A GLEAM OF HOPE.
I had not seen Priscilla for over a year, and had struggled hard against
the madness that possessed me. Finding myself out of work, having
completed what I had undertaken, as far as depended on me, I felt that
passion, which I even loathed, reviving within me. Nothing would do but
I must see my former accomplice again. I called as an old friend, and
this time found her alone. She received me with ease, grace, and
cordiality.
There are those who believe that a woman who has once lost even the
modesty and chastity of thought, can never regain them, and become a
truly modest and pure-minded woman. They are greatly mistaken. The
Magdalene had fallen lower than that, and yet those were pure tears with
which she washed our Lord’s feet, and but one purer heart than hers beat
in the breasts of those holy women who stood near the cross, and heard
the loud cry of the God-Man, as he bowed his head and consummated the
world’s redemption. The Fountain, which that rude soldier opened with
his spear that day, suffices to cleanse from the deepest filth, to wash
away the foulest stains, and to make clean and fragrant the most
polluted soul. O ye fallen ones, whether women or men, bathe in that
fountain! and if your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as
snow, and if they be red as crimson, they shall be white as wool.
I had never seen Priscilla more beautiful. The bloom had returned to her
cheek; her form had regained its roundness, and her complexion its
richness. Her eyes were serene and tranquil, and her countenance wore a
sweet, pure, and peaceful expression. She had no need to fear me at that
moment, for I stood, not repelled, but awed, and felt myself in the
presence of virtue, not haughty, austere, and repellant, but lovely,
chaste, and affectionate; natural, easy, and wholly unconscious of
itself.
“I am glad to see you, Doctor,” said she, with a sweet smile. “Sit down.
I have been hoping that you would call, but I was afraid that you had
entirely deserted us.”
“You are changed, Priscilla, since I last saw you; and I should think my
presence would now be even more disagreeable than then.”
“Not at all. I was never more glad to see you in my life, and I never
met you with kinder or more pleasant feelings.”
I did not understand this speech, and began to draw, in my own mind,
certain very foolish conclusions.
“Yes,” she resumed, “I wished to see you, and to see you as I now do,
alone. It is of no use referring to what we were for so many years to
each other; but I wanted to tell you that I did you no little wrong. You
were not innocent, but I was the most guilty. We were both miserable;
and you, you, my dear friend, are unhappy still.”
“I make no complaint. Nobody has heard me whine or whimper over my own
lot. If I have suffered, I have done so in silence.”
“That may be. But you have not forgotten our sojourn at Rome in the
winter of 1848-49?”
“Forgotten it? no, and shall not, as long as I live.”
“Do you remember an old Franciscan monk, that my husband concealed in
our house for some weeks?”
“I do.”
“He was an old man, nearly fourscore. His head was almost perfectly
bald, only a few gray hairs escaped from beneath his _calotte_, and
partially shaded his temples; his form, which had been tall and manly,
was now bent with years, labors, and mortifications; but his feelings
seemed as fresh and playful as those of a child; and the expression of
his face was calm, sweet, and affectionate. It was a peculiar
expression, not often met with, but like that which, you may remember,
we one day remarked in the face of Pius the Ninth. It was an expression
of exceeding peace and celestial love, of a pure and holy soul shining
through a pure and chaste body. The expression is indescribable, but
once seen, can never be forgotten, and seems to be that which Italian
painters seek to give to their saints, especially to the Madonna.
“This venerable old man had, as you may recollect, been denounced, by
the Circulo del Populo, as an obscurantist, an enemy to the republic,
and an adherent to the Pontifical authority. It was intended to include
him in the number of priests and religious massacred at San Callisto. My
husband had formed an acquaintance with him, and, having learned his
danger, smuggled him into our house, where it was presumed nobody would
think of looking for a proscribed priest.”
“I remember him; I did not at all like him, and, had I cared much about
him, would have betrayed him to the Club; for I had the wish of Voltaire
in my heart, that ‘the last king might be strangled with the guts of the
last priest.’ But, as he seemed old and harmless, and generally kept out
of my way, I let him pass.”
“He was a quiet, inoffensive man, and I own I was not sorry that he
should escape the cruel death to which philanthropists and sworn friends
of liberty doomed so many of his brethren. I was not cruel by nature,
and my soul recoiled from the part I was often compelled to take. I
thought it was hardly consistent for us, who advocated unbounded freedom
of thought and action, to send the dagger to the heart, or coolly sever
the carotid artery in the neck of those who chose to think and act
differently from us; but I was held then by a force I could not resist.”
