On her arrival at Assisi, Irene immediately felt a little calmer than she
had done in Rome. She had often noticed that when staying in mountainous
districts her nerves grew quieter, and she felt, for the time being, less
depressed. She loved the scent of the fresh mountain air, and it seemed
to her, under its influence, as though, after all, life might still have
in store for her many happy hours. An old doctor who had once treated her
in Paris had called her in fun “la femme des montagnes”—perhaps, indeed,
she should have lived always at high altitudes.
Assisi, in addition, was a delightful place. From the hills among which
the little town with its famous monastery nestled, there was a glorious
view over an immense plain, dotted with houses, churches, gardens, and
villages. In the distance rose the peaks of the Apennines.
The impression of this view was rendered all the more enchanting by that
wonderful colouring, so well known to all who have visited Umbria or
Tuscany in the spring. The mountains were nearly always wreathed in an
azure mist; the shadows were deep blue, little white cloudlets floated in
the turquoise sky; the valley was green under its carpet of velvet grass,
powdered already with daisies; the fruit-trees in the orchards were
covered with a wealth of pink and white blossom. Such landscapes can be
seen only in the pictures of the Italian old masters, for they alone, of
all painters, have possessed the gift of reproducing all the softness and
harmony of their native colouring.
Assisi has, to this day, preserved its character of a mediæval Borgo,
and has probably changed but little since the days of St. Francis. An
old ruined fortress crowns the higher of a group of hills, and from this
point run in all directions narrow, ill-paved little streets, illuminated
at night, as in old times, by feeble lanterns hanging on wires stretched
across the roadway. Nobody seems to live in the monotonous, grey stone
houses with eternally closed shutters; nobody ever seems to walk in the
deserted streets and dark alleys. Only an occasional donkey tied to a
wall stands meditatively in the middle of the road, and from time to
time moves his long ears as a sign of life. Now and then there float
across the air from some cellar the beat of a carpenter’s hammer, and
the subdued tones of his voice, singing about the “faithless Fiametta.”
Life seems to have stopped at the twelfth century, since when everything
has lain still in an enchanted sleep. Even the numerous tourists do not
succeed in awakening the slumbering town. The inhabitants are mostly
monks and nuns, with a scattering of Polish Catholics, and English old
maids, who come to kneel at the shrine of St. Francis.
Irene set herself zealously to visit all the holy places. First, she
descended into the valley, to the Church of Santa Maria dei Angeli. It
had once stood in the heart of a dreaming forest, where, in the fourth
century, some monks had built a tiny chapel, round which, partly in
cells, partly in caves, the brotherhood had settled. In this primitive
little settlement, St. Francis lived and prayed and died. Later on his
remains were removed and buried in the new and magnificent fortress-like
Franciscan Monastery, whose white walls and towers now shine dazzlingly
in the sun. The old forest has long since disappeared, and the touching
little chapel is almost lost in the centre of the magnificent temple
built around it. Monks show visitors round the monastery, pointing out
the cell in which St. Francis died, the grotto in which he slept, and the
little garden where grew the roses without thorns, that God had sent him
as a special grace.
Irene went also to do homage to the body of St. Clara, who, influenced
by the teaching of St. Francis, left the world, her family and friends,
retired into a convent, and founded the Order of the Clarissians. St.
Clara, too, passed her life in the modest little convent of St. Damian,
and it was only after her death that her body was transferred to the
gorgeous Church of the New Convent, where, in a niche, enclosed in a
glass coffin, it rests in nun’s attire, and with a capuchin drawn over
the blackened features.
Most of all, however, Irene enjoyed her excursion to Carceri, the distant
hermitage in a mountain cave, where St. Francis had often prayed and
fasted. She ordered a carriage a day in advance, and, at the appointed
hour, Giuseppe, a handsome young Umbrian, drove up to the door of the
hotel, raised his hat, and smiled caressingly to the waiting Irene. They
traversed the entire town at a walking pace, on account of the steep,
narrow streets, and this slow drive was a sort of triumphal progress for
young Giuseppe. He seemed to be on a friendly footing with the whole
place; every man they met on their way turned and walked for a while
beside the carriage, his hand on the shaft, and conversing animatedly
with Giuseppe. They all emphatically persuaded him to come, at some
particular time and for some particular reason, to the Piazza Nuova, and
he repeatedly swore by all the saints to keep the appointment.
