A DAY OF ENCOUNTERS.
"Can a prophet come out of Galilee?"--The unexpected happens--under
the probe--Wise reservation--Born to command--Contrasts--Nothing
new under the sun--The senora prepares for the fair--Grievance not
very deep seated--Bewitching appearance--Senora
dramatic--Ernesto--Marriage a lottery--Every cloud its silver
lining--Gerona _en fete_--Delormais' mission--Deceptive
appearances--Evils of conscription--Ernesto's ambition--Les beaux
jours de la vie--Rosalie--A fair picture--Strange
similarity--Heavenwards--Anastasia or Rosalie--Her dreams and
visions--Modern Paul and Virginia--Eternal possession--A Gerona
saint--The better part--More heresy--Fenelon--One creed, one
worship--Not peace but a sword--Not dead to the world--Angel of
mercy--H. C. mistaken--Earthly idyll.
That same afternoon the people had recovered from their glamour. The
fair was in full swing, Gerona festive. It was a general holiday and
work was suspended. The shops were open, but no one attempted to make
purchases. Even our industrious little lady with the idle husband gave
up hoping for customers and turned to pleasure. And she took her
pleasure as she did her work, with a great amount of earnestness.
Luncheon had long been over. Black coffee and headache were of the past.
The Silent Enigma had gone their way. Mutely they had risen, taken their
hats, and marched out in a procession of three. Delormais had duly
administered his homily; and after so strangely opening his heart had
gone into the town to prosecute his mission. Whether an inspection of
the numerous convents, a private embassy from the Pope, or some other
weighty matter only to be entrusted to a man of tact and judgment, he
did not say.
Before separating we had asked him if his object in visiting Gerona were
ecclesiastical or domestic, concerned himself or his office.
"Your question is very natural, but on that point I must be silent," he
returned. "My mission--I may tell you so much--is delicate and
momentous. It is secret, but the secret is not mine, and can no more be
disclosed than a secret of the confessional. Just now when I promised to
relate to you a part of my life I was offering you of my own. No one has
a right to stay me. My experiences injure none. I might publish them
to-morrow and disturb no one's slumbers. But at the present moment I may
call myself an ambassador--though not in bondage like St. Paul--and
every act I do and every word I utter need be consecrated by prayer and
reflection."
"Who would have supposed anything so weighty within this little town?"
we remarked. "Before arriving we looked upon it as a deserted village,
the ends of the earth. From the train Gerona appears in the last stage
of misery and destitution."
"Can a prophet come out of Galilee?" quoth the priest. "The unexpected
happens. I have long learned not to judge beforehand; above all not to
be prejudiced by appearances. Rags may conceal the noblest heart, and a
silken doublet cover the bosom of a Judas. Confess," laughing, "that
when I took my seat next to you just now you voted me intrusive; said to
yourself: 'Why does this old man usurp my elbow room, with ten vacant
chairs lower down? He is troublesome. I will chill him with a proud
disdain.' And now all is changed and you ask me to sit next you at
dinner. Is it not so?"
So near the truth, indeed, that one felt as though under the searching
X-rays. "Suffering is misanthropical," we replied. "Not physical but
heart pain brings out the sympathies. So it is dangerous to ask a favour
of a man tortured by gout--or headache."
"All which really means that I knew you better than you know yourself,"
returned Pere Delormais, in his rich, round tones. "That is only a
general experience. And now I go my way. If all be well, we meet again
at dinner. Ah! I never speak without that reservation. How many times
have I seen the evening appointment cancelled by death at noon."
[Illustration: STREET IN GERONA.]
He left the room; a tall, stately figure with hair white as snow; a man
full of life and energy, evidently born to command and fill the high
places of earth: a power for good or evil as he should be well or
ill-directed. A very different nature from Anselmo, whom we had left at
mid-day. The one ruling the destinies of men; the other content to
follow in the Divine footsteps of humility and love; satisfied with a
limited horizon; doing good by precept and example but asking no wider
sphere than his little world. Yet in his way capable of influencing
human hearts; of stirring up enthusiasm in a great crusade if only the
torch of ambition inflamed his zeal. Very different the method and
influence of the two men, though each had the same end in view. But in
the many phases of human nature some must be led, others driven. One
will hear the still, small voice, another needs the burning bush; James
was the Son of Thunder, Barnabas of Consolation. As in the days of old,
so now.
We too went our way down the broad marble staircase of the ancient
palace, but with no secret or delicate mission to perform like
Delormais. We had followed rather closely, but up and down the street
not a vestige of him remained. Whether he had gone right or left we knew
not. The place was deserted. Looking upwards nothing was visible but
outlines of the rare old houses. Here and there a gabled roof and dormer
window; many a wrought-iron balcony; many a Gothic casement rich in
tracery and decoration; many a lower window protected by a strong iron
grille, despair of serenaders, consolation of parents, paradise of
artists.
