THE ARTIST MONK
On the evening when Agnes and her grandmother returned from the
Convent, as they were standing after supper looking over the garden
parapet into the gorge, their attention was caught by a man in an
ecclesiastical habit, slowly climbing the rocky pathway towards them.
"Isn't that Brother Antonio?" said Dame Elsie, leaning forward to
observe more narrowly. "Yes, to be sure it is!"
"Oh, how glad I am!" exclaimed Agnes, springing up with vivacity, and
looking eagerly down the path by which the stranger was approaching.
A few moments more of clambering, and the stranger met the two women at
the gate with a gesture of benediction.
He was apparently a little past the middle point of life, and entering
on its shady afternoon. He was tall and well proportioned, and his
features had the spare delicacy of the Italian outline. The round brow,
fully developed in all the perceptive and æsthetic regions,--the keen
eye, shadowed by long, dark lashes,--the thin, flexible lips,--the
sunken cheek, where, on the slightest emotion, there fluttered a
brilliant flush of color,--all were signs telling of the enthusiast in
whom the nervous and spiritual predominated over the animal.
At times, his eye had a dilating brightness, as if from the flickering
of some inward fire which was slowly consuming the mortal part, and its
expression was brilliant even to the verge of insanity.
His dress was the simple, coarse, white stuff-gown of the Dominican
friars, over which he wore a darker traveling-garment of coarse cloth,
with a hood, from whose deep shadows his bright mysterious eyes looked
like jewels from a cavern. At his side dangled a great rosary and cross
of black wood, and under his arm he carried a portfolio secured with a
leathern strap, which seemed stuffed to bursting with papers.
Father Antonio, whom we have thus introduced to the reader, was an
itinerant preaching monk from the Convent of San Marco in Florence, on
a pastoral and artistic tour through Italy.
Convents in the Middle Ages were the retreats of multitudes of natures
who did not wish to live in a state of perpetual warfare and offense,
and all the elegant arts flourished under their protecting shadows.
Ornamental gardening, pharmacy, drawing, painting, carving in wood,
illumination, and calligraphy were not unfrequent occupations of the
holy fathers, and the convent has given to the illustrious roll of
Italian Art some of its most brilliant names. No institution in modern
Europe had a more established reputation in all these respects than the
Convent of San Marco in Florence. In its best days, it was as near an
approach to an ideal community, associated to unite religion, beauty,
and utility, as ever has existed on earth. It was a retreat from the
commonplace prose of life into an atmosphere at once devotional and
poetic; and prayers and sacred hymns consecrated the elegant labors of
the chisel and the pencil, no less than the more homely ones of the
still and the crucible. San Marco, far from being that kind of sluggish
lagoon often imagined in conventual life, was rather a sheltered hotbed
of ideas, fervid with intellectual and moral energy, and before the
age in every radical movement. At this period, Savonarola, the poet
and prophet of the Italian religious world of his day, was superior
of this convent, pouring through all the members of the order the fire
of his own impassioned nature, and seeking to lead them back to the
fervors of more primitive and evangelical ages, and in the reaction of
a worldly and corrupt Church was beginning to feel the power of that
current which at last drowned his eloquent voice in the cold waters of
martyrdom. Savonarola was an Italian Luther,--differing from the great
Northern Reformer as the more ethereally strung and nervous Italian
differs from the bluff and burly German; and like Luther, he became
in his time the centre of every living thing in society about him. He
inspired the pencils of artists, guided the counsels of statesmen, and,
a poet himself, was an inspiration to poets. Everywhere in Italy the
monks of his order were traveling, restoring the shrines, preaching
against the voluptuous and unworthy pictures with which sensual artists
had desecrated the churches, and calling the people back by their
exhortations to the purity of primitive Christianity.
Father Antonio was a younger brother of Elsie, and had early become
a member of the San Marco, enthusiastic not less in religion than in
Art. His intercourse with his sister had few points of sympathy, Elsie
being as decided a utilitarian as any old Yankee female born in the
granite hills of New Hampshire, and pursuing with a hard and sharp
energy her narrow plan of life for Agnes. She regarded her brother as
a very properly religious person, considering his calling, but was a
little bored with his exuberant devotion, and absolutely indifferent
to his artistic enthusiasm. Agnes, on the contrary, had from a child
attached herself to her uncle with all the energy of a sympathetic
nature, and his yearly visits had been looked forward to on her part
with intense expectation. To him she could say a thousand things which
she instinctively concealed from her grandmother; and Elsie was well
pleased with the confidence, because it relieved her a little from
the vigilant guardianship that she otherwise held over the girl. When
Father Antonio was near, she had leisure now and then for a little
private gossip of her own, without the constant care of supervising
Agnes.
"Dear uncle, how glad I am to see you once more!" was the eager
salutation with which the young girl received the monk, as he gained
the little garden. "And you have brought your pictures; oh, I know you
have so many pretty things to show me!"