At last they passed through the old fortress gates, and Giuseppe drove
up to a small house, from the window of which peeped a pretty, sunburnt,
smiling little face. Giuseppe jumped from his box, and leaving Irene at
the mercy of the scorching Italian sun, disappeared into the house. Time
passed; the young horse, peacefully regaling itself on fresh grass, was
certainly in no hurry to proceed, and Giuseppe stayed away so long that
Irene grew seriously angry. At last he appeared wreathed in smiles, and
announced that the bullocks would be brought round in a moment.
“The bullocks!” exclaimed Irene; “but why do we want bullocks?”
“How should we do without them?” he retorted. “We are going into the
mountains. A horse cannot make that journey alone. We must have two
bullocks.”
Irene waited with some curiosity. In about ten minutes a middle-aged
woman, probably the mother of the pretty sunburnt girl, appeared,
leading by a rope two enormous, splendid, grey bullocks, with immense
horns. They were evidently perfectly tame, and the woman, placing them
in front of the horse, tied them to the carriage. Giuseppe helped solely
with advice, exchanging playful glances the while with the pretty
daughter, who was hopping about near him on one foot, the other foot,
evidently wounded, being tied up with a white rag.
After much delay the procession started. The road was indeed appalling! A
narrow, steep, stony mountain path, over which no man in his senses would
ever dream of driving a carriage. But what will not an Italian do when
there is a chance of earning a few _lire_?
In front, leading the bullocks, walked the woman with a shawl pushed well
down over her forehead. She looked sufficiently modest and respectful,
and was also sufficiently careless and untidy, to remind one of a Russian
peasant woman. The thin useless little ropes she had brought broke every
minute, the ends falling and getting entangled in the animals’ feet.
Giuseppe was furious, constantly jumped off the box, and bitterly
reproached the poor woman.
At last the bullocks were unharnessed, the relieved horse trotted gaily
along a wider and much smoother road, and Irene thought that her troubles
were over. Alas, however! At a turn of the way appeared a peasant waiting
with two other bullocks (white ones this time), and the same story began
all over again. The road grew always worse and more dangerous, and Irene
hardly knew whether to be more frightened or delighted with the wonderful
view that greeted her gaze. Assisi, with its stone walls and towers,
lay spread out before her like a fairy-fortress, with a background of
blue hills, and surrounded by a frame of grey-green olive-trees and
dark cypresses. In the foreground, like carpets flung down at random,
gleamed brilliant patches of emerald grass—the whole picture, indeed, was
so fresh, so lovely, so poetical, that it might have been torn from a
masterpiece by Botticelli.
At last the bullocks turned into a cavern-like opening among the rocks,
from which issued a whiff of cold air. They had reached the entrance
to the monastery, and Irene alighted and followed the path between two
stone walls. A deathlike silence surrounded her. The sun caressed the as
yet leafless old trees, birds sang, the path grew always narrower, and
at last the old gates barred the way. Irene rang the bell. A decrepit
old door-keeper, walking with difficulty, led her into a tiny courtyard
with a stone well in its centre, and passed her on to a young Franciscan,
just on the point of acting as guide to an Englishwoman who had come from
Assisi on foot.
The tiny retreat was arranged partly in natural grottos and partly in
little cave-cells, hewn out of the rocks. The little staircases and doors
were so narrow and low that one could nowhere stand upright. Here, in
the twelfth century, lived, at times, St. Francis, and la sua compagnia;
then, later on, St. Bernard of Siena, and many other saints. The poetic
stillness of the place, and its sacred associations, had attracted them,
and they had jealously guarded the few small relics of St. Francis that
had been left there—a tiny narrow pillow, a little box for the Holy
Sacrament, and a cross.
The young Franciscan explained to the two visitors the arrangement and
disposition of the settlement. He showed them the sort of things that are
always shown in all monasteries; an old, faded sacred image, that was
superstitiously supposed to have on one occasion spoken to some nun, and
a miraculous crucifix, carved from some specially sacred wood. Lowering
his voice, the monk added that an influential cardinal had once taken
this crucifix away to his splendid chapel in Rome, but that during the
very first night after its arrival there it had disappeared, and returned
miraculously to its old place. He showed them also the precipice into
which St. Francis had flung the devil who had come to tempt him (the
latter had been smashed to pieces on the stones below, and had never
again returned to the settlement), and the mountain-stream, whose noisy
rush had disturbed the saint’s meditations, and whose voice he had
silenced for ever.
