SAN STEFANO.
When the vines were stripped of their clusters, and the ploughed fields
stood bare and brown in the autumnal sun--when the fig trees lost their
leaves, and their white branches took on that peculiarly gaunt
appearance which characterises them as soon as the wintry winds begin to
blow--a solitary traveller plodded wearily across the Lombardy plains,
asking, as he went, for the road that would lead him to the village and
monastery of San Stefano.
He arrived at his destination on an evening late in November. It was
between five and six o'clock when he came to the little, white village,
nestling in a cleft of the hills, with the monastery on a slope behind
it. There was a background of mountainous country--green, and grey, and
purple--with solemn, white heights behind, stretching far into the
crystal clearness of the sky. As the traveller reached the village he
looked up to those white forms, and saw them transfigured in the evening
light. The sky behind them changed to rose colour, to purple, violet,
even to delicate pale green and golden, and, when the daylight had
faded, an afterglow tinged the snowy summit with a roseate flush more
tenderly ethereal than the tint of an oleander blossom, as transient as
a gleam of April sunshine, or the changing light upon a summer sea. Then
a dead whiteness succeeded; the day was gone, and, quick as lightning,
the stars began to quiver in the blueness of the sky.
The lights in the cottage windows gleamed not inhospitably, but the
traveller passed them by. His errand was to the monastery of San
Stefano, for there he fancied that he should find a friend. He had no
reason to feel sure about it, but he was in a mental region where reason
had little sway. He was governed by vague impulses and instincts which
he did not care to controvert. He was faint, footsore, and weary, but he
would not pause until he had reached the monastery gates.
He rang the bell with a trembling hand. Its clangour startled him, and
nearly made him fly from the place. If he had been less weak at that
moment he would have turned away; as it was, he leaned against the high,
white wall with an intolerable sense of discomfort and fatigue. When the
porter came and looked out, it took him several minutes to discern,
through the gathering darkness, the worn figure in waiting beside the
gate.
"I have come a long distance," stammered the traveller, in answer to the
porter's exclamation. "I want rest and food. I was told by one of
you--one who was called Brother Dino, I believe--that you gave
hospitality to travellers----"
"Come in, amico," said the porter, genially. "No explanations are needed
when one comes to San Stefano. So you know our Brother Dino, do you? He
is here again now, after two or three years in Paris. A fine scholar,
they say, and a credit to the monastery. Come to the guest-room and I
will tell him that you are here."
To this monologue the stranger answered not a word. The porter had
meanwhile allowed him to enter, and fastened the gate once more. He then
led the way up a garden path to a second door, swinging his lantern and
jingling his keys as he went. The traveller followed slowly; his
battered felt hat was drawn low over his forehead, his garments, torn
and travel-stained, gave the porter an impression that his pockets were
not too well filled, and that he might even be glad of a little
employment on the farm which the Brothers of San Stefano were so
successful in cultivating. His tone was nonetheless cheery and polite as
he ushered the stranger into a long panelled room, where a single
oil-lamp threw a vague, uncertain light upon the tessellated floor and
plain oak furniture.
"You would like some polenta?" he said, as the wearied man sank into one
of the wooden chairs with an air of complete exhaustion. "Or some of our
good red wine? I will see about it directly. The signor can repose here
until I return; I will fetch one of the Reverend Fathers by-and-bye, but
they are all at Benediction at this moment."
"I want to see Brother Dino," said the stranger, lifting his head. And
then the porter changed his mind about the station of the visitor.
That slightly imperious tone, the impatient glance of the dark eye, the
unmistakably foreign accent, convinced him that he had to do with one of
the tourists--English or American signori--who occasionally paid a visit
to San Stefano. The porter himself was a lay-brother, and prided himself
on his knowledge of the world. He answered courteously that Brother Dino
should be informed, and then withdrew to provide the refreshment of
which the stranger evidently stood in need.
Brother Dino was not long in coming. He entered quickly, with a look of
subdued expectation upon his face. A flash of joy and recognition leaped
into his eyes as he beheld the wayworn figure in one of the antique
carved oak chairs. His hands, which had been crossed and hidden in the
wide sleeves of the habit that he wore, went out to the stranger with a
gesture of welcome and delight.
"Mr. Luttrell!" he exclaimed. "You are here already at San Stefano! We
shall welcome you warmly, Mr. Luttrell!"