It was now that we saw our industrious and amiable senora preparing for
the fair. Again the mantilla was being gracefully arranged. The
lady--very properly--had evidently no idea of neglecting the good looks
nature had bestowed upon her.
"Ah, senor," as we stopped with a polite greeting, "for a whole week
this fair is the upsetting and devastation of the town. It comes with
all its shows and shoutings; distracts our attention; we may as well
close the shutters for all the business that is done; finally it walks
off with all our spare money. And who is a bit the better for it?"
But madame's grievance was evidently not very deep-seated, for she
laughed as she adjusted the folds of her mantilla more becomingly, and
looking across at a mirror could only confess herself satisfied with her
bewitching appearance.
Near her stood a good-looking boy of some fourteen years, who evidently
just then thought the attractions of the fair far more important than
his mother's adorning. He was impatient to be gone.
"Calm yourself, my treasure," she remonstrated. "The day is yet young.
Chestnuts will not all be roasted, nor brazen trumpets all sold. These
are eternal and inexhaustible, like the snows of the Sierra. Oh! youth,
youth, with all its capacities!" she dramatically added. "Ah, senor,
you will think me very old, when you see me the mother of this great
boy!"
We gallantly protested she was under a delusion: he must be her brother.
"My son, senor, my son. I married at sixteen, when I was almost such a
child as he, and I really do feel more like his sister than his mother.
_Ahime!_ If I had only waited a few years longer I might have chosen
more wisely; perhaps have found a husband to keep me instead of my
keeping him. Marriage is a lottery."
We suggested that every cloud has its silver lining.
"True, senor. And after all if I did not draw the highest number,
neither did I fall upon the lowest. This dear youth too is a
consolation. He is fond of swords and trumpets, but never shall be a
soldier. I have long had the money put by for a substitute in case he
should be unlucky. For that matter, Heaven has prospered my industry and
in a humble way we are at ease."
This recalled the scene witnessed in the earlier hours of the morning
and the appointment half made with the colonel for the morrow.
"Evidently you do not approve of conscription, madame, which to-day
seems to be running hand-in-hand with the revels of the fair."
"I see that conscription is a necessary evil," returned madame, "for
without it we should not get soldiers; but you will never persuade me
any good can come of it. That my son here, who has been carefully
brought up, should suddenly be thrown under the influence of the worst
and vilest of mankind--no, it is impossible to avoid disaster. So,
Ernesto, never fix your affections on a military life, for it can never
be, never shall be. I would sooner make you a priest, though I haven't
the least ambition that way either."
To do the boy justice, he seemed quite ready to yield, laughed at the
idea of priesthood, and if fond of swords and trumpets, his military
ardour went no further. If one might judge, a civil life would be his
choice, and possibly a successful one, for he seemed to inherit his
mother's energy with her dark eyes and brilliant colouring. But for the
moment the fair and the fair only was the object of his desires. This
was in accordance with the fitness of things. He was at the age which
comes once only, with swift wings, when life has no alloy and happiness
lies in gratifying the moods and fancies of the moment.
"Now I am ready," said the mother, evidently very happy herself. "Ah,
senor, you are too good," as we slipped a substantial coin into the
boy's hand and bade him buy his mother a fairing and himself chestnuts
and ambitions. "But after all, the pleasure of conferring happiness is
the most exquisite in the world. There is nothing like it. So perhaps I
should envy, not chide you."
They went off together, the boy taking his mother's arm with that
confidential affection and good understanding so often seen abroad. To
him the world was still a paradise, and his mother at the head of all
good angels. _Les beaux jours de la vie_--short-lived, but eternally
remembered. So, parents, indulge your children but do not spoil them.
The one is quite possible without the other.
It was to be a day of encounters. We followed our happy pair down the
deserted street, admiring the graceful walk of the mother, the boy's
tall, straight, well-knit form and light footstep. As they disappeared
round the corner leading to the noisy scene of action, a quiet figure
issued from beneath the wonderful arcades and approached in our
direction. She was dressed as a Sister of Mercy and seemed to glide
along with noiseless movements.
"Rosalie," we breathed, turning to H. C. for confirmation.
"Without doubt," he replied. "There could not be two Rosalies in one
town."
"Or in one world."
On the impulse of the moment we went up and, bareheaded, spoke to her;
felt we knew her--had known her long. Anselmo's vivid confession had
taken the place of time and custom.