Irene was specially touched by the little platform in the heart of the
forest, from which, according to tradition, St. Francis had preached
sermons to the birds. How beautiful, how poetic was this legend!
Having withdrawn himself from human companionship, far away from men
who in their pride imagine themselves to be superior beings, specially
created, made of special clay, St. Francis had humbled himself before
God’s greatness, and had understood that birds were his dear, innocent
brothers. He longed to share with them the rapture that filled his soul,
and the birds, understanding this rapture, joyfully sang and twittered
in answer. Man was not made for solitude—and the hermit, having isolated
himself in the desert, found the way to salvation in the friendship of
tame birds and beasts.…
Having once seen all the sights of Assisi, Irene seldom ventured out of
doors. She spent most of her time on the little terrace of the hotel,
admiring the view that was spread out before her, and growing, day by
day, more attached to it. What a wealth, indeed, of variety and beauty
was to be found there! At seven o’clock each morning she opened her
window and let in the fresh, fragrant air. The whole valley then seemed
to be asleep, wrapped in a dewy mist. At mid-day, however, all was
smiling and basking in floods of brilliant sunlight, and towards five
in the afternoon the sun, like a great ball of fire, disappeared in the
West, the sky grew pale, and light-blue shadows gradually began to draw
their veils across the plain. Even lovelier still was the night, when
bright stars trembled like diamonds in the dark sky, and the young moon
shone as far away, as coldly, and as indifferently as she shines in
the North and in the mountains. The whole great valley was dotted with
little lights; the neighbouring town of Perugia made a sudden splash
of brightness, and the white roads wound about mysteriously among the
dark fields. The silence was indescribable; not a sound was to be heard,
except, from time to time, the distant barking of a dog, or the throb of
a far-off, passing train.
Irene began to feel the vague weariness of springtime. She had
experienced so much of late, and had received so many new impressions,
that her mind needed rest. She did not want to think about anything. Her
thoughts moved lazily; she was placidly happy on the little terrace, with
its palms and its flowers; she had no wish to go anywhere, she wanted
only to repose in her comfortable wicker sofa-chair, and delight in
nature.
She often thought of Gzhatski, but always unwillingly, even with
displeasure.
“Why did I ever meet that man?” she thought resentfully. “Until he came,
everything went well!” But for him, she would already have taken the
veil, and would probably have found happiness. Why had she ever paid
attention to the words of a mere passer-by, who had occupied himself with
her affairs simply because he had nothing else to do? Very soon he would
return to his Russia, where he had so many interests and so many friends,
and would never even remember Irene. Perhaps it would be better to stay
at Assisi until after he had left Rome.
Having arrived at this decision, Irene wrote to Père Etienne, telling
him that the mountain air was agreeing with her splendidly, and that
she would not return to Rome till Easter. She posted her letter, and
feeling pleased and relieved, went for a stroll in the balmy evening
air. What was her astonishment and annoyance when, on her return, she
found Gzhatski in the entrance-hall of the hotel, eagerly questioning the
proprietor about something. Her face expressed such frank displeasure,
that Gzhatski felt provoked.
“What an unexpected meeting!” he said as naturally as possible,
pretending, somewhat unsuccessfully, to be much astonished. “I was told
you had taken the veil in one of the Roman convents.”
“Not yet,” smiled Irene, “but it is as a preparation for that event that
I am recuperating here in the mountain air.”
“Yes, the air is lovely,” agreed Gzhatski, hurriedly. “And the views are
beautiful. I hardly expected to find all this in the Apennines.”
Irene took it upon herself to show Gzhatski all the sights of Assisi.
Sergei Grigorievitch praised everything, was delighted with all he saw,
was respectful to the monks who acted as guides in the churches and
monasteries, and bought a whole collection of various Catholic souvenirs.
“Can you guess what I have found to amuse me in Rome?” he asked Irene one
day at dinner. “I go to the churches and listen to the Catechism lessons.
