he saw him 
at a little distance, just leaving a large boiling pot, and 
going with a porringer in his hands towards a cabin ; then 
he beheld him seat himself in the doorway, make the sign of 
the cross on the basin he held before him, and, looking 
around him, like one constantly on the alert, begin to eat. 
It was, indeed, Father Cristoforo. 

The history of the friar, from the point at which we lost 
sight of him up to the present meeting, may be told in a few 
words. He had never removed from Rimini, nor even 
thought of removing, until the plague, breaking out in 
Milan, afforded him the opportunity he had long so ear- 
nestly desired, of sacrificing his life for his fellow-creatures. 
He urgently entreated that he might be recalled from 
Rimini to assist and attend upon the infected patients. The 
Count, Attilio's uncle, was dead; and besides, the times re- 
quired tenders of the sick rather than politicians ; so that 
his request was granted without difficulty. He came im- 
mediately to Milan, entered the Lazzaretto, and had now 
been there about three months. 

But the consolation Renzo felt in thus again seeing his 
good friar was not for a moment unalloyed; together with 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 605 

the certainty that it was he, he was also made painfully 
aware of how much he was changed. His stooping, and, as 
it were, laborious carriage, his wan and shrivelled face, all 
betokened an exhausted nature, a broken and sinking frame, 
which was assisted and, as it were, upheld from hour to 
hour only by the energy of his mind. 

He kept his eye fixed on the youth who was approaching 
him, and who was seeking by gestures, (not daring to do so 
with his voice,) to make him distinguish and recognize him. 
' O, Father Cristoforo ! ' said he, at last, when he was near 
enough to be heard without shouting. 

' You here ! ' said the friar, setting the porringer on the 
ground, and rising from his seat. 

' How are you. Father ? — how are you ? ' 

' Better than the many poor creatures you see,' replied the 
friar ; and his voice was feeble, hollow, and as changed as 
everything else about him. His eye alone was what it al- 
ways was, or had something about it even more bright and 
resplendent; as if Charity, elevated by the approaching end 
of her labours, and exulting in the consciousness of being 
near her source, restored to it a more ardent and purer fire 
than that which infirmity was every hour extinguishing. 
' But you,' pursued he, ' how is it you're in this place ? What 
makes you come thus to brave the pestilence ? ' 

' I've had it, thank Heaven ! I come ... to seek for . . . 
Lucia.' 

' Lucia ! Is Lucia here ? ' 

' She is ; at least, I hope in God she may still be here.' 

' Is she your wife? ' 

' Oh, my dear father ! My wife ! no, that she's not. Don't 
you know anything of what has happened?' 

' No, my son ; since God removed me to a distance from 
you, I've never heard anything further ; but now that he has 
sent you to me, I'll tell you the truth, that I wish very much 
to know. But . . . and the sentence of outlawry? ' 

'You know, then, what things they've done to me? 

' But you, what had you done? ' 

'Listen: if I were to say that I was prudent that day in 
Milan, I should tell a lie; but I didn't do a single wicked 
action.' 

HC 3(j — VOL. XXI 



606 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

' I believe you; and I believed it too before.' 

' Now, then, I may tell you all.' 

'Wait,' said the friar; and, going a few yards out of 
the hut, he called, ' Father Vittore ! ' In a moment or two, 
a young Capuchin appeared, to whom Cristoforo said, ' Do 
me the kindness, Father Vittore, to take my share, too, of 
waiting upon our patients, while I am absent for a little 
while ; and if any one should ask for me, will you be good 
enough to call me. That one, particularly ; if ever he gives 
the least sign of returning consciousness, let me be informed 
of it directly, for charity's sake.' 

The young friar answered that he would do as he re- 
quested ; and then Cristoforo, turning to Renzo, said, ' Let us 
go in here. But . . .' added he directly, stopping, ' you seem 
to me very tired ; you must want something to eat.' 

' So I do,' said Renzo : ' now that you've reminded me, I 
remember I'm still fasting.' 

' Stay,' said the friar ; and taking another porringer, he 
went to fill it from the large boiler; he then returned, and 
offered it, with a spoon, to Renzo ; made him sit down on a 
straw mattress which served him for a bed; went to a cask 
that stood in one corner, and dtew a glass of wine, which 
he set on a little table near his guest; and then, taking up 
his own porringer, seated himself beside him. 

' Oh, Father Cristoforo ! ' said Renzo, ' is it your business 
to do all this? But you are always the same. I thank you 
with all my heart.' 

' Don't thank me,' said the friar : ' that belongs to the 
poor ; but you too are a poor man just now. Now, then, tell 
me what I don't know ; tell me about our poor Lucia, and try 
to do it in a few words, for time is scarce, and there is plenty 
to be done, as you see.' 

Renzo began, between one spoonful and another, to re- 
late the history of Lucia, how she had been sheltered in 
the monastery at Monza, how she had been forcibly carried 
off . . . 

At the idea of such sufferings and such dangers, and at 
the thought that it was he who had directed the poor in- 
nocent to that place, the good friar became almost breath- 
less with emotion; but he was quickly relieved on hearing 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 607 

how she had been miraculously liberated, restored to her 
mother, and placed by her with Donna Prassede. 

'Now I will tell you about myself,' pursued the narrator; 
and he briefly sketched the day he spent in Milan, and his 
flight, and how he had long been absent from home, and 
now, everything being turned upside down, he had ven- 
tured to go thither ; how he had not found Agnese there ; and 
how he had learned at Milan that Lucia was at the Lazza- 
retto. ' And here I am,' he concluded ; ' here I am to look 
for her, to see if she's still living, and if . . . she'll still have 
me . , . because . . . sometimes . . .' 

' But how were you directed here? ' asked the friar. ' Have 
you any information whereabouts she was lodged, or at what 
time she came ? ' 

'None, dear Father; none, except that she is here, if, 
indeed, she be still living, which may God grant ! ' 

' Oh, you poor fellow ! But what search have you yet 
made here? ' 

' I've wandered and wandered about, but hitherto I've 
scarcely seen anything but men. I thought that the women 
must be in a separate quarter, but I haven't yet succeeded 
in finding it; if it is really so, now you can tell me.' 

' Don't you know, my son, that men are forbidden to 
enter that quarter, unless they have some business there ? ' 

' Well, and what could happen to me ? ' 

' The regulation is just and good, my dear son ; and if the 
number and weight of sorrows forbid the possibility of its 
being respected with full rigour, is that a reason why an 
honest man should transgress it? ' 

' But, Father Cristoforo,' said Renzo, ' Lucia ought to 
be my wife; you know how we've been separated; it's twenty 
months that I've suffered and borne patiently ; I've come as 
far as here, at the risk of so many things, one worse than 
the other ; and now then . . .' 

' I don't know what to say,' resumed the friar, replying 
rather to his own thoughts than to the words of the young 
man. ' You are going with a good intention ; and would to 
God that all who have free access to that place would con- 
duct themselves as I can feel sure you will do ! God, who 
certainly blesses this your .perseverance of affection, this 



608 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

your faithfulness in wishing and seeking for her whom He 
has given you, God, who is more rigorous than men, yet 
more indulgent, will not regard what may be irregular in 
your mode of seeking for her. Only remember, that for 
your behaviour in this place we shall both have to render 
an account, not, probably, to men, but, without fail, at the 
bar of God. Come this way.' So saying, he rose: Renzo 
followed his example ; and, without neglecting to listen to his 
words, had, in the mean time, determined in himself not to 
speak, as he had at first intended, about Lucia's vow. — If 
he hears this, too, — thought he, — he will certainly raise more 
difficulties. Either I will find her, and then there will be 
time enough to discuss it, or . . . and then ! what will it 
matter? — 

Leading him to the door of the cabin, which faced towards 
the north, the friar resumed : ' Listen to me ; Father Felice, 
the president of the Lazzaretto, will to-day conduct the few 
who have recovered to perform their quarantine elsewhere. 
You see that church there in the middle . . .' and raising his 
thin and tremulous hand, he pointed out to the left, through 
the cloudy atmosphere, the cupola of the little temple rising 
above the miserable tents, and continued : ' About there 
they are now assembling, to go out in procession through 
the gate by which you must have entered.' 

' Ah ! it was for this, then, that they were trying to clear 
the passage.' 

' Just so : and you must also have heard some tollings of 
the bell.' 

' I heard one.' 

' It was the second : when the third rings, they will all 
be assembled: Father Felice will address a few words to 
them ; and then they will set ofif. At this signal, do you go 
thither; contrive to place yourself behind the assembly on 
the edge of the passage, where, without giving trouble, or 
being observed, you can watch them pass ; and look . . . look 

. . look if she is there. If it be not God's will that she 
should be there, that quarter . . .' and he again raised his 
hand, and pointed to the side of the edifice which faced them, 
' that quarter of the building, and part of the field before 
it, are assigned to the women. You will see some paling 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 609 

that divides this from that enclosure, but here and there 
broken and interrupted, so that you'll find no difficulty in 
gaining admittance. Once in, if you do nothing to give 
offence, no one probably will say anything to you; if, how- 
ever, they should make any opposition, say that Father Cris- 
toforo of * * * knows you, and will answer for you. Seek 
her there ; seek her with confidence and . . . with resignation. 
For you must remember it is a great thing you have come 
to ask here : a person alive within the Lazzaretto ! Do you 
know how often I have seen my poor people here renewed? 
how many I have seen carried off ! how few go out re- 
covered ! . . . Go, prepared to make a sacrifice . . .' 

' Ay ! I understand !' interrupted Renzo, his eyes rolling 
wildly, and his face becoming very dark and threatening: 
' I understand ! I'll go : Fll look in one place or another, 
from top to bottom of the Lazzaretto . . . and if I don't find 
her! . . .' 

'If you don't find her?' said the friar, with an air of 
grave and serious expectation, and an admonishing look. 

But Renzo, whose anger had for some time been swelling 
in his bosom, and now clouded his sight, and deprived him 
of all feelings of respect, repeated and continued: 'If I 
don't find her, I'll succeed in finding somebody else. Either 
in Milan, or in his detestable palace, or at the end of the 
world, or in the abode of the devil, I'll find that rascal who 
separated us; that villain, but for whom Lucia would have 
been mine twenty months ago ; and if we had been doomed 
to die, we would at least have died together. If that fellow 
still lives, I'll find him . . .' 

'Renzo ! ' said the friar, grasping him by one arm, and 
gazing on him still more severely. 

'And if I find him, continued he, perfectly blinded with 
rage, ' if the plague hasn't already wrought justice . . . This 
is no longer a time when a coward, with his bravoes at his 
heels, can drive people to desperation, and then mock at 
them : a time is come when men meet each other face to 
face . . . I'll get justice ! ' 

' Miserable wretch ! ' cried Father Cristoforo, in a voice 
which had assumed its former full and sonorous tone : ' Mis- 
erable wretch ! ' And he raised his sunken head, his cheeks 

HC 20 — VOL. XXI 



610 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

became flushed with their original colour, and the fire that 
flashed from his eyes had something terrible in it. ' Look 
about you, miserable man ! ' And while with one hand he 
grasped, and strongly shook, Renzo's arm, he waved the 
other before him, pointing, as well as he could, to the mourn- 
ful scene around them, ' See who is He that chastises ! 
Who is He that judges, and is not judged ! He that scourges, 
and forgives ! But you, a worm of the earth, you would get 
justice! You! do you know what justice is? Away, un- 
happy man ; away with you ! I hoped . . . yes, I did hope 
that, before my death, God would have given me the comfort 
of hearing that my poor Lucia was alive; perhaps of seeing 
her, and hearing her promise me that she would send one 
prayer towards the grave where I shall be laid. Go, you 
have robbed me of this hope ! God has not let her remain 
upon earth for you ; and you, surely, cannot have the hardi- 
hood to believe yourself worthy that God should think of 
comforting you. He will have thought of her, for she was 
one of those souls for whom eternal consolations are re- 
served. Go ! I've no longer time to listen to you.' 

And so saying, he threw from him Renzo's arm, and 
moved towards a cabin of sick. 

