"What do you demand?"
"I demand spiritual freedom--the freedom of silence."
"Freedom will be abused."
"Not by me nor by my friends. We pledge ourselves to unbroken silence.
All we demand is freedom to worship God in private as He Himself shall
lead us. We ask for no change in public doctrine. We seek no
proselytes. In fact, we confine ourselves to one desire, the sacrament
without confession."
The Jesuit made no reply, but continued to look fixedly into Inglesant's
face.
"It seems to me, Father," Inglesant went on, with a touch of bitterness
in his tone, "that the Society is changing its policy, or rather that it
has a different policy for different classes of men. So far as I have
known it, it has pursued a course of compromise with all men, and
especially with the weak and frail. It has always appeared to me a
trait much to be admired, that in which it is likest to the divine
charity itself; but the world has been very severe upon it. And when
the world says, 'You have pandered to vice in every form; you have
rendered the confessional easy of approach, and the path of penitence
smooth to the impenitent; you have been lenient, nay more than lenient,
to the loose liver, to the adulterers and menslayers,--surely you might
be mild to the devout; surely you might extend a little of this infinite
pity to the submissive and obedient, to the pure in life and soul who
seek after God; 'Difficile est satiram non scribere. Nam quis iniquae
tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus, ut teneat se.' If the world says this,
what am I to answer?' For, if it be so necessary to confine the soul to
narrow dogmas lest she go astray, it must be also necessary to deal
freely and sharply with these sins of the flesh, lest they bring men to
sensuality and to hell. By thus acting, as it seems to me, and not by
making the righteous sad, you would follow the teaching of those
beautiful words of one of your Fathers, who says, 'that the main design
of our Society is to endeavour the establishment of virtue, to carry on
the war against vice, and to cultivate an infinite number of souls.'"
"You are a bold man, Signore Cavaliere. For far less words than you
have spoken men have grown old in the dungeons of Saint Angelo, where
the light of day never comes."
Inglesant, who rather wished to be imprisoned, and flattered himself
that he should soon be released, was not alarmed at this menace, and
remained silent.
A pause ensued, during which something like this ran through the
Jesuit's mind:--
"Shall I have this man arrested at once, or wait? He came to us well
recommended--the favourite pupil of an important member of the Society,
who assured us that he was an instrument perfectly trained, ready at all
points for use, and of a temper and spirit far above the average, not to
be lost to the Order on any account. He has proved all that was said of
him, and much more. The Papal throne itself is under obligation to him.
But do we want such a man so much? I have scores of agents, of
instruments ready to my hand, with whom I need use no caution--no
finesse; why waste any on one, however highly finished and trained?
But, on the other hand, I speak this in Rome, where everything is our
own, and where the sense of power may have unfitted me from properly
understanding this man's value. In the rough regions _in partibus_ such
a tool as this, fine and true as steel, tried in the fire as steel,
doubtless is not lightly to be thrown away; at all events, nothing is to
be done hastily. So long as he is in Rome he is safe, and may be
clapped up at any moment. I almost wish he would leave, and go back to
his teacher."
All this occupied but a few seconds, and, as the Jesuit made no answer,
Inglesant, who scarcely expected any definite reply, took his leave. To
his surprise, however, the General insisted on accompanying him to his
coach. They crossed the courtyard to where the equipage of Don Agostino
stood in the street. In the excited imagination of Rome at that moment,
the sight of Don Agostino's carriage before the Jesuits' College had
attracted a crowd. When Inglesant appeared, accompanied by the General,
the excitement became intense. As they reached the carriage door,
Inglesant knelt upon the pavement, and requested the Jesuit's blessing;
the foremost of the crowd, impressed by this action, knelt too.
Inglesant rose, entered the carriage, and was driven off; and two
different rumours spread through Rome--one, that the Society had come to
terms with the Quietists through the mediation of the Cavaliere; the
other, that the Cavaliere di San Georgio had betrayed the Quietists, and
made his peace with the Order; and this last report received the
greatest amount of credit.
