CHAPTER XXXV.
Who would have told Renzo some moments before, that at the very time of his greatest suspense and anxiety, his heart should be divided between Lucy and Don Roderick? And nevertheless it was so. The thought of him mingled itself with all the bright or painful images which hope or fear called up as he proceeded. The words the friar had uttered by that bed of pain, blended themselves with the cruel uncertainty of his soul. He could not utter a prayer, for the happy issue of his present undertaking, without adding to it one for the miserable object of his former resentment and revenge.
He saw the Father Felix on the portico of the church, and by his attitude comprehended that the holy man was addressing the assembled convalescents. He placed himself where he could overlook the audience. In the midst were the women, covered with veils; Renzo gazed at them intently, but finding that, from the place where he stood, it would be a vain scrutiny, he directed his attention to the father. He was touched by his venerable figure; and listened with all the attention his own solicitude would allow, to the reverend speaker, who thus proceeded in his affecting address:—
“Let us think for a moment,” said he, “of the thousands who have gone forth thither,” pointing to a gate behind him, leading to the burying ground of San Gregory, which was then but one mighty grave. “Let us look at the thousands who remain here, uncertain of their destiny; let us also look at ourselves! May the Lord be praised! praised in his justice! praised in his mercy! praised in death! praised in life! praised in the choice he has made of us! Oh! why has he done it, my children, if not to preserve a people corrected by affliction, and animated by gratitude? That we may be deeply sensible that life is his gift, that we may value it accordingly, and employ it in works which he will approve? That the remembrance of our sufferings may render us compassionate, and actively benevolent to others. May those with whom we have suffered, hoped, and feared, and among whom we leave friends and kindred, may they as we pass amidst them derive edification from our deportment! May God preserve us from any exhibition of self-congratulation, or carnal joy, at escaping that death against which they are still struggling! May they see us depart, rendering thanks to Heaven for ourselves, and praying for them; that they may say, Even beyond these walls they will remember us, they will continue to pray for us! Let us begin from this moment, from the first step we shall take into the world, a life of charity! Let those who have regained their former strength, lend a fraternal arm to the feeble; let the young sustain the old; let those who are left without children become parents to the orphan, and thus your sorrows will be softened, and your lives will be acceptable to God!”
Here a deep murmur of sighs and sobs, which had been increasing in the assembly, was suddenly suspended, on seeing the friar place a cord around his neck and fall on his knees. All was intense attention and profound silence.
“For myself,” said he, “and for all my companions, who have been chosen to the high privilege of serving Christ in you, I humbly ask your forgiveness if we have not worthily fulfilled so great a ministry. If indolence, or the waywardness of the flesh, has rendered us less attentive to your wants, less prompt to your call than duty demanded; if unjust impatience, or culpable disgust, have caused us sometimes to appear severe and wearied in your presence; if, indeed, the miserable thought that you had need of us, has led us to be deficient in humility towards you; if our frailty has made us commit any action which may have given you pain, pardon us! May God remit also your offences, and bless you!”
We have here related, if not the very words, at least the sense of that which he uttered; but we cannot describe the accent which accompanied them. It was that of a man who called it a privilege to serve the afflicted, because he really considered it such; who confessed not to have worthily exercised this privilege, because he truly felt his deficiency; who asked pardon, because he was persuaded he had need of it. But his hearers, who had beheld these capuchins only occupied in serving them, who had beheld so many of them die in the service, and he who now spoke in the name of all, always the first in toil as he was the first in authority, his hearers could only answer him with tears. The good friar then took a cross which rested against a pillar, and holding it up before him, took off his sandals, passing through the crowd, which opened respectfully to give him a passage, and placed himself at their head.
Renzo, overcome with emotion, drew on one side, and placed himself near a cabin, where, half concealed, he awaited, with his eyes open, his heart palpitating, but with renewed confidence, the result of the emotion excited by the touching scene of which he had been a witness.
Father Felix proceeded barefooted at the head of the procession, with the cord about his neck, bearing that long and heavy cross; he advanced slowly but resolutely, as one who would spare the weakness of others, but whose ideas of duty enabled him to rise above his own. The largest children followed immediately behind him, for the most part barefooted, and very few entirely clothed; then came the women, nearly all of them leading a child, and singing alternately the miserere. The feeble sound of the voices, the paleness and languor of the countenances, would have excited commiseration in the heart of a mere spectator. But Renzo was occupied with his own peculiar anxieties; the slow progress of the procession enabled him to scan with ease every face as it passed. He looked and looked again, and always in vain! His eye wandered from rank to rank, from face to face—they came, they passed—in vain, in vain—none but unknown features! A new ray of hope dawned upon his mind as he beheld some cars approaching, in which were the convalescents who were still too feeble to support the fatigue of walking. They approached so slowly that Renzo had full leisure to examine each in turn. But he was again disappointed; the cars had all passed, and Father Michael, with his staff in his hand, brought up the rear as regulator of the procession.
Thus nearly vanished his hopes, and with them his resolution. His only ground of hope now was to find Lucy still under the power of the disease; to this sad and feeble hope, he clung with all the ardour of his nature. He fell on his knees at the last step of the temple, and breathed forth an unconnected, but fervent prayer; he arose, strengthened in hope; and passing the railing pointed out by the father, entered into the quarter allotted to the women. As he entered it, he saw on the ground one of the little bells that the monatti carried on their feet, with its leather straps attached to it. Thinking it might serve him as a passport, he tied it to his foot, and then began his painful search. Here new scenes of sorrow met his eye, similar in part to those he had already witnessed, partly dissimilar. Under the weight of the same calamity, he discerned a more patient endurance of pain, and a greater sensibility to the afflictions of others; they to whom bodily suffering is a lot and an inheritance, acquire from it fortitude to bear their own woes, and sympathy to bestow on the woes of others.