Paul was seated again at his own table in the little dining-room,
lighted by an oil lamp. Behind the ridge, which looked a mountain as
seen from the presbytery window, the full moon was rising in the pale
sky.
He had invited several of the villagers to come in and keep him
company, amongst them the old man with the white beard and the owner
of the horse, and they were still sitting there drinking and joking,
and telling hunting stories. The old man with the white beard, a hunter
himself, was criticizing King Nicodemus because, in his opinion, the
old recluse did not conduct his hunting according to the law of God.
“I don’t want to speak ill of him in his last hour,” he was saying;
“but to tell the truth, he went out hunting simply as a speculation.
Now last winter he must have made thousands of lire by marten skins
alone. God allows us to shoot animals, but not to exterminate them!
And he used to snare them, too, and that is forbidden, because animals
feel pain just as we do, and the hours they lie caught in the snares
must be terrible. Once I myself, with these very eyes, I saw a snare
where a hare had left her foot. Do you understand what that means? The
hare had been caught in the snare and had gnawed the flesh away all
round her foot, and had broken her leg off to get free. And what did
Nicodemus do with his money, after all? He hid it, and now his grandson
will drink it all in a few days.”
“Money is made to be spent,” said the owner of the horse, a man much
given to boasting; “I myself, for instance, I have always spent freely
and enjoyed myself, without hurting anyone. Once at our festival,
having nothing else to do, I stopped a man who sold silk reels and
happened to be passing with a load of his goods; I bought the whole
lot, then I set them rolling about on the piazza and ran after them,
kicking them here and there and everywhere! In one instant the whole
crowd was after me, laughing and yelling, and the boys and young men,
and even some of the older men began to imitate me. That was a game
that’s not forgotten yet! Every time the old priest saw me he used to
shout from ever so far: ‘Hallo, Pasquale Masia, haven’t you any reels
to set rolling to-day?’”
All the guests laughed at the tale, only Paul seemed absent-minded
and looked pale and tired. The old man with the white beard, who was
observing him with reverent affection, winked at his companions to
suggest an immediate departure. It was time to leave the servant of God
to his holy solitude and well-merited repose.
The guests rose from their seats all together and took respectful leave
of their host; and Paul found himself alone, between the flickering
flame of the oil lamp and the calm splendour of the moon that shone in
through the high window, while the sound of the heavy iron-shod shoes
of his departing guests echoed down the deserted street.
It was yet early to go to bed, and although he was utterly worn out and
his shoulders ached with fatigue, as though he had been bearing a heavy
yoke all the day, he had no thought of going up to his own room. His
mother was still in the kitchen: he could not see her from where he
sat, but he knew that she was watching as on _the previous night_.
The previous night! He felt as if he had been suddenly awakened out
of a long sleep, and the distress of his return home from the house
of Agnes, and his thoughts in the night, the letter, the Mass, the
journey up the mountain, the villagers’ demonstration, had all been
only a dream. His real life was beginning again now: he had but to take
a step, a dozen steps, to open the door... and go back to her.... His
real life was beginning again.
“But perhaps she is not expecting me any longer. Perhaps she will never
expect me again!”
Then he felt his knees trembling and terror took hold of him again, not
at the thought of going back to her, but at the thought that she might
have accepted her fate and be already beginning to forget him.
Then he realized that in the depths of his heart the hardest thing to
bear since he came down from the mountain had been this—not knowing
anything about her, her silence, her vanishing out of his life.
This was the veritable death, that she should cease to love him.
He buried his face in his hands and tried to bring her image before his
mind’s eye, then he began to reproach her for those things for which
she might justly have reproached him.
“Agnes, you cannot forget your promises! How can you forget them? You
held my wrists in your two strong hands and said to me: ‘We are bound
to each other for ever, in life and in death.’ Is it possible that you
can forget? You said, you know...”
His fingers gripped at his collar, for he was suffocating with his
distress.