"Well, well, child," said Elsie, "don't begin upon that now. A little
talk of bread and cheese will be more in point. Come in, brother, and
wash your feet, and let me beat the dust out of your cloak, and give
you something to stay Nature; for you must be fasting."
"Thank you, sister," said the monk; "and as for you, pretty one, never
mind what she says. Uncle Antonio will show his little Agnes everything
by-and-by. A good little thing it is, sister."
"Yes, yes,--good enough,--and too good," said Elsie, bustling about;
"roses can't help having thorns, I suppose."
"Only our ever-blessed Rose of Sharon, the dear mystical Rose of
Paradise, can boast of having no thorns," said the monk, bowing and
crossing himself devoutly.
Agnes clasped her hands on her bosom and bowed also, while Elsie
stopped with her knife in the middle of a loaf of black bread, and
crossed herself with somewhat of impatience,--like a worldly-minded
person of our day, who is interrupted in the midst of an observation by
a grace.
After the rites of hospitality had been duly observed, the old dame
seated herself contentedly in her door with her distaff, resigned Agnes
to the safe guardianship of her uncle, and had a feeling of security
in seeing them sitting together on the parapet of the garden, with the
portfolio spread out between them,--the warm twilight glow of the
evening sky lighting up their figures as they bent in ardent interest
over its contents. The portfolio showed a fluttering collection of
sketches,--fruits, flowers, animals, insects, faces, figures, shrines,
buildings, trees,--all, in short, that might strike the mind of a man
to whose eye nothing on the face of the earth is without beauty and
significance.
"Oh, how beautiful!" said the girl, taking up one sketch, in which a
bunch of rosy cyclamen was painted rising out of a bed of moss.
"Ah, that indeed, my dear!" said the artist. "Would you had seen the
place where I painted it! I stopped there to recite my prayers one
morning; 'twas by the side of a beautiful cascade, and all the ground
was covered with these lovely cyclamens, and the air was musky with
their fragrance. Ah, the bright rose-colored leaves! I can get no color
like them, unless some angel would bring me some from those sunset
clouds yonder."
"And oh, dear uncle, what lovely primroses!" pursued Agnes, taking up
another paper.
"Yes, child; but you should have seen them when I was coming down the
south side of the Apennines; these were everywhere so pale and sweet,
they seemed like the humility of our Most Blessed Mother in her lowly
mortal state. I am minded to make a border of primroses to the leaf in
the Breviary where is the 'Hail, Mary!'--for it seems as if that flower
doth ever say, 'Behold the handmaid of the Lord!'"
"And what will you do with the cyclamen, uncle? does not that mean
something?"
"Yes, daughter," replied the monk, readily entering into that
symbolical strain which permeated all the heart and mind of the
religious of his day, "I can see a meaning in it. For you see that the
cyclamen puts forth its leaves in early spring deeply engraven with
mystical characters, and loves cool shadows, and moist, dark places,
but comes at length to wear a royal crown of crimson; and it seems to
me like the saints who dwell in convents and other prayerful places,
and have the word of God graven in their hearts in youth, till these
blossom into fervent love, and they are crowned with royal graces."
"Ah!" sighed Agnes, "how beautiful and how blessed to be among such!"
"Thou sayest well, dear child. Blessed are the flowers of God that grow
in cool solitudes, and have never been profaned by the hot sun and dust
of this world!"
"I should like to be such a one," said Agnes. "I often think, when I
visit the sisters at the Convent, that I long to be one of them."
"A pretty story!" said Dame Elsie, who had heard the last words, "go
into a convent and leave your poor grandmother all alone, when she has
toiled night and day for so many years to get a dowry for you and find
you a worthy husband!"
"I don't want any husband in this world, grandmamma," said Agnes.
"What talk is this? Not want a good husband to take care of you when
your poor old grandmother is gone? Who will provide for you?"
"He who took care of the blessed Saint Agnes, grandmamma."
"Saint Agnes, to be sure! That was a great many years ago, and times
have altered since then; in these days girls must have husbands. Isn't
it so, Brother Antonio?"
"But if the darling hath a vocation?" said the artist, mildly.
"Vocation! I'll see to that! She sha'n't have a vocation! Suppose I'm
going to delve, and toil, and spin, and wear myself to the bone, and
have her slip through my fingers at last with a vocation? No, indeed!"
"Indeed, dear grandmother, don't be angry!" said Agnes. "I will do just
as you say,--only I don't want a husband."
"Well, well, my little heart,--one thing at a time; you shan't have him
till you say yes willingly," said Elsie, in a mollified tone.
Agnes turned again to the portfolio and busied herself with it, her
eyes dilating as she ran over the sketches.
"Ah! what pretty, pretty bird is this?" she asked.
