THE MONK'S STRUGGLE
The golden sunshine of the spring morning was deadened to a sombre
tone in the shadowy courts of the Capuchin convent. The reddish brown
of the walls was flecked with gold and orange spots of lichen; and
here and there, in crevices, tufts of grass, or even a little bunch of
gold-blooming flowers, looked hardily forth into the shadowy air. A
covered walk, with stone arches, inclosed a square filled with dusky
shrubbery. There were tall, funereal cypresses, whose immense height
and scraggy profusion of decaying branches showed their extreme old
age. There were gaunt, gnarled olives, with trunks twisted in immense
serpent folds, and boughs wreathed and knotted into wild, unnatural
contractions, as if their growth had been a series of spasmodic
convulsions, instead of a calm and gentle development of Nature. There
were overgrown clumps of aloes, with the bare skeletons of former
flower-stalks standing erect among their dusky horns or lying rotting
on the ground beside them. The place had evidently been intended for
the culture of shrubbery and flowers, but the growth of the trees had
long since so intercepted the sunlight and fresh air that not even
grass could find root beneath their branches. The ground was covered
with a damp green mould, strewn here and there with dead boughs, or
patched with tufts of fern and lycopodium, throwing out their green
hairy roots into the moist soil. A few half-dead roses and jasmines,
remnants of former days of flowers, still maintained a struggling
existence, but looked wan and discouraged in the effort, and seemed
to stretch and pine vaguely for a freer air. In fact, the whole garden
might be looked upon as a sort of symbol of the life by which it was
surrounded,--a life stagnant, unnatural, and unhealthy, cut off from
all those thousand stimulants to wholesome development which are
afforded by the open plain of human existence, where strong natures
grow distorted in unnatural efforts, though weaker ones find in its
lowly shadows a congenial refuge.
We have given the brighter side of conventual life in the days we are
describing: we have shown it as often a needed shelter of woman's
helplessness during ages of political uncertainty and revolution; we
have shown it as the congenial retreat where the artist, the poet, the
student, and the man devoted to ideas found leisure undisturbed to
develop themselves under the consecrating protection of religion. The
picture would be unjust to truth, did we not recognize, what, from our
knowledge of human nature, we must expect, a conventual life of far
less elevated and refined order. We should expect that institutions
which guaranteed to each individual a livelihood, without the necessity
of physical labor or the responsibility of supporting a family, might
in time come to be incumbered with many votaries in whom indolence and
improvidence were the only impelling motives. In all ages of the world
the unspiritual are the majority,--the spiritual the exceptions. It was
to the multitude that Jesus said, "Ye seek me not because ye saw the
miracles, but because ye did eat and were filled,"--and the multitude
has been much of the same mind from that day to this.
The convent of which we speak had been for some years under the lenient
rule of the jolly Brother Girolamo,--an easy, wide-spread, loosely
organized body, whose views of the purpose of human existence were
decidedly Anacreontic. Fasts he abominated,--night-prayers he found
unfavorable to his constitution; but he was a judge of olives and good
wine, and often threw out valuable hints in his pastoral visits on
the cooking of macaroni, for which he had himself elaborated a savory
recipe; and the cellar and larder of the convent, during his pastorate,
presented so many urgent solicitations to conventual repose, as to
threaten an inconvenient increase in the number of others. The monks
in his time lounged in all the sunny places of the convent like so
many loose sacks of meal, enjoying to the full the _dolce far niente_
which seems to be the universal rule of Southern climates. They ate
and drank and slept and snored; they made pastoral visits through the
surrounding community which were far from edifying; they gambled, and
tippled, and sang most unspiritual songs; and keeping all the while
their own private pass-key to Paradise tucked under their girdles,
were about as jolly a set of sailors to Eternity as the world had to
show. In fact, the climate of Southern Italy and its gorgeous scenery
are more favorable to voluptuous ecstasy than to the severe and grave
warfare of the true Christian soldier. The sunny plains of Capua
demoralized the soldiers of Hannibal, and it was not without a reason
that ancient poets made those lovely regions the abode of Sirens whose
song maddened by its sweetness, and of a Circe who made men drunk with
her sensual fascinations, till they became sunk to the form of brutes.
Here, if anywhere, is the lotos-eater's paradise,--the purple skies,
the enchanted shores, the soothing gales, the dreamy mists, which all
conspire to melt the energy of the will, and to make existence either a
half doze of dreamy apathy or an awaking of mad delirium.
It was not from dreamy, voluptuous Southern Italy that the religious
progress of the Italian race received any vigorous impulses. These came
from more northern and more mountainous regions, from the severe, clear
heights of Florence, Perugia, and Assisi, where the intellectual and
the moral both had somewhat of the old Etruscan earnestness and gloom.