“The devil has caught me in his snare,” he thought, and remembered the
hare who had gnawed off her own foot.
He drew a deep breath, rose from his chair, and took up the lamp. He
determined to conquer his will, to gnaw his own flesh also if thereby
he could only free himself. Now he decided to go up to his room, but as
he moved towards the hall he saw his mother sitting in her accustomed
place in the silent kitchen, and beside her was Antiochus fast asleep.
He went to the door.
“Why is that boy still here?” he asked.
His mother looked at him hesitatingly: she would have preferred not to
answer, but to have hidden Antiochus behind her wide skirts in order
that Paul should not wait up any longer, but go to his room and to bed.
Her faith in him was now completely restored, but she too thought of
the devil and his snares. At this moment, however, Antiochus woke up
and remembered very well why he was still waiting there, in spite of
the fact that the woman had several times asked him to go.
“I was waiting here because my mother is expecting a visit from you,”
he explained.
“But is this a time of night to go paying visits?” protested the
priest’s mother. “Come now, be off with you, and tell her that Paul is
tired and will go and see her to-morrow.”
She spoke to the boy, but she was looking at her son: she saw his
glassy eyes fixed upon the lamp, but his eyelids quivered like the
wings of a moth in a candle.
Antiochus got up with an expression of deep disappointment.
“But my mother is expecting him; she thinks it’s something important.”
“If it was anything important he would go and tell her at once. Come,
be off with you!”
She spoke sharply, and as Paul looked at her his eyes lit up again with
quick resentment: he saw that his mother was afraid lest he should go
out again, and the knowledge filled him with unreasoning anger. He
banged the lamp down on the table again and called to Antiochus:
“We will go and see your mother.”
In the hall, however, he turned and added:
“I shall be back directly, mother; don’t fasten the door.”
She had not moved from where she sat, but when the two had left the
house she went to peep through the half-open door and saw them cross
the moonlit square and enter the wineshop, which was still lighted
up. Then she went back to the kitchen and began her vigil as on the
previous night.
She marvelled at herself to find that she was no longer afraid of the
old priest reappearing; it had all been a dream. At the bottom of her
heart, however, she did not feel at all certain that the ghost would
not come back and demand his mended socks.
“I have mended them all right,” she said aloud, thinking of those she
had mended for her son. And she felt that even if the ghost did come
back she would be able to hold her own with him and keep on friendly
terms.
Complete silence reigned all round. Outside the window the trees shone
silver in the bright moonlight, the sky was like a milky sea, and the
perfume of the aromatic shrubs penetrated even into the house. And the
mother herself was tranquil now, though she hardly knew why, seeing
that Paul might yet fall again into sin; but she no longer felt the
same terror of it. She saw again in her mind’s eye the lashes trembling
on his cheeks, like those of a child about to cry, and her mother’s
heart melted with tenderness and pity.
“And why, oh Lord, why, why?”
She dared not complete her question, but it remained at the bottom of
her heart like a stone at the bottom of a well. Why, oh Lord, was Paul
forbidden to love a woman? Love was lawful for all, even for servants
and herdsmen, even for the blind and for convicts in prison; so why
should Paul, her child, be the only one to whom love was forbidden?
Then again the consciousness of reality forced itself on her. She
remembered the words of Antiochus, and was ashamed of being less wise
than a boy.
“They themselves, the youngest amongst the priests, asked permission to
live chaste and free, apart from women.”
Moreover, her Paul was a strong man, in no wise inferior to his ancient
predecessors. He would never give way to tears; his eyelids would close
over eyes dry as those of the dead, for he was a strong man.
“I am growing childish!” she sobbed.
She felt as if she had grown twenty years older in that one long day
of wearing emotions: each hour that passed had added to the burden she
bore, each minute had struck a blow upon her soul as the hammer of the
stone-breaker struck upon the heaps of broken rock there behind the
ridge. So many things now seemed clear to her, different from on the
previous day. The figure of Agnes came before her, with the proud look
that concealed all she really felt.