I assure you it is most interesting. On one side of the church sits a
nun, surrounded by little girls, and on the other, a monk, with a class
of little boys, to whom he addresses questions, in turn. If you could
only see what lovely little faces they have! These same Italians, that
are so horrid when they grow up, are, at the age of eight or ten, exactly
like Raphael’s cherubs. Of course, they don’t understand anything yet
about the Catechism. What is the use of a catechism when the little legs
of the pupils run all by themselves, so that there is no stopping them?
The greater part of the lesson consists, for the ‘Pater,’ in persuading
his listeners to sit still, not to swing on their chairs, not to jump
up, not to run about the church, and not to fight.
“It is amusing, too, to listen to their conversations with their teacher.
I remember once, for instance, he asked one such little Cupid the
number of the Sacraments, or something like that. The answer had to be
_five_. The young rascal thought for a moment, then smiled roguishly,
spread out all the five fingers of his right hand, and, silently, with a
triumphant air, held them to the Pater’s nose. Do you imagine the priest
was offended at this lack of respect? Not in the least! He is an Italian
himself, and teaches his Catechism more by means of gestures than words.
Oh! what amusing people! When I look at those children, I feel a great
heartache because I have not a little sonlet like that of my own!”
“But why do you not get married, if you so much want to have children?”
“Get married? That is not so easy. I will tell you a conversation I
once had on the subject with my small nephew Seryozha. He is my godson,
and will probably be my heir. We are enormous friends. When I go to
stay in the country with his mother, my cousin, Seryozha never leaves
me for a moment, and if only you could hear our conversations! He has
the straightforward, logical, fearless intelligence of most small boys
of his age. And so, on one occasion, he announced to me that as soon as
ever he grows up, he will get married, just because he wants to have
little children, whom he likes. ‘There is only one trouble,’ he added,
very seriously, ‘I shall have to live all the time with my wife; there is
no escape.’ He said it so well, that I gave him a hearty kiss. You see,
although I am forty, and Seryozha is only eight, he explained to me quite
clearly why I do not marry.”
“The poor wife!” laughed Irene.
On the following day, Gzhatski left Assisi. Just as he was getting into
the cab to go to the station, he suddenly turned to Irene, who was there
to say good-bye, and exclaimed:
“By the way, I had quite forgotten. I brought you a present from Rome.
Please accept it,” and he took a book from his pocket, and handed it to
her.
“What is it?” stammered Irene vaguely.
“It is a Life of St. Amulfia. Like you, she found that her vocation
was to enter a convent. I thought that, as a future nun, it might be
interesting and useful to you to know something of her convent life.”
Irene accepted this gift somewhat mistrustfully. It seemed suspicious,
especially as Gzhatski obstinately avoided meeting her glance, while an
ill-concealed smile trembled on his lips.
Irene went back to her favourite terrace, and for a long time watched the
cab going down the hill, raising a cloud of dust. A suspicion arose in
her heart, that Gzhatski had come to Assisi exclusively with the purpose
of giving her this book, and she began to read it with great interest.
X
Saint Amulfia lived in the seventeenth century. Her parents were French
_petits bourgeois_, uneducated, poor, almost peasants. From her earliest
childhood, she was greatly attracted by convent life, and always nursed
the dream of one day becoming a nun. Her relations tried to dissuade her
from this project, and wished her to marry. Amulfia, however, found all
men repulsive, and the very thought of marriage filled her with horror
and disgust. For a long time, lacking the dower without which no one is
accepted in Catholic convents, she was unable to join the order she had
chosen. At last, however, after the death of her parents, their small
capital being divided among the children, she took her portion to the
convent, and was received as a novice.
From the very first days of her entry, she astonished all the nuns by her
humility, and the fervency of her prayers. At night, in her cell, she
chastised herself with ropes, ran needles into her fingers, and covered
herself with wounds. As always happens when the organism is weakened by
torture and privation and a constant state of nervous exaltation, she
began to see visions. Christ appeared to her, and she spoke with Him, as
with her heavenly bridegroom, who claimed her as exclusively His own,
and forbade her to continue even her friendly relations with a good and
kind young nun for whom she had felt a special sympathy on entering
the convent. “Si elle ne se retirait pas des créatures,” threatened
the Heavenly Bridegroom, “Il saurait se retirer d’elle,” and the saint
obeyed, and turned away from her friend.