One may easily imagine the stupid alarm and helpless confusion of
these easy-going monks, when their new Superior came down among them
hissing with a white heat from the very hottest furnace fires of a new
religious experience, burning and quivering with the terrors of the
world to come,--pale, thin, eager, tremulous, and yet with all the
martial vigor of the former warrior, and all the habits of command of a
former princely station. His reforms gave no quarter to right or left;
sleepy monks were dragged out to midnight prayers, and their devotions
enlivened with vivid pictures of hell-fire and ingenuities of eternal
torment enough to stir the blood of the most torpid. There was to be
no more gormandizing, no more wine-bibbing; the choice old wines were
placed under lock and key for the use of the sick and poor in the
vicinity; and every fast of the Church, and every obsolete rule of the
order, were revived with unsparing rigor. It is true, they hated their
new Superior with all the energy which laziness and good-living had
left them, but they every soul of them shook in their sandals before
him; for there is a true and established order of mastery among human
beings, and when a man of enkindled energy and intense will comes among
a flock of irresolute commonplace individuals, he subjects them to
himself by a sort of moral paralysis similar to what a great, vigorous
gymnotus distributes among a fry of inferior fishes. The bolder ones,
who made motions of rebellion, were so energetically swooped upon, and
consigned to the discipline of dungeon and bread-and-water, that less
courageous natures made a merit of siding with the more powerful party,
mentally resolving to carry by fraud the points which they despaired of
accomplishing by force.
On the morning we speak of, two monks might have been seen lounging on
a stone bench by one of the arches, looking listlessly into the sombre
garden-path we have described. The first of these, Father Anselmo, was
a corpulent fellow, with an easy swing of gait, heavy animal features,
and an eye of shrewd and stealthy cunning: the whole air of the man
expressed the cautious, careful voluptuary. The other, Father Johannes,
was thin, wiry, and elastic, with hands like birds' claws, and an eye
that reminded one of the crafty cunning of a serpent. His smile was a
curious blending of shrewdness and malignity. He regarded his companion
from time to time obliquely from the corners of his eyes, to see what
impression his words were making, and had a habit of jerking himself up
in the middle of a sentence and looking warily round to see if any one
were listening, which indicated habitual distrust.
"Our holy Superior is out a good while this morning," he said, at
length.
The observation was made in the smoothest and most silken tones, but
they carried with them such a singular suggestion of doubt and inquiry
that they seemed like an accusation.
"Ah?" replied the other, perceiving evidently some intended undertone
of suspicion lurking in the woods, but apparently resolved not to
commit himself to his companion.
"Yes," said the first; "the zeal of the house of the Lord consumes him,
the blessed man!"
"Blessed man!" echoed the second, rolling up his eyes, and giving a
deep sigh, which shook his portly proportions so that they quivered
like jelly.
"If he goes on in this way much longer," continued Father Johannes,
"there will soon be very little mortal left of him; the saints will
claim him."
Father Anselmo gave something resembling a pious groan, but darted
meanwhile a shrewd observant glance at the speaker.
"What would become of the convent, were he gone?" said Father Johannes.
"All these blessed reforms which he has brought about would fall back;
for our nature is fearfully corrupt, and ever tends to wallow in the
mire of sin and pollution. What changes hath he wrought in us all! To
be sure, the means were sometimes severe. I remember, brother, when he
had you under ground for more than ten days. My heart was pained for
you; but I suppose you know that it was necessary, in order to bring
you to that eminent state of sanctity where you now stand."
The heavy, sensual features of Father Anselmo flushed up with some
emotion, whether of anger or of fear it was hard to tell; but he gave
one hasty glance at his companion, which, if a glance could kill, would
have struck him dead, and then there fell over his countenance, like a
veil, an expression of sanctimonious humility as he replied,--
"Thank you for your sympathy, dearest brother. I remember, too, how I
felt for you that week when you were fed only on bread and water, and
had to take it on your knees off the floor, while the rest of us sat at
table. How blessed it must be to have one's pride brought down in that
way! When our dear, blessed Superior first came, brother, you were as
a bullock unaccustomed to the yoke, but now what a blessed change! It
must give you so much peace! How you must love him!"
"I think we love him about equally," said Father Johannes, his dark,
thin features expressing the concentration of malignity. "His labors
have been blessed among us. Not often does a faithful shepherd meet so
loving a flock. I have been told that the great Peter Abelard found far
less gratitude. They tried to poison him in the most holy wine."
"How absurd!" interrupted Father Anselmo, hastily; "as if the blood of
the Lord, as if our Lord himself could be made poison!"
