CLEMENT sighed. He began to doubt whether he had taken the wisest course
with a creature so passionate.
But young as he was, he had already learned many lessons of
ecclesiastical wisdom. For one thing he had been taught to pause: _i.
e._, in certain difficulties, neither to do nor say anything, until the
matter should clear itself a little.
He therefore held his peace and prayed for wisdom.
All he did was gently to withdraw his foot.
But his penitent flung her arms round it with a piteous cry, and held
convulsively, and wept over it.
And now the agony of shame, as well as penitence, she was in, showed
itself by the bright red that crept over her very throat, as she lay
quivering at his feet.
"My daughter," said Clement gently, "take courage. Torment thyself no
more about this Gerard, who is not. As for me, I am brother Clement,
whom Heaven hath sent to thee this day to comfort thee, and help thee
save thy soul. Thou hast made me thy confessor. I claim, then, thine
obedience."
"Oh, yes," sobbed the penitent.
"Leave this pilgrimage, and instant return to Rome. Penitence abroad is
little worth. There where we live lie the temptations we must defeat, or
perish; not fly in search of others more showy, but less lethal. Easy to
wash the feet of strangers, masked ourselves. Hard to be merely meek and
charitable with those about us."
"I'll never, never, lay finger on her again."
"Nay, I speak not of servants only, but of dependents, kinsmen, friends.
This be thy penance; the last thing at night, and the first thing after
matins, call to mind thy sin, and God his goodness; and so be humble,
and gentle to the faults of those around thee. The world it courts the
rich; but seek thou the poor: not beggars; these for the most are
neither honest nor truly poor. But rather find out those who blush to
seek thee, yet need thee sore. Giving to them shalt lend to Heaven.
Marry a good son of the Church."
"Me? I will never marry."
"Thou wilt marry within the year. I do entreat and command thee to
marry one that feareth God. For thou art very clay. Mated ill thou shalt
be nought. But wedding a worthy husband thou mayest, Dei gratiâ, live a
pious princess; ay, and die a saint."
"I?"
"Thou."
He then desired her to rise and go about the good work he had set her.
She rose to her knees, and, removing her mask, cast an eloquent look
upon him, then lowered her eyes meekly.
"I will obey you as I would an angel. How happy I am, yet unhappy; for
oh my heart tells me I shall never look on you again. I will not go till
I have dried your feet."
"It needs not. I have excused thee this bootless penance."
"'Tis no penance to me. Ah! you do not forgive me, if you will not let
me dry your poor feet."
"So be it then," said Clement, resignedly; and thought to himself
"Levius quid foeminâ."
But these weak creatures, that gravitate towards the small, as heavenly
bodies towards the great, have yet their own flashes of angelic
intelligence.
When the princess had dried the friar's feet, she looked at him with
tears in her beautiful eyes, and murmured with singular tenderness and
goodness--
"I will have masses said for her soul. May I?" she added timidly.
This brought a faint blush into the monk's cheek, and moistened his cold
blue eye. It came so suddenly from one he was just rating so low.
"It is a gracious thought," he said. "Do as thou wilt: often such acts
fall back on the doer like blessed dew. I am thy confessor; not hers;
thine is the soul I must now do my all to save, or woe be to my own. My
daughter, my dear daughter, I see good and ill angels fighting for thy
soul this day, ay, this moment; oh, fight thou on thine own side. Doth
thou remember all I bade thee?"
"Remember!" said the princess. "Sweet saint, each syllable of thine is
graved in my heart."
"But one word more then. Pray much to Christ, and little to his saints."
"I will."
"And that is the best word I have light to say to thee. So part we on
it. Thou to the place becomes thee best, thy father's house: I to my
holy mother's work."
"Adieu," faltered the princess. "Adieu thou that I have loved too well,
hated too ill, known and revered too late; forgiving angel adieu--for
ever."
The monk caught her words, though but faltered in a sigh.
"FOR EVER?" he cried aloud with sudden ardour. "Christians live 'FOR
EVER,' and love 'FOR EVER,' but they never part 'FOR EVER.' They part,
as part the earth and sun, to meet more brightly in a little while. You
and I part here for life. And what is our life? One line in the great
story of the Church, whose son and daughter we are; one handful in the
sand of time, one drop in the ocean of 'FOR EVER.' Adieu--for the little
moment called 'a life!' We part in trouble, we shall meet in peace: we
part creatures of clay, we shall meet immortal spirits: we part in a
world of sin and sorrow, we shall meet where all is purity and love
divine; where no ill passions are, but Christ is, and his saints around
him clad in white. There, in the turning of an hour-glass, in the
breaking of a bubble, in the passing of a cloud, she, and thou, and I,
shall meet again; and sit at the feet of angels and archangels, apostles
and saints, and beam like them with joy unspeakable, in the light of the
shadow of God upon his throne, FOR EVER--AND EVER--AND EVER."
* * * * *
And so they parted. The monk erect, his eyes turned heavenwards and
glowing with the sacred fire of zeal; the princess slowly retiring and
turning more than once to cast a lingering glance of awe and tender
regret on that inspired figure.
She went home subdued, and purified. Clement, in due course, reached
Basle, and entered on his duties, teaching in the University, and
preaching in the town and neighbourhood. He led a life that can be
comprised in two words; deep study, and mortification. My reader has
already a peep into his soul. At Basle he advanced in holy zeal and
knowledge.
The brethren of his order began to see in him a descendant of the saints
and martyrs.