Yes, it was Rosalie. A more beautiful face was seldom seen, never a more
holy; all the refinement and repose of Anselmo's added to an infinite
feminine grace and softness. They were even strangely alike, as though
the same impulse in their lives, a constant dwelling upon each other,
their fervent, though purified, affection had created a similarity of
feature and expression. Hers was the face of one whose life is turned
steadily heavenwards, to whom occasionally, whether waking or sleeping,
a momentary glimpse of unseen glories is vouchsafed, one whose daily
work on earth is that of a ministering spirit. As far as it is possible
or permitted here, Rosalie bore the evidence of a perfect and unalloyed
life that had never looked back or attempted to serve two masters.
Perhaps she might have become a mystic, but the serious and practical
nature of her work kept her mind in a healthy groove, free from
introspection. She was walking her lonely pilgrimage along the narrow
road of her dream with firm, unflinching steps. The end, far off though
it might yet be for Anselmo and for her, could not be doubted.
"_Ma soeur_, you are Anastasia, devoted to good works; and once were
Rosalie devoted to Anselmo," we said, without waiting to choose our
words. "There could not be another Rosalie in Gerona, as there could not
be another Anastasia."
"Nay," she returned, "I am Rosalie still, and still devoted to Anselmo.
There is no past tense for our affection, senor, which sweetens my days
and makes me brave in life's battles."
She seemed neither surprised nor startled by our sudden address. Calm
self-possession never for a moment forsook her, though in our rashness
we might have been probing a half-healed wound or rousing long dormant
emotions.
But it was far otherwise. Naturally as Anselmo had told us his story she
replied to our greeting. They were a wonderful pair, these two. United,
their careers would have been very different, but never otherwise than
pure and holy. As we spoke to her a slight colour mounted to her pale,
lovely face, a light came into her eyes, a sweet smile parted the lips.
She looked almost childlike in her innocence, utter absence of
self-consciousness.
"Yes, I was Rosalie," she repeated; "and I am Rosalie still, though my
life compels me to adopt a new name. But I ever think of myself as
Rosalie, and in my dreams am Rosalie of the days gone by. Sometimes my
mother visits me in those dreams and calls me Rosalie. If we retain our
names in the next world I shall be Rosalie once more. Senor, you have
been with Anselmo and he has told you our story--or how could you know?"
"It is true. We have been with Anselmo, were with him this morning and
parted at mid-day. As the clock struck twelve we stood on the ruined
citadel and saw you cross the square of San Pedro."
"Ah, senor, I saw you also, for I recognised Anselmo. He is never within
many yards of me but seen or unseen I know it. Some spiritual instinct
never fails to tell me he is near."
"You are both remarkable. Your love and constancy ought to be placed
side by side with the histories of Paul and Virginia, Abelard and
Heloise. Yet you are distinct and different from these, as you are above
them."
"Senor, if we only knew, there are thousands of histories in the world
similar to our own, but they are never heard of. Shakespeare records a
Juliet, Chateaubriand an Atala, and they become immortal; but what of
the numberless heroines who have had no writer to send them down to
posterity? Depend upon it they are as the sand of the sea. And is it so
much to give up for Heaven? We possess each other still, Anselmo and I;
and the possession is for ever. You think it strange to hear a Sister of
Mercy talking of love in this calm and passionless way," she smiled.
"You imagine me cold and severe. You do not believe that I have feelings
deep as the sea, wide as eternity. It is true that my love for Anselmo
is only the love we should all bear towards each other; but for him it
is supreme and exalted above all words. In my dreams he comes to me as
an angel of light bidding me be of good courage; in my waking hours he
is my best and truest friend, my hero and my king. Is not this better
than all the passionate vows which rarely survive one's early youth, and
too often die under the strain of life's daily work? For me, Anselmo is
still surrounded by all the romance of our first youth. He is a sort of
earthly shekinah, a pillar of fire guiding me onwards."
"And you never regret the choice you have made? the companionship you
have given up? the right of calling Anselmo husband? the sacrifice of
motherhood, which is said to be sweetest of all earthly ties to woman?"
[Illustration: CATHEDRAL CLOISTERS: GERONA.]
"Regret?" she softly murmured. "A hundred times since it happened
conviction has been vouchsafed to me in my dreams, strengthening my
faith, showing the wisdom of my choice. Every day of my life I thank
Heaven for the power it gave me. Had I married Anselmo, he would have
become my religion; my heart's best affection given to him, Heaven would
have come second. I know and feel it. And we know Who has said: 'He that
loveth father and mother more than Me, is not worthy of Me.' Yet that
would have been my case in the earlier years; and in the later--who can
tell?--perhaps what I have described."
"Impossible, for Anselmo is worthy of all love, and could never change.
One rarely meets any one like him. He seems little less than saint."
