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 wine-shop, 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.