THE MONK'S DEPARTURE
The three inhabitants of the little dove-cot were sitting in their
garden after supper, enjoying the cool freshness. The place was
perfumed with the smell of orange-blossoms, brought out by gentle
showers that had fallen during the latter part of the afternoon, and
all three felt the tranquillizing effects of the sweet evening air. The
monk sat bending over his drawings, resting the frame on which they lay
on the mossy garden-wall, so as to get the latest advantage of the rich
golden twilight which now twinkled through the sky. Agnes sat by him
on the same wall,--now glancing over his shoulder at his work, and now
leaning thoughtfully on her elbow, gazing pensively down into the deep
shadows of the gorge, or out where the golden light of evening streamed
under the arches of the old Roman bridge, to the wide, bright sea
beyond.
Old Elsie bustled about with unusual content in the lines of her
keen, wrinkled face. Already her thoughts were running on household
furnishing and bridal finery. She unlocked an old chest, which from its
heavy, quaint carvings of dark wood must have been some relic of the
fortunes of her better days, and, taking out of a little till of the
same a string of fine, silvery pearls, held them up admiringly to the
evening light. A splendid pair of pearl ear-rings also was produced
from the same receptacle.
She sighed at first, as she looked at these things, and then smiled
with rather an air of triumph, and, coming to where Agnes reclined on
the wall, held them up playfully before her.
"See here, little one!" she said.
"Oh, what pretty things!--where did they come from?" said Agnes,
innocently.
"Where did they? Sure enough! Little did you or any one else know old
Elsie had things like these! But she meant her little Agnes should hold
up her head with the best. No girl in Sorrento will have such wedding
finery as this!"
"Wedding finery, grandmamma," said Agnes, faintly, "what does that
mean?"
"What does that mean, sly-boots? Ah, you know well enough! What were
you and Antonio talking about all the time this morning? Did he not ask
you to marry him?"
"Yes, grandmamma; but I told him I was not going to marry. You promised
me, dear grandmother, right here, the other night, that I should not
marry till I was willing; and I told Antonio I was not willing."
"The girl says but true, sister," said the monk; "you remember you gave
her your word that she should not be married till she gave her consent
willingly."
"But, Agnes, my pretty one, what can be the objection?" said old Elsie,
coaxingly. "Where will you find a better-made man, or more honest, or
more kind?--and he is handsome;--and you will have a home that all the
girls will envy."
"Grandmamma, remember, you promised me,--you _promised_ me," said
Agnes, looking distressed, and speaking earnestly.
"Well, well, child! but can't I ask a civil question, if I did? What is
your objection to Antonio?"
"Only that I don't want to be married."
"Now you know, child," said Elsie, "I never will consent to your going
to a convent. You might as well put a knife through my old heart as
talk to me of that. And if you don't go, you must marry somebody; and
who could be better than Antonio?"
"Oh, grandmamma, am I not a good girl? What have I done, that you are
so anxious to get me away from you?" said Agnes. "I like Antonio well
enough, but I like you ten thousand times better. Why cannot we live
together just as we do now? I am strong. I can work a great deal harder
than I do. You ought to let me work more, so that you need not work so
hard and tire yourself,--let me carry the heavy basket, and dig round
the trees."
"Pooh! a pretty story!" said Elsie. "We are two lone women, and the
times are unsettled; there are robbers and loose fellows about, and we
want a protector."
"And is not the good Lord our protector?--has He not always kept us,
grandmother?" said Agnes.
"Oh, that's well enough to say, but folks can't always get along so;
it's far better trusting the Lord with a good strong man about,--like
Antonio, for instance. I should like to see the man that would dare be
uncivil to _his_ wife. But go your ways; it's no use toiling away one's
life for children, who, after all, won't turn their little finger for
you."
"Now, dear grandmother," said Agnes, "have I not said I would do
everything for you, and work hard for you? Ask me to do anything else
in the world, grandmamma; I will do anything to make you happy, except
marry this man,--that I cannot."
"And that is the only thing I want you to do. Well, I suppose I may as
well lock up these things; I see my gifts are not cared for."
And the old soul turned and went in quite testily, leaving Agnes with a
grieved heart, sitting still by her uncle.
"Never weep, little one," said the kind old monk, when he saw the
silent tears falling one after another; "your grandmother loves you,
after all, and will come out of this, if we are quiet."
"This is such a beautiful world," said Agnes, "who would think it would
be such a hard one to live in?--such battles and conflicts as people
have here!"
"You say well, little heart; but great is the glory to be revealed; so
let us have courage."
"Dear uncle, have you heard any ill-tidings of late?" asked Agnes. "I
noticed this morning you were cast down, and to-night you look so tired
and sad."