*CHAPTER XVIII.*
The Inquisitors and the Jesuits continued to adopt a policy of great
leniency to those who were in prison. The majority, after one
examination, were released, merely going through the form of abjuring
heresies and errors of which they had never dreamed. Owing to this
politic course of action, assisted by the dislike and contempt which the
people felt towards the then Pope, who was supposed to be a favourer of
Molinos, and of whose dull reign the Romans were weary, a great change
took place in the opinions of the populace. The credit of the Jesuits
rose exceedingly, and they became celebrated for their excessive
mildness, who before had been blamed for their rigour. To such an
extent did they gain in popular estimation, that the chiefs of the
defeated party were unable to keep back great numbers of the followers
of Molinos from coming in to the Inquisitors every day, to accuse
themselves of heresy, and to offer themselves to penance. These being
very gently treated, and dismissed in peace, testified everywhere to the
clemency of the Holy Office and of the Jesuits. The excitement, which
before had set in one direction, was now turned with equal impetuosity
in another; and many who had before, doubtless in perfect sincerity,
found--or fancied they found--spiritual satisfaction in the "method of
contemplation," now discovered an equal benefit in an excessive
orthodoxy. The Quietist party was utterly crushed, and put to
ignominious silence; and Molinos himself became an object of hatred and
contempt; while, all the time, with extraordinary inconsistency, it was
publicly reported that the reason of this surprising clemency was the
great support which his doctrine received from the mystical Divinity,
which had been authorized by so many canonizations, and approved by so
many Councils and Fathers of the Church. The leaders of the defeated
party lived as in a desert. Their saloons, which only a few days before
had been crowded, were now empty, and Cardinal Petrucci himself was
visited by no one; while the Jesuits were everywhere received with
enthusiasm, so true to the character that the Satirist gave a thousand
years before did the Roman populace remain--
"Sequitur fortunam, ut semper, et odit
"Damnatos."
Some slight portion of this popular applause fell to Inglesant's lot,
whichever report was believed--whether, as the agent of the Society he
had betrayed his friends, or had used his influence to procure this
unexpected policy of mercy--either supposition procured him notoriety
and even approbation. It now only remained to watch the fate of Molinos,
and the inmates of Don Agostino's palace waited in silence the policy of
their triumphant opponents. The Jesuits began by circulating reports of
his hypocrisy and lewd course of life--facts of which they said they had
convincing evidence. They said that these scandals had been proved
before the Pope, who then, and not till then, had renounced his cause.
The Romans replied to this story that they believed it, for the Pope was
a good judge of such matters, but none at all of the questions of
theology on which the quarrel had previously turned. There was not at
the time, and there never has been since, the slightest evidence offered
publicly that these stories had the least foundation; but they amply
served their turn, insomuch that when Molinos was brought out to the
Minerva on the day of his condemnation, he was saluted by the people
with cries of "Fire! Fire!" and, but that his coach was resolutely
defended by the Sbirri and guards, he would have been massacred by the
furious mob.
When the morning rose upon the day on which his condemnation was to take
place, the tribunal of the Minerva, and all the avenues and corridors
leading to it, were thronged with an excited crowd. For days before,
all the efforts both of money and favour had been exerted to procure
good places in the court itself, and those who were unable to gain these
coveted seats lined the corridors and staircases, while the populace
outside thronged the streets leading from the prison of the Inquisition.
The windows and house tops were crowded; scarcely an inhabitant of Rome
but was to be found somewhere on the line of route; the rest of the city
was a desert.
The vine-clad wastes of the Aventine, the green expanse of the Campo
Vacchino, and the leafy walls of the Colosseum and of the arches, were
lying under the morning sunlight, calm and quiet as in the midst of a
happy and peaceful world. As Inglesant came across from the lonely
convent where he still occasionally lodged, and turned out of the square
of the Ara Coeli, the silent tenantless houses and palaces looked down
with dim eyes like a city of the dead; and as he came into the Via del
Gesu the distant hum and murmur of the crowd first broke upon his ear.
Here and there a belated spectator like himself turned out of some
bye-street or doorway, and hastened towards the Piazza della Minerva.