"Knowest thou not that bird, with his little red beak?" said the
artist. "When our dear Lord hung bleeding, and no man pitied him, this
bird, filled with tender love, tried to draw out the nails with his
poor little beak,--so much better were the birds than we hard-hearted
sinners!--hence he hath honor in many pictures. See here,--I shall put
him into the office of the Sacred Heart, in a little nest curiously
built in a running vine of passion-flower. See here, daughter,--I have
a great commission to execute a Breviary for our house, and our holy
Father was pleased to say that the spirit of the blessed Angelico had
in some little humble measure descended on me, and now I am busy day
and night; for not a twig rustles, not a bird flies, nor a flower
blossoms, but I begin to see therein some hint of holy adornment to my
blessed work."
"Oh, Uncle Antonio, how happy you must be!" said Agnes, her large eyes
filling with tears.
"Happy!--child, am I not?" said the monk, looking up and crossing
himself. "Holy Mother, am I not? Do I not walk the earth in a dream
of bliss, and see the footsteps of my Most Blessed Lord and his dear
Mother on every rock and hill? I see the flowers rise up in clouds to
adore them. What am I, unworthy sinner, that such grace is granted me?
Often I fall on my face before the humblest flower where my dear Lord
hath written his name, and confess I am unworthy the honor of copying
his sweet handiwork."
The artist spoke these words with his hands clasped and his fervid eyes
upraised, like a man in an ecstasy; nor can our more prosaic English
give an idea of the fluent naturalness and grace with which such
images melt into that lovely tongue which seems made to be the natural
language of poetry and enthusiasm.
Agnes looked up to him with humble awe, as to some celestial being; but
there was a sympathetic glow in her face, and she put her hands on her
bosom, as her manner often was when much moved, and, drawing a deep
sigh, said,--
"Would that such gifts were mine!"
"They are thine, sweet one," said the monk. "In Christ's dear kingdom
is no mine or thine, but all that each hath is the property of others.
I never rejoice so much in my art as when I think of the communion of
saints, and that all that our Blessed Lord will work through me is the
property of the humblest soul in his kingdom. When I see one flower
rarer than another, or a bird singing on a twig, I take note of the
same, and say, 'This lovely work of God shall be for some shrine, or
the border of a missal, or the foreground of an altar-piece, and thus
shall his saints be comforted.'"
"But," said Agnes, fervently, "how little can a poor young maiden do!
Ah, I do so long to offer myself up in some way to the dear Lord, who
gave himself for us, and for his Most Blessed Church!"
As Agnes spoke these words, her cheek, usually so clear and pale,
became suffused with a tremulous color, and her dark eyes had a deep,
divine expression; a moment after, the color slowly faded, her head
drooped, and her long, dark lashes fell on her cheek, while her hands
were folded on her bosom. The eye of the monk was watching her with an
enkindled glance.
"Is she not the very presentment of our Blessed Lady in the
Annunciation?" said he to himself. "Surely, this grace is upon her for
this special purpose. My prayers are answered."
"Daughter," he began, in a gentle tone, "a glorious work has been done
of late in Florence under the preaching of our blessed Superior. Could
you believe it, daughter, in these times of backsliding and rebuke
there have been found painters base enough to paint the pictures of
vile, abandoned women in the character of our Blessed Lady; yea, and
princes have been found wicked enough to buy them and put them up
in churches, so that the people have had the Mother of all Purity
presented to them in the guise of a vile harlot. Is it not dreadful?"
"How horrible!" said Agnes.
"Ah, but you should have seen the great procession through Florence,
when all the little children were inspired by the heavenly preaching of
our dear Master. These dear little ones, carrying the blessed cross and
singing the hymns our Master had written for them, went from house to
house and church to church, demanding that everything that was vile and
base should be delivered up to the flames,--and the people, beholding,
thought that the angels had indeed come down, and brought forth all
their loose pictures and vile books, such as Boccaccio's romances and
other defilements, and the children made a splendid bonfire of them in
the Grand Piazza, and so thousands of vile things were consumed and
scattered. And then our blessed Master exhorted the artists to give
their pencils to Christ and his Mother, and to seek for her image among
pious and holy women living a veiled and secluded life, like that our
Lady lived before the blessed Annunciation. 'Think you,' he said, 'that
the blessed Angelico obtained the grace to set forth our Lady in such
heavenly wise by gazing about the streets on mincing women tricked
out in all the world's bravery?--or did he not find her image in holy
solitudes, among modest and prayerful saints?'"
"Ah," said Agnes, drawing in her breath with an expression of awe,
"what mortal would dare to sit for the image of our Lady!"
"Dear child, there be women whom the Lord crowns with beauty when they
know it not, and our dear Mother sheds so much of her spirit into their
hearts that it shines out in their faces; and among such must the
painter look. Dear little child, be not ignorant that our Lord hath
shed this great grace on thee. I have received a light that thou art to
be the model for the 'Hail Mary!' in my Breviary."
"Oh, no, no, no! it cannot be!" said Agnes, covering her face with her
hands.