“She is strong too,” thought the mother; “she will hide everything.”
Then slowly she rose from her chair and began to cover the fire with
ashes, banking it up carefully so that no sparks could fly out and set
fire to anything near: then she shut the house door, for she knew Paul
always carried a key with him. She stamped about loudly, as though he
could hear her across the square, and believe her firm footsteps to be
an outward sign of her inward assurance.
She felt, however, that this assurance was not so very firm after all.
But then what is really firm in this life? Neither the base of the
mountains nor the foundations of the churches, for an earthquake may
overthrow them both. Thus she felt sure of Paul for the future, and
sure of herself, but always with an underlying dread of the unknown
which might chance to supervene. And when she reached her bedroom she
dropped wearily into a chair, wondering whether it would not have been
better after all to leave the front door open.
Then she got up and began to untie her apron string; but it had twisted
into a knot over which she lost patience at last, and went to fetch
a pair of scissors from her work-basket. She found the kitten curled
up asleep inside the basket, and the scissors and reels were all warm
from contact with its tiny body; and somehow the touch of the living
thing made her repent of her impatience, and she went back to the lamp,
and drawing the knot in front of her she succeeded at last in untying
it. With a sigh of relief she slowly undressed, carefully folding her
garments one by one on the chair, first, however, taking the keys
out of her apron pocket and laying them in a row on the table like a
respectable family all asleep. Thus her masters had taught her in her
youth to cultivate order and tidiness, and she still obeyed the old
instructions.
She sat down again, half undressed, her short chemise displaying thin
brown legs that might have been made of wood, and she yawned with
weariness and resignation. No, she would not go downstairs again; her
son should come home and find the door closed, and see from that fact
that his mother had full confidence in him. That was the right way to
manage him, show that you trusted him absolutely. Nevertheless, she
was on the alert, and listened for the least sound; not in the same
way as on the previous night, but still she listened. She drew off her
shoes and placed them side by side, like two sisters who must keep each
other company even during the night, and went on murmuring her prayers
and yawning, yawning with weariness and resignation, and with sheer
nervousness, too.
Whatever could Paul have to say to Antiochus’s mother? The woman had by
no means a good reputation, she lent money on usury and was commonly
supposed to be a procuress too. No, Paul’s mother could not understand
it. Then she blew out the candle, snuffed the smoking wick with her
fingers and got into bed, but could not bring herself to lie down.
Presently she thought she heard a step in her room. Was it the ghost
come back? She was filled with a horrible fear lest he should come up
to the bed and take hold of her; for a moment her blood froze in her
veins, then surged to her heart as a people in tumult rushes through
the streets of its city to the principal square. Then she recovered
herself and was ashamed of her fear, only caused, she was sure, by the
wicked doubts she had entertained of her Paul.
No, those doubts were all ended: never again would she inquire into the
very smallest of his actions; it was her place to keep quietly in the
background, as she was now, in her little room fit only for a servant.
She lay down and drew the bedclothes over her, covering her ears, too,
so that she might not hear whether Paul came home or not; but in her
inner consciousness she _felt_ all the same, she felt that he was not
coming home, that he had been carried off by some one against his will,
as one drawn reluctantly into a dance.
Nevertheless she felt quite sure of him; sooner or later he would
manage to escape and come home. Anyhow, she was resting quietly
under the bedclothes, though not yet asleep, and she had a confused
impression that she was still trying to undo the knot in her apron
string. Then the faint buzzing in her ears beneath the coverlet turned
gradually into the murmuring of the crowd in the square beneath her
window, and farther off still the murmuring of a people who lamented,
and yet whilst lamenting laughed and danced and sang. Her Paul was
there in the midst of them, and above them all in some high, far place,
a lute was being softly played. Perhaps it was God Himself playing to
the dance of men.