Inglesant turned off by a side street, and, following the narrow winding
lanes with which he was well acquainted, came out into the Via di
Coronari at some midway distance between the prison of the Inquisition
and the Minerva. He was just in time. As he stationed himself against
the wall of the Church of St. Maria de Anima and the German Hospital, he
knew, by the excitement and frantic cries of the crowd, that Molinos was
not far off. He was brought along the street in a large coach with
glass windows, a Dominican friar seated at his side. On each side of
the carriage and at the horses' heads the Sbirri and Swiss guards
exerted themselves manfully to keep back the people and to clear the
way. A deafening shout and cry rose unceasingly, and every few moments
the crowd, pressing upon the carriage and the guards, caused them to
come to a dead stop. Clinging to the horses' heads, to the carriage
itself, to the halberds of the Swiss, climbing on the steps and on the
back of the coach, had the crowd desired a rescue, Inglesant thought one
bold and decided leader might have accomplished it in a few desperate
moments. But the mob desired nothing less. This man--who but a few
weeks ago had been followed by admiring crowds, who had been idolized in
courtly saloons, whose steps and walks had been watched with the tender
and holy devotion with which a people watches the man whose life it
takes to be hid in God; whom loving modest women had pointed out to
their children as the holy monk whom they must love and remember all
their lives; whom passionate women, on whose souls the light of God had
broken, had followed trembling, that they might throw themselves at his
feet, and clinging to his gown, hear the words of gospel from his lips;
to whom desperate men had listened whom no other voice had ever
moved;--this man was now the execration of the mob of Rome. Amidst the
roar and din around no word was distinguishable but that terrible one of
"Fire!" that pointed to a heretic's death at the stake; and, but for the
determined resistance of the guards, Molinos would have been dragged
from the coach and butchered in the streets.
When the carriage arrived opposite the spot upon which Inglesant had
posted himself, he could see Molinos's face as he sat in the coach. He
was carefully dressed in his priestly habit, and looked about him with a
cheerful serene countenance. "He looks well," said a man, not far from
Inglesant, who had been very bitter against the prisoner; "the secret of
his success is not far to seek, for his face possesses all the charms
that are able to captivate, especially the fair sex."
When the coach was close to Inglesant the crowd made another and most
determined attack, and the horses came to a stand. The cries of "Fire!
Fire!" rose louder and more fiercely, and the guards were for a moment
beaten from one of the doors. It seemed that nothing could prevent the
people from dragging their victim into the street; Inglesant felt his
blood turn cold, fully expecting to see the massacre performed before
his eyes; but before the people could open the door, which seemed
fastened on the inside, the guard rallied, and by the free use of their
halberds and short swords recovered the coach, and drove back the mob.
Through all this scene Molinos had preserved his perfectly unconcerned
expression, and his eyes, wandering calmly over the people, at last
rested upon the spot where Inglesant stood. Whether he recognized him or
not Inglesant did not know, for he involuntarily drew back and shrank
from his eye. He learnt afterwards that Molinos did recognize him, and
also noticed his recoil. "He fears I should compromise him with the
furious crowd," he thought; "he need not fear."
Inglesant's movement was caused, however, by a thought very different
from this one, which indeed never occurred to him. He was ashamed to
meet Molinos's eye. In the daylight and sunshine they had walked
together, but when the trial came, the one was taken, and all the rest
escaped. It was impossible but that some at least of the fortunate many
should feel some pangs of uneasiness and doubt. Inglesant especially,
the agent and confidant of the Jesuits, was open to such thoughts, and
before the single-hearted uncompromising priest and confessor could not
but feel in some sort condemned. The carriage passed on amid the
unabated fury of the people, and, turning aside down a narrow winding
lane, he entered the Dominicans' Church, to the reserved part of which
he had a ticket of admission, to be ready for the final scene.
Molinos was taken to one of the corridors of the Minerva, where he stood
for some time looking about him very calmly, and returning all the
salutes which were made him by those who had formerly been of his
acquaintance. To all inquiries he returned but one answer; that they
saw a man who was defamed, but who was penitent (infamato ma penitente).