"Yes, dear child,--heavy tidings have indeed come. My dear master at
Florence is hard beset by wicked men, and in great danger,--in danger,
perhaps, of falling a martyr to his holy zeal for the blessed Jesus and
his Church."
"But cannot our holy father, the Pope, protect him? You should go to
Rome directly and lay the case before him."
"It is not always possible to be protected by the Pope," said Father
Antonio, evasively. "But I grieve much, dear child, that I can be with
you no longer. I must gird up my loins and set out for Florence, to see
with my own eyes how the battle is going for my holy master."
"Ah, must I lose you, too, my dear, best friend?" said Agnes. "What
shall I do?"
"Thou hast the same Lord Jesus, and the same dear Mother, when I am
gone. Have faith in God, and cease not to pray for His Church,--and for
me, too."
"That I will, dear uncle! I will pray for you more than ever, for
prayer now will be all my comfort. But," she added, with hesitation,
"oh, uncle, you promised to visit _him_!"
"Never fear, little Agnes, I will do that. I go to him this very
night,--now even,--for the daylight waxes too scant for me to work
longer."
"But you will come back and stay with us to-night, uncle?"
"Yes, I will,--but to-morrow morning I must be up and away with the
birds; and I have labored hard all day to finish the drawings for the
lad who shall carve the shrine, that he may busy himself thereon in my
absence."
"Then you will come back?"
"Certainly, dear heart, I will come back; of that be assured. Pray God
it be before long, too."
So saying, the good monk drew his cowl over his head, and, putting his
portfolio of drawings under his arm, began to wend his way towards the
old town.
Agnes watched him departing, her heart in a strange flutter of
eagerness and solicitude. What were these dreadful troubles which were
coming upon her good uncle?--who those enemies of the Church that beset
that saintly teacher he so much looked up to? And why was lawless
violence allowed to run such riot in Italy, as it had in the case of
the unfortunate cavalier? As she thought things over, she was burning
with a repressed desire to _do_ something herself to abate these
troubles.
"I am not a knight," she said to herself, "and I cannot fight for the
good cause. I am not a priest, and I cannot argue for it. I cannot
preach and convert sinners. What, then, can I do? I can pray. Suppose
I should make a pilgrimage? Yes,--that would be a good work, and I
will. I will walk to Rome, praying at every shrine and holy place; and
then, when I come to the Holy City, whose very dust is made precious
with the blood of the martyrs and saints, I will seek the house of our
dear father, the Pope, and entreat his forgiveness for this poor soul.
He will not scorn me, for he is in the place of the blessed Jesus, and
the richest princess and the poorest maiden are equal in his sight. Ah,
that will be beautiful! Holy Mother," she said, falling on her knees
before the shrine, "here I vow and promise that I will go praying to
the Holy City. Smile on me and help me!"
And by the twinkle of the flickering lamp which threw its light upon
the picture, Agnes thought surely the placid face brightened to a
tender maternal smile, and her enthusiastic imagination saw in this an
omen of success.
Old Elsie was moody and silent this evening,--vexed at the thwarting
of her schemes. It was the first time that the idea had ever gained a
foothold in her mind, that her docile and tractable grandchild could
really have for any serious length of time a will opposed to her own,
and she found it even now difficult to believe it. Hitherto she had
shaped her life as easily as she could mould a biscuit, and it was all
plain sailing before her. The force and decision of this young will
rose as suddenly upon her as the one rock in the middle of the ocean
which a voyager unexpectedly discovered by striking on it.
But Elsie by no means regarded the game as lost. She mentally went over
the field, considering here and there what was yet to be done.
The subject had fairly been broached. Agnes had listened to it, and
parted in friendship from Antonio. Now his old mother must be soothed
and pacified; and Antonio must be made to persevere.
"What is a girl worth that can be won at the first asking?" quoth
Elsie. "Depend upon it, she will fall to thinking of him, and the next
time she sees him she will give him a good look. The girl never knew
what it was to have a lover. No wonder she doesn't take to it at first;
there's where her bringing up comes in, so different from other girls'.
Courage, Elsie! Nature will speak in its own time."
Thus soliloquizing, she prepared to go a few steps from their dwelling,
to the cottage of Meta and Antonio, which was situated at no great
distance.
"Nobody will think of coming here this time o' night," she said, "and
the girl is in for a good hour at least with her prayers, and so I
think I may venture. I don't really like to leave her, but it's not
a great way, and I shall be back in a few moments. I want just to put
a word into old Meta's ear, that she may teach Antonio how to demean
himself."