' Ah, Father ! ' said Renzo, following him with a suppli- 
cating air, 'will you send me away in this manner?' 

'What!' rejoined the Capuchin, relaxing nothing of his 
severity; 'dare you require that I should steal the time 
from these poor afflicted ones, who are awaiting for me to 
speak to them of the pardon of God, to listen to your words 
of fury, your propositions of revenge? I listened to you 
when you asked consolation and direction; I neglected one 
duty of charity for the sake of another ; but now you have 
vengeance in your heart: what do you want with me? 
Begone ! I have beheld those die here who have been offended 
and have forgiven; offenders who have mourned that the> 
could not humble themselves before the offended : I have wept 
with both one and the other; but what have I to do with 
you? ' 

' Ah ! I forgive him ! I forgive him, indeed, and for ever ! ' 
exclaimed the youth. 

'Renzo ! ' said the friar, with more tranquil sternness : ' be- 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 611 

think yourself, and just say how often you have forgiven 
him.' 

And having waited a moment without receiving a reply, 
he suddenly bent his head, and with an appeased voice re- 
sumed : ' You know why I bear this habit ? ' 

Renzo hesitated. 

' You know it ! ' resumed the old man. 

' I do,' answered Renzo. 

' I too have hated, and therefore I have rebuked you for 
a thought, for a word ; the man whom I hated, whom I cor- 
dially hated, whom I had long hated, that man I mur- 
dered ! ' 

' Yes, but a tyrant ! one of those . . .' 

' Hush ! ' interrupted the friar : ' think you that if there 
were a good reason for it, I shouldn't have found it in 
thirty years? Ah ! if I could now instil into your heart the 
sentiment I have ever since had, and still have, for the 
man I hated! If I could! I? But God can: may He do 
so ! . . . Listen, Renzo ; He wishes you more good than you 
even wish yourself: you have dared to meditate revenge; 
but He has power and mercy enough to prevent you; He 
bestows upon you a favour of which another was too un- 
worthy. You know, and you have often and often said it, 
that He can arrest the hand of the oppressor: but, remember, 
He can also arrest that of the revengeful; and think you 
that, because you are poor, because you are injured, He 
cannot defend against your vengeance a man whom He has 
created in His own image? Did you think that He would 
suffer you to do all you wished ? No ! but do you know what 
He can do ? You may hate and be lost for ever ; you may, 
by such a temper of mind as this, deprive yourself of every 
blessing. For, however things may go with you, whatever 
condition you may be placed in, rest assured that all will 
be punishment until you have forgiven — forgiven in such a 
way, that you may never again be able to say, I forgive him.' 
* Yes, yes,' said Renzo. with deep shame and emotion : ' I 
see now that I have never before really forgiven him ; I see 
that I have spoken like a beast, and not like a Christian: 
and now, by the grace of God, I will forgive him; yes, I'll 
forgive him from my very heart.' 



612 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

'And supposing you were to see him?' 

' I would pray the Lord to give me patience, and to touch 
his heart.' 

* Would you remember that the Lord has not only com- 
manded us to forgive our enemies, but also to love them? 
Would you remember that He so loved him as to lay down 
His life for him? ' 

' Yes, by His help, I would.' 

' Well, then ; come and see him. You have said, " I'll 
find him ; " and you shall find him. Come, and you shall 
see against whom you would nourish hatred ; to whom you 
could wish evil, and be ready to do it; of what life you 
would render yourself master ! ' 

And, taking Renzo's hand, which he grasped as a healthy 
young man would have done, he moved forward. Renzo fol- 
lowed, without daring to ask anything further. 

After a short walk, the friar stopped near the entrance 
of a cabin, fixed his eyes on Renzo's face with a mixture of 
gravity and tenderness, and drew him in. 

The first thing he observed on entering, was a sick person, 
seated on some straw, in the background, who did not, how- 
ever, seem very ill, but rather recovering from illness. On 
seeing the Father, he shook his head, as if to say No: the 
Father bent his with an air of sorrow and resignation. 
Renzo, mean while, eyeing the surrounding objects with un- 
easy curiosity, beheld three or four sick persons, and dis- 
tinguished one against the wall, lying upon a bed, and 
wrapped in a sheet, with a nobleman's cloak laid upon him 
as a quilt : he gazed at him, recognized Don Rodrigo, and 
involuntarily shrank back; but the friar, again making him 
feel the hand by which he held him, drew him to the foot 
of the bed, and stretching over it his other hand, pointed to 
the man who there lay prostrate. The unhappy being was 
perfectly motionless; his eyes were open, but he saw nothing; 
his face was pale and covered with black spots ; his lips black 
and swollen ; it would have been called the face of a corpse, 
had not convulsive twitchings revealed a tenacity of life. 
His bosom heaved from time to time with painfully short 
respiration; and his right hand, laid outside the cloak, 
pressed it closely to his heart with a firm grasp of his 



T PROMESSI SPOSI 613 

clenched fingers, which were of a Hvid colour, and black 
at the extremities. 

' You see,' said the friar, in a low and solemn voice. 
' This may be a punishment, or it may be mercy. The dis- 
position you now have towards this man, who certainly has 
offended you, that disposition will God, whom assuredly 
you have offended, have towards you at the great day. Bless 
him, and be blessed. For four days has he lain there, as 
you see him, without giving any signs of consciousness. 
Perhaps the Lord is ready to grant him an hour of repent- 
ance, but waits for you to ask it : perhaps it is His will that 
you should pray for it with that innocent creature ; perhaps 
he reserves the mercy for your solitary prayer, the prayer of 
an afflicted and resigned heart. Perhaps the salvation of 
this man and your own depend at this moment upon yourself, 
upon the disposition of your mind to forgiveness, to com- 
passion ... to love!' He ceased; and joining his hands, 
bent his head over them both, as if in prayer. Renzo did the 
same. 

They had been for a few moments in this position, when 
they heard the third tolling of the bell. Both moved to- 
gether, as if by agreement, and went out. The one made 
no inquiries, the other no protestations: their countenances 
spoke. 

' Go now,' resumed the friar, ' go prepared to make a sac- 
rifice, and to bless God, whatever be the issue of your re- 
searches. And, whatever it be, come and give me an ac- 
count of it: we will praise Him together.' 

Here, without further words, they parted; the one re- 
turned to the place he had left, the other set off to the little 
temple, which was scarcely more than a stone's throw distant. 



CHAPTER XXXVI 

WHO would ever have told Renzo, a few hours be- 
fore, that in the very crisis of his search, at the 
approach of the moment of greatest suspense 
which was so soon to be decisive, his heart would have been 
divided between Lucia and Don Rodrigo ? Yet so it was ; 
that figure he had just beheld, came and mingled itself in all 
the dear or terrible pictures which either hope or fear alter- 
nately brought before him in the course of his walk; the 
words he had heard at the foot of that bed blended them- 
selves with the conflicting thoughts by which his mind was 
agitated, and he could not conclude a prayer for the happy 
issue of this great experiment, without connecting with it 
that which he had begun there, and which the sound of the 
bell had abruptly terminated. 

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 portico ran round that which might 
more properly be called the church, but which was composed 
only of eight arches supported by pilasters, surmounted by 
a small cupola, and corresponding to those on the outside 
of the arcade ; so that the altar, erected 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 edifice 
being converted to quite a different use, the spaces of the 
eight fronts are walled up ; but the ancient framework, which 
still remains 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; 

614 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 615 

and shortly he perceived by his manner that he had begun the 
sermon. He therefore went round by some Uttle by-paths, 
so as to attain 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 hand- 
kerchiefs, or veils; and here he fixed his eyes more atten- 
tively; but, failing to distinguish anything more clearly, he 
also raised them to where all the others were directed. He 
was touched and affected 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 thou- 
sands who have gone forth thither;' and raising his finger 
above his shoulder, he pointed behind him towards the gate 
which led to the cemetery 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, alas ! 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 Hfe ! 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 gratitude? if not 
in order that, feeling more vividly than ever how life is 
His gift, we may esteem 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 compassionate towards others, and ever ready 
to relieve them? Li 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, fiot only derive some relief from 
the thought that others are going out hence in health, but 
also be edified by our behaviour. God forbid that they should 



616 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

behold in us a clamorous 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 regained their former vigour 
lend a brotherly arm to the feeble ; young men, sustain the 
aged; 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 alleviate your own sorrows.' 

Here a deep murmur of groans and sobs, 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 humbly im- 
plore your forgiveness, if we have not worthily fulfilled so 
great a ministry. If slothfulness, if the ungovernableness 
of the flesh, has rendered us less attentive to your necessities, 
less ready to answer your calls; if unjust impatience, or 
blameworthy weariness, has sometimes made us show you 
a severe and dispirited countenance; if the miserable thought 
that we were necessary to you, has sometimes induced us 
to fail in treating you with that humility which became 
us; if our frailty 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 trespasses, 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 privi- 
lege to attend upon the infected, because he felt it to be so; 
who confessed that he had not worthily acted up to it, be- 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 617 

cause he was conscious he had not done so ; who besought 
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 toil, as in 
authority, except, indeed, when he himself was lying at the 
point of death; think with what sighs and tears they re- 
sponded 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 reverently 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 concealed 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 resolute 
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 entirely clothed, and some ac- 
tually in their shirts. Then came the women, almost every 
one leading a little child by the hand, and alternately chant- 
ing the Miserere; while the feebleness of their voices, and 
the paleness and languor of their countenances, were enough 
to fill the heart of any one with pity who chanced to be there 
as a mere spectator. But Renzo was gazing and examining, 
from rank to rank, from face to face, without passing over 



618 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

one; for which the extremely slow advance of the pro- 
cession 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 un- 
known faces. With drooping 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 de- 
liberate a pace, that Renzo could with equal ease review 
all these without one escaping his scrutiny. 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 solitary Capuchin, with a grave 
countenance, and a stick in his hand, as the regulator of 
the cavalcade. It was that Father Michele whom we have 
mentioned as being appointed coadjutor in the government 
with Father Felice. 

Thus was this soothing 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 melancholy 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, entreaties, complaints, and promises; one of 
those addresses which are never made to men, because they 
have not sufficient quickness to understand them, nor pa- 
tience to listen to them ; they are not great enough to feel 
compassion without contempt. 

He rose somewhat more re-animated; went round the 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 610 

temple, came into the other road which he had not before 
seen, and which led to the opposite gate, and after gomg 
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 straps and buckles; and it immediately struck him 
that perhaps such an instrument might serve him as a pass- 
port in that place. He therefore picked it up, and, looking 
round to see if any one were watching him, buckled 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 contemplate, new scenes of suffering, in part so 
similar to those he had already witnessed, in part so dis- 
similar: for, under the same calamity, there was here a 
different kind of suffering, so to say, a different languor, 
a different complaining, a different endurance, a different 
kind of mutual pity and assistance, there was, too, in the 
spectator, another kind of compassion, so to say, and an- 
other feeling of horror. He had now gone I know not 
how far, without success, and without accidents, when 
he heard behind 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 beck- 
oning 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 hur- 
ried manner, as if to say that he understood and would 



620 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

obey; and then got out of his sight by slipping aside be- 
tween the cabins. 

When he thought himself far enough off, he began to 
think about dismissing this cause of offence; and to per- 
form 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 pos- 
sible? 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 pre- 
serve us even now.' 

If Renzo uttered no cry, it vv'as 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 doorway, saw her who 
had been speaking, saw her standing by a bedside, and 
bending over it. She turned on hearing a noise; looked, 
fancied she mistook the object, looked again more fixedly, 
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, how- 
ever, 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 longei- 
below. Ah Renzo I why are you here ? ' 

' Why ? ' said Renzo, drawing all the time nearer to her ; 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 621 

 do you ask why? Why I should come here ! Need I say 
why? Who is there I ought to think about? Am 1 no 
longer Renzo? Are you no longer Lucia ? ' 

' Ah, what are you saying ! What are you saymg ! Didn t 
my mother write to you? . . .' 