"Brother, it is a fact," insisted the former, in tones silvery with
humility and sweetness.
"A fact that the most holy blood can be poisoned?" replied the other,
with horror evidently genuine.
"I grieve to say, brother," said Father Johannes, "that in my profane
and worldly days I tried that experiment on a dog, and the poor brute
died in five minutes. Ah, brother," he added, observing that his obese
companion was now thoroughly roused, "you see before you the chief
of sinners. Judas was nothing to me; and yet, such are the triumphs
of grace, I am an unworthy member of this most blessed and pious
brotherhood; but I do penance daily in sackcloth and ashes for my
offense."
"But, Brother Johannes, was it really so? did it really happen?"
inquired Father Anselmo, looking puzzled. "Where, then, is our faith?"
"Doth our faith rest on human reason, or on the evidence of our senses,
Brother Anselmo? I bless God that I have arrived at that state where I
can adoringly say, 'I believe, because it is impossible.' Yea, brother,
I know it to be a fact that the ungodly have sometimes destroyed holy
men, like our Superior, who could not be induced to taste wine for
any worldly purpose, by drugging the blessed cup; so dreadful are the
ragings of Satan in our corrupt nature!"
"I can't see into that," said Father Anselmo, still looking confused.
"Brother," answered Father Johannes, "permit an unworthy sinner to
remind you that you must not try to see into anything; all that is
wanted of you in our most holy religion is to shut your eyes and
believe; all things are possible to the eye of faith. Now, humanly
speaking," he added, with a peculiarly meaning look, "who would believe
that you kept all the fasts of our order, and all the extraordinary
ones which it hath pleased our blessed Superior to lay upon us, as you
surely do? A worldling might swear, to look at you, that such flesh
and color must come in some way from good meat and good wine; but we
remember how the three children throve on the pulse and rejected the
meat from the king's table."
The countenance of Father Anselmo expressed both anger and alarm at
this home-thrust, and the changes did not escape the keen eye of Father
Johannes, who went on.
"I directed the eyes of our holy father upon you as a striking example
of the benefits of abstemious living, showing that the days of miracles
are not yet past in the Church, as some skeptics would have us believe.
He seemed to study you attentively. I have no doubt he will honor you
with some more particular inquiries,--the blessed saint!"
Father Anselmo turned uneasily on his seat and stealthily eyed his
companion, to see, if possible, how much real knowledge was expressed
by his words, and then answered on quite another topic.
"How this garden has fallen to decay! We miss old Father Angelo
sorely, who was always trimming and cleaning it. Our Superior is too
heavenly-minded to have much thought for earthly things, and so it
goes."
Father Johannes watched this attempt at diversion with a glitter of
stealthy malice, and, seeming to be absorbed in contemplation, broke
out again exactly where he had left off on the unwelcome subject.
"I mind me now, Brother Anselmo, that, when you came out of your cell
to prayers, the other night, your utterance was thick, and your eyes
heavy and watery, and your gait uncertain. One would swear that you
had been drunken with new wine; but we knew it was all the effect of
fasting and devout contemplation, which inebriates the soul with holy
raptures, as happened to the blessed Apostles on the day of Pentecost.
I remarked the same to our holy father, and he seemed to give it
earnest heed, for I saw him watching you through all the services. How
blessed is such watchfulness!"
"The Devil take him!" said Father Anselmo, suddenly thrown off his
guard; but checking himself, he added, confusedly,--"I mean"--
"I understand you, brother," said Father Johannes; "it is a motion
of the old nature not yet entirely subdued. A little more of the
discipline of the lower vaults, which you have found so precious, will
set all that right."
"You would not inform against me?" said Father Anselmo, with an
expression of alarm.
"It would be my duty, I suppose," said Father Johannes, with a sigh;
"but, sinner that I am, I never could bring my mind to such proceedings
with the vigor of our blessed father. Had I been Superior of the
convent, as was talked of, how differently might things have proceeded!
I should have erred by a sinful laxness. How fortunate that it was he,
instead of such a miserable sinner as myself!"
"Well, tell me, then, Father Johannes,--for your eyes are shrewd as a
lynx's,--_is_ our good Superior so perfect as he seems? or does he have
his little private comforts sometimes, like the rest of us? Nobody,
you know, can stand it to be always on the top round of the ladder to
Paradise. For my part, between you and me, I never believed all that
story they read to us so often about Saint Simeon Stylites, who passed
so many years on the top of a pillar and never came down. Trust me, the
old boy found his way down sometimes, when all the world was asleep,
and got somebody to do duty for him meantime, while he took a little
something comfortable. Is it not so?"
