My favourite scene in this chapter is when Renzo meets Don Abbondio and asks him for news about various people, while Don A. interjects on numerous occasions with the question: 'But you...". I find it a comic interlude. Renzo is full of questions after having found a new energy, while poor Don A. is still stunned and a bit mesmerized.
The episode in Renzo's garden is powerful, with the telling and significant remark that is was “untended by human hands.”. The power and continuity of nature, irrespective of human presence reminded me of J.G. Farrell's novel, "Troubles"
"He put a kettle of water on the fire and started to make polenta, handing the wooden spoon over to Renzo, so he could stir"
There's so much tenderness to this scene with the young men cooking together and the curtesy they show each other. Then there's the comment on what they'd both learned about kindness. It's a simple thought worthy of contemplation that could so easily have been prosaic. Manzoni deftly hands the baton to the author of the manuscript for this moment, as if holding it slightly further away from us, so we might see it more clearly: "Because both of them, according to the manuscript, had learned that kindness is a balm for the soul, both in the giving and the receiving".
Manzoni conveys so much with such economy of language. The image of “corpses being carried to the common grave without funeral rites, without singing, without mourners” tells a story of village life in very few words. This description moved me most in today’s reading.
Poor Perpetua. I always took her name to imply she is a never-ending force of nature. Her off-page death is poignant in its own way. Even the perpetual woman died, but her death is not remarkable.
Renzo returns home and almost everything has changed. Don Abbondio is grieving and is further diminished (although still combative and self-centered). Sadly, Perpetua has died. Tonio, who was “the smarter one” compared to his brother Gervaso (the “half wit”) is also diminished (although he morosely and wisely observes, “When your time is up, it’s up.”). Lucia is of course gone; Don A helpfully observes, “She’s in Milan, if she is still of this world”. Agnese has left (“is she alive?”; Don A: “Maybe”). Don Rodrigo and Padre Cristoforo have also left. Renzo’s vineyard and cottage have been ravaged. It looks to be true for our Renzo that “you can’t go home again”. (HT Thoma Wolfe)
Renzo's fantastic, wild and beautiful garden is a metaphor for Renzo's own situation as Omega Man--indeed, that of all humans who survived the plague. Before the plague, Renzo was trapped in the feudal system that limited his ability to get an education, acumulate wealth, think for himself, even marry the woman of his choosing who wanted to marry him. Now we've seen the plague do in a short time what humans could not accomplish in thousands of years--dismantle the oppressive feudal system. Much has been written giving plagues much credit for the start of the European Enlightenment.
Lovely moment amidst the devastation between Renzo and friend as they prepare to share polenta... “they sat down and thanked each other, one for the visit, the other for the hospitality...Because both of them...had learned that kindness is a balm for the soul, both in the giving and the receiving.”
I, too, believed the garden to be a metaphor, but of what exactly? To me, there is a kind of hope in the devastation. That even in chaos and loss, of the plague, of what Renzo's life has become, that new growth can sprout and fight like hell to survive. Maybe others saw a different metaphor?
Thé sheer plénitude in Renzo’s garden is overwhelming, a feast of language, the plants so fierce and determined in their burst of growth. Beautifully written. Need to grab my husband’s horticulture books and look up some of these dudes. Makes Milton’s paradise look very tame indeed.
I'm enjoying the suspense about Lucia, the way Manzoni hides her from not just Renzo but us. I never thought we'd leave her for so long. Renzo's fears that she may be dead are powerfully conveyed.
A day behind, I was struck by the beauty of the opening paragraph of this day's reading, even before arriving at the wonderful specificity of the catalogo of wild growth in Renzo's vineyard. Many of these wild things grow in my own garden, and some of them are welcome sometimes, especially for the sake of the birds.
(I was also moved to go back to see where we left Renzo earlier in the chapter and was struck by something I missed the first time -- Renzo, determined to find Lucia and question her about her vow, says/thinks "I'll let her know that she can't keep it." I know he's our hero and all, but the attitude here seems bullying to me -- he's the boss of her? does he leave her no agency?)
I appreciated Don A's "disgruntled surprise" on seeing Renzo. And especially the line that others have commented on -- "Because both of them, according to the manuscript, had learned that kindness is a balm for the soul, both in the giving and the receiving." I think it was that parenthetical attribution to the "manuscript" that allowed this beautiful line to bring tears to my eyes.
The casual reference to Perpetua’s death gave me more insight to Don Abbondio than anything else. Someone who has looked out for him for so long - yet Abbondio is still so consumed by his own issues that he cannot properly mourn her.