'Ay that indeed she did! Fine things to write to an 
unfortunate, afflicted, fugitive wretch-to a young fellow 
who has never offered you a single affront, at least ! 

'But Renzo! Renzo! since you knew . . . why come. 

^' Why come? Oh Lucia I 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 

'A fine hope, indeed! Fine things to tell me to my face! 

'Ah what have you done? and in this place! among all 
this misery! among these sights! here, where they do noth- 
ing 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 m de- 

> 
^^^But Renzo! Renzo! you don't think what you're saying. 
A promise to the Madonna !— a vow ! ' ,,• , 

'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 

talkinsf '' ' 

'I'm 'talking like a good Christian; 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 hap- 
pened? a mere fancy of your own. Don t you know what 
vou ought to promise the -Madonna? promise her that the 
first daughter we have, we'll call her Maria; for that Im 



€22 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

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 say- 
ing; 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, foi 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 in- 
tended 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 Cristof oro . . .' 

•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 . . .' 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 623 

'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 distressing to himself, and he felt must be 
rqually so to Lucia, she had again left the bedside, and wa 
once more drawing near him :' I'm afraid he has it " wj^ 
'Oh the poor holy man! But why do I say, Poo^,"^^^? 
Poor me! How is he? is he in bed? is he attended? 

'He's up going about, and attending upon others, but 
if you couM see his looks, and how he totters! One sees 
so r^any, that it's too easy ... to be sure there's no mis- 
take ! ' 

'Oh, and he's here indeed. 

'Ye;, and only a little way off; very little urther than 
from your house to mine ... if you remember! . . . 
'Oh, most holy Virgin!' 

'Well very little further. You may think whether we 
didn't talk about you. He said things to me . . . And 
Ff you knew what he showed me! You shall hear; but now 
I want to tell you what he said to me first he with h s 
own lips. He told me I did right to come and look for you 
and that the Lord approves of a youth s ^ctmg 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 

""^ 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 «[. J^^^gment, as 
he is, would never think of things of this kmd 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 abode, to the 
strongest impressions, was completely overwhelmed with 
horror and compassion. 

'And there, too,' pursued Renzo, 'he spoke like a saint, 
he said that perhaps the Lord has designed to showmercy 
to that poor fellow . . . (how I really cannot give him any 
other name) ... and waits to take him at the right mo- 



624 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

ment, 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 pray- 
ers.' 

' 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 un- 
done? For, if you'll return to reason, then all will be as 
at first; what has been, has been; he has had his punish- 
ment 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 perverted 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 un- 
derstand 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. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 625 

to tempt 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 
vour head. You've already had those abominable 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 plamly 
and flatly that I'll never set my heart at rest. You want 
to f oro-et 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 busmess, 
away with good rules. Will you condemn me to be a mad- 
man all my life? and like a madman I shall be . . . And 
that poor fellow! The Lord knows whether I've not for- 
given 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 persecuted me? 
because I've spent so long a time from home, unhappy, and 
far from you? because the first moment I could, I came to 
look for you? ' 

When Lucia could sufficiently command herself to speak, 
she exclaimed again, joining her hands, and raising her 
eyes to heaven, bathed in tears: 'O most holy Virgm, 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 invoke 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.' 



P?6 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

' 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 w^ould 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 listen- 
ing, but had not spoken a word, asked what was the mean- 
ing of this apparition, this meeting, these tears. But per- 
haps 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 malady, and conveyed to the Lazzaretto, 
she had been accommodated in this little cabin, at the 
time that Lucia, after having unconsciously surmounted 
the virulence of the disease, and, equally unconsciously, 
changed her companions several times, was beginning to 
recover and regain 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 
intimacy and affection had very soon sprung up between 
these associates in sickness, bereavement, and depression, 
alone as they were in the midst of so great a multitude, 
such as could scarcely have arisen from long intercourse 
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 ex- 
cept together, and had, besides, concerted other measures 
to prevent their separation after having quitted it. 

The merchant-woman, who, having left her dwelling, 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 627 

warehouse, and coffers, all well furnished under the care 
of one of her brothers, a commissioner 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 
acceded, with what gratitude to her benefactress and to 
Providence 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, how- 
ever she had never breathed a syllable about her intended 
marriage nor of her other remarkable adventures. But 
now, in such agitation of feehngs, she had at least as 
much need to give vent to them, as the other a wish to listen 
to them. And, clasping the right hand of her friend_ m 
both hers, she immediately began to satisfy her inquiries, 
without further obstacles than those which her sobs pre- 
sented to the melancholy recital. 

Renzo, meanwhile, trudged 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, rambling and peeping about in its 
vicinity, he discovered him in a tent, stooping towards the 
ground,' or, indeed, almost lying upon his face, administer- 
ing consolation 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 diffi- 
culty.' 

* What do you mean ? ' 

' I mean that . . . You know already what a good crea- 
ture this young girl is; but she's sometimes rather positive 



628 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

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 who 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 ruminate 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 com- 
panion, 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 out- 
side; 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 ofif 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 illuminated wit!i momentary brilliancy the long, long 
roofs and arches of the porticoes, the cupola of the temple, 
and the more humble roofs of the cabins ; while the claps of 
thunder, bursting forth in sudden peals, rolled rumbling 
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 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 629 

his follower; 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 respiration. 

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 precipitately, 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 
dehvered 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 placid look. And drawing her on one 
side, he added; 'Listen: I can only stay here a few mo- 
ments. Are you inclined to confide 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 recollect at the 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 offer- 
ings when we make them of our own. It is the hea.rt 
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 
subj ect ? ' 



630 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

*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 motive that hinders you from ful- 
filling the promise you have made to Renzo? ' 

'As to this . . . for me . . . what motive? ... I cannot 
say . . . nothing else,' replied Lucia, with a hesitation so 
expressed that it announced anything but uncertainty of 
thought ; and her cheeks, still pale from illness, suddenly 
glowed with the deepest crimson, 

* Do you believe,' resumed the old man, lowering his 
eyes, ' that God has given to His Church authority to remit 
and retain, according as it proves best, the debts and ob- 
ligations 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 obliga- 
tion, whatever it may be, that you may have contracted 
by this your vow.' 

' But is it not a sin to turn back, and to repent 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, 
fortified 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 asunder. 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 plighted word. 
And if you request me to declare you absolved from this 
vow, I shall not hesitate to do it; nay, I wish you may 
request me.' 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 631 

'Then' then! ... I do request you,' said Lucia, 

with a countenance no longer agitated, except by modesty. 

The friar beckoned 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 in- 
terested- and, on his drawing near, pronounced, in an 
explicit voice, to Lucia, ' By the authority I have received 
from the Church, I declare you absolved from the vow of 
virginity, annulling what may have been unadvised in it, 
and freeing you from every obligation you may thereby 
have contracted.' j j • 

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. J • ^c » 

'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 bestow 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 procure for you a temporal and earthly pleasure, 
which, even could it be complete, and free from all in- 
termixture 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 suffermgs 
and misery, to dispose you to tranquil 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 every- 
thing else. Lucia! has he told jou,' 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. 



632 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

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 exasperating 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 reverence, as if it had been a sacred relic. 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 lodge 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 mean while; 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 Him- 
self a father even in chastisement, 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 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 633 

to do here: we have already been here too long. Let 
us go.' . 

'Oh, Father!' said Lucia: 'Shall I see you agam? 1, 
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 vouchsafes 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 be- 
trothed; '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 impending. 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, sun- 
shine and shower, zephyr and hurricane, were all the same 
to him at that moment. He therefore thanked his kind 



634 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

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, salute 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 dis- 
appear, set off hastily towards the gate casting his farewell 
looks of compassion on each side over the melancholy 
scene. There was an unusual bustle, 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. 



CHAPTER XXXVII 

SCARCELY had Renzo crossed the threshold of the 
Lazzaretto, and taken the way to the right, to find 
the narrow road by which, in the morning, he had 
come out under the walls, when a few large and scattered 
drops began to fall, which lighting upon, and reboundmg 
from, the white and parched road, stirred up a cloud of 
very fine dust; these soon multipHed into rain; and before 
he reached the by-path, it poured down in torrents. Far 
from feeling any disquietude, Renzo luxuriated m it, and 
enjoyed himself in that refreshing coolness, that murmur, 
that general motion of the grass and leaves, shakmg, drip- 
ping revived, and glistening, as they were; he drew in 
several deep and long breaths; and in that relenting of 
nature, felt more freely and more vividly, as it were, that 
which had been wrought in his own destiny. 

But how far fuller and more unalloyed would have been 
this feeling, could he have divined what actually was beheld 
a few days afterwards, that that rain carried off,— washed 
away so to say,— the contagion; that, from that day for- 
wardi the Lazzaretto, if it was not about to restore to the 
living all the living whom it contained, would engulf, at 
least, no others; that, within one week, doors and shops 
would be seen re-opened; quarantine would scarcely be 
spoken of any longer ; and of the pestilence only a solitary 
token or two remain here and there ; that trace which every 
pestilence had left behind it for some time. 

Our traveller, then, proceeded with great alacrity, without 
having formed any plans as to where, how, when, or whether 
at all, he should stop for the night, and anxious only to get 
forward, to reach his own village quickly, to find somebody 
to talk to, somebody to whom he might relate his adventures, 
and, above all, to set off again immediately on his way to 
Pasture, in search of Agnese. His mind was quite confused 
by the events of the day; but from beneath all the misery, 
the horrors, and the dangers he recalled, one little thought 

635 



636 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

always rose to the surface: — I've found her; she's recovered; 
she's mine! — And then he vi^ould give a spring which scat- 
tered a drizzling shower around, like a spaniel coming up 
out of the water; at other times he would content himself 
with rubbing his hands: and then, on he would go more 
cheerily than ever. With his eyes fixed upon the road, 
he gathered up, so to say, the thoughts he had left there 
in the morning, and the day before, as he came; and with 
the greatest glee, those very same which he had then most 
sought to banish from his mind — the doubts, the difficulty 
of finding her, of finding her alive, amidst so many dead 
and dying ! — And I have found her alive ! — he concluded. 
He recurred to the most critical moments, the most terrible 
obscurities, of that day; he fancied himself with that knocker 
in his hand: will she be here or not? and a reply so little 
encouraging; and before he had time to digest it, that crowd 
of mad rascals upon him; and that Lazzaretto, that sea? 
there I wished to find her! And to have found her there! 
He recalled the moment when the procession of convalescents 
had done passing by : what a moment ! what bitter sorrow at 
not finding her ! and now it no longer mattered to him. And 
that quarter for the women ! And there, behind that cabin, 
when he was least expecting it, to hear that voice, that very 
voice ! And to see her ! To see her standing ! But what 
then? There was still that knot about the vow, and drawn 
tighter than ever. This too untied. And that madness 
against Don Rodrigo, that cursed canker which exasperated 
all his sorrows, and poisoned all his joys, even that rooted 
out. So that it would be difficult to imagine a state of 
greater satisfaction, had it not been for the uncertainty 
about Agnese, his grief for Father Cristoforo, and the 
remembrance that he was still in the midst of a pestilence. 
He arrived at Sesto as evening was coming on, without 
any token of the rain being about to stop. But feeling 
more than ever disposed to go forward; considering, too, 
the many difficulties of finding a lodging, and saturated 
as he was with wet, he would not even think of an inn. 
The only necessity that made itself felt was a very craving 
appetite; for success, such as he had met with, would have 
enabled him to digest something more substantial than the 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 637 

Capuchin's little bowl of soup. He looked about to see if 
he could discover a baker's shop, quickly found one, and 
received two loaves with the tongs, and the other cere- 
monies we have described. One he put into his pocket, the 
other to his mouth ; and on he went. 