"I am told to believe, and I do believe," said Father Johannes, casting
down his eyes, piously; "and, dear brother, it ill befits a sinner like
me to reprove; but it seemeth to me as if you make too much use of the
eyes of carnal inquiry. Touching the life of our holy father, I cannot
believe the most scrupulous watch can detect anything in his walk or
conversation other than appears in his profession. His food is next to
nothing,--a little chopped spinach or some bitter herb cooked without
salt for ordinary days, and on fast days he mingles this with ashes,
according to a saintly rule. As for sleep, I believe he does without
it; for at no time of the night, when I have knocked at the door of
his cell, have I found him sleeping. He is always at his prayers or
breviary. His cell hath only a rough, hard board for a bed, with a log
of rough wood for a pillow; yet he complains of that as tempting to
indolence."
Father Anselmo shrugged his fat shoulders, ruefully.
"It's all well enough," he said, "for those that want to take this hard
road to Paradise; but why need they drive the flock up with them?"
"True enough, Brother Anselmo," said Father Johannes; "but the flock
will rejoice in it in the end, doubtless. I understand he is purposing
to draw yet stricter the reins of discipline. We ought to be thankful."
"Thankful? We can't wink but six times a week now," said Father
Anselmo; "and by and by he won't let us wink at all."
"Hist! hush! here he comes," said Father Johannes. "What ails him? he
looks wild, like a man distraught."
In a moment more, in fact, Father Francesco strode hastily through the
corridor, with his deep-set eyes dilated and glittering, and a vivid
hectic flush on his hollow cheeks. He paid no regard to the salutation
of the obsequious monks; in fact, he seemed scarcely to see them, but
hurried in a disordered manner through the passages and gained the room
of his cell, which he shut and locked with a violent clang.
"What has come over him now?" said Father Anselmo.
Father Johannes stealthily followed some distance, and then stood
with his lean neck outstretched and his head turned in the direction
where the Superior had disappeared. The whole attitude of the man,
with his acute glittering eye, might remind one of a serpent making an
observation before darting after his prey.
"Something is working him," he said to himself; "what may it be?"
Meanwhile that heavy oaken door had closed on a narrow cell, bare of
everything which could be supposed to be a matter of convenience in
the abode of a human being. A table of the rudest and most primitive
construction was garnished with a skull, whose empty eye-holes and
grinning teeth were the most conspicuous objects in the room. Behind
this stood a large crucifix, manifestly the work of no common master,
and bearing evident traces in its workmanship of Florentine art: it
was, perhaps, one of the relics of the former wealth of the nobleman
who had buried his name and worldly possessions in this living
sepulchre. A splendid manuscript breviary, richly illuminated, lay open
on the table; and the fair fancy of its flowery letters, the lustre of
gold and silver on its pages, formed a singular contrast to the squalid
nakedness of everything else in the room. This book, too, had been a
family heirloom; some lingering shred of human and domestic affection
sheltered itself under the protection of religion in making it the
companion of his self-imposed life of penance and renunciation.
Father Francesco had just returned from the scene in the confessional
we have already described. That day had brought to him one of those
pungent and vivid inward revelations which sometimes overset in a
moment some delusion that has been the cherished growth of years.
Henceforth the reign of self-deception was past,--there was no more
self-concealment, no more evasion. He loved Agnes,--he knew it; he
said it over and over again to himself with a stormy intensity of
energy; and in this hour the whole of his nature seemed to rise in
rebellion against the awful barriers which hemmed in and threatened
this passion. He now saw clearly that all that he had been calling
fatherly tenderness, pastoral zeal, Christian unity, and a thousand
other evangelical names, was nothing more nor less than a passion that
had gone to the roots of existence and absorbed into itself all that
there was of him. Where was he to look for refuge? What hymn, what
prayer, had he not blent with her image? It was this that he had given
to her as a holy lesson,--it was that that she had spoken of to him as
the best expression of her feelings. This prayer he had explained to
her; he remembered just the beautiful light in her eyes, which were
fixed on his so trustingly. How dear to him had been that unquestioning
devotion, that tender, innocent humility!--how dear, and how dangerous!