"My daughter, thou art very beautiful, and this beauty was given thee
not for thyself, but to be laid like a sweet flower on the altar of thy
Lord. Think how blessed, if, through thee, the faithful be reminded of
the modesty and humility of Mary, so that their prayers become more
fervent,--would it not be a great grace?"
"Dear uncle," said Agnes, "I am Christ's child. If it be as you
say,--which I did not know,--give me some days to pray and prepare my
soul, that I may offer myself in all humility."
During this conversation Elsie had left the garden and gone a little
way down the gorge, to have a few moments of gossip with an old crony.
The light of the evening sky had gradually faded away, and the full
moon was pouring a shower of silver upon the orange-trees. As Agnes
sat on the parapet, with the moonlight streaming down on her young,
spiritual face, now tremulous with deep suppressed emotion, the painter
thought he had never seen any human creature that looked nearer to his
conception of a celestial being.
They both sat awhile in that kind of quietude which often falls between
two who have stirred some deep fountain of emotion. All was so still
around them, that the drip and trickle of the little stream which fell
from the garden wall into the dark abyss of the gorge could well be
heard as it pattered from one rocky point to another, with a slender,
lulling sound.
Suddenly the reveries of the two were disturbed by the shadow of a
figure which passed into the moonlight and seemed to rise from the
side of the gorge. A man enveloped in a dark cloak with a peaked
hood stepped across the moss-grown garden parapet, stood a moment
irresolute, then the cloak dropped suddenly from him, and the cavalier
stood in the moonlight before Agnes. He bore in his hand a tall stalk
of white lily, with open blossoms and buds and tender fluted green
leaves, such as one sees in a thousand pictures of the Annunciation.
The moonlight fell full upon his face, revealing his haughty yet
beautiful features, agitated by some profound emotion. The monk and the
girl were both too much surprised for a moment to utter a sound; and
when, after an instant, the monk made a half-movement as if to address
him, the cavalier raised his right hand with a sudden authoritative
gesture which silenced him. Then turning toward Agnes, he kneeled, and
kissing the hem of her robe, and laying the lily in her lap, "Holiest
and dearest," he said, "oh, forget not to pray for me!" He rose again
in a moment, and, throwing his cloak around him, sprang over the garden
wall, and was heard rapidly descending into the shadows of the gorge.
All this passed so quickly that it seemed to both the spectators like
a dream. The splendid man, with his jeweled weapons, his haughty
bearing, and air of easy command, bowing with such solemn humility
before the peasant-girl, reminded the monk of the barbaric princes in
the wonderful legends he had read, who had been drawn by some heavenly
inspiration to come and render themselves up to the teachings of holy
virgins, chosen of the Lord, in divine solitudes. In the poetical
world in which he lived all such marvels were possible. There were a
thousand precedents for them in that devout dreamland, "The Lives of
the Saints."
"My daughter," he said, after looking vainly down the dark shadows upon
the path of the stranger, "have you ever seen this man before?"
"Yes, uncle; yesterday evening I saw him for the first time, when
sitting at my stand at the gate of the city. It was at the Ave Maria;
he came up there and asked my prayers, and gave me a diamond ring for
the shrine of Saint Agnes, which I carried to the convent to-day."
"Behold, my dear daughter, the confirmation of what I have just said
to thee! It is evident that our Lady hath endowed thee with the great
grace of a beauty which draws the soul upward towards the angels,
instead of downward to sensual things, like the beauty of worldly
women. What saith the blessed poet Dante of the beauty of the holy
Beatrice?--that it said to every man who looked on her, '_Aspire!_'[2]
Great is the grace, and thou must give special praise therefor."
[2] I cannot forbear quoting Mr. Norton's beautiful translation
of this sonnet in the _Atlantic Monthly_ for February,
1859:--
"So gentle and so modest doth appear
My lady when she giveth her salute,
That every tongue becometh trembling mute,
Nor do the eyes to look upon her dare.
And though she hears her praises, she doth go
Benignly clothèd with humility,
And like a thing come down she seems to be
From heaven to earth, a miracle to show.
So pleaseth she whoever cometh nigh her,
She gives the heart a sweetness through the eyes
Which none can understand who doth not prove.
And from her lip there seems indeed to move
A spirit sweet and in Love's very guise,
Which goeth saying to the soul, 'Aspire!'"
"I would," said Agnes, thoughtfully, "that I knew who this stranger
is, and what is his great trouble and need,--his eyes are so full of
sorrow. Giulietta said he was the King's brother, and was called the
Lord Adrian. What sorrow can he have, or what need for the prayers of
a poor maid like me?"
"Perhaps the Lord hath pierced him with a longing after the celestial
beauty and heavenly purity of paradise, and wounded him with a divine
sorrow, as happened to Saint Francis and to the blessed Saint Dominic,"
said the monk. "Beauty is the Lord's arrow, wherewith he pierceth to
the inmost soul, with a divine longing and languishment which find
rest only in him. Hence thou seest the wounds of love in saints are
always painted by us with holy flames ascending from them. Have good
courage, sweet child, and pray with fervor for this youth; for there
be no prayers sweeter before the throne of God than those of spotless
maidens. The Scripture saith, 'My beloved feedeth among the lilies.'"