When he passed through Monza, the night had com- 
pletely closed in: he managed, however, to leave the town 
in the direction that led to the right road. But except 
for this qualification, which, to say the truth, was a great 
compensation, it may be imagined what kind of a road it 
was, and how it was becoming worse and worse every 
moment. Sunk (as were all; and we must have said so 
elsewhere) between two banks, almost like the bed of a 
river, it might then have been called, if not a river, at least 
in reality a water-course; and in many places were holes 
and puddles from which it was difficult to recover one's 
shoes, and sometimes one's footing. But Renzo extricated 
himself as he could, without impatience, without bad lan- 
guage, and without regrets; consoling himself with the 
thought that every step, whatever it might cost him, brought 
him further on his way, that the rain would stop when God 
should see fit, that day would come in its own time, and 
that the journey he was meanwhile performing, would then 
be performed. 

Indeed, I may say, he never even thought of this, except 
in the moments of greatest need. These were digressions: 
the grand employment of his mind was going over the 
history of the melancholy years that had passed, so many 
perplexities, so many adversities, so many moments in 
which he had been about to abandon even hope, and give 
up everything for lost; and then to oppose to these the 
images of so far different a future, the arrival of Lucia, 
and the wedding, and the setting up house, and the relating 
to each other past vicissitudes, and, in short, their whole 

life. . , , 

How he fared at forks of the road, for some mdeed 
there were; whether his little experience, together with 
the glimmering twilight, enabled him always to find the 
right road, or whether he always turned into it by chance, 
I am not able to say; for he himself, who used to relate 



638 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

his history with great minuteness, rather tediously than 
otherwise (and everything leads us to believe that our 
anonymous author had heard it from him more than once), 
he himself declared, at this place, that he remembered no 
more of that night than if he had spent it in bed, dreaming. 
Certain it is, however, that towards its close, he found him- 
self on the banks of the Adda. 

I^ had never ceased raining a moment ; but at a certain 
stage it had changed from a perfect deluge to more moderate 
rain, and then into a fine, silent, uniform drizzle: the lofty 
and rarefied clouds formed a continual, but light and trans- 
parent, veil ; and the twilight dawn allowed Renzo to dis- 
tinguish the surrounding country. Within this tract was 
his own village; and what he felt at the thought it is im- 
possible to describe. I can only say that those mountains, 
that neighbouring Resegone, the whole territory of Lecco, 
had become, as it were, his own property. He glanced, too, 
at himself, and discovered that he looked, to say the truth, 
somewhat of a contrast to what he felt, to what he even 
fancied he ought to look : his clothes shrunk up and clinging 
to his body: from the crown of his head to his girdle one 
dripping, saturated mass: from his girdle to the soles of his 
feet, mud and splashes : the places which were free from 
these might themselves have been called spots and splashes. 
And could he have seen his whole figure in a looking-glass, 
with the brim of his hat unstiffened and hanging down, 
and his hair straight and sticking to his face, he would 
have considered himself a still greater beauty. As to being 
tired, he may have been so; but, if he were, he knew noth- 
ing about it; and the freshness of the morning, added to 
that of the night and of his trifling bath, only inspired him 
with more energy, and a wish to get forward on his way 
more rapidly. 

He is at Pescate ; he pursues his course along the re- 
maining part of the road that runs by the side of the Adda, 
giving a melancholy glance, however, at Pescarenico; he 
crosses the bridge ; and, through fields and lanes, shortly 
arrives at his friend's hospitable dwelling. He, who, only 
just risen, was standing in the doorway to watch the weather, 
raised his eyes in amazement at that strange figure, so 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 6» 

drenched, bespattered, and, «e may ^=y. 'JJ^' lUe he had 
same time, so lively and at ease: m h'^/^ole ' f e^ he had 
never seen a man worse equipped, and more thorou^niy 

'"■It r- said he: 'here already? and in such weather- 

""Sh'^nht? safd"Re;.o: 'she's there, she's there.' 

: Recovered, which is better. I have to thank tlte Lord 
and the Madonna for it as long as I live. But oh sue" 
grand things, such wonderful things! I'll tell you all after- 

wards.' . , 

' But what a plight you are in ! 

* T'm a beauty, am I not ? ' , i. ^ 

'T^ say the 'truth, you might employ the overplus above 

to wash off the overplus below. But wait a mmute, and 

'"rtnCruf:t '/-sure you. Where do you thin, it 
caulhTme? ust at 'the gate of the Lazzaretto But never 
r^ind' let the weather do its own busmess, and 1 mme 
" hIs ftiend then went out, and soon returned with two 
bundles of faggots: one he laid on the ground, the other 
on tt h:arth,'Ld with a few e-bersreniammg over from 
the evening, quickly kindled a fine bl-J- R^^-^^^^^f^ 
while had taken off his hat, and giving it t^vo or tnree 
shakes he threw it upon the ground; and. not quite so easily 
had abo pulled off his doublet. He then drew from his 
brtche:' pocket his poniard, the sheath of which was so 
wet that it seemed to have been laid m soak th he put 
upon the table, saying, ' This, too is in a P-tty phght 
but there's rain! there's ram! thank God • • • I^^ ^f, 
sle hair-breadth escapes; . . I'U ^ell yo-^Vj^ll^^ 
And he began rubbing his hands, ^^^^/.^"i^f^tal^ 
kindness,' added he: 'that little bundle that ]^fY^^ll''^^ 
just fetch it for me. for before these clothes that I have on 

''L'tur'ning with the bundle, ^s friend said ^ I should 
think vou must have a pretty good ^PP^^ite . I f ancy you 
haven'rwanted enough td drink by the way; but somethmg 
to eat . . .' 



640 ALESSANDRO MAXZONI 

' I bought two rolls yesterday towards evening ; but, 
indeed, they haven't touched my lips.' 

' Leave it to me,' said his friend ; he then poured some 
water into a kettle, which he suspended upon the hook over 
the fire ; and added, ' I'm going to milk : when I come back 
the water will be ready, and we'll make a good polenta. 
You, meanwhile, can dress yourself at your leisure.' 

When left alone, Renzo, not without some difficulty took 
ofif the rest of his clothes, which were almost as if glued 
to his skin ; he then dried himself, and dressed himself anew 
from head to foot. His friend returned, and set himself to 
make the polenta, Renzo, meanwhile, sitting by in expecta- 
tion. 

' Now I feel that I'm tired,' said he. ' But it's a fine long 
stretch ! That's nothing, however. I've so much to tell you 
it will take the whole day. Oh, what a state Milan's in ! 
What one's obliged to see ! what one's obliged to touch ! 
Enough to make one loathe oneself. I dare say I wanted 
nothing less than the little washing I've had. And what 
those gentry down there would have done to me ! You 
shall hear, But if you could see the Lazzaretto ! It's enough 
to make one lose oneself in miseries. Well, well, I'll tell 
you all . . . And she's there, and you'll see her here, and 
she'll be my wife, and you must be a witness, and, plague 
or no plague, we'll be merry, at least for a few hours.' 

In short, he verified what he had told his friend, that it 
would take all the day to relate everything; for, as it never 
ceased drizzling, the latter spent the whole of it under cover, 
partly seated by the side of his friend, partly busied over one 
of his wine-vats and a little cask, and in other occupations 
preparatory to the vintage and the dressing of the grapes, 
in which Renzo failed not to lend a hand; for, as he used 
to say, he was one of those who are sooner tired of doing 
nothing than of working. He could not, however, resist 
taking a little run up to Agnese's cottage, to see once more a 
certain window, and there, too, to rub his hands with glee. 
He went and returned unobserved, and retired to rest in 
good time. In good time, too, he rose next morning ; and 
finding that the rain had ceased, if settled fine weather had 
not yet returned, he set off quickly on his way to Pasture. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 641 

It was still early when he arrived there ; for he was no 
less willing and in a hurry to bring matters to an end, than 
the reader probably is. He inquired for Agnese, and heard 
that she was safe and well ; a small cottage standing by 
itself was pointed out to him as the place where she was 
staying. He went thither, and called her by name from the 
street. On hearing such a call, she rushed to the window ; 
and while she stood, with open mouth, on the point of 
uttering I know not what sound or exclamation, Renzo 
prevented her by saying, ' Lucia's recovered : I saw her the 
day before yesterday: she sends you her love, and will be 
here soon. And beside these, I've so many, many things to 
tell you.' 

Between the surprise of the apparition, the joy of these 
tidings, and the burning desire to know more about it, 
Agnese began one moment an exclamation, the next a ques- 
tion, without finishing any; then, forgetting the precautions 
she had long been accustomed to take, she said, * I'll come 
and open the door for you.' 

' Wait : the plague ! ' said Renzo : ' you've not had it, I 
believe? ' 

' No, not I : have you ? ' 

* Yes, I have ; you must therefore be prudent. I come 
from Milan; and you shall hear that I've been up to the 
eyes in the midst of the contagion. To be sure, I've changed 
from head to foot; but it's an abominable thing that clings 
to one sometimes like witchcraft. And since the Lord has 
preserved you hitherto, you must take care of yourself till 
this infection is over; for you are our mother; and I want 
us to live together happily for a long while, in compensa- 
tion f^w the great sufferings we have undergone, I at least.' 

' But . . .' began Agnese. 

' Eh ! ' interrupted Renzo, ' there's no but that will hold. 
I know what you mean ; but you shall hear, you shall hear 
that there are no longer any biits in the way. Let us go 
into some open space, where we can talk at our ease, with- 
out danger, and you shall hear.' 

Agnese pointed out to him a garden behind the house; 
if he would go in, and seat himself on one of the two benches 
which he would find opposite each other, she would come 

HC ♦ 21 — VOL. XXI 



642 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

down directly, and go and sit on the other. Thus it was 
arranged; and I am sure that if the reader, informed as he 
is of preceding events, could have placed himself there as 
a third party, to witness with his own eyes that animated 
conversation, to hear with his own ears those descriptions, 
questions, explanations, ejaculations, condolences, and con- 
gratulations ; about Don Rodrigo, and Father Cristoforo, and 
everything else, and those descriptions of the future, as 
clear and certain as those of the past ; — I am sure, I say, 
he would have enjoyed it exceedingly, and would have been 
the last to come away. But to have this conversation upon 
paper, in mute words written with ink, and without meeting 
with a single new incident, I fancy he would not care much 
for it, and would rather that we should leave him to con- 
jecture it. Their conclusion was that they would go to 
keep house all together, in the territory of Bergamo, where 
Renzo had already gained a good footing. As to the time, 
they could decide nothing, because it depended upon the 
plague and other circumstances ; but no sooner should the 
danger be over, than Agnese would return home to wait there 
for Lucia, or Lucia would wait there for her ; and in the 
mean time Renzo would often take another trip to Pasturo, 
to see his mother, and to keep her acquainted with whatever 
might happen. 

Before taking his leave, he offered money to her also, 
saying, ' I have them all here, you see, those scudi you 
sent : I, too, made a vow not to touch them, until the mystery 
was cleared up. Now, however, if you want any of them, 
bring me a little bowl of vinegar and water, and I'll throw 
in the fifty scudi, good and glittering as you sent them,' 

* No, no,' said Agnese ; ' I've more than I need still by 
me ; keep yours untouched, and they'll do nicely to set up 
house with,' 

Renzo took his departure, with the additional consolation 
of having found one so dear to him safe and well. He re- 
mained the rest of that day, and for the night, at his friend's 
house, and on the morrow was again on his way, but in 
another direction, towards his adopted country. 