And so the old soul took her spinning and away she went, leaving Agnes
absorbed in her devotions.
The solemn starry night looked down steadfastly on the little garden.
The evening wind creeping with gentle stir among the orange-leaves, and
the falling waters of the fountain dripping their distant, solitary way
down from rock to rock through the lonely gorge, were the only sounds
that broke the stillness.
The monk was the first of the two to return; for those accustomed to
the habits of elderly cronies on a gossiping expedition of any domestic
importance will not be surprised that Elsie's few moments of projected
talk lengthened imperceptibly into hours.
Agnes came forward anxiously to meet her uncle. He seemed wan and
haggard, and trembling with some recent emotion.
"What is the matter with you, dear uncle?" she asked. "Has anything
happened?"
"Nothing, child, nothing. I have only been talking on painful subjects,
deep perplexities, out of which I can scarcely see my way. Would to God
this night of life were past, and I could see morning on the mountains!"
"My uncle, have you not, then, succeeded in bringing this young man to
the bosom of the True Church?"
"Child, the way is hedged up, and made almost impassable by
difficulties you little wot of. They cannot be told to you; they are
enough to destroy the faith of the very elect."
Agnes's heart sank within her; and the monk, sitting down on the wall
of the garden, clasped his hands over one knee and gazed fixedly before
him.
The sight of her uncle,--generally so cheerful, so elastic, so full of
bright thoughts and beautiful words,--so utterly cast down, was both a
mystery and a terror to Agnes.
"Oh, my uncle," she said, "it is hard that I must not know, and that I
can do nothing, when I feel ready to die for this cause! What is one
little life? Ah, if I had a thousand to give, I could melt them all
into it, like little drops of rain in the sea! Be not utterly cast
down, good uncle! Does not our dear Lord and Saviour reign in the
heavens yet?"
"Sweet little nightingale!" said the monk, stretching his hand towards
her. "Well did my master say that he gained strength to his soul always
by talking with Christ's little children!"
"And all the dear saints and angels, they are not dead or idle either,"
said Agnes, her face kindling: "they are busy all around us. I know not
what this trouble is you speak of; but let us think what legions of
bright angels and holy men and women are caring for us."
"Well said, well said, dear child! There is, thank God, a Church
Triumphant,--a crowned queen, a glorious bride; and the poor,
struggling Church Militant shall rise to join her! What matter, then,
though our way lie through dungeon and chains, through fire and sword,
if we may attain to that glory at last?"
"Uncle, are there such dreadful things really before you?"
"There may be, child. I say of my master, as did the holy Apostles:
'Let us also go, that we may die with him.' I feel a heavy presage. But
I must not trouble you, child. Early in the morning I will be up and
away. I go with this youth, whose pathway lies a certain distance along
mine, and whose company I seek for his good as well as my pleasure."
"You go with _him_?" said Agnes, with a start of surprise.
"Yes; his refuge in the mountains lies between here and Rome, and he
hath kindly offered to bring me on my way faster than I can go on
foot; and I would fain see our beautiful Florence as soon as may be. O
Florence, Florence, Lily of Italy! wilt thou let thy prophet perish?"
"But, uncle, if he die for the faith, he will be a blessed martyr. That
crown is worth dying for," said Agnes.
"You say well, little one,--you say well! '_Ex oribus parvulorum._'
But one shrinks from that in the person of a friend which one could
cheerfully welcome for one's self. Oh, the blessed cross! never is it
welcome to the flesh, and yet how joyfully the spirit may walk under
it!"
"Dear uncle, I have made a solemn vow before our Holy Mother this
night," said Agnes, "to go on a pilgrimage to Rome, and at every shrine
and holy place to pray that these great afflictions which beset all of
you may have a happy issue."
"My sweet heart, what have you done? Have you considered the unsettled
roads, the wild, unruly men that are abroad, the robbers with which the
mountains are filled?"
"These are all Christ's children and my brothers," said Agnes; "for
them was the most holy blood shed, as well as for me. They cannot harm
one who prays for them."
"But, dear heart of mine, these ungodly brawlers think little of
prayer; and this beautiful, innocent little face will but move the
vilest and most brutal thoughts and deeds."
"Saint Agnes still lives, dear uncle,--and He who kept her in worse
trial. I shall walk through them all pure as snow,--I am assured I
shall. The star which led the wise men and stood over the young child
and his mother will lead me, too."
"But your grandmother?"
"The Lord will incline her heart to go with me. Dear uncle, it does
not beseem a child to reflect on its elders, yet I cannot but see that
grandmamma loves this world and me too well for her soul's good. This
journey will be for her eternal repose."