At this moment the sharp, decided tramp of Elsie was heard reëntering
the garden.
"Come, Agnes," she said, "it is time for you to begin your prayers, or,
the saints know, I shall not get you to bed till midnight. I suppose
prayers are a good thing," she added, seating herself wearily; "but if
one must have so many of them, one must get about them early. There's
reason in all things."
Agnes, who had been sitting abstractedly on the parapet, with her head
drooped over the lily-spray, now seemed to collect herself. She rose up
in a grave and thoughtful manner, and, going forward to the shrine of
the Madonna, removed the flowers of the morning, and holding the vase
under the spout of the fountain, all feathered with waving maiden-hair,
filled it with fresh water, the drops falling from it in a thousand
little silver rings in the moonlight.
"I have a thought," said the monk to himself, drawing from his girdle
a pencil and hastily sketching by the moonlight. What he drew was a
fragile maiden form, sitting with clasped hands on a mossy ruin, gazing
on a spray of white lilies which lay before her. He called it, The
Blessed Virgin pondering the Lily of the Annunciation.
"Hast thou ever reflected," he said to Agnes, "what that lily might
be like which the angel Gabriel brought to our Lady?--for, trust
me, it was no mortal flower, but grew by the river of life. I have
often meditated thereon, that it was like unto living silver with a
light in itself, like the moon,--even as our Lord's garments in the
Transfiguration, which glistened like the snow. I have cast about in
myself by what device a painter might represent so marvelous a flower."
"Now, brother Antonio," said Elsie, "if you begin to talk to the child
about such matters, our Lady alone knows when we shall get to bed. I am
sure I'm as good a Christian as anybody; but, as I said, there's reason
in all things, and one cannot always be wondering and inquiring into
heavenly matters,--as to every feather in Saint Michael's wings, and
as to our Lady's girdle and shoestrings and thimble and work-basket;
and when one gets through with our Lady, then one has it all to go
over about her mother, the blessed Saint Anne (may her name be ever
praised!). I mean no disrespect, but I am certain the saints are
reasonable folk and must see that poor folk must live, and, in order to
live, must think of something else now and then besides _them_. That's
my mind, brother."
"Well, well, sister," said the monk, placidly, "no doubt you are right.
There shall be no quarreling in the Lord's vineyard; every one hath his
manner and place, and you follow the lead of the blessed Saint Martha,
which is holy and honorable."
"Honorable! I should think it might be!" said Elsie. "I warrant me, if
everything had been left to Saint Mary's doings, our Blessed Lord and
the Twelve Apostles might have gone supperless. But it's Martha gets
all the work, and Mary all the praise."
"Quite right, quite right," said the monk, abstractedly, while he
stood out in the moonlight busily sketching the fountain. By just such
a fountain, he thought, our Lady might have washed the clothes of
the Blessed Babe. Doubtless there was some such in the court of her
dwelling, all mossy, and with sweet waters forever singing a song of
praise therein.
Elsie was heard within the house meanwhile making energetic commotion,
rattling pots and pans, and producing decided movements among the
simple furniture of the dwelling, probably with a view to preparing for
the night's repose of the guest.
Meanwhile Agnes, kneeling before the shrine, was going through with
great feeling and tenderness the various manuals and movements of
nightly devotion which her own religious fervor and the zeal of her
spiritual advisers had enjoined upon her. Christianity, when it
entered Italy, came among a people every act of whose life was colored
and consecrated by symbolic and ritual acts of heathenism. The only
possible way to uproot this was in supplanting it by Christian ritual
and symbolism equally minute and pervading. Besides, in those ages
when the Christian preacher was utterly destitute of all the help
which the press now gives in keeping under the eye of converts the
great inspiring truths of religion, it was one of the first offices
of every saint whose preaching stirred the heart of the people, to
devise symbolic forms, signs, and observances, by which the mobile and
fluid heart of the multitude might crystalize into habits of devout
remembrance. The rosary, the crucifix, the shrine, the banner, the
procession, were catechisms and tracts invented for those who could not
read, wherein the substance of pages was condensed and gave itself to
the eye and the touch. Let us not, from the height of our day, with the
better appliances which a universal press gives us, sneer at the homely
rounds of the ladder by which the first multitudes of the Lord's
followers climbed heavenward.
If there seemed somewhat mechanical in the number of times which Agnes
repeated the "Hail, Mary!"--in the prescribed number of times she rose
or bowed or crossed herself or laid her forehead in low humility on
the flags of the pavement, it was redeemed by the earnest fervor which
inspired each action. However foreign to the habits of a Northern mind
or education such a mode of prayer may be, these forms to her were
all helpful and significant, her soul was borne by them Godward,--and
often, as she prayed, it seemed to her that she could feel the
dissolving of all earthly things, and the pressing nearer and nearer of
the great cloud of witnesses who ever surround the humblest member of
Christ's mystical body.