Here he found Bortolo, still in good health, and in less 
apprehension of losing it; for in those few days, things 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 643 

had there also rapidly taken a favourable turn. New cases 
of illness had become rare, and the malady was no longer 
what it had been ; there were no longer those fatal blotches, 
nor violent symptoms; but slight fevers, for the most part 
intermittent, with, at the worst, a discoloured spot, which 
was cured like an ordinary tumour. The face of the country 
seemed already changed ; the survivors began to come forth, 
to reckon up their numbers, and mutually to exchange con- 
dolences and congratulations. There was already a talk of 
resuming business again; such masters as survived already 
began to look out for and bespeak workmen, and principally 
in those branches of art where the number had been scarce 
even before the contagion, as was that of silk-weaving. 
Renzo, without any display of levity, promised his cousin 
(with 'the proviso, however, that he obtained all due con- 
sent) to resume his employment, when he could come in 
company to settle himself in the country. In the mean while 
he gave orders for the most necessary preparations : he pro- 
vided a more spacious dwelling, a task become only too 
easy to execute at a small cost, and furnished it with all 
necessary articles, this time breaking into his little treasure, 
but without making any very great hole in it, for of every- 
thing there was a superabundance at a very moderate price. 
In the course of a few days he returned to his native 
village, which he found still more signally changed for the 
better.' He went over immediately to Pasturo; there he 
found Agnese in good spirits again, and ready to return 
home as soon as might be, so that he accompanied her 
thither at once: nor will we attempt to describe what were 
their feelings and words on again beholding those scenes 
together. Agnese found everything as she had left it; so 
that she was forced to declare, that, considering it was a 
poor widow and her daughter, the angels had kept guard 

over it. . i i 

And that other time,' added she, 'when it might have 
been thought that the Lord was looking elsewhere, and 
thought not of us, since he suffered all our little property 
to be carried away, yet, after all. He showed us the con- 
trary; for He sent me from another quarter that grand 
store 'of money whiQ.h enabled me to restore everything. 



644 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

I say everything, but I am wrong; because Lucia's wed- 
ding-clothes, which were stolen among the rest, good and 
complete as they were at first, were still wanting; and 
behold, now they come to us in another direction. Who 
would have told me, when I was working so busily to pre- 
pare those others. You think you are working for Lucia: 
nay, my good woman ! you are working for you know not 
whom. Heaven knows what sort of being will wear this 
veil, and all those clothes : those for Lucia, — the real wed- 
ding-dress which is to serve for her, will be provided by a 
kind soul whom you know not, nor even that there is such 
a person.' 

Agnese's first care was to prepare for this kind soul the 
most comfortable accommodations her poor little cottage 
could afford; then she went to procure some silk to wind, 
and thus, employed with her reel, beguiled the wearisome 
hours of delay. 

Renzo, on his part, suffered not these days, long enough 
in themselves, to pass away in idleness : fortunately he 
understood two trades, and of these two chose that of a 
labourer. He partly helped his kind host, who considered 
it particularly fortunate, at such a time, to have a work- 
man frequently at his command, and a workman, too, of 
his abilities; and partly cultivated and restored to order 
Agnese's little garden, which had completely run wild during 
her absence. As to his own property, he never thought 
about it at all, because, he said, it was too entangled a 
periwig, and wanted more than one pair of hands to set it to 
rights again. He did not even set foot into it; still less into 
his house : it would have pained him too much to see its 
desolation ; and he had already resolved to dispose of every- 
thing, at whatever price, and to spend in his new country 
all that he could make by the sale. 

If the survivors of the plague were to one another re- 
suscitated, as it were, he, to his fellow-countrymen, was, 
so to say, doubly so : every one welcomed and congratulated 
him, every one wanted to hear from him his history. The 
reader will perhaps say, how went on the affair of his 
outlawry? It went on very well: he scarcely thought any- 
thing more about it, supposing that they who could have 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 645 

enforced It would no longer think about it themselves; nor 
was he mistaken. This arose not merely from the pestilence, 
which had thwarted so many undertakings ; but, as may have 
been seen in more than one place in this story, it was a 
common occurrence in those days, that special as well as 
general orders against persons (unless there were some 
private and powerful animosity to keep them alive and 
render them availing), often continued without taking effect, 
if they had not done so on their first promulgation; like 
musket-balls, which, if they strike no blow, lie quietly upon 
the ground without giving molestation to any one. A 
necessary consequence of the extreme facility with which 
these orders were flung about, both right and left. Man's 
activity is limited ; and whatever excess there was in the 
making of regulations, must have produced so much greater 
a deficiency in the execution of them. What goes into the 
sleeves cannot go into the skirt.'* 

If any one wants to know how Renzo got on with Don 
Abbondio, during this interval of expectation, I need only 
say that they kept at a respectful distance from each other; 
the latter for fear of hearing a whisper about the wedding; 
and at the very thought of such a thing, his imagination 
conjured up Don Rodrigo with his bravoes on the one side, 
and the Cardinal with his arguments on the other ; and the 
former, because he had resolved not to mention it to him till 
the very last moment, being unwilling to run the risk of 
making him restive beforehand, of stirring up — who could 
tell? — some difficulty, and of entangling things by useless 
chit-chat. All his chit-chat was with Agnese. ' Do you think 
she'll come soon ? ' one would ask, ' I hope so,* would the 
other reply ; and frequently the one who had given the 
answer would not long afterwards, make the same inquiry. 
With these and similar cheats they endeavoured to beguile 
the time, which seemed to them longer and longer in pro- 
portion as more passed away. 

We will make the reader, however, pass over all this 
period in one moment, by briefly stating that, a few days 
after Renzo's visit to the Lazzaretto, Lucia left it with the 
kind widow ; that, a general quarantine having been en- 

* ' Quel che va nelle maniche non puo andar ne' gheroni.' 



616 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

joined, they kept it together in the house of the latter, that 
part of the time was spent in preparing Lucia's wardrobe, 
at which, after sundry ceremonious objections, she was 
obliged to work herself; and that the quarantine having 
expired, the widow left her warehouse and dwelling under 
the custody of her brother, the commissioner, and prepared 
to set off on her journey with Lucia. We could, too, speedily 
add,^they set off, arrived, and all the rest; but, with all 
our willingness to accommodate ourselves to this haste of 
the reader's, there are three things appertaining to this 
period of time, which we are not willing to pass over in 
silence ; and with two, at least, we believe the reader himself 
will say that we should have been to blame in so doing. 

The first is, that when Lucia returned to relate her ad- 
ventures to the good widow more in particular, and with 
greater order than she could do in her agitation of mind when 
she first confided them to her, and when she more expressly 
mentioned the Signora who had given her shelter in the 
monastery at Monza, she learnt from her friend things which, 
by giving her the key of many mysteries, filled her mind 
with melancholy and fearful astonishment. She learnt from 
the widow that the unhappy lady, having fallen under sus- 
picion of most atrocious conduct, had been conveyed, by 
order of the Cardinal, to a monastery at Milan; that there, 
after long indulgence in rage and struggles, she had re- 
pented, and confessed her faults, and that her present life 
was one of such voluntary inflictions, that no one, except 
by depriving her of that life entirely, could have invented 
a severer punishment for her. Should any one wish to be 
more particularly acquainted with this melancholy history, 
he will find it in the work and at the place which we have 
elsewhere quoted in relation to this same person.^ 

The other fact is, that Lucia, after making inquiries about 
Father Cristoforo of all the Capuchins she could meet with 
in the Lazzaretto, heard there, with more sorrow than 
surprise, that he had died of the pestilence. 

Lastly, before leaving Milan, she wished also to ascer- 
tain something about her former patrons, and to perform, 
as she said, an act of duty, if any yet remained. The widow 

'Ripamonti, Hist Pat Dec. V. lib v". cap. UL 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 647 

accompanied her to the house, where they learned that both 
one and the other had been carried off with the multitude. 
When we have said of Donna Prassede that she was dead, 
we have said all : but Don Ferrante, considering that he was 
a man of erudition, is deemed by our anonymous author 
worthy of more extended mention; and we, at our own 
risk, will transcribe, as nearly as possible, what he has left 
on record about him. 

He says, then, that, on the very first whisper of pestilence, 
Don Ferrante was one of the most resolute, and ever after- 
wards one of the most persevering, in denying it, not indeed 
with loud clamours, like the people, but with arguments, of 
which, at least, no one could complain that they wanted 
concatenation. 

'In rerum natura,' he used to say, 'there are but t\vo 
species of things, substances and accidents; and if I P^ove 
that the contagion cannot be either one or the other, I shall 
have proved that it does not exist— that it is a mere chimera. 
Here I am, then. Substances are either spiritual or material. 
That the contagion is a spiritual substance, is an absurdity 
no one would venture to maintain ; it is needless, therefore, 
to speak of it. Material substances are either simple or com- 
pound Now, the contagion is not a simple substance; and 
this may be shown in a few words. It is not an ethereal sub- 
stance; because, if it were, instead of passing from one 
body to another, it would fly off as quickly as possible 
to its own sphere. It is not aqueous : because it would wet 
things, and be dried up by the wind. It is not igneous; be- 
cause it would burn. It is not earthy ; because it would be 
visible. Neither is it a compound substance; because it 
must by all means be sensible to the sight and the touch ; and 
who has seen this contagion? who has touched it? It re- 
mains to be seen whether it can be an accident. Worse and 
worse. These gentlemen, the doctors, say that it is com- 
municated from one body to another; for this is their 
Achilles, this the pretext for issuing so many useless orders. 
Now, supposing it an accident, it comes to this, that it must 
be a transitive accident, two words quite at variance with 
each other; there being no plainer and more established 
fact in the whole of. philosophy than this, that an accident 



648 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

cannot pass from one subject to another. For if, to avoid 
this Scylla, we shelter ourselves under the assertion that 
it is an accident produced, we fly from Scylla and run upon 
Charybdis: because, if it be produced, then it is not com- 
municated, it is not propagated, as people go about affirming. 
These principles being laid down, what use is it to come 
talking to us so about weals, pustules, and carbuncles? . . .' 

' All absurdities,' once escaped from somebody or other. 

' No, no,' resumed Don Ferrante, ' I don't say so : science 
is science; only we must know how to employ it. Weals, 
pustules, carbuncles, parotides, violaceous tumours, black 
swellings, are all respectable words, which have their true 
and legitimate signification: but I say that they don't affect 
the question at all. Who denies that there may be such 
things, nay, that there actually are such ? All depends upon 
seeing where they come from.' 

Here began the woes even of Don Ferrante. So long as 
he confined himself to declaiming against the opinion of a 
pestilence, he found everywhere willing, obliging, and re- 
spectful listeners; for it cannot be expressed how much au- 
thority the opinion of a learned man by profession carries 
with it, while he is attempting to prove to others things of 
which they are already convinced. But when he came to 
distinguish, and to try and demonstrate that the error of 
these physicians did not consist in affirming that there was 
a terrible and prevalent malady, but in assigning its rules 
and causes; then (I am speaking of the earliest times, when 
no one would listen to a word about pestilence), then, in- 
stead of listeners, he found rebellious and intractable oppo- 
nents; then there was no room for speechifying, and he 
could no longer put forth his doctrines but by scraps and 
piecemeal. 

' There's the true reason only too plainly, after all,' said 
he ; ' and even they are compelled to acknowledge it, who 
maintain that other empty proposition besides . . . Let them 
deny, if they can, that fatal conjunction of Saturn with 
Jupiter. And when was it ever heard say that influences may 
be propagated . . . And would these gentlemen deny the 
existence of influences? Will they deny that there are stars, 
or tell me that they are placed up there for no purpose. 



I PROMESSl SPOSI 649 

like so many pin-heads stuck into a pin-cushion? ... But 
what I cannot understand about these doctors is this; to 
confess that we are under so mahgnant a conjunction, and 
then to come and tell us, with eager face, ' Don't touch this, 
and don't touch that, and you'll be safe! ' As if this avoid- 
ing of material contact with terrestrial bodies could hinder 
the virtual effect of celestial ones ! And such anxiety about 
burning old clothes ! Poor people ! will you burn Jupiter, will 
you burn Saturn ? ' i j 

His fretns, that is to say, on these grounds, he used no 
precautions against the pestilence ; took it, went to bed, and 
went to die, like one of Metastasio's heroes, quarrelling 

with the stars. . . 

And that famous library of his? Perhaps it is still there, 

distributed around his walls. 



CHAPTER XXXVIII 

ONE fine evening, Agnese heard a carriage stop at the 
door. — It is she, and none other ! — It was indeed 
Lucia, with the good widow: the mutual greetings 
we leave the reader to imagine. 

