"Spiritualism, your Highness, is the devil, without doubt," said the
learned ecclesiastical archaeologist, Don Nicola Francesetti, in an
apologetic tone, and looking at his knees. "If there is anything more
heretical, it is a belief in a possible migration of souls from one body
to another, in a series of lives."
The Princess Anatolie smiled at the excellent man and exchanged a glance
of compassionate intelligence with Monsieur Leroy. She did not care a
straw what the Church thought about anything except Protestants and
Jews, and she did not believe that Don Nicola cared either. He chanced
to be a priest, instead of a professor, and it was of course his duty to
protest against heresy when it was thrust under his cogitative
observation. Spiritualism was not exactly heresy, therefore he said it
was the devil, and no mistake; but as she was sure that he did not
believe in the devil, that only proved that he did not believe in
spiritualism.
In this she was mistaken, however, as people often are in their judgment
of priests. Nicola Francesetti had long ago placed his conscience in
safety, so to speak, by telling himself that he was not a theologian,
but an archaeologist, and that as he could not afford to divide his time
and his intelligence between two subjects, where one was too vast, it
was therefore his plain duty to think about all questions of religion as
the Church taught him to think. He admitted that if his life could begin
again he would perhaps not again enter the priesthood, but he would
never have conceded that he could have been anything but a believing
Catholic. He had no vocation whatever for saving souls, whereas he
possessed the archaeological gift in a high degree; and yet, as a
clergyman and a good Christian, he was convinced at heart that a man in
holy orders had no right to give his whole life and strength to another
profession. He had asked the advice of a wise and good man on this
point, however, and the theologian had thought that he should continue
to live as he was living. Had he a cure? No, he had none. Had he ever
evaded a priest's work? That is, had work been offered to him where a
priest was needed, and where he could have done active good, and had he
refused because it was distasteful to him? No, never. Was he receiving
any stipend for performing a priest's duties, with the tacit
understanding that he was at liberty to pay an impecunious substitute a
part of the money for taking his place, so that he himself profited by
the transaction? No, certainly not. Don Nicola had a sufficient income
of his own to live on. Had he ever made a solemn promise to devote his
life to missionary labours among the heathen? No.
"In that case, my dear friend," concluded the theologian, "you are
tormenting yourself with perfectly useless scruples. You are making a
mountain of your molehill, and when you have made your mountain you will
not be satisfied until you have made another beside it. In the course of
time you will, in fact, oppress your innocent conscience with a whole
range of mountains; you will be immobilised under the weight, and then
you will become hateful to yourself, useless to others, and an object of
pity to wise men. Stick to your archaeology."
"Is pure study a good in itself?" asked Don Nicola.
"What is good?" retorted the theologian viciously. "I wish you would
define it!"
Don Nicola was silent, for though he could think of a number of synonyms
for the conception, he remembered no definition corresponding to any of
them. He waited.
"Good and goodness are not the same thing," observed the theologian;
"you might as well say that study and knowledge are the same thing."
"But study should lead to knowledge."
"And goodness should lead to good; and, compared with ignorance,
knowledge is a form of good. Therefore study is a form of goodness.
Consequently, as you have a turn for erudition, the best thing you can
do is to go on with your studies."
"I see," said Don Nicola.
"I wish I did," sighed the theologian, when the priest was gone. "How
very pleasant it must be, to be an archaeologist!"
After that, whenever Don Nicola was troubled with uneasiness about his
profession, he soothed himself with his friend's little syllogism, which
was as full of holes as a sieve, as flimsy as a tissue-paper balloon,
and as unstable as a pyramid upside down, but nevertheless perfectly
satisfactory.
"Of course," says humanity, "I know nothing about it. But I am perfectly
sure."
And so forth. And moreover, if humanity were not frequently quite sure
of things concerning which it knows nothing, the world would soon come
to a standstill, and never move again; like the ass in the fable, that
died of hunger in its stall between two bundles of hay, unable to decide
which to eat first. That also was an instance of stable equilibrium.
Don Nicola avoided all questions of religion in general conversation,
and tried to make other people avoid them when he was the only clergyman
present, because he did not like to be asked his opinion about them. But
when the Princess Anatolie and Monsieur Leroy gravely declared their
belief in the communications of departed persons by means of rappings,
not to say by touch, and by strains of music, and perfumes, and even, on
rare occasions, by actual apparition, then Don Nicola felt that it was
his duty to protest, and he accordingly protested with considerable
energy. He said that spiritualism was the devil.
"The chief object of the devil's existence," observed Monsieur Leroy,
"is to bear responsibility."
The Princess laughed and nodded her approval, as she always did when
Monsieur Leroy said anything which she thought clever. Don Nicola was
too wise to discuss the matter, if, indeed, it admitted of discussion;
for the devil was certainly responsible for a good deal.
"Your definition of spiritualism is so very liberal," Monsieur Leroy
added, with a fine supercilious smile on his red lips.
"It is not mine," answered Don Nicola, modestly.
"No. I suppose it is the opinion of the Church. At all events, you do
not doubt the possibility of communicating with the spirits of dead
persons, do you?"
"I have never examined the matter, my dear sir."
"It seems to me," said Monsieur Leroy, with airy superiority, "that it
is rather rash to attribute to Satan everything which you will not take
the trouble to examine."
"Hush, Doudou!" cried the Princess. "You are very rude!"
"Not at all, not at all, your Highness!" protested Don Nicola, rising.
"I should be very much surprised if Monsieur Leroy expressed himself
differently."
Monsieur Leroy had no retort ready, and tried to smile.
"It will give me the greatest pleasure to be your guide to the new
excavations in the Forum," added the priest, as he took his leave.