"Sweet loving hearts around her beat,
Sweet helping hands are stirred,
And palpitates the veil between
With breathings almost heard."
Certain English writers, looking entirely from a worldly and
philosophical standpoint, are utterly at a loss to account for the
power which certain Italian women of obscure birth came to exercise
in the councils of nations merely by the force of a mystical piety;
but the Northern mind of Europe is entirely unfitted to read and
appreciate the psychological religious phenomena of Southern races. The
temperament which in our modern days has been called the mediïstic, and
which with us is only exceptional, is more or less a race-peculiarity
of Southern climates, and gives that objectiveness to the conception
of spiritual things from which grew up a whole ritual and a whole
world of religious Art. The Southern saints and religious artists
were seers,--men and women of that peculiar fineness and delicacy of
temperament which made them especially apt to receive and project
outward the truths of the spiritual life; they were in that state of
"divine madness" which is favorable to the most intense conception of
the poet and artist, and something of this influence descended through
all the channels of the people.
When Agnes rose from prayer, she had a serene, exalted expression,
like one who walks with some unseen excellence and meditates on some
untold joy. As she was crossing the court to come towards her uncle,
her eye was attracted by the sparkle of something on the ground, and,
stooping, she picked up a heart-shaped locket, curiously made of a
large amethyst, and fastened with a golden arrow. As she pressed upon
this, the locket opened and disclosed to her view a folded paper. Her
mood at this moment was so calm and elevated that she received the
incident with no start or shiver of the nerves. To her it seemed a
providential token, which would probably bring to her some further
knowledge of this mysterious being who had been so especially confided
to her intercessions.
Agnes had learned of the Superior of the Convent the art of reading
writing, which would never have been the birthright of the peasant-girl
in her times, and the moon had that dazzling clearness which revealed
every letter. She stood by the parapet, one hand lying in the white
blossoming alyssum which filled its marble crevices, while she read and
seriously pondered the contents of the paper.
TO AGNES
Sweet saint, sweet lady, may a sinful soul
Approach thee with an offering of love,
And lay at thy dear feet a weary heart
That loves thee, as it loveth God above?
If blessed Mary may without a stain
Receive the love of sinners most defiled,
If the fair saints that walk with her in white
Refuse not love from earth's most guilty child,
Shouldst thou, sweet lady, then that love deny
Which all-unworthy at thy feet is laid?
Ah, gentlest angel, be not more severe
Than the dear heavens unto a loving prayer!
Howe'er unworthily that prayer be said,
Let thine acceptance be like that on high!
There might have been times in Agnes's life when the reception of this
note would have astonished and perplexed her; but the whole strain of
thought and conversation this evening had been in exalted and poetical
regions, and the soft stillness of the hour, the wonderful calmness
and clearness of the moonlight, all seemed in unison with the strange
incident that had occurred, and with the still stranger tenor of the
paper. The soft melancholy, half-religious tone of it was in accordance
with the whole undercurrent of her life, and prevented that start of
alarm which any homage of a more worldly form might have excited.
It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that she read it many times
with pauses and intervals of deep thought, and then with a movement
of natural and girlish curiosity examined the rich jewel which had
enclosed it. At last, seeming to collect her thoughts, she folded the
paper and replaced it in its sparkling casket, and, unlocking the door
of the shrine, laid the gem with its enclosure beneath the lily-spray,
as another offering to the Madonna. "Dear Mother," she said, "if indeed
it be so, may he rise from loving me to loving thee and thy dear Son,
who is Lord of all! Amen!" Thus praying, she locked the door and turned
thoughtfully to her repose, leaving the monk pacing up and down in the
moonlit garden.
Meanwhile the cavalier was standing on the velvet mossy bridge which
spanned the stream at the bottom of the gorge, watching the play of
moonbeams on layer after layer of tremulous silver foliage in the
clefts of the black, rocky walls on either side. The moon rode so
high in the deep violet-colored sky, that her beams came down almost
vertically, making green and translucent the leaves through which they
passed, and throwing strongly marked shadows here and there on the
flower-embroidered moss of the old bridge. There was that solemn,
plaintive stillness in the air which makes the least sound--the hum
of an insect's wing, the cracking of a twig, the patter of falling
water--so distinct and impressive.
It needs not to be explained how the cavalier, following the steps of
Agnes and her grandmother at a distance, had threaded the path by which
they ascended to their little sheltered nook,--how he had lingered
within hearing of Agnes's voice, and, moving among the surrounding
rocks and trees, and drawing nearer and nearer as evening shadows drew
on, had listened to the conversation, hoping that some unexpected
chance might gain him a moment's speech with his enchantress.