"Well, well, dear one, I cannot now advise. Take advice of your
confessor, and the blessed Lord and his holy Mother be with you! But
come now, I would soothe myself to sleep; for I have need of good rest
to-night. Let us sing together our dear master's hymn of the Cross."
And the monk and the maiden sung together:--
"Iesù, sommo conforto,
Tu sei tutto il mio amore
E'l mio beato porto,
E santo Redentore.
O gran bontà,
Dolce pietà,
Felice quel che teco unito sta!
"Deh, quante volte offeso
T' ha l' alma e 'l cor meschino,
E tu sei in croce steso
Per salvar me, tapino!
"Iesù, fuss' io confitto
Sopra quel duro ligno,
Dove ti vedo afflitto,
Iesù, Signor benigno!
"O croce, fammi loco,
E le mie membra prendi,
Che del tuo dolce foco
Il cor e l' alma accendi!
"Infiamma il mio cor tanto
Dell' amor tuo divino,
Ch' io arda tutto quanto,
Che paia un serafino!
"La croce e'l Crocifisso
Sia nel mio cor scolpito,
Ed io sia sempre affisso
In gloria ov' egli è ito!"[10]
[10] Jesus, best comfort of my soul,
Be Thou my only love,
My sacred saviour from my sins,
My door to heaven above!
O lofty goodness, love divine,
Blest is the soul made one with thine!
Alas, how oft this sordid heart
Hath wounded thy pure eye!
Yet for this heart upon the cross
Thou gav'st thyself to die!
Ah, would I were extended there
Upon that cold, hard tree,
Where I have seen Thee, gracious Lord,
Breathe out thy life for me!
Cross of my Lord, give room! give room!
To Thee my flesh be given!
Cleansed in thy fires of love and pain,
My soul rise pure to heaven!
Burn in my heart, celestial flame,
With memories of Him,
Till, from earth's dross refined, I rise
To join the seraphim!
Ah, vanish each unworthy trace
Of earthly care or pride,
Leave only, graven on my heart,
The Cross, the Crucified!
As the monk sung, his soul seemed to fuse itself into the sentiment
with that natural grace peculiar to his nation. He walked up and down
the little garden, apparently forgetful of Agnes or of any earthly
presence, and in the last verses stretched his hands towards heaven
with streaming tears and a fervor of utterance indescribable.
The soft and passionate tenderness of the Italian words must exhale
in an English translation, but enough may remain to show that the
hymns with which Savonarola at this time sowed the mind of Italy often
mingled the Moravian quaintness and energy with the Wesleyan purity and
tenderness. One of the great means of popular reform which he proposed
was the supplanting of the obscene and licentious songs, which at
that time so generally defiled the minds of the young, by religious
words and melodies. The children and young people brought up under his
influence were sedulously stored with treasures of sacred melody, as
the safest companions of leisure hours, and the surest guard against
temptation.
"Come now, my little one," said the monk, after they had ceased
singing, as he laid his hand on Agnes's head. "I am strong now; I know
where I stand. And you, my little one, you are one of my master's
'Children of the Cross.' You must sing the hymns of our dear master,
that I taught you, when I am far away. A hymn is a singing angel,
and goes walking through the earth, scattering the devils before
it. Therefore he who creates hymns imitates the most excellent and
lovely works of our Lord God, who made the angels. These hymns watch
our chamber-door, they sit upon our pillow, they sing to us when we
awake; and therefore our master was resolved to sow the minds of his
young people with them, as our lovely Italy is sown with the seeds
of all colored flowers. How lovely has it often been to me, as I sat
at my work in Florence, to hear the little children go by, chanting
of Jesus and Mary,--and young men singing to young maidens, not vain
flatteries of their beauty, but the praises of the One only Beautiful,
whose smile sows heaven with stars like flowers! Ah, in my day I have
seen blessed times in Florence! Truly was she worthy to be called the
Lily City!--for all her care seemed to be to make white her garments
to receive her Lord and Bridegroom. Yes, though she had sinned like
the Magdalen, yet she loved much, like her. She washed His feet with
her tears, and wiped them with the hair of her head. Oh, my beautiful
Florence, be true to thy vows, be true to thy Lord and Governor, Jesus
Christ, and all shall be well!"
"Amen, dear uncle!" said Agnes. "I will not fail to pray day and night,
that thus it may be. And now, if you must travel so far, you must go
to rest. Grandmamma has gone long ago. I saw her steal by as we were
singing."
"And is there any message from my little Agnes to this young man?"
asked the monk.
"Yes. Say to him that Agnes prays daily that he may be a worthy son and
soldier of the Lord Jesus."
"Amen, sweet heart! Jesus and His sweet Mother bless thee!"