My favourite scene in this chapter is when Renzo meets Don Abbondio and asks him for news about various people, while Don A. interjects on numerous occasions with the question: 'But you...". I find it a comic interlude. Renzo is full of questions after having found a new energy, while poor Don A. is still stunned and a bit mesmerized.
The episode in Renzo's garden is powerful, with the telling and significant remark that is was “untended by human hands.”. The power and continuity of nature, irrespective of human presence reminded me of J.G. Farrell's novel, "Troubles"
"He put a kettle of water on the fire and started to make polenta, handing the wooden spoon over to Renzo, so he could stir"
There's so much tenderness to this scene with the young men cooking together and the curtesy they show each other. Then there's the comment on what they'd both learned about kindness. It's a simple thought worthy of contemplation that could so easily have been prosaic. Manzoni deftly hands the baton to the author of the manuscript for this moment, as if holding it slightly further away from us, so we might see it more clearly: "Because both of them, according to the manuscript, had learned that kindness is a balm for the soul, both in the giving and the receiving".
Manzoni conveys so much with such economy of language. The image of “corpses being carried to the common grave without funeral rites, without singing, without mourners” tells a story of village life in very few words. This description moved me most in today’s reading.
Poor Perpetua. I always took her name to imply she is a never-ending force of nature. Her off-page death is poignant in its own way. Even the perpetual woman died, but her death is not remarkable.
Renzo returns home and almost everything has changed. Don Abbondio is grieving and is further diminished (although still combative and self-centered). Sadly, Perpetua has died. Tonio, who was “the smarter one” compared to his brother Gervaso (the “half wit”) is also diminished (although he morosely and wisely observes, “When your time is up, it’s up.”). Lucia is of course gone; Don A helpfully observes, “She’s in Milan, if she is still of this world”. Agnese has left (“is she alive?”; Don A: “Maybe”). Don Rodrigo and Padre Cristoforo have also left. Renzo’s vineyard and cottage have been ravaged. It looks to be true for our Renzo that “you can’t go home again”. (HT Thoma Wolfe)
I was very struck by that garden and found myself re-reading the description several times.
Renzo's fantastic, wild and beautiful garden is a metaphor for Renzo's own situation as Omega Man--indeed, that of all humans who survived the plague. Before the plague, Renzo was trapped in the feudal system that limited his ability to get an education, acumulate wealth, think for himself, even marry the woman of his choosing who wanted to marry him. Now we've seen the plague do in a short time what humans could not accomplish in thousands of years--dismantle the oppressive feudal system. Much has been written giving plagues much credit for the start of the European Enlightenment.
Lovely moment amidst the devastation between Renzo and friend as they prepare to share polenta... “they sat down and thanked each other, one for the visit, the other for the hospitality...Because both of them...had learned that kindness is a balm for the soul, both in the giving and the receiving.”
I, too, believed the garden to be a metaphor, but of what exactly? To me, there is a kind of hope in the devastation. That even in chaos and loss, of the plague, of what Renzo's life has become, that new growth can sprout and fight like hell to survive. Maybe others saw a different metaphor?
Thé sheer plénitude in Renzo’s garden is overwhelming, a feast of language, the plants so fierce and determined in their burst of growth. Beautifully written. Need to grab my husband’s horticulture books and look up some of these dudes. Makes Milton’s paradise look very tame indeed.
Oh, Perpetua!
The lack of any preparation for her death, or any commentary about it, makes it hit very hard.
I'm enjoying the suspense about Lucia, the way Manzoni hides her from not just Renzo but us. I never thought we'd leave her for so long. Renzo's fears that she may be dead are powerfully conveyed.
A day behind, I was struck by the beauty of the opening paragraph of this day's reading, even before arriving at the wonderful specificity of the catalogo of wild growth in Renzo's vineyard. Many of these wild things grow in my own garden, and some of them are welcome sometimes, especially for the sake of the birds.
(I was also moved to go back to see where we left Renzo earlier in the chapter and was struck by something I missed the first time -- Renzo, determined to find Lucia and question her about her vow, says/thinks "I'll let her know that she can't keep it." I know he's our hero and all, but the attitude here seems bullying to me -- he's the boss of her? does he leave her no agency?)
I appreciated Don A's "disgruntled surprise" on seeing Renzo. And especially the line that others have commented on -- "Because both of them, according to the manuscript, had learned that kindness is a balm for the soul, both in the giving and the receiving." I think it was that parenthetical attribution to the "manuscript" that allowed this beautiful line to bring tears to my eyes.
The casual reference to Perpetua’s death gave me more insight to Don Abbondio than anything else. Someone who has looked out for him for so long - yet Abbondio is still so consumed by his own issues that he cannot properly mourn her.