The reader will have gathered from the preceding chapter that the
conception which Agnes had formed as to the real position of her
admirer from the reports of Giulietta was false, and that in reality
he was not Lord Adrian, the brother of the King, but an outcast and
landless representative of one branch of an ancient and noble Roman
family, whose estates had been confiscated and whose relations had
been murdered, to satisfy the boundless rapacity of Cæsar Borgia, the
infamous favorite of the notorious Alexander VI.
The natural temperament of Agostino Sarelli had been rather that of the
poet and artist than of the warrior. In the beautiful gardens of his
ancestral home it had been his delight to muse over the pages of Dante;
to sing to the lute, and to write, in the facile flowing rhyme of his
native Italian, the fancies of the dreamland of his youth.
He was the younger brother of the family,--the favorite son and
companion of his mother, who, being of a tender and religious nature,
had brought him up in habits of the most implicit reverence and
devotion for the institutions of his fathers.
The storm which swept over his house, and blasted all his worldly
prospects, blasted, too, and withered all those religious hopes and
beliefs by which alone sensitive and affectionate natures can be healed
of the wounds of adversity without leaving distortion or scar. For his
house had been overthrown, his elder brother cruelly and treacherously
murdered, himself and his retainers robbed and cast out, by a man
who had the entire sanction and support of the Head of the Christian
Church, the Vicar of Christ on Earth. So said the current belief of his
times,--the faith in which his sainted mother died; and the difficulty
with which a man breaks away from such ties is in exact proportion to
the refinement and elevation of his nature.
In the mind of our young nobleman there was a double current. He was a
Roman, and the traditions of his house went back to the time of Mutius
Scævola; and his old nurse had often told him that grand story of how
the young hero stood with his right hand in the fire rather than betray
his honor. If the legends of Rome's ancient heroes cause the pulses of
colder climes and alien races to throb with sympathetic heroism, what
must their power be to one who says, "These were my fathers"? Agostino
read Plutarch, and thought, "I, too, am a Roman!" and then he looked
on the power that held sway over the Tarpeian Rock and the halls of
the old "Sanctus Senatus," and asked himself, "By what right does it
hold these?" He knew full well that in the popular belief all those
hardy and virtuous old Romans whose deeds of heroism so transported him
were burning in hell for the crime of having been born before Christ;
and he asked himself, as he looked on the horrible and unnatural
luxury and vice which defiled the Papal chair and ran riot through
every ecclesiastical order, whether such men, without faith, without
conscience, and without even decency, were indeed the only authorized
successors of Christ and his Apostles?
To us, of course, from our modern standpoint, the question has an
easy solution,--but not so in those days, when the Christianity of the
known world was in the Romish church, and when the choice seemed to be
between that and infidelity. Not yet had Luther flared aloft the bold,
cheery torch which showed the faithful how to disentangle Christianity
from Ecclesiasticism. Luther in those days was a star lying low in the
gray horizon of a yet unawakened dawn.
All through Italy at this time there was the restless throbbing and
pulsating, the aimless outreach of the popular heart, which marks
the decline of one cycle of religious faith and calls for some great
awakening and renewal. Savonarola, the priest and prophet of this dumb
desire, was beginning to heave a great heart of conflict towards that
mighty struggle with the vices and immoralities of his time in which he
was yet to sink a martyr; and even now his course was beginning to be
obstructed by the full energy of the whole aroused serpent brood which
hissed and knotted in the holy places of Rome.
Here, then, was our Agostino, with a nature intensely fervent and
poetic, every fibre of whose soul and nervous system had been from
childhood skillfully woven and intertwined with the ritual and faith
of his fathers, yearning towards the grave of his mother, yearning
towards the legends of saints and angels with which she had lulled his
cradle slumbers and sanctified his childhood's pillow, and yet burning
with the indignation of a whole line of old Roman ancestors against
an injustice and oppression wrought under the full approbation of the
head of that religion. Half his nature was all the while battling
the other half. Would he be Roman, or would he be Christian? All the
Roman in him said "No!" when he thought of submission to the patent
and open injustice and fiendish tyranny which had disinherited him,
slain his kindred, and held its impure reign by torture and by blood.
He looked on the splendid snow-crowned mountains whose old silver
senate engirdles Rome with an eternal and silent majesty of presence,
and he thought how often in ancient times they had been a shelter to
free blood that would not endure oppression; and so gathering to his
banner the crushed and scattered retainers of his father's house, and
offering refuge and protection to multitudes of others whom the crimes
and rapacities of the Borgias had stripped of possessions and means
of support, he fled to a fastness in the mountains between Rome and
Naples, and became an independent chieftain, living by his sword.
The rapacity, cruelty, and misgovernment of the various regular
authorities of Italy at this time made brigandage a respectable and
honored institution in the eyes of the people, though it was ostensibly
banned both by Pope and Prince. Besides, in the multitude of contending
factions which were every day wrangling for supremacy, it soon became
apparent, even to the ruling authorities, that a band of fighting men
under a gallant leader, advantageously posted in the mountains and
understanding all their passes, was a power of no small importance
to be employed on one side or the other; and therefore it happened,
that, though nominally outlawed or excommunicated, they were secretly
protected on both sides, with a view to securing their assistance in
critical turns of affairs.