“You mean, Priscilla, now to reproach me.”
“No, my friend, no; I reproach only myself. Had I not originally
consented, no power could have held me in that terrible thraldom. The
agents you employed have no such power over us against our will; though,
when we have once assented to their dominion, it is not always in our
own power alone to reassert our liberty. My husband grew very fond of
the venerable old man, and they spent hours, and even days, together.
What was the subject of their conversation, I knew not, and did not
inquire.
“You returned to Paris, to prevent, if possible, the French from
interfering to suppress the Roman Republic, by organizing a new
insurrection of the Subterraneans, and by reminding the Prince-President
of his previous republican and socialistic professions, and making it
evident to him that the reëstablishment of the Pope would be fatal to
the supremacy of the state, whether republican or imperial. During your
absence you left me tranquil, and I began, for the first time since my
marriage, to enjoy the sweets and tranquillity of domestic life. The
good Franciscan would sometimes spend an evening with me and my husband.
He was of a childlike simplicity, and of most winning manners, but a man
of a cultivated mind, extensive information, and various and profound
erudition. He discoursed much on the old Roman Republic and Empire, on
the grasping ambition and tyranny of the government, the hollowness of
the Roman virtues and the old Roman people, the cruel and impure nature
of their religion, and the looseness and profligacy of their manners.
“He sketched then the introduction of Christianity, showed what enemies
it had to encounter, why it was opposed, the change it introduced into
the moral and social life of the people, its triumphs over paganism, its
conversion and civilization of the northern barbarians, and the
chastity, peace, and happiness it had introduced into the cottage of the
peasant, the castle of the noble, and even the palace of the monarch.
His views seemed clear and precise, and his mind seemed to be
enlightened, and singularly free from the cant of his profession, and
from that credulity, ignorance, and superstition which you and I had
been accustomed to associate with the name of monk. To every question I
asked, he had a clear and intelligent answer; and he was always able to
give a reason, and what appeared a good reason, for whatever judgment he
hazarded. He was evidently a man of an order of intellect, ideas, and
culture entirely different from any that had fallen under my
observation; and I must own that when I listened to him, I was charmed.
I seemed to be under the gentle but superior influence of a good spirit.
I felt calm and tranquil, and I wished that I too might believe, be
pure, holy, a Christian like him.
“Weeks passed on. At length we had a chance to send him in safety to
Portici, where the Holy Father then held his court. The evening before
he was to leave us, he came into the sitting-room, and sat down by me.
‘My dear lady,’ said he, ‘I leave you to-morrow, and I shall not see you
after to-night. You must permit me to thank you for your kindness to the
poor old proscribed monk, and your evident desire to procure him
comfort; all so much the more commendable in you, since you are a
stranger, and not of my religion. I give you my thanks and my blessing;
they are all I have to give; and I shall not cease to pray the good God,
who is no respecter of persons, to reward you for your goodness, and to
grant you his grace.
“‘But, my dear lady, I am a priest; I am also an old man, and have not
many days to tarry here. Let me speak to you in all sincerity and
freedom.’
“Do so, my father, said I, as my eyes filled with tears.
“‘You are still young and beautiful,’ said he; ‘you have naturally a
kind and warm heart, an enthusiastic disposition, and a sincere love of
truth and justice. But, my dear child, your education has been sadly
neglected, and you have been trained to walk in a path that leadeth
where you would not go. You have fallen among evil counsellors and evil
doers, and you are entangled in the meshes of the adversary of souls.
This cause, to which you give your heart, soul, and body, is not what
you think it. You sought liberty, you have found slavery; you sought
love, and you have found only hatred; you sought virtue,
disinterestedness, fidelity,—you have found only vice, selfishness, and
treachery; you sought peace and social regeneration,—you have found only
strife, war, murder, assassination, confusion, anarchy, and oppression.
For yourself personally, the only peaceful days you have known for years
have been during the last few weeks; and your present peace is disturbed
by a mysterious dread, that I need not name or explain to you.
“‘Ask yourself, my child, and answer to yourself, honestly, if you have
not been deceived, and been acting under a fatal delusion. Ask yourself
if it was not a terrible mistake you committed, when you took Satan for
the principle of good, and the Christian’s God for the principle of
evil.’
“But, _padre mio_, what shall I do? I have a suspicion that what you say
is true. I have been a proud, vain, rash, wicked woman. But what shall I
do? I am bound in chains; I am damned.
“‘Damned, not yet, my child. As long as there is life, there is hope.
Those chains must be broken.’
“But they are too strong for me.