We have read of flowing rivulets, wandering peacefully without ripple
or commotion, so long as no barrier stayed their course, suddenly
chafing in angry fury when an impassable dam was thrown across their
waters. So any affection, however genial and gentle in its own nature,
may become an ungovernable, ferocious passion, by the intervention
of fatal obstacles in its course. In the case of Father Francesco,
the sense of guilt and degradation fell like a blight over all the
past that had been so ignorantly happy. He thought he had been living
on manna, but found it poison. Satan had been fooling him, leading
him on blindfold, and laughing at his simplicity, and now mocked at
his captivity. And how nearly had he been hurried by a sudden and
overwhelming influence to the very brink of disgrace! He felt himself
shiver and grow cold to think of it. A moment more, and he had blasted
that pure ear with forbidden words of passion; and even now he
remembered, with horror, the look of grave and troubled surprise in
those confiding eyes, that had always looked up to him trustingly, as
to God. A moment more, and he had betrayed the faith he taught her,
shattered her trust in the holy ministry, and perhaps imperiled her
salvation. He breathed a sigh of relief when he thought of it,--he had
not betrayed himself, he had not fallen in her esteem, he still stood
on that sacred vantage-ground where his power over her was so great,
and where at least he possessed her confidence and veneration. There
was still time for recollection, for self-control, for a vehement
struggle which should set all right again: but, alas! how shall a man
struggle who finds his whole inner nature boiling in furious rebellion
against the dictates of his conscience,--self against self?
It is true, also, that no passions are deeper in their hold, more
pervading and more vital to the whole human being, than those that
make their first entrance through the higher nature, and, beginning
with a religious and poetic ideality, gradually work their way through
the whole fabric of the human existence. From grosser passions, whose
roots lie in the senses, there is always a refuge in man's loftier
nature. He can cast them aside with contempt, and leave them as one
whose lower story is flooded can remove to a higher loft, and live
serenely with a purer air and wider prospect. But to love that is born
of ideality, of intellectual sympathy, of harmonies of the spiritual
and immortal natures, of the very poetry and purity of the soul, if it
be placed where reason and religion forbid its exercise and expression,
what refuge but the grave,--what hope but that wide eternity where all
human barriers fall, all human relations end, and love ceases to be a
crime? A man of the world may struggle by change of scene, place, and
employment. He may put oceans between himself and the things that
speak of what he desires to forget. He may fill the void in his life
with the stirring excitement of the battle-field, or the whirl of
travel from city to city, or the press of business and care. But what
help is there for him whose life is tied down to the narrow sphere of
the convent,--to the monotony of a bare cell, to the endless repetition
of the same prayers, the same chants, the same prostrations, especially
when all that ever redeemed it from monotony has been that image and
that sympathy which conscience now bids him forget?
When Father Francesco precipitated himself into his cell and locked
the door, it was with the desperation of a man who flies from a mortal
enemy. It seemed to him that all eyes saw just what was boiling within
him,--that the wild thoughts that seemed to scream their turbulent
importunities in his ears were speaking so loud that all the world
would hear. He should disgrace himself before the brethren whom he had
so long been striving to bring to order and to teach the lessons of
holy self-control. He saw himself pointed at, hissed at, degraded, by
the very men who had quailed before his own reproofs; and scarcely,
when he had bolted the door behind him, did he feel himself safe.
Panting and breathless, he fell on his knees before the crucifix, and,
bowing his head in his hands, fell forward upon the floor. As a spent
wave melts at the foot of a rock, so all his strength passed away, and
he lay awhile in a kind of insensibility,--a state in which, though
consciously existing, he had no further control over his thoughts and
feelings. In that state of dreamy exhaustion his mind seemed like a
mirror, which, without vitality or will of its own, simply lies still
and reflects the objects that may pass over it. As clouds sailing in
the heavens cast their images, one after another, on the glassy floor
of a waveless sea, so the scenes of his former life drifted in vivid
pictures athwart his memory. He saw his father's palace,--the wide,
cool, marble halls,--the gardens resounding with the voices of falling
waters. He saw the fair face of his mother, and played with the jewels
upon her hands. He saw again the picture of himself, in all the flush
of youth and health, clattering on horseback through the streets of
Florence with troops of gay young friends, now dead to him as he to
them. He saw himself in the bowers of gay ladies, whose golden hair,
lustrous eyes, and siren wiles came back shivering and trembling in
the waters of memory in a thousand undulating reflections. There were
wild revels,--orgies such as Florence remembers with shame to this day.
There was intermingled the turbulent din of arms,--the haughty passion,
the sudden provocation, the swift revenge. And then came the awful
hour of conviction, the face of that wonderful man whose preaching
had stirred all souls; and then those fearful days of penance,--that
darkness of the tomb,--that dying to the world,--those solemn vows, and
the fearful struggles by which they had been followed.
"Oh, my God!" he cried, "is it all in vain?--so many prayers? so many
struggles?--and shall I fail of salvation at last?"
He seemed to himself as a swimmer, who, having exhausted his last gasp
of strength in reaching the shore, is suddenly lifted up on a cruel
wave and drawn back into the deep. There seemed nothing for him but to
fold his arms and sink.