Among the common people of the towns and villages their relations were
of the most comfortable kind, their depredations being chiefly confined
to the rich and prosperous, who, as they wrung their wealth out of the
people, were not considered particular objects of compassion when the
same kind of high-handed treatment was extended toward themselves.
The most spirited and brave of the young peasantry, if they wished to
secure the smiles of the girls of their neighborhood, and win hearts
past redemption, found no surer avenue to favor than in joining the
brigands. The leaders of these bands sometimes piqued themselves on
elegant tastes and accomplishments; and one of them is said to have
sent to the poet Tasso, in his misfortunes and exile, an offer of
honorable asylum and protection in his mountain fortress.
Agostino Sarelli saw himself, in fact, a powerful chief, and there were
times when the splendid scenery of his mountain fastness, its inspiring
air, its wild eagle-like grandeur, independence, and security, gave
him a proud contentment, and he looked at his sword and loved it as
a bride. But then again there were moods in which he felt all that
yearning and disquiet of soul which the man of wide and tender moral
organization must feel who has had his faith shaken in the religion of
his fathers. To such a man the quarrel with his childhood's faith is a
never-ending anguish; especially is it so with a religion so objective,
so pictorial, and so interwoven with the whole physical and nervous
nature of man, as that which grew up and flowered in modern Italy.
Agostino was like a man who lives in an eternal struggle of
self-justification,--his reason forever going over and over with
its plea before his regretful and never-satisfied heart, which was
drawn every hour of the day by some chain of memory towards the
faith whose visible administrators he detested with the whole force
of his moral being. When the vesper-bell, with its plaintive call,
rose amid the purple shadows of the olive-silvered mountains,--when
the distant voices of chanting priest and choir reached him solemnly
from afar,--when he looked into a church with its cloudy pictures of
angels, and its window-panes flaming with venerable forms of saints
and martyrs,--it roused a yearning anguish, a pain and conflict, which
all the efforts of his reason could not subdue. How to be a Christian
and yet defy the authorized Head of the Christian Church, or how to
be a Christian and recognize foul men of obscene and rapacious deeds
as Christ's representatives, was the inextricable Gordian knot, which
his sword could not divide. He dared not approach the Sacrament, he
dared not pray, and sometimes he felt wild impulses to tread down in
riotous despair every fragment of a religious belief which seemed to
live in his heart only to torture him. He had heard priests scoff over
the wafer they consecrated,--he had known them to mingle poison for
rivals in the sacramental wine,--and yet God had kept silence and not
struck them dead; and like the Psalmist of old he said, "Verily, I have
cleansed my heart in vain, and washed my hands in innocency. Is there a
God that judgeth in the earth?"
The first time he saw Agnes bending like a flower in the slanting
evening sunbeams by the old gate of Sorrento, while he stood looking
down the kneeling street and striving to hold his own soul in the
sarcastic calm of utter indifference, he felt himself struck to the
heart by an influence he could not define. The sight of that young
face, with its clear, beautiful lines, and its tender fervor, recalled
a thousand influences of the happiest and purest hours of his life, and
drew him with an attraction he vainly strove to hide under an air of
mocking gallantry.
When she looked him in the face with such grave, surprised eyes of
innocent confidence, and promised to pray for him, he felt a remorseful
tenderness as if he had profaned a shrine. All that was passionate,
poetic, and romantic in his nature was awakened to blend itself in a
strange mingling of despairing sadness and of tender veneration about
this sweet image of perfect purity and faith. Never does love strike
so deep and immediate a root as in a sorrowful and desolated nature;
there it has nothing to dispute the soil, and soon fills it with its
interlacing fibres.
In this case it was not merely Agnes that he sighed for, but she stood
to him as the fair symbol of that life-peace, that rest of soul which
he had lost, it seemed to him, forever.
"Behold this pure, believing child," he said to himself,--"a true
member of that blessed Church to which thou art a rebel! How peacefully
this lamb walketh the old ways trodden by saints and martyrs, while
thou art an infidel and unbeliever!" And then a stern voice within him
answered, "What then? Is the Holy Ghost indeed alone dispensed through
the medium of Alexander and his scarlet crew of cardinals? Hath the
power to bind and loose in Christ's Church been indeed given to whoever
can buy it with the wages of robbery and oppression? Why does every
prayer and pious word of the faithful reproach me? Why is God silent?
Or is there any God? Oh, Agnes, Agnes! dear lily! fair lamb! lead a
sinner into the green pastures where thou restest!"
So wrestled the strong nature, tempest-tossed in its strength,--so
slept the trustful, blessed in its trust,--then in Italy, as now in all
lands.