“‘True, true, my child, but not too strong for the Lion of the tribe of
Judah. You must be assisted——’
“At that moment the door was burst open; a gang of ruffians rushed in,
and fell upon the aged monk. The old man gave me one look, made rapidly
the sign of the cross over my head, as I had dropped on my knees to
implore them not to harm him. I might as well have pleaded to my marble
jambs. They threw him down. He rose upon his knees, folded his hands
across his breast, and with a bright, celestial expression, exclaimed, O
God, pardon them, and lay not this sin to their charge, for they know
not what they do,—when the leader of the gang plunged a dagger to his
heart. His blood flowed out into my face, and over my dress. After a
minute, they took up the body, and removed it and themselves from my
house. Though protected, to some extent, by our American character, we
did not think it prudent to remain longer in Rome, under the Republic;
and the next day we started for Paris, where we rejoined you.”
“But you never told me of the fate of that old monk before.”
“True, why should I? I could not, before we had separated, have spoken
of him to you without arousing your indignation, and inducing you to
send me again on some of those terrible secret missions on which you had
so often sent me, and which I so abhorred. But I can speak calmly now,
and without fear; and let me beg you to ask yourself the question the
old monk urged me to ask myself. Truth is truth, let it be spoken by
whom it may; and there is no reason why we should not follow good
advice, because given by a monk, even if monks have been all our
lifetime the object of our wrath, or of our derision.”
“Priscilla, I have asked myself that question; but it is of no use. I
have pledged myself, body and soul, and sworn that, come what might, I
would never repent.”
“But that oath was unlawful, and cannot bind. He who has your pledge is
a deceiver, had no right to ask it, has no right to hold it.”
“But I cannot free myself from these chains of death and hell which bind
me.”
“Such as you have been, such as I fear you are, I am told seldom find
mercy; but the deliverance is not impossible. I, worse than you, have
found it.”
“That is not so certain. You are free, only because I, in a sudden fit
of despair, freed you. But I have but to will, and you are as completely
in my power as ever.”
“That I doubt. Except when you called me to emancipate me, you have
exerted no power over me, since the good old priest was received into
our house in Rome.”
“That is owing to my forbearance.”
“Will you swear that? Will you swear that, within twenty-four hours
after you had declared me free, you did not use all your art to enthrall
me again? Did you not call again and again, within a month, at my house,
for that very purpose?”
“But you avoided me, and I could not so much as touch the hem of your
robe.”
“Very true, for I feared you, and I dare not defy you even now; but I
feel very certain that, under the protection of a name at which even
devils must bow, I am safe from all your arts.”
As she said that I rose, walked once or twice across the room, came up
before her, took her hand unresistingly, and placed my hand on her head.
I trembled. I was struck dumb, for I perceived at once that I had no
power there; and, though I evoked them, no spirits came to my aid. But
before I had let go her hand, her husband came into the room, saw us,
feared what I might do, drew his dagger, and before Priscilla could stop
him, or offer a word of explanation, aimed a blow at my heart. Priscilla
attempted to avert it, and so far succeeded, as to change somewhat its
direction. It penetrated, however, the chest, reached the lungs, and
inflicted a wound which, though it is apparently healed, and I seem to
myself to be suffering only from pulmonary consumption, which wastes me
away slowly but surely, my surgeon tells me will yet prove the occasion
of my death.
The moment James, a man of peace, and not at all given to striking, had
struck the blow, he was filled with terror at what he had done. I
assured him, for I retained my presence of mind, which I never yet lost
in any case in my life, that so far as I was concerned, he need not
blame himself, for I deserved the blow, and had long foreseen that
sooner or later his hand must deal it; but, had he delayed a moment, he
would have found it unnecessary, that his wife was safe from my
annoyances, and proof against any art I possessed. Priscilla, as soon as
she recovered from her fright, rather than swoon, told him as much; and
we both did all in our power to reassure and console him. But the matter
must not be bruited abroad, and he must conceal it for his and
Priscilla’s sake. It was concluded that I must remain for the present in
their house. James did what he could to stanch my wound, aided me to
remove to another room, and sent immediately for a surgeon whom we both
knew and could trust. For several weeks I lay at their house, nursed
with great care and tenderness, till I was able to be removed to my own
house. It was rumored that I had been stabbed in the street, but such
things not being rare in our cities, it excited very little remark; and
suspicion, though it fell on the secret societies known to exist, fell
upon no individual in particular, and no pains were taken to ferret out
the supposed assassin. The fact was noted in the journals, and was
instantly forgotten.