Next morning Renzo arrived in good time, totally igno- 
rant of what had happened, and with no other intentions 
than of pouring out his feelings a little with Agnese about 
Lucia's long delay. The gesticulations he made, and the 
exclamations he uttered, on finding her thus before his eyes, 
we will also refer to our reader's imagination. Lucia's ex- 
hibitions of pleasure towards him were such, that it will 
not take many words to give an account of them. * Good 
morning, Renzo : how do you do ? ' said she, with downcast 
eyes, and an air of composure. Nor let the reader think 
that Renzo considered this mode of reception too cold, and 
took it at all amiss. He entered fully into the meaning of 
her behaviour ; and as among educated people one knows 
how to make allowance for compliments, so he understood 
very well what feelings lay hidden beneath these words. 
Besides, it was easy enough to perceive that she had two 
ways of proffering them, one for Renzo, and another for all 
those she might happen to know. 

' It does me good to see you,' replied the youth, making 
use of a set phrase, which he himself, however, had in- 
vented on the spur of the moment. 

* Our poor Father Cristoforo ! . . .' said Lucia : ' pray for 
his soul ; though one may be almost sure that he is now pray- 
ing for us above.' 

' I expected no less, indeed,' said Renzo. Nor was this 
the only melancholy chord touched in the course of this 
dialogue. But what then? Whatever subject was the topic 
of conversation, it always seemed to them delightful. Like 
a capricious horse, which halts and plants itself in a certain 
spot, and lifts first one hoof and then another, and sets it 
down again in the self-same place, and cuts a hundred capers 

650 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 651 

before taking a single step, and then all on a sudden starts 
on its career, and speeds forward as if borne on the wings 
of the wind ; such had time become in his eyes : at first mm- 
utes had seemed hours; now hours seemed to him like 

minutes. , 

The widow not only did not spoil the party, but entered 
into it with great spirit: nor could Renzo, when he saw 
her lying on that miserable bed in the Lazzaretto, have 
imagined her of so companionable and cheerful a disposi- 
tion'' But the Lazzaretto and the country, death and a wed- 
din- are not exactly one and the same thing. With Agnese 
she^'was very soon on friendly terms ; and it was a pleasure 
to see her with Lucia, so tender, and, at the same time, 
playful, rallying her gracefully and without effort, just so 
much as was necessary to give more courage to her words 

and motions. , t^ ai^u v^ 

At length Renzo said that he was going to Don Abbondio, 
to make arrangements about the wedding. 

He vv^ent and with a certain air of respectful raillery, 
'Signor Curate; said he, 'have you at last lost that head- 
ache which you told me prevented your marrymg us? We 
are now in time; the bride is here, and I've come to know 
when it will be convenient ^ to you: but this time, 1 must 
request you to make haste.' ,, . 

Don Abbondio did not, indeed, reply that he would not, 
but he began to hesitate, to bring forward sundry excuses 
to throw out sundry insinuations: and why bring himselt 
into notice and publish his name, with that proclamation for 
his seizure still out against him? and that the thing could 
be done equally well elsewhere; and this, that, and the other 

argument.^^^ ! ' said Renzo : ' you've still a little pain in your 
head. 'But listen, listen.' And he began to describe in wha 
state he had beheld poor Don Rodrigo ; and that by that 
time he must undoubtedly be gone. 'Let us hope,^ con- 
cluded he, ' that the Lord will have had mercy on him. 

'This has nothing to do with us,' said Don Abbondio. 
' Did I say no? Certainly I did not; but I speak ... 1 speak 
for good reasons. Besides, don't you sec, as long as a man 
has breath in his body . . . Only look at me: Im somewhat 



652 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

sickly; I too have been nearer the other world than this: 
and yet I'm here; and ... if troubles don't come upon me 
. . . why ... I may hope to stay here a little longer yet. 
Think, too, of some people's constitutions. But, as I say, this 
has nothing to do with us.' 

After a little further conversation neither more nor less 
conclusive, Renzo made an elegant bow, returned to his 
party, made his report of the interview, and concluded by 
saying : ' I've come away, because I've had quite enough of 
it, and that I mightn't run the risk of losing my patience, 
and using bad words. Sometimes he seemed exactly like 
what he was that other time; the very same hesitation, and 
the very same arguments: I'm sure, if it had lasted a little 
longer, he'd have returned to the charge with some words 
in Latin. I see there must be another delay: it would be 
better to do what he says at once, and go and get married 
where we're about to live.' 

' I'll tell you what we'll do,' said the widow : ' I should 
like you to let us women go make the trial, and see whether 
we can't find rather a better way to manage him. By this 
means, too, I shall have the pleasure of knowing this man, 
whether he's just such as you describe him. After dinner 
I should like to go, not to assail him again too quickly. And 
now, Signor bridegroom, please to accompany us two in a 
little walk, while Agnese is so busily employed : I will act the 
part of Lucia's mother. I want very much to see these 
mountains, and this lake of which I've heard so much, rather 
more at large, for the little I've already seen of them seems 
to me a charmingly fine view.' 

Renzo escorted them first to the cottage of his hospitable 
friend, where they met with a hearty welcome; and they 
made him promise that, not that day only, but, if he could, 
every day, he would join their party at dinner. 

Having returned from their ramble, and dined, Renzo 
suddenly took his departure, without saying where he was 
going. The women waited a little while to confer together, 
and concert about the mode of assailing Don Abbondio; and 
at length they set oflf to make the attack. 

Here they are, I declare, — said he to himself; but he 

put on a pleasant face, and offered warm congratulations 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 653 

to Lucia, greetings to Agnese, and compliments to the 
stranger He made them sit down ; then he entered upon the 
grand subject of the plague, and wanted to hear from Lucia 
how she had managed to get over it in the midst of so many 
sorrows- the Lazzaretto afforded an opportunity of bringing 
her companion into conversation; then, as was but fair, 
Don Abbondio talked about his share in the storm; then fol- 
lowed great rejoicings with Agnese, that she had come forth 
unharmed The conversation was carried to some length: 
from the very first moment the two elders were on th^ 
watch for a favourable opportunity of mentioning the essen- 
tial point; and at length one of the two, I am not sure which 
succeeded in breaking the ice. But what think you? Doi. 
Abbondio could not hear with that ear. He took care not 
to say no, but behold! he again recurred to his usual eva- 
sions, circumlocutions, and hoppings from bush to bush 
'It would be necessary,' he said, 'to get rid of that order 
for Renzo's arrest. You, Signora, who come from Milan, 
will know more or less the course these matters take; you 
would claim protection-some cavalier of weight: for with 
such means every wound may be cured. H then we may 
jump to'the conclusion, without perplexing ourselves with so 
many considerations; as these young people and our good 
Agnese here, already intend to expatriate themselves, (but 
I'm talking at random; for one's country is wherever one is 
well off ) it seems to me that all may be accomplished there, 
where Ao proclamation interposes. I don't myself exactly 
Tee that this is the moment for t^e conclusion of this match 
but I wish it well concluded, and undisturbedly. To tell 
the t uth: here, with this edict in force, to Profl^i;:";he name 
of Lorenzo Tr'amaglino from the ^^^ar ^ couldn' do it w^h 
a quiet conscience: I too sincerely wish them we U; I shouM 
be afraid I were doing them an injury. You see, ma am, 

'"H*r7 Agnese and the widow, each in their own way, 
brokein to' combat these arguments: Don Abbondio repro- 
duced them in another shape: it was a perpetual recom- 
mencement: when lo, enter Renzo with a determined step, 
and tidings in his face. • ,, -a u 

' The Signer Marquis has arrived, said he. 



654 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

* What does this mean ? Arrived where ? ' asked Don 
Abbondio. 

' He has arrived at his palace, which was once Don Rod- 
rigo's; because this Signer Marquis is the heir by prefer- 
ment in trust, as they say; so that there's no longer any 
doubt. As for myself, I should be very glad of it, if I could 
hear that that poor man had died in peace. At any rate, I've 
said Paternosters for him hitherto ; now I will say the De 
profimdis. And this Signor Marquis is a very fine man.' 

* Certainly,' said Don Abbondio, ' I've heard him men- 
tioned more than once as a really excellent Signor, a man of 
the old stamp. But is it positively true? . . .' 

'Will you believe the sexton?' 

'Why?' 

' Because he's seen him with his own eyes. I've only been 
in the neighbourhood of the castle; and, to say the truth, I 
went there on purpose, thinking they must know something 
there. And several people told me about it. Afterwards, I 
met Ambrogio, who had just been up there, and had seen 
him, I say, take possession. Will you hear Ambrogio's tes- 
timony? I made him wait outside on purpose.' 

' Yes, let him come in,' said Don Abbondio. Renzo went 
and called the sexton, who, after confirming every fact, 
adding fresh particulars, and dissipating every doubt, again 
went on his way. 

' Ah ! he's dead, then ! he's really gone ! ' exclaimed Don 
Abbondio. ' You see, my children, how Providence over- 
takes some people. You know what a grand thing that is ! 
what a great relief to this poor country ! for it was impos- 
sible to live with him here. This pestilence has been a great 
scourge, but it has also been a good broom; it has swept 
away some, from whom, my children, we could never have 
freed ourselves. Young, blooming, and in full vigour, we 
might have said that they who were destined to assist at their 
funeral, were still writing Latin exercises at school; and in 
the twinkling of an eye they've disappeared, by hundreds at 
a time. We shall no longer see him going about with those 
cut-throat looking fellows at his heels, with such an osten- 
tatious and supercilious air, looking as if he had swallowed 
a ramrod, and staring at people as if they were all placed 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 655 

in the world to be honoured by his condescension. Well 
he's here no longer, and we are. He'll never again send 
such messages to honest men. He's given us all a great 
deal of disquietude, as you see; for now we may venture 

to say so.' 

' I've forgiven him from my heart, said Kenzo. 
'And you do right ! it's your duty to do so,' replied Don 
Abbondio • ' but one may thank Heaven, I suppose, who has 
delivered us from him. But to return to ourselves; I repeat 
do what you like best. If you wish me to marry you here I 
am- if it will be more convenient to you to go elsewhere do 
so As to the order of arrest, I likewise think that, as there 
is now no longer any who keeps his eye on you, and wishes 
to do you harm, it isn't worth giving yourself any great 
uneasiness about it, particularly as this gracious decree, on 
occasion of the birth of the most serene Infanta, is inter- 
posed. And then the plague ! the plague ! Oh, that plague 
has put to flight many a grand thing! So that, if you like 
to-day is Thursday ... on Sunday I'll ask you in 
church • because what may have been done in that way before 
will count for nothing, after so long an interval^; and then 1 
shall have the pleasure of marrying you myself.' _ 

' You know we came about this very thing,' said Renzo. 
'Very well; I shall attend you: and I must also write 
immediately and inform his Eminence.' 
* Who is his Eminence? ' 

•His Eminence,' replied Don Abbondio, * is our bignor 
Cardinal the Archbishop, whom may God preserve ! ' 

' Oh I beg your pardon,' answered Agnese ; ' but though 
I'm a poor ignorant creature, I can assure you he's not called 
so • because, the second time we were about to speak to him, 
just as I'm speaking to you, sir, one of the priests drew me 
aside and instructed me how to behave to a gentleman like 
him; 'and that he ought to be called, your illustrious Lord- 
ship, and my Lord.' , ,,,^11 
' And now, if he had to repeat his instructions, he d tell 
you that he is to have the title of Eminence: do you under- 
stand now? Because the Pope, whom may God likewise 
preserve, has ordered, ever since the month of June, that 
Cardinals are to have this title. And why do you think he 



656 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

has come to this resolution ? because the word illustrious, 
which once belonged to them and certain princes, has now 
become, — even you know what, and to how many it is given ; 
and how willingly they swallow it ! And what would you 
have done? Take it away from all? Then we should have 
complaints, hatred, troubles, and jealousies without end, and 
after all, they would go on just as before. So the Pope has 
found a capital remedy. By degrees, however, they will 
begin to give the title of Eminence to Bishops ; then Abbots 
will claim it; then Provosts; for men are made so: they 
must always be advancing, always be advancing; then 
Canons . . .' 

'And Curates?' said the widow. 