For he felt no strength now to resist, he felt no wish to conquer;
he only prayed that he might lie there and die. It seemed to him
that the love which possessed him and tyrannized over his very being
was a doom,--a curse sent upon him by some malignant fate with whose
power it was vain to struggle. He detested his work,--he detested his
duties,--he loathed his vows; and there was not a thing in his whole
future to which he looked forward otherwise than with the extreme
of aversion, except one, to which he clung with a bitter and defiant
tenacity,--the spiritual guidance of Agnes. Guidance!--he laughed
aloud, in the bitterness of his soul, as he thought of this. He was
her guide, her confessor; to him she was bound to reveal every change
of feeling; and this love that he too well perceived rising in her
heart for another,--he would wring from her own confessions the means
to repress and circumvent it. If she could not be his, he might at
least prevent her from belonging to any other,--he might at least keep
her always within the sphere of his spiritual authority. Had he not a
right to do this? had he not a right to cherish an evident vocation,--a
right to reclaim her from the embrace of an excommunicated infidel, and
present her as a chaste bride at the altar of the Lord? Perhaps, when
that was done, when an irrevocable barrier should separate her from
all possibility of earthly love, when the awful marriage-vow should
have been spoken which should seal her heart for heaven alone, he might
recover some of the blessed calm which her influence once brought over
him, and these wild desires might cease, and these feverish pulses be
still.
Such were the vague images and dreams of the past and future that
floated over his mind, as he lay in a heavy sort of lethargy on
the floor of his cell, and hour after hour passed away. It grew
afternoon, and the radiance of evening came on. The window of the cell
overlooked the broad Mediterranean, all one blue glitter of smiles and
sparkles. The white-winged boats were flitting lightly to and fro,
like gauzy-winged insects in the summer air; the song of the fishermen
drawing their nets on the beach floated cheerily upward. Capri lay
like a half-dissolved opal in shimmering clouds of mist, and Naples
gleamed out pearly clear in the purple distance. Vesuvius, with its
cloud-spotted sides, its garlanded villas and villages, its silvery
crown of vapor, seemed a warm-hearted and genial old giant lying down
in his gorgeous repose, and holding all things on his heaving bosom in
a kindly embrace.
So was the earth flooded with light and glory, that the tide poured
into the cell, giving the richness of an old Venetian painting
to its bare and squalid furniture. The crucifix glowed along all
its sculptured lines with rich golden hues. The breviary, whose
many-colored leaves fluttered as the wind from the sea drew inward,
was yet brighter in its gorgeous tints. It seemed a sort of devotional
butterfly perched before the grinning skull, which was bronzed by the
enchanted light into warmer tones of color, as if some remembrance
of what once it saw and felt came back upon it. So, also, the bare,
miserable board which served for the bed, and its rude pillow, were
glorified. A stray sunbeam, too, fluttered down on the floor like
a pitying spirit, to light up that pale, thin face, whose classic
outlines had now a sharp, yellow setness, like that of swooning or
death; it seemed to linger compassionately on the sunken, wasted
cheeks, on the long black lashes that fell over the deep hollows
beneath the eyes like a funereal veil. Poor man! lying crushed and
torn, like a piece of rockweed wrenched from its rock by a storm, and
thrown up withered upon the beach!
From the leaves of the breviary there depends, by a fragment of gold
braid, a sparkling something that wavers and glitters in the evening
light. It is a cross of the cheapest and simplest material, that once
belonged to Agnes. She lost it from her rosary at the confessional,
and Father Francesco saw it fall, yet would not warn her of the loss,
for he longed to possess something that had belonged to her. He made
it a mark to one of her favorite hymns; but she never knew where it
had gone. Little could she dream, in her simplicity, what a power
she held over the man who seemed to her an object of such awful
veneration. Little did she dream that the poor little tinsel cross had
such a mighty charm with it, and that she herself, in her childlike
simplicity, her ignorant innocence, her peaceful tenderness and trust,
was raising such a turbulent storm of passion in the heart which she
supposed to be above the reach of all human changes.
And now, through the golden air, the Ave Maria is sounding from the
convent-bells, and answered by a thousand tones and echoes from
the churches of the old town, and all Christendom gives a moment's
adoring pause to celebrate the moment when an angel addressed to a
mortal maiden words that had been wept and prayed for during thousands
of years. Dimly they sounded through his ear, in that half-deadly
trance,--not with plaintive sweetness and motherly tenderness, but like
notes of doom and vengeance. He felt rebellious impulses within, which
rose up in hatred against them, and all that recalled to his mind the
faith which seemed a tyranny, and the vows which appeared to him such a
hopeless and miserable failure.