After he had stood here some time he was conducted into a small
apartment, where a sumptuous repast was spread before him, and he was
invited to partake as of his last luxurious indulgence before being shut
up in a little cell for life. A strange banquet! and a strange taste
such delicacies must have to a man at such a time.
After dinner he was carried into the Church, as in a triumph, in an open
chair upon the shoulders of the Sbirri. The tapers upon the altar
shrines showed more clearly than did the dim and sober daylight that
penetrated beneath the darkened roofs the three mystic aisles of the
strange Church, which were filled with a brilliant company of cardinals,
nobles, innumerable ladies, gentlemen of every rank, ecclesiastics
without end. The dark marble walls, the sumptuous crowd, the rich
colours of the stained glass, gave a kind of lurid splendour to the
scene; while on every side the sculptured forms upon the monuments, with
stolid changeless features, stood out pale amidst the surrounding gloom;
and here and there, where free space was kept, the polished marble floor
reflected the sombre brilliancy of the whole.
As Molinos was brought up to his place he made a low and devout
reverence to the Cardinals, and his manner was perfectly possessed and
without a show of fear or shame. He was made to stand up before the
altar, a chain was bound round him and fastened to his wrists, and a wax
taper was placed in his hands. Then with a loud voice a friar read his
Process, so as to be heard by all in the Church: and as some of the
articles were read, there were loud cries from the reverend and polite
assembly of "Fire! Fire!"
In a few moments the sight was over, and Molinos was led back to the
street, to be placed this time in a close carriage, and taken back to
the prison, where his cell was prepared. As Inglesant stepped back into
the aisle of the Church he felt some one pull him by his Benedictine
gown, and turning round, he saw a lady in a velvet masque. She appeared
excited, and, as far as he could see, was weeping, and her voice, which
he thought he recognized, was broken and indistinct.
"Cavaliere," she said, "he will stop a moment in the vestibule before
they put him in the coach. I want him to have this--he must have it--it
will be a relief and consolation to him unspeakable. They will stop all
of us, and will let no one come to him; but they will let you. You are
a Jesuit, and their friend. For the love of Gesu, Cavaliere, do him and
me, and all of us, this favour. He will bless you and pray for you. He
will intercede for you. For the love of God, Cavaliere!"
She was pleading with such eager tearfulness and such hurried speech and
gesture, that he could not doubt her truth, yet he paused a moment.
"Surely I know your voice?" he said.
"Ah! you know me," replied the masque, "but that is of no consequence.
Another moment, and it will be too late. Cavaliere! for the love of
Gesu!"
Inglesant took the small paper packet, which seemed to contain a casket,
and went down the fast emptying Church. As he reached the entrance he
turned and looked back for the velvet masque, but she was nowhere to be
seen. His mind was full of suspicion, yet he was not unwilling to
fulfil his mission. He should, at any rate, speak to Molinos, and
perhaps grasp his hand.
In the vestibule Molinos stood alone, a circle being kept at some
distance round him by the guard. His manner was unchanged and calm.
The select crowd stood around gazing at him with eager curiosity;
outside might be heard again the shouting of the mob, and the cry of
"Fire!" Inglesant advanced towards the Captain of the Sbirri; but, to
his surprise, before he could speak, the latter made a sign, and the
guards fell back to let him pass. A murmur ran through the crowd, and
every one pressed forward with intense eagerness. Molinos looked up, and
an expression of grateful pleasure lighted up his face as he extended
his hand. Inglesant grasped it with emotion, and looking him in the
face, said,--
"Adieu, Father, you are more to be envied than we. You are clothed in
the heavenly garment and sit down at the supper of the King; we wander
in the outer darkness, with an aching conscience that cannot rest."
The expression of the other's face was compassionate and beautiful, and
he said,--
"Adieu, Cavaliere, we shall meet again one day, when the veil shall be
taken from the face of God, and we shall see Him as He is."