' No, no,' pursued Don Abbondio, ' the Curates must draw 
the cart : never fear that " your Reverence " will sit ill upon 
Curates to the end of the world. Farther, I shouldn't be 
surprised if cavaliers, who are accustomed to hear them- 
selves called Illustrious, and to be treated like Cardinals, 
should some day or other want the title of Eminence them- 
selves. And if they want it, you know, depend upon it they'll 
find somebody to give it them. And then, whoever hap- 
pens to be Pope then, will invent something else for the 
Cardinals. But come, let us return to our own affairs. On 
Sunday, I'll ask you in church; and, meanwhile, what do you 
think I've thought of to serve you better? Meanwhile, we'll 
ask for a dispensation for the two other times. They must 
have plenty to do up at Court in giving dispensations, if things 
go on everywhere as they do here. I've already . . . one 
. . . two . . . three . . . for Sunday, without counting your- 
selves; and some others may occur yet. And then you'll 
see afterwards; the fire has caught, and there'll not be left 
one person single. Perpetua surely made a mistake to die 
now; for this was the time that even she would have found 
a purchaser. And I fancy, Signora, it will be the same at 
Milan.' 

' So it is, indeed; you may imagine it, when, in my parish 
only, last Sunday, there were fifty weddings.' 

' I said so ; the world won't come to an end yet. And you, 
Signora, has no bumble Uy begun to hover about you? ' 

* No, no ; I don't think about such things, nor do I wish to.' 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 657 

'Oh yes, yes; for you will be the only single one. Even 
Agnese, you see— even Agnese . . .' 

'Poh' you are inclined to be merry !' said Agnese ^ 
'I am indeed; and I think, at length, it's time. We ve 
passed through some rough days, haven't we, ^Y y^^^S 
ones? Some rough ones we've passed indeed; and he ew 
dav3 we have yet to live, we may hope will be a little less 
melancholy. But, happy you, who, if no misfortunes happen, 
have still a little time left to talk over bygone sorrows ! 1, 
poor old man . . . villains may die; one may recover of the 
plague, but there is no help for old age; and, as they say, 
senectus ipsa est morbus' „ ^ . i 

'Now, then,' said Renzo, 'you may talk Latm as long as 
you like,' it makes no difference to me.' 

' You're at it again with that Latin, are you? Well well, 
I'll settle it with you: when you come before me with this 
little creature here, just to hear you pronounce ^ertam little 
words in Latin, I'll say to you-You don't like Latm, good- 

^^'\ht but I know what I mean,' replied Renzo; 'it isn't at 
all that Latin there that frightens me-that is honest sacred 
Ltin like that in the mass. And, besides, it is necessary 
there that you should read what is in the book. I'm talking 
of that knavish Latin, out of church, that comes upon one 
treacherously, in the very pith of a conversation. For ex- 
ample now that we are here, and all is over, that Latin you 
wen on pouring forth, just here in this corner, to give me 
To undersLd that you couldn't, and that other things were 
wanting, and I know not what besides; please now to trans- 
late it a little for me.' 

'Hold your tongue, you wicked fellow, hold your tongue; 
don't stir up these things; for if we were now to make up 
our accounts, I don't know which would be creditor. I ve 
forgiven all; let us talk about it no longer; but you certamly 
played me some tricks. I don't wonder at you because you re 
a downright young scoundrel; but fancy this crea ure as 
qufet as I mouse,'this little saint, whom -e would have 
thought it a sin to suspect and guard against But after all, 
I know who set her up to it, I know, I know.' So -ying h 
pointed and waved towards Agnese the finger he had at first 



658 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

directed to Lucia; and it is impossible to describe the good- 
temper and pleasantry with which he made these reproaches. 
The tidings he had just heard had given him a freedom and 
a talkativeness to which he had long been a stranger; and 
we should be still far enough from a conclusion, if we were 
to relate all the rest of this conversation, which he continued 
to prolong, more than once detaining the party when on the 
point of starting, and afterwards stopping them again for a 
little while at the very street door, each time to make some 
jocose speech. 

The day following, he received a visit as unexpected as it 
was gratifying, from the Signor Marquis we have mentioned; 
a person beyond the prime of manhood, whose countenance 
was, as it were, a seal to what report had said of him ; open, 
benevolent, placid, humble, dignified, and with something 
that indicated a resigned sadness. 

' I come,' said he, ' to bring you the compliments of the 
Cardinal Archbishop.' 

' Ah, what condescension of you both ! ' 

' When I was about to take leave of that incomparable 
man, who is good enough to honour me with his friend- 
ship, he mentioned to me two young betrothed persons of this 
parish, who have had to suffer on account of the unfortunate 
Don Rodrigo. His Lordship wishes to have some tidings of 
them. Are they living? and are their affairs settled?' 

' Everything is settled. Indeed, I was intending to write 
about them to his Eminence; but now that I have the 
honour . . .' 

* Are they here? ' 

'They are; and they will be man and wife as soon as 
possible.' 

' And I request you to be good enough to tell me if I can be 
of any service to them, and also to instruct me in the best 
way of being so. During this calamity, I have lost the only 
two sons I had, and their mother, and have received three 
considerable inheritances. I had a superfluity even before; 
so that you see it is really rendering me a service to give me 
an opportunity of employing some of my wealth, and particu- 
larly such an opportunity as this.' 

' May Heaven bless you ! Why are not all . . . Enough ; 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 659 

I thank you most heartily, in the name of these my children. 
And since your illustrious Lordship gives me so much en- 
couraeement. it is true, my Lord, that I have an expedient 
to suggest which perhaps may not displease your Lordship. 
Allow me to tell you, then, that these worthy people are 
fe owed to go and settle themselves elsewhere, and to sell 
wha little property they have here: the young man a vme- 
^ard of abo'ut nine or ten perches, if Lm not --taken ^u^ 
neglected and completely overgrown. Besides, he also has a 
coftage and his bride another, now both, you will see the 
abode of rats. A nobleman like your Lordship cannot know 
how the poor fare, when they are reduced to the necessi y ■ 
disposing of their goods. It always ends by falling mto 
the hands of some knave, who, if occasion offers, ^/^^f^ 
love to the place for some time, and as soon as he finds that 
its owner wants to sell it, draws back, and pretends not to 
wish for it so that he is obliged to run after him, and give 
it him for a piece of bread; particularly, too, in such cir- 
cumstances as these. My Lord Marqms will already have 
Seen the drift of my remarks. The best charity your most 
illustrious Lordship can afford to these people is to reheve 
them from this difficulty by purchasing their little property. 
To say the truth, I have an eye to my own interest, my 
own advantage, in making this suggestion the acquisition m 
my parish of a fellow-ruler like my Lord Marquis; but your 
Lordship will decide according to your own judgment; i have 
only spoken from obedience.' _ 

The Marquis highly commended the suggestion, returned 
thanks for it, begged Don Abbondio to be the judge of 
the price, and to charge it exorbitantly, and completed the 
Curate's amazement by proposing to go together ^^^^ff^jv 
to the bride's house, where they should probably also find the 

^'Bv^'the" way, Don Abbondio, in high glee, as may be 
imagined, thought of and mentioned another proposal 
' Since your illustrious Lordship is so inclined to benefit these 
poor people, there is another service which you might render 
them The young man has an order of arrest out agams 
him a kind of sentence of outlawry, for some tnfling fault 
he committed in Milan two years ago, on that day of the 



660 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

great insurrection, in which he chanced to be implicated, 
without any maHcious intentions, indeed quite ignorantly^ 
like a mouse caught in a trap. Nothing serious, I assure you ; 
mere boyish tricks, mischievous pranks; indeed, he is quite 
incapable of committing an actual crime. I may say so, for 
I baptized him, and have seen him grow up under my eyes. 
Besides, if your Lordship would take any pleasure in it, as 
gentlemen sometimes do in hearing these poor people's rude 
language, you can make him relate the account himself, and 
you will hear. At present, as it refers to old matters, no one 
gives him any molestation; and, as I have said, he thinks of 
leaving the state; but in the course of time, or in case of 
returning here, or going elsewhere, some time or other, you 
will agree with me that it is always better to find oneself 
clear. My Lord Marquis has influence in Milan, as is just, 
both as a noble cavalier, and as the great man he really is 
. . . No, no, allow me to say it, for truth will have its way. 
A recommendation, a word from a person like yourself, is 
more than is necessary to obtain a ready acquittal.' 

'Are there not heavy charges against this young man?' 
' Pshaw, pshaw ! I would not believe them. They made 
a great stir about it at the moment ; but I don't think there's 
anything now beyond the mere formalities.' 

' If so, the thing will be easy ; and I willingly take it upon 
me.' 

'And yet you will not let it be said that you are a great 
man. I say it, and I will say it; in spite of your Lordship, 
I will say it. And even if I were to be silent, it would be 
to no purpose, because everybody says so: and vox populi, 
vox Dei.' 

They found Renzo and the three women together, as they 
expected. How these felt we leave the reader to imagine; 
but for my part, I think that the very rough and bare walls, 
and the windows, and the tables, and the kitchen utensils, 
must have marvelled at receiving among them so extraor- 
dinary a guest. He encouraged the conversation, by talking 
of the Cardinal and their other matters with unreserved 
cordiality, and at the same time with great delicacy. By and 
by he came to the proposal. Don Abbondio, being requested 
by him to name the price, came forward; and, after a few 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 661 

gestures and apologies, — that it wasn't in his line, and that 
he could only guess at random, and that he spoke out of 
obedience, and that he left it to him, mentioned what he 
thought a most extravagant sum. The purchaser said that, 
for his part, he was extremely well satisfied, and, as if he 
had misunderstood, repeated double the amount. He would 
not hear of rectifying the mistake, and cut short and con- 
cluded all further conversation, by inviting the party to 
dinner at his palace the day after the wedding, when the 
deeds should be properly drawn out. 

Ah! — said Don Abbondio afterwards to himself, when 

he had returned home :— if the plague did things in this way 
always and everywhere, it would really be a sin to speak ill 
of it: we might almost wish for one every generation; and 
be content that people should be in league to produce a 
malady. — 

The dispensation arrived, the acquittal arrived, that blessed 
day arrived: the bride and bridegroom went in triumphal 
security to that very church, where, with Don Abbondio's 
own mouth, they were declared man and wife. Another, 
and far more singular triumph, was the going next day to 
the palace; and I leave my readers to conjecture the thoughts 
which must have passed through their minds on ascending 
that acclivity, on entering that doorway ; and the observa- 
tions that each must have made, according to_ his or her 
natural disposition. I will only mention that, in the midst 
of their rejoicing, one or other more than once made the 
remark, that poor Father Cristoforo was still wanting to 
complete their happiness. 'Yet for himself,' added they, 
' he is assuredly better off than we are.' 

The nobleman received them with great kindness, con- 
ducted them into a fine large servants'-hall, and seated 
the bride and bridegroom at table with Agnese and their 
Milanese friend; and before withdrawing to dine elsewhere 
with Don Abbondio, wished to assist a little at this first 
banquet, and even helped to wait upon them. I hope it 
will enter into no one's head to say that it would have been 
a more simple plan to have made at once but one table. 
I have described him as an excellent man, but not as an 
original, as it would now-a-days be called; I have said that 



662 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

he was humble, but not that he was a prodigy of humility. 
He possessed enough of this virtue to put himself beneath 
these good people, but not on an equality with them. 

After the two dinners, the contract was drawn out by the 
hands of a lawyer, not, however, Azsecca-Garhugli. He, 
I mean his outward man, was, and still is, at Canterelli. And 
for those who are unacquainted with that neighbourhood, 
I suppose some explanation of this information is here 
necessary. 

A little higher up than Lecco, perhaps half a mile or 
so, and almost on the confines of another country, named 
Castello, is a place called Canterelli, where two ways cross; 
and at one corner of the square space is seen an eminence, 
like an artificial hillock, with a cross on the summit. This 
is nothing else but a heap of the bodies of those who died in 
this contagion. Tradition, it is true, simply says, died of 
the contagion : but it must be this one, and none other, as 
it was the last and most destructive of which any memory 
remains. And we know that unassisted traditions always 
say too little by themselves. 