"He is very saintly," replied Rosalie, with almost a look of ecstasy. "I
frequently meet the priesthood in the sick-room, at the bedside of the
dying. The difference in the ministrations is wonderful. The very
entrance of Anselmo brings consolation, seems to sanctify the chamber.
Sometimes it is almost as though an angel spoke."
If she at all exaggerated, who could wonder? She saw and heard and
judged everything through her own nature; and to the sick and sorrowing
no doubt came herself as a rainbow of hope.
"You have done wisely and chosen the better part," we said. "Your life
in consequence is peaceful and happy."
"It could not be more so," answered Rosalie. "I have my earthly shekinah
to lighten my path. My heart is so much in my work that if I lived for a
century I should never weary of it. What higher mission or greater
privilege could there be? I am constantly at the bedside of the sick,
assisting the last moments of the dying, helping to restore others to
health. The love they give me is unbounded. My existence is made up of
love. I feel I have many in the other world who pray for me, perhaps
watch over my daily life."
"But are they not in purgatory?" For of course Rosalie was a Roman
Catholic.
"I do not believe in purgatory," she murmured in subdued tones. "I have
seen many die who cannot possibly be going to torment. If there be a
transition state, it is one of bliss and holiness, where the soul, in
gratitude to God for His mercies, grows and expands until it becomes fit
for the heaven of heavens."
"But this is perplexing. Here are two devout Romanists who reject the
very first conditions of their faith. Anselmo believes not in
confession, you reject purgatory. Of course we agree with you, but then
we are Protestants."
"Hush!" murmured Rosalie. "The very walls of Gerona have ears. We can
only act up to our convictions, and where they disagree with the Church
keep differences to ourselves. What Anselmo believes, I believe. It is
wonderful how we think alike in all great matters. This morning I had
the privilege of a long conversation with Pere Delormais, who is staying
for a week here. There, indeed, is a broad-minded Churchman who ought to
be Pope of Rome. He would favour Protestants as much as Roman
Catholics--and scandalise the narrow-minded community. In that he
reminds me of the Abbe Fenelon, who is so earnest and devout. Do you
know his 'Spiritual Letters,' senor?"
"It is one of our favourite books, Rosalie. Those who read and follow
Fenelon will hardly go wrong. We have always felt he was a Protestant at
heart."
"A follower of Christ at heart," returned Rosalie, "without distinction
of forms and ceremonies. To him if the heart was right, the rest
mattered little. He cared not whether a soul worshipped within or
without the Church of Rome. Would that all errors could be swept away
and we were all Protestants and Catholics, united in one creed and
ritual, even as we worship the one true God and believe in the
all-sufficient Saviour."
"That day is far distant. We must wait the millennium, Rosalie. Until
then it is not to be peace but a sword. The bitterest persecutors are
those who fight for what they call Religion."
"'A man's foes shall be they of his own household,'" quoted Rosalie.
"That applies equally to the 'Household of Faith.' There is the
prophecy. I suppose we must not look for a Church Triumphant until the
Church Militant has ceased. But I must go my way. Senor, I rejoice that
you spoke to me. I am glad to know you. Whether the acquaintance be of
hours or years, you are evidently Anselmo's friends, therefore mine. Do
not think my heart closed to all human interests because I wear a
religious garb and go through life as Sister Anastasia, ministering to
the sick and dying. On the contrary, I take pleasure in all the worldly
concerns of my friends. I like to hear of their being married and given
in marriage. Nothing delights me more than the sight of a happy home and
devoted family. And I like to hear of all the changes, improvements,
inventions that are turning the world upside down and revolutionising
the lives of men. If you are staying in Gerona we shall meet again. I am
constantly flitting to and fro. My life is a great privilege, as I have
said. You will keep a corner in your heart for me and for Anselmo; one
niche for both. Adieu, senor. Adieu."
She glided away rapidly with her quiet graceful motion; an angel of
mercy, we thought, if earth ever held one.
"Never, never should I have had strength to give her up," said H. C.,
following her with all his susceptible nature in his eyes. "This morning
I admired Anselmo, now I feel quite angry with him."
"You do wrong and are mistaken. It was her choosing, not his. He behaved
nobly. They have found their vocation. Both are happy, and we cannot
doubt it is Heaven's ordering. There is no shadow in their lives;
remember how rare that is. You know Mrs. Plarr's lines:
'There are twin Genii both strong and mighty,
Under their guidance mankind retain,
Never divided where one can enter,
Ever the other doth entrance gain;
And the name of the lovely one is Pleasure,
And the name of the loathly one is Pain.'
For them the genii have separated. Their life has no pain. Think of
Rosalie's vision. Had they married it might have been all sorrow and
suffering. No, best as it is. Their story is an idyll too perfect for
this world. They have had their romance, and have kept it."