As Inglesant grasped his hand he slipped the casket into it, and as he
did so dropped on one knee. The hand of the monk rested on his head for
a moment, and in the next he had risen and stepped back, and the guards
closed in for the last time round Molinos, and the crowd pressed after,
following them to the coach.
When the carriage had driven off, and the crowd somewhat dispersed,
Inglesant came down the steps, and was turning to the right into the
Corso when he was surprised to see that the Captain of the Sbirri had
not followed his prisoner, but was standing on the causeway with two or
three of his men, near a plain carriage which was waiting. As Inglesant
came up he turned to him, and said politely,--
"Pardon, Signore Cavaliere, I must ask you to come with me. You have
conveyed a packet to a condemned prisoner--a grave offence--a packet
which contains poison. You will come quietly, no doubt."
"I will come quietly, certainly," said Inglesant. "Where are we going?
to the Inquisition?"
"No, no," said the other, as he followed the new prisoner into the
coach, "yours is a civil offence; we are going to the St. Angelo."
"The General must have a taste for theatricals," thought Inglesant as
the coach rolled off, "or he never could have planned such a melodrama."
On their arrival at the castle he was conducted into a good room, not in
the tower, which commanded an extensive view of St. Peter's. Great
liberty was allowed him, everything he liked to pay for was procured for
him, and at certain hours he was allowed to walk on the glacis and
fortifications.
The second day of his confinement was drawing to a close when he was
visited by the Dominican who had attended Molinos. This monk, who
seemed a superior person, had evidently been impressed by the
conversation and character of his prisoner. After the first greeting he
said,--
"That unhappy man requested me to bring you a message. It was to the
effect that he had done you wrong. He saw you among the crowd as he was
being brought to the Minerva, and noticed that you shrank back. He
accused you in his mind of fearing to be compromised; he knows now that,
on the contrary, you were watching for an opportunity to do him a
service. It was but the thought of a moment, but he could not rest
until he had acknowledged it, and begged your forgiveness. He bade me
also to tell you that 'the bruised reed is not broken, nor the smoking
flax quenched.'"
"Where did you leave him?" said Inglesant.
"At the door of his cell, which he calls his cabinet."
"'The smoking flax is not quenched,'" said Inglesant; "I hear that one
of his followers, a day or two ago, before the tribunal told the
examiners to their faces that they 'were a company of unjust, cruel, and
heretical men, and that the measure which they dealt to others was the
same that Christ Himself had received from His persecutors.'"
"It is true," said the Dominican, "and it is true also that he is
released; such, on the contrary, is the clemency of the Church."
After an imprisonment of about a fortnight, as Inglesant was one day
taking his usual walk upon the fortifications, he was informed that the
General of the Order was in his room, and desired to see him. He went
to him immediately, and was received with great appearance of
friendliness.
"You will pardon my little plot, Cavaliere," said the General,
"especially as I gave orders that you should be made very comfortable
here. I wished to see in what manner and how far you were our servant,
and I have succeeded admirably. I find, as I imagined, that you are
invaluable; but it must be on your own terms, and at your own time. You
are faithful and unflinching when you have undertaken anything, but each
mission must be entered upon or renounced at your own pleasure. I hope
you have not been nourishing bitter thoughts of me during your
incarceration here."
"Far from it," replied Inglesant; "I have nothing to complain of. I
have all I want, and the view from these windows is, as you see,
unrivalled in Rome. If it consists with your policy I should take it as
a great favour were you to inform me whether the velvet masque was a
mere tool or not. I could have sworn that her accent and manner were
those of a person speaking the truth; still, when the Captain of the
Sbirri made way for me I thought I was in the toils."
"Your penetration did not err. The lady was the Countess of ----. She
conceived the idea of communicating with Molinos herself, and confided
it to her director--not in confession, observe. He consulted me, and we
advised what took place; and what may console you still farther, we did
the lady no wrong. We have reason to know that, besides the poison,
some writing was conveyed to Molinos together with the casket, by which
he obtained information which he was very desirous of receiving. You
will forgive me now, since your 'amour propre' is not touched, and your
friend's purpose is served."