The name seemed wonderfully familiar to his tongue. Brian, who had
risen, held out his hands also, and the young monk caught them in his
own; but Brian's gesture was an involuntary one, conveying more of
apprehension than of greeting.
"Not that name," he said, breathlessly. "Call me by any other that you
please, but not that. Brian Luttrell is dead."
Brother Dino shivered slightly, as if a cold breath of air had passed
through the ill-lighted room, but he held Brian's hands with a still
warmer pressure, and looked steadily into his haggard, hollow eyes.
"What shall I call you, then, my brother?" he said, gently.
"I have thought of a name," replied Brian, in curiously uncertain,
faltering tones; "it will harm nobody to take it, because he is dead,
too. Remember, my name is Stretton--John Stretton, an Englishman--and a
beggar."
Therewith he loosed his hands from Brother Dino's clasp, uttered a short
laugh--it was a moan rather than a laugh, however--and fell like a stone
into the Italian's arms. Dino supported him for a moment, then laid him
flat upon the floor, and was about to summon help, when, turning, he
came face to face with the Prior, Padre Cristoforo.
Thirteen years had passed since Padre Cristoforo brought the friendless
boy from Turin to the monastery amongst the pleasant hills. Those
thirteen years had apparently transformed the smiling, graceful lad into
a pale, grave-faced, young monk, whose every word and action seemed to
be subordinated to the authority of the ecclesiastics with whom he
lived. Time had thrown into strong relief the keenly intellectual
contour of his head and face; it had hollowed his temples and tempered
the ardour of those young, brave eyes; but there was more beauty of
outline and sweetness of expression than had been visible even in the
charming boyish face that had won all hearts when he came to San Stefano
at ten years old.
Thirteen years had changed Father Cristoforo but little. His tonsured
head showed a fringe of greyer hairs, and his face was a little more
blanched and wrinkled than it used to be; but the bland smile, the
polished manner, the look of profound sagacity, were all the same. He
gave one glance to Dino, one glance to the prostrate form upon the
floor, and took in the situation without a moment's delay.
"Fetch Father Paolo," he said, after inspecting Brian's face and lifting
his nerveless hand; "and return with him yourself. We may want you."
Father Paolo, the monk who took charge of the infirmary, soon arrived,
and gave it as his opinion that the stranger was suffering from no
ordinary fainting-fit, but from an affection of the brain. A bed was
prepared for him in the infirmary, and a lay-brother appointed to attend
upon him. Brian Luttrell could not have fallen ill in a place where he
would receive more tender care.
It was not until the sick man was laid in his bed that Father Cristoforo
spoke again to Dino, who was standing a little behind him, holding a
lamp. The rays of light fell full upon Brian's death-like face, and on
the black and white crucifix that hung above his bed on the yellow wall.
Dino's face was in deep shadow when the Prior turned and addressed him.
"What was he saying when I came in? That his name was John--John----"
"John Stretton, an Englishman," answered Dino, in an unmoved voice. "An
Englishman and a beggar."
Padre Christoforo did an unusual thing. He took the lamp from Brother
Dino's hand and threw the light suddenly upon the young man's impassive
countenance. Dino raised his great, serious eyes to the Prior's face,
and then dropped them to the ground. Otherwise not a muscle of his face
moved. He was the living image of submission.
"Have you seen him before?" said Padre Cristoforo.
"Twice, Reverend Father. Once on the boat between Cologne and Mainz; and
once, for a moment only, in the quadrangle of the Cathedral at Mainz."
"And then did he bear his present name?"
For a moment Dino's mouth twitched uneasily. A faint colour crept into
his cheeks. "Reverend Father," he said, hesitatingly, "I did not ask his
name."
The priest raised the lamp to the level of his head, and again looked
penetratingly into his pupil's face. There was a touch of wonder, of
pity, perhaps also of some displeasure, expressed in this fixed gaze. It
lasted so long that Dino turned a little pale, although he did not
flinch beneath it. Finally, the Prior lowered the lamp, gave it back to
him, and walked away in silence, with his head lowered and his hands
behind his back. Dino followed to light him down the dark corridors, and
at the door of the Prior's cell, fell on his knees, as the custom was in
the monastery, to receive the Prior's blessing. But, either from
forgetfulness or some other reason which passed unexplained, Padre
Cristoforo entered and closed the door behind him, without noticing the
young man's kneeling figure. It was the first time such an omission had
occurred since Dino came to San Stefano. Was it merely an omission and
not a punishment? Dino had, for the first time in his life, evaded a
plain answer to a question, and concealed from Padre Cristoforo
something which Padre Cristoforo would certainly have thought that he
ought to know. Had Padre Cristoforo divined the truth?