They felt no inconvenience on their return, except that 
Renzo was rather incommoded by the weight of the money 
he carried away with him. But, as the reader knows, he 
had had far greater troubles in his life than this. I say 
nothing of the disquiet of his mind, which was by no means 
trifling, in deciding upon the best means of employing it. 
To have seen the different projects that passed through that 
mind, — the fancies — the debates ; to have heard the pros and 
cons for agriculture or business, it was as if two academies 
of the last century had there met together. A_nd the affair 
was to Renzo far more overwhelming and perplexing, be- 
cause, since he was but a solitary individual, it could not be 
said to him, — Why need you choose at all ? both one and the 
other, each in its own turn ; for in substance they are the 
same ; and, like one's legs, they are two things which go 
better together than one alone. 

Nothing was now thought of, but packing up and set- 
ting off on their journey; the Tramaglino family to their 
new country, and the widow to Milan. The tears, the 
thanks, the promises of going to see each other, were many. 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 663 

Not less tender, even to tears, was the separation of Renzo 
and the family from his hospitable friend: nor let it be 
thought that matters went on coldly even with Don Ab- 
bondio. The three poor creatures had always preserved 
a certain respectful attachment to their curate; and he, 
in the bottom of his heart, had always wished them 
well. Such happy circumstances as these entangle the 

affections. .... 

Should any one ask if there was no grief felt m thus 
tearing themselves from their native country,— from their 
beloved mountains; it may be answered that there was: 
for sorrow, I venture to say, is mingled, more or less, with 
everything. We must, however, believe that it was not 
very profound, since they might have spared themselves 
from it by remaining at home, now that the two great 
obstacles, Don Rodrigo and the order for Renzo's appre- 
hension, were both taken away. But all three had been for 
some time accustomed to look upon the country to which 
they were going as their own. Renzo had recommended 
it to the women, by telling them of the facilities which it 
afforded to artificers, and a hundred things about the fine 
way in which they could live there. Besides, they had 
all experienced some very bitter moments in that home upon 
which they were now turning their backs; and mournful 
recollections always end in spoiling to the mind the places 
which recall them. And if these should be its native home, 
there is, perhaps, in such recollections, something still more 
keen and poignant. Even an infant, says our manuscript, 
reclines willingly on his nurse's bosom, and seeks with con- 
fidence and avidity the breast which has hitherto sweetly 
nourished him; but if, in order to wean him, she tinctures it 
with wormwood, the babe withdraws the lip, then returns to 
try it once more, but at length, after all, refuses it— weeping, 
indeed, but still refusing it. 

What, however, will the reader now say, on hearing that 
they had scarcely arrived, and settled themselves in their 
adopted country, before Renzo found there annoyances all 
prepared for him! Do you pity him? but so little serves 
to disturb a state of happiness! This is a short sketch of 
the matter. 



664 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

The talk that had been there made about Lucia, for some 
time before her arrival; the knowledge that Renzo had 
suffered so much for her sake, and had always been con- 
stant and faithful ; perhaps a word or two from some friend 
who was partial to him and all belonging to him, — had 
created a kind of curiosity to see the young girl, and a 
kind of expectation of seeing her very beautiful. Now we 
know what expectation is : imaginative, credulous, con- 
fident ; afterwards, when the trial comes, difficult to satisfy, 
disdainful; never finding what she had counted upon, be- 
cause, in fact, she knew not her own mind ; and pitilessly ex- 
acting severe payment for the loveliness so unmeaningly 
lavished on her object. 

When this Lucia appeared, many who had perhaps thought 
that she must certainly have golden locks, and cheeks blush- 
ing like the rose, and a pair of eyes one more beautiful than 
the other, and what not besides, began to shrug their shoul- 
ders, turn up their noses, and say, 'Is this she? After such 
a time, after so much talk, one expected something better ! 
What is she, after all? A peasant, like hundreds more. 
Why, there are plenty everywhere as good as she is, and 
far better too.' Then, descending to particulars, one re- 
marks one defect, and another, another; nor were there 
wanting some who considered her perfectly ugly. 

As, however, no one thought of telling Renzo these 
things to his face, so far there was no great harm done. 
They who really did harm, they who widened the breach, 
were some persons who reported them^ to him : and Renzo — 
what else could be expected? — took them very much to 
heart. He began to muse upon them, and to make them 
matters of discussion, both with those who talked to him 
on the subject, and more at length in his own mind. — 
What does it matter to you? And who told you to expect 
anything? did I ever talk to you about her? did I ever tell 
you she was beautiful? And when you asked me if she was, 
did I ever say anything in answer, but that she was 
a good girl ? She's a peasant ! Did I ever tell you that I 
would bring you here a princess? She displeases you! 
Don't look at her, then. You've some beautiful women: 
look at them. — 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 665 

Only look how a trifle may sometimes suffice to decide a 
man's' state for his whole life. Had Renzo been obliged 
to spend his in that neighbourhood, agreeably to his first 
intentions, he would have got on but very badly. From 
being himself displeased, he had now become displeasing. 
He was on bad terms with everybody, because everybody 
might be one of Lucia's criticizers. Not that he actually 
offended against civility ; but we know how many sly things 
may be done without transgressing the rules of common 
politeness : quite sufficient to give vent to one's spleen. There 
was something sardonic in his whole behaviour; he, too, 
found something to criticize in everything: if only there were 
two successive days of bad weather, he would immediately 
say, ' Ay indeed, in this country ! ' In short, I may say, he 
was already only borne with by a certain number of persons, 
even by those who had at first wished him well; and in 
course of time, from one thing to another, he would have 
gone on till he had found himself, so to say, in a state of 
hostility with almost the whole population, without being- 
able, probably, himself, to assign the primary cause, or ascer- 
tain' the root from which such an evil had sprung. 

But it might be said that the plague had undertaken to 

amend all Renzo's errors. That scourge had carried off 

the owner of another silk-mill, situated almost at the gates 

of Bergamo; and the heir, a dissolute young fellow, finding 

nothing in this edifice that could afford him any diversion, 

proposed, or rather was anxious, to dispose of it, even at 

half its value; but he wanted the money down upon the 

spot, that he might instantly expend it with unproductive 

prodigality. The matter having come to Bortolo's ears, he 

immediately went to see it : tried to treat about it : a more 

advantageous bargain could not have been hoped for; but 

that condition of ready money spoiled all, because his whole 

property, slowly made up out of his savings, was still far 

from reaching the required sum. Leaving the question, 

therefore, still open, he returned in haste, communicated the 

affair to his cousin, and proposed to take it in partnership. 

So capital an agreement cut short all Renzo's economical 

dubitations, so that he quickly decided upon business, and 

complied with the proposal. They went together, and the 



666 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 

bargain was concluded. When, then, the new owners came 
to live upon their own possessions, Lucia, who was here 
expected by no one, not only did not go thither subjected 
to criticisms, but, we may say, was not displeasing to any- 
body ; and Renzo found out that it had been said by more 
than one, ' Have you seen that pretty she-blockhead who has 
come hither ? ' The substantive was allowed to pass in the 
epithet. 

And even from the annoyance he had experienced in the 
other country, he derived some useful instruction. Before 
that time he had been rather inconsiderate in criticizing 
other people's wives, and all belonging to them. Now he 
understood that words make one impression in the mouth, 
and another in the ear; and he accustomed himself rather 
more to listen within to his own before uttering them. 

We must not, however, suppose that he had no little 
vexations even here. Man, (says our anonymous author — 
and we already know, by experience, that he had rather a 
strange pleasure in drawing similes — but bear with it this 
once, for it is likely to be the last time,) man, so long as he 
is in this world, is like a sick person lying upon a bed more 
or less uncomfortable, who sees around him other beds nicely 
made to outward appearance, smooth, and level, and fancies 
that they must be most comfortable resting-places. He suc- 
ceeds in making an exchange ; but scarcely is he placed in 
another, before he begins, as he presses it down, to feel in 
one place a sharp point pricking him, in another a hard lump : 
in short, we come to almost the same story over again. And 
for this reason, adds he, we ought to aim rather at doing 
well, than being well ; and thus we should come, in the end, 
even to be better. This sketch, although somewhat parabolic, 
and in the style of the seventeenth century, is, in substance, 
true. However, (continues he again,) our good friends 
had no longer any sorrows and troubles of similar kind and 
severity to those we have related; their life was, from this 
time forward, one of the calmest, happiest, and most envi- 
able of lives; so that, were I obliged to give an account of 
it, it would tire the reader to death. Business went on capi- 
tally. At the beginning there was a little difificulty from the 
scarcity of workmen, and from the ill-conduct and preten- 



I PROMESSI SPOSI 667 

sions of the few that still remained. Orders were published, 
which limited the price of labour : in spite of this help, thmgs 
ralUed again; because, after all, how could it be otherwise? 
Another rather more judicious order arrived from Venice- 
exemption, for ten years, from all charges, civil and personal, 
for foreigners who would come to reside in the State. To 
our friends this was another advantage. 

Before the first year of their marriage was completed a 
beautiful little creature came to light ; and, as if it had been 
made on purpose to give Renzo an early opportunity of ful- 
filling that magnanimous promise of his, it was a little girl. 
It may be believed that it was named Maria. Afterwards, 
in the course of time, came I know not how many others, 
of both sexes; and Agnese was busy enough in carrying 
them about, one after the other, calling them little rogues, 
and imprinting upon their faces hearty kisses, which left 
a white mark for ever so long afterwards. They were all 
very well inclined; and Renzo would have them all learn 
to read and write, saying, that since this amusement was in 
fashion they ought at least to take advantage of it. 

The finest thing was to hear him relate his adventures: 
and he always finished by enumerating the great things he 
had learnt from them, for the better government of himself 
in future. ' I've learnt,' he would say, ' not to meddle in 
disturbances: I've learnt not to make speeches m the 
street- I've learnt not to drink more than I want; 
I've learnt not to hold the knocker of a door m my hand, 
when crazy-headed people are about: and I've learnt not 
to buckle a little bell to my foot, before thinkmg of the con- 
sequences.' And a hundred other things. 

Lucia did not find fault with the doctrine itself, but she 
was not satisfied with it; it seemed to her, in a confused way, 
that something was still wanting to it. By dmt of hearing 
the same song over and over again, and meditatmg^on it 
every time, 'And I,' said she one day to her morahzer, what 
ought I to have learnt? I did not go to look for troubles: 
it is they that came to look for me. Though you wouldn' t 
say,' added she, smiling sweetly, 'that my error was in wish- 
ing you well, and promising myself to you.' 

Renzo at first was quite puzzled. After a long discussion 



668 I PROMESSI SPOSI 

and inquiry together, they concluded that troubles certainly 
often arise from occasion afforded by ourselves; but that 
the most cautious and blameless conduct cannot secure us 
from them ; and that, when they come, whether by our own 
fault or not, confidence in God alleviates them, and makes 
them conducive to a better life. This conclusion, though 
come to by poor people, seemed to us so right and just, that 
we have resolved to put it here, as the moral of our whole 
story. 

If this same story has given the reader any pleasure, he 
must thank the anonymous author, and, in some measure, 
his reviser, for the gratification. But if, instead, we have 
only succeeded in wearying him, he may rest assured that 
we did not do so on purpose. 



THE PUBLISHERS OF THE HAR- 
VARD CLASSICS • DR. ELIOT'S 
FIVE-FOOT SHELF OF BOOKS • ARE 
PLEASED TO ANNOUNCE THE 
PUBLICATION OF 

THE JUNIOR CLASSICS 

A LIBRARY FOR BOYS AND GIRLS 

"The Junior Classics constitute a set 
of books whose contents will delight 
children and at the same time satisfy 
the legitimate ethical requirements of 
those who have the children's best 
interests at heart. ' ' 

CHARLES W. ELIOT 



THE COLLIER PRESS • NEW YORK 
P-F -COLLIER ^ SON 



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Vol 21: The Classics - Part 2