But now there came other sounds nearer and more earthly. His quickened
senses perceive a busy patter of sandaled feet outside his cell, and
a whispering of consultation,--and then the silvery, snaky tones of
Father Johannes, which had that oily, penetrative quality which passes
through all substances with such distinctness.
"Brethren," he said, "I feel bound in conscience to knock. Our blessed
Superior carries his mortifications altogether too far. His faithful
sons must beset him with filial inquiries."
The condition in which Father Francesco was lying, like many abnormal
states of extreme exhaustion, seemed to be attended with a mysterious
quickening of the magnetic forces and intuitive perceptions. He felt
the hypocrisy of those tones, and they sounded in his ear like the
suppressed hiss of a deadly serpent. He had always suspected that this
man hated him to the death; and he felt now that he was come with his
stealthy tread and his almost supernatural power of prying observation,
to read the very inmost secrets of his heart. He knew that he longed
for nothing so much as the power to hurl him from his place and to
reign in his stead; and the instinct of self-defense roused him. He
started up as one starts from a dream, waked by a whisper in the ear,
and, raising himself on his elbow, looked towards the door.
A cautious rap was heard, and then a pause. Father Francesco smiled
with a peculiar and bitter expression. The rap became louder, more
energetic, stormy at last, intermingled with vehement calls on his name.
Father Francesco rose at length, settled his garments, passed his
hands over his brow, and then, composing himself to an expression of
deliberate gravity, opened the door and stood before them.
"Holy father," said Father Johannes, "the hearts of your sons have
been saddened. A whole day have you withdrawn your presence from our
devotions. We feared you might have fainted, your pious austerities so
often transcend the powers of Nature."
"I grieve to have saddened the hearts of such affectionate sons," said
the Superior, fixing his eye keenly on Father Johannes; "but I have
been performing a peculiar office of prayer to-day for a soul in deadly
peril, and have been so absorbed therein that I have known nothing that
passed. There is a soul among us, brethren," he added, "that stands at
this moment so near to damnation that even the most blessed Mother of
God is in doubt for its salvation, and whether it can be saved at all,
God only knows."
These words, rising up from a tremendous groundswell of repressed
feeling, had a fearful, almost supernatural earnestness that made the
body of the monks tremble. Most of them were conscious of living but
a shabby, shambling, dissembling life, evading in every possible way
the efforts of their Superior to bring them up to the requirements of
their profession; and therefore, when these words were bolted out among
them with such a glowing intensity, every one of them began mentally
feeling for the key of his own private and interior skeleton-closet,
and wondering which of their ghastly occupants was coming to light now.
Father Johannes alone was unmoved, because he had long since ceased to
have a conscience. A throb of moral pulsation had for years been an
impossibility to the dried and hardened fibre of his inner nature. He
was one of those real, genuine, thorough unbelievers in all religion
and all faith and all spirituality, whose unbelief grows only more
callous by the constant handling of sacred things. Ambition was the
ruling motive of his life, and every faculty was sharpened into such
acuteness under its action that his penetration seemed at times almost
preternatural.
While he stood with downcast eyes and hands crossed upon his breast,
listening to the burning words which remorse and despair wrung from his
Superior, he was calmly and warily studying to see what could be made
of the evident interior conflict that convulsed him. Was there some
secret sin? Had that sanctity at last found the temptation that was
more than a match for it? And what could it be?
To a nature with any strong combative force there is no tonic like
the presence of a secret and powerful enemy, and the stealthy glances
of Father Johannes's serpent eye did more towards restoring Father
Francesco to self-mastery than the most conscientious struggles could
have done. He grew calm, resolved, determined. Self-respect was dear to
him,--and dear to him no less that reflection of self-respect which a
man reads in other eyes. He would not forfeit his conventual honor, or
bring a stain on his order, or, least of all, expose himself to the
scoffing eye of a triumphant enemy. Such were the motives that now came
to his aid, while as yet the whole of his inner nature rebelled at the
thought that he must tear up by the roots and wholly extirpate this
love that seemed to have sent its fine fibres through every nerve of
his being. "No!" he said to himself, with a fierce interior rebellion,
"_that_ I will not do! Right or wrong, come heaven, come hell, I
_will_ love her: and if lost I must be, lost I will be!" And while
this determination lasted, prayer seemed to him a mockery. He dared
not pray alone now, when most he needed prayer; but he moved forward
with dignity towards the convent chapel to lead the vesper devotions
of his brethren. Outwardly he was calm and rigid as a statue; but as
he commenced the service, his utterance had a terrible meaning and
earnestness that were felt even by the most drowsy and leaden of his
flock. It is singular how the dumb, imprisoned soul, locked within the
walls of the body, sometimes gives such a piercing power to the tones
of the voice during the access of a great agony. The effect is entirely
involuntary and often against the most strenuous opposition of the
will, but one sometimes hears another reading or repeating words with
an intense vitality, a living force, which tells of some inward anguish
or conflict of which the language itself gives no expression.