According to the notions current amongst Italians, and particularly
amongst many members of their church, Dino felt himself justified in
equivocating in a case where absolute truth would not have served his
purpose. His conscience did not reproach him for want of truthfulness,
but it did for want of confidence in Padre Cristoforo. For he loved
Padre Cristoforo; and Padre Cristoforo loved him.
Brian Luttrell's illness was a long and severe one. He lay insensible
for some time, and awoke to wild delirium, which lasted for many days.
The Brothers of San Stefano nursed him with the greatest care, and it
was observable that the Prior himself spent a good deal of time in the
patient's room, and showed unusual interest in his progress towards
recovery. The Prior understood English; but if he had hoped to gather
any information concerning Brian's history from the ravings of his
delirium he was mistaken. Brian's mind ran upon the incidents of his
childhood, upon the tour that he had made with his father when he was a
boy, upon his school-days; not upon the sad and tragic events with which
he had been connected. He scarcely ever mentioned the names of his
mother or brother. Like Falstaff, when he lay a-dying, be "babbled of
green fields," and nothing more.
At one time he grew better: then he had a relapse, and was very near
death indeed; but at last the power of youth re-asserted itself, and he
came slowly back to life once more. But it was as a man who had been in
another world; who had faced the bitterness of death and the darkness of
the grave.
He was as much startled when he looked at himself for the first time in
a looking-glass as a girl who has lost her beauty after a virulent
attack of small-pox. Not that he had ever had much beauty to boast of;
but the look of youth and hope which had once brightened his eyes was
gone; his cheeks were sunken, his temples hollow, his features drawn and
pinched with bodily pain and weakness. And--greatest change perhaps of
all--his hair had turned from brown to grey; an alteration so striking
and visible that, as he put down the little mirror which had been
brought to him, he murmured to himself, with a bitter smile--"My own
mother would not know me now." And then he turned his face away from the
light, and lay silent and motionless for so long a space of time that
the lay-brother who waited on him thought that he was sleeping.
When he rose from his bed and was able to sit in the sunny garden or the
cloisters, spring had come in all its tender glow of beauty, and sent a
thrill of fresh life through the sick man's veins.
Nature had always been dear to Brian. He loved the sights and sounds of
country life. The hills, the waving trees, tranquil skies and running
water calmed and refreshed his jaded brain and harrassed nerves. The
broad fields, crimsoning with anemones, purpling with hyacinth and
auricula; the fresh green of the fig trees, the lovely tendrils of the
newly shooting vines even the sight of the oxen with their patient eyes,
and the homely, feathered creatures of the farmyard, clucking and
strutting at the sandalled feet of the black-robed, silent, lay-brothers
who brought them food--all these things acted like an anodyne upon
Brian's stricken heart. There was a life beside that of feeling; a life
of passive, peaceful repose; the life of "stocks and stones," and happy,
unresponsive things, amidst which he could learn to bear his burden
patiently.
He saw little of Dino during his illness; but, as soon as he was able to
go into the garden, Dino was permitted to accompany him. It was plain
from his manner that no unwillingness on his own part kept him away. The
English stranger had evidently a great attraction for him; he waited
upon his movements and followed him, silently and affectionately, like a
dog whose whole heart has been given to its master. Brian felt the charm
of this devotion, but was too weak to speculate concerning its cause. He
was conscious of the same kind of attraction towards Dino; he knew not
why, but he found it pleasant to have Dino at his side, to lean on his
arm as they went down the garden path together, to listen to the young
Italian's musical accents as he read aloud at the evening hour. But what
was the secret of that indefinable mutual attraction, that almost
magnetic power, which one seemed to possess over the other, Brian
Luttrell could not tell. Perhaps Dino knew.
This friendship did not pass unobserved. It was quietly, gently,
fostered by the Prior, whose keen eyes were everywhere, and seemed to
see everything at once. He it was who dispensed Dino from his usual
duties that he might attend upon the English guest, who smiled benignly
when he met them together in the cloister, who dropped a word or two
expressive of his pleasure that Dino should have an opportunity of
practising his knowledge of the English tongue. Dino could speak English
with tolerable fluency, although with a strong foreign accent.