The Princess and Monsieur Leroy were left alone.
"Shall we?" he asked after a moment's silence, and waited anxiously for
the answer.
"I am afraid They will not come to-night, Doudou," said the Princess.
"You have excited yourself in argument. You know that always has a bad
effect."
"That man irritates me," answered Monsieur Leroy, peevishly. "Why do you
receive him?"
He spoke in the tone of a spoilt child--a spoilt child of forty, or
thereabouts.
"I thought you liked him," replied the Princess, very meekly. "I will
give orders that he is not to be received. We will not go to the Forum
with him."
"No, no! How you exaggerate! You always think that I mean a great deal
more than I say. I only said that he irritated me."
"Why should you be irritated for nothing? You know it is bad for you."
She looked at him with an air of concern, and there was a gentleness in
her eyes which few had ever seen in them.
"It does not matter," answered Monsieur Leroy, crossly.
He had risen, and he brought a very small and light mahogany table from
a corner. It was one of those which used to be made during the second
Empire in sets of six and of successive sizes, so that each fitted each
under the next larger one. He moved awkwardly and yet without noise;
there was something very womanish in his figure and gait.
He set the little table before the Princess, very close to her, lit a
single candle, which he placed on the floor behind an arm-chair, and
turned out the electric light. Then he sat down on the opposite side of
the table and spread out his hands upon it, side by side, the right
thumb resting on the left. The Princess did the same. They glanced at
each other once or twice, hardly distinguishing each other's features in
the gloom. Then they looked steadily down upon the table, and neither
stirred for a long time.
"I am sure They will not come," said the Princess at last, in a very low
voice.
"Hush!"
Silence again, for a quarter of an hour. Somewhere in the room a small
clock, or a watch, ticked quickly, with a little rhythmical, insisting
accent on the fourth beat.
"It moved, then!" whispered the Princess, excitedly.
"Yes. Hush!"
The little table certainly moved, with a queerly soft rocking motion, as
if its feet only just touched the carpet and supported no weight. The
Princess's hands felt as if they were floating over tiny rippling waves,
and between her shoulders came the almost stinging thrill she loved. She
wished that the room were quite dark now, in order that she might feel
more. There were tiny beads of perspiration on Monsieur Leroy's
forehead, and his hands were moist. The candle behind the arm-chair
flickered.
"Are You there?" asked Monsieur Leroy, in a voice unlike his own.
There was no answer. The table moved more uneasily.
"Rap once for 'yes,' twice for 'no,'" said Monsieur Leroy. "Is this the
first time you have come to us?"
One rap answered the question, sharp and clear, as if the butt of a
pencil had struck the table underneath it and near the middle.
"Are you the spirit of a man?"
Two raps very distinct.
"Then you are a woman. Tell us----"
Several raps came in quick succession, in pairs, as if to repeat the
negative energetically. Monsieur Leroy seemed to hesitate what question
to ask.
"Perhaps it is a child," suggested the Princess, in a tremulous tone.
A sharp rap. Yes, it was a child. Was it a little girl? Yes. Had it been
dead long? Yes. More than ten years? Yes. More than twenty? Yes. Fifty?
No. Forty? Yes.
Monsieur Leroy began to count, pausing after each number.
"Forty-one--forty-two--forty-three--forty-four----"
The sharp rap again. The Princess drew a quick breath.
"How old was it when it died?" she managed to ask.
Monsieur Leroy began to count again, beginning with one. At the word
seven, the rap came. The Princess started violently, almost upsetting
the table against her companion.
"Adelaide!" She cried in a broken voice.
One rap.
"Oh, my darling, my darling!"
The old woman bent down over the table, and her outspread hands tried
frantically to take up the flat surface, and she kissed the polished
wood passionately, again and again, not knowing what she did, nor
hearing her own incoherent words of mixed joy and agony.
"My child! My little thing--my sweet--speak to me----"
Her whole being was convulsed. Little storms of rappings seemed to
answer her. The perspiration trickled down Monsieur Leroy's temples. He
seemed to be making an effort altogether beyond his natural strength.
"Speak to me--call me by the little name!" sobbed the Princess, and her
tears wet her hands and the table.
Monsieur Leroy began to repeat the alphabet. From time to time a rap
stopped him at a letter, and then he began over again. In this way the
rapping spelt out the word "Mamette."
"She says 'Mamette,'" said Monsieur Leroy, in a puzzled tone. "Does that
mean anything?"
But the Princess burst into passionate weeping. It was the name she had
asked for, the child's own pet name for her, its mother; it was the last
word the poor little dying lips had tried to form. Never since that
moment had the heart-broken woman spoken it, never since the fourth year
before Monsieur Leroy had been born.
He looked at her, for he seemed to have preserved his self-control, and
he saw that if matters went much further the poor sobbing woman would
reach a state which might be dangerous. He withdrew his hands from the
table and waited.
"She is gone, but she will come again now, whenever you call her," he
said gently.
"No, do not go!" cried the Princess, clutching at the smooth wood
frantically. "Come back, come back and speak to me once more!"
"She is gone, for to-night," said Monsieur Leroy, in the same gentle
tone. "I am very much exhausted."
He pressed his handkerchief to his forehead and to his temples, again
and again, while the Princess moaned, her cheek upon the table, as she
had once let it rest upon the breast of her dead child.
Monsieur Leroy rose cautiously, fearing to disturb her. He was trembling
now, as men sometimes do who have escaped alive from a great danger. He
steadied himself by the back of the arm-chair, behind which the candle
was burning steadily. With an effort, he stooped and took up the
candlestick and set it on the table. Then he looked at his watch and saw
that it was past eleven o'clock.