Never were the long-drawn intonations of the chants and prayers of
the Church pervaded by a more terrible, wild fervor than the Superior
that night breathed into them. They seemed to wail, to supplicate, to
combat, to menace, to sink in despairing pauses of helpless anguish,
and anon to rise in stormy agonies of passionate importunity; and the
monks quailed and trembled, they scarce knew why, with forebodings of
coming wrath and judgment.
In the evening exhortation, which it had been the Superior's custom
to add to the prayers of the vesper-hour, he dwelt with a terrible and
ghastly eloquence on the loss of the soul.
"Brethren," he said, "believe me, the very first hour of a damned
spirit in hell will outweigh all the prosperities of the most
prosperous life. If you could gain the whole world, that one hour of
hell would outweigh it all; how much more such miserable, pitiful
scraps and fragments of the world as they gain who for the sake of a
little fleshly ease neglect the duties of a holy profession! There is
a broad way to hell through a convent, my brothers, where miserable
wretches go who have neither the spirit to serve the Devil wholly, nor
the patience to serve God; there be many shaven crowns that gnash their
teeth in hell to-night,--many a monk's robe is burning on its owner in
living fire, and the devils call him a fool for choosing to be damned
in so hard a way. 'Could you not come here by some easier road than a
cloister?' they ask. 'If you must sell your soul, why did you not get
something for it?' Brethren, there be devils waiting for some of us;
they are laughing at your paltry shifts and evasions, at your efforts
to make things easy,--for they know how it will all end at last. Rouse
yourselves! Awake! Salvation is no easy matter,--nothing to be got
between sleeping and waking. Watch, pray, scourge the flesh, fast,
weep, bow down in sackcloth, mingle your bread with ashes, if by any
means ye may escape the everlasting fire!"
"Bless me!" said Father Anselmo, when the services were over, casting
a half-scared glance after the retreating figure of the Superior as
he left the chapel, and drawing a long breath; "it's enough to make
one sweat to hear him go on. What has come over him? Anyhow, I'll give
myself a hundred lashes this very night: something must be done."
"Well," said another, "I confess I did hide a cold wing of fowl in the
sleeve of my gown last fast-day. My old aunt gave it to me, and I was
forced to take it for relation's sake; but I'll do so no more, as I'm a
living sinner I'll do a penance this very night."
Father Johannes stood under one of the arches that looked into the
gloomy garden, and, with his hands crossed upon his breast, and his
cold, glittering eye fixed stealthily now on one and now on another,
listened with an ill-disguised sneer to these hasty evidences of fear
and remorse in the monks, as they thronged the corridor on the way to
their cells. Suddenly turning to a young brother who had lately joined
the convent, he said to him,--
"And what of the pretty Clarice, my brother?"
The blood flushed deep into the pale cheek of the young monk, and his
frame shook with some interior emotion as he answered,--
"She is recovering."
"And she sent for thee to shrive her?"
"My God!" said the young man, with an imploring, wild expression in his
dark eyes, "she did; but I would not go."
"Then Nature is still strong," said Father Johannes, pitilessly eyeing
the young man.
"When will it ever die?" said the stripling, with a despairing gesture;
"it heeds neither heaven nor hell."
"Well, patience, boy! if you have lost an earthly bride, you have
gained a heavenly one. The Church is our espoused in white linen. Bless
the Lord, without ceasing, for the exchange."
There was an inexpressible mocking irony in the tones in which this
was said, that made itself felt to the finely vitalized spirit of
the youth, though to all the rest it sounded like the accredited
average pious talk which is more or less the current coin of religious
organizations.
Now no one knows through what wanton deviltry Father Johannes broached
this painful topic with the poor youth; but he had a peculiar faculty,
with his smooth tones and his sanctimonious smiles, of thrusting
red-hot needles into any wounds which he either knew or suspected under
the coarse woolen robes of his brethren. He appeared to do it in all
coolness, in a way of psychological investigation.
He smiled, as the youth turned away, and a moment after, started as if
a thought had suddenly struck him.
"I have it!" he said to himself. "There may be a woman at the bottom
of this discomposure of our holy father; for he is wrought upon by
something to the very bottom of his soul. I have not studied human
nature so many years for nothing. Father Francesco hath been much
in the guidance of women. His preaching hath wrought upon them, and
perchance among them. Aha!" he said to himself, as he paced up and
down. "I have it! I'll try an experiment upon him!"