These visions were known to the whole convent, but did not astonish
anybody. The other nuns also held converse with God, and sometimes on the
most trifling subjects. For instance, there was one who greatly disliked
cheese which, for this very reason, her superior had once ordered her
to eat, as a penance. So she went to church, threw herself on her knees
before the Crucifix, and prayed for five hours, with tears and sobs, for
strength to eat her little piece of cheese. At last, she heard a voice,
ordering her to arise, and make yet one more effort. She obeyed, and the
miracle was accomplished: although with shudders of disgust, she yet
succeeded in swallowing the cheese.
Not only God, however, but also Satan played a great part in the lives
of the nuns. On one occasion, for instance, an absent-minded novice
fell down the stairs, but managed not to hurt herself. She told of her
experience in the following words: “Satan pushed me at the top, but a
guardian angel was waiting at the bottom, and caught me in his arms.”
There was only one nun in the convent who saw no visions. This was Sister
Jeanne, the matron of the hospital, a busy, active, energetic woman,
devoted to the sick who were brought to the hospital from the village.
Saint Amulfia’s biographer spoke of this sister with great severity.
“She so completely exhausted her charity in favour of the sick whom she
tended,” he said, “that she had none left for the sisters who were her
subordinates in this work.”
Having received Saint Amulfia as assistant nurse, Sister Jeanne
constantly scolded her for her clumsy carelessness. Saint Amulfia,
indeed, had spent so great a part of her time in conversation either
with God or with Satan, and had grown so absent-minded, that she was
completely incapable of giving a patient a spoonful of medicine, or a cup
of beef-tea, without spilling them all over the bed!
At last, from a novice, Saint Amulfia became a full-blown nun, and from
this time onward called Christ her “Celestial Husband.” The visions
continued, and the conversations became so grotesque that Irene, on
reading them, sometimes quite involuntarily burst into peals of laughter.
She always, however, immediately and reproachfully stopped herself,
thinking in horror:
“How dare I? What am I doing? She was a _Saint_!”
With every page, however, Irene’s perplexity grew. What if there
were similar saints among the Sœurs Mauve? What if (God forbid!) she
herself should become a saint? Irene tried to console herself with the
thought that all this had taken place in the seventeenth century, in
days of ignorance and mental darkness—on the other hand, however, she
remembered that that had been the century of Corneille, Molière, Racine,
the brilliant Madame de Sévigné, the golden age, indeed, of French
literature. Beyond this, the entire arrangement of life in a Catholic
Convent was new to her, and surprised her exceedingly. She had imagined
a refuge for women who had been disappointed in life, and who longed for
a quiet harbour where they would be sheltered from the storms of the
world, and where, safely anchored at last, they could end their days
in holiness and prayer. She had imagined the relations of the nuns to
each other, as polite and friendly, much like those of well-bred people
staying in the same hotel, and meeting each other every day at dinner. In
reality there appeared to be a severe régime, by which she, Irene, would
be obliged to submit in every way to the will of her Superior, who might
be a trivial-minded, common person, capable of forcing her subordinates
to spend their time in performing such “sacrifices” or “great deeds”
as eating something they did not like, or occupying themselves with
something useless that could not interest them.
Irene shuddered at her own carelessness. Having made no enquiries
whatever, she had painted for herself an imaginary romantic picture, and
had been on the point of sacrificing in its favour the personal liberty
she had always enjoyed. What, if on closer acquaintance, the happiness
of that unknown, much-dreamt-of convent life proved to be an illusion?
What if she should afterwards wish to escape from it, and it were too
late, no return being possible? There came back to Irene’s recollection
long-forgotten stories of unloved wives or unwanted daughters, who had
been hidden away in Catholic convents, and whom no one had afterwards
succeeded in saving or even tracing. For that matter, thought Irene,
there was not even, in her case, anyone who would trouble about trying to
trace her—so terribly alone was she in the world! For the first time in
her life, she shuddered with sheer fright, and, together with this sudden
fear, the thought of Gzhatski as her protector flashed through her mind.
“Yes, _there_ is a man who will not let any harm come to me!” she
thought. “He is of the kind that would find and save his friends, if they
were at the end of the earth, or at the bottom of the sea!”
Irene threw down the book that had so disturbed her peace of mind, but
her restlessness, nevertheless, grew. Assisi lost its charm for her, and
a sudden spell of bad weather offering itself as an excuse, she hurried
her departure, and returned to Rome.