But the quiet state of affairs did not last very long. As Brian's
strength returned he grew restless and uneasy; and at length one day he
sent a formal request to the Prior that he might speak to him alone.
Padre Cristoforo replied by coming at once to the guest-chamber, which
Brian occupied in the daytime, and by asking in his usual mild and
kindly way what he could do for him.
The guest-room was a bare enough place, but the window commanded a fine
view of the wide plain on which the monastery looked down. The blinds
were open, for the morning was deliciously cool, and the shadows of the
leaves that clustered round the lattice played in the glow of sunshine
on the floor. Brian was standing as the Prior entered the room; his
wasted figure, worn face, and grey hairs made him a striking sight in
that abode of peace and solitary quietness. It was as though some
unquiet visitant from another world had strayed into an Italian Arcadia.
But, as a matter of fact, Brian was probably less worldly in thought and
aspiration at that moment than the serene-browed priest who stood before
him and looked him in the face with such benignant friendly, interest.
"You wished to see me, my son?" he began, gently.
"I am ashamed to trouble you," said Brian. "But I felt that I ought to
speak to you as soon as possible. I am growing strong enough to continue
my journey--and I must not trespass on your hospitality any longer."
"Your strength is not very great as yet," said the Prior, courteously.
"Pray take a seat, Mr. Stretton. We are only too pleased to keep you
with us as long as you will do us the honour to remain, and I think it
is decidedly against your own interests to travel at present."
Brian stammered out an acknowledgment of the Prior's kindness. He was
evidently embarrassed, even painfully so; and Padre Cristoforo found
himself watching the young man with some surprise and curiosity. What
was it that troubled this young Englishman?
Brian at last uttered the words that he had wished to say.
"If I remained here," he said, colouring vividly with a sensitiveness
springing from the reduced physical condition to which he had been
brought by his long illness; "if I remained here I should ask you
whether I could do any work for you--whether I could teach any of your
pupils English or music. I am a poor man; I have no prospects. I would
as soon live in Italy as in England--at any rate for a time."
The Prior looked at him steadily; his deeply-veined hand grasped the arm
of his wooden chair, a slight flush rose to his forehead. It was in a
perfectly calm and unconstrained voice, however, that he made answer.
"It is quite possible that we might find work of the kind you mention,
signor--if you require it."
There was a subdued accent of inquiry in the last four words. Brian
laughed a little, and put his hand in his pocket, whence he drew out
four gold pieces and a few little Swiss and Italian coins.
"You see these, Father?" he said, holding them out in the palm of his
hand. "They constitute my fortune, and they are due to the institution
that has sheltered me so kindly and nursed me back to life and health. I
have vowed these coins to your alms-box; when they are given, I shall
make a fresh start in the world--as the architect of my own fortunes."
"You will then be penniless!" said the priest, in rather a curious tone.
"Entirely so."
There was a short silence. Brian's fingers played idly with the coins,
but he was not thinking about them; his dreamy eyes revealed that his
thoughts were very far away. Padre Cristoforo was biting his forefinger
and knitting his brows--two signs of unusual perturbation of mind with
him. Presently, however, his brow cleared; he smoothed his gown over his
knees two or three times, coughed once or twice, and then addressed
himself to Brian with all his accustomed urbanity.
"Our Order is a rich one," he said, with a smile, "and one that can well
afford to entertain strangers. I will not tell you to make no gifts, for
we know that it is very blessed to give--more blessed than to receive. I
think it quite possible that we can give you such work as you desire.
But before I do so, I think I am justified in asking you with what
object you take it?"
"With what object? A very simple one--to earn my daily bread."
"And why," said the priest leaning forward and speaking in a lower
voice--"why should your father's son need to earn his daily bread in a
little Italian village?"
Again Brian's face changed colour.
"My father's son?" he repeated, vaguely. The coins fell to the ground;
he sat up and looked at the Prior suspiciously. "What do you know about
my father?" he said. "What do you know about me?"
The Prior pushed back his chair. A little smile played upon his shrewd,
yet kindly face. The Englishman was easier to manage than he had
expected to find him, and Father Cristoforo was unquestionably relieved
in his mind.
"I do not know much about you," he said, "but I have reason to believe
that your name is not Stretton--that you were recently travelling under
the name of Brian Luttrell, and that you have a special interest in the
village of San Stefano. Is that not true, my friend?"
"Yes," said Brian slowly. "It is true."