THE VATICAN SWINDLE
_ALSO BY ANDRÉ GIDE_
STRAIT IS THE GATE
“Deservedly the book which made André Gide famous. It is one of the
great classics of French fiction since the death of Flaubert.”--Ernest
Boyd in _The New Republic_.
THE VATICAN SWINDLE
(_Les Caves Du Vatican_)
_Translated from the French of_
ANDRÉ GIDE
_by Dorothy Bussy_
[Illustration: colophon]
_New York_ ALFRED·A·KNOPF _Mcmxxv_
COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
BOOK I ANTHIME ARMAND-DUBOIS 9
BOOK II JULIUS DE BARAGLIOUL 46
BOOK III AMÉDÉE FLEURISSOIRE 100
BOOK IV THE MILLIPEDE 139
BOOK V LAFCADIO 204
THE VATICAN SWINDLE
BOOK I: ANTHIME ARMAND-DUBOIS
“_Pour ma part, mon choix est fait. J’ai opté pour l’athéisme
social. Cet athéisme, je l’ai exprimé depuis une quinzaine
d’années, dans une série d’ouvrages_....”
--GEORGES PALANTE.
_Chronique philosophique du Mercure de France_ (December, 1912).
I
In 1890, during the pontificate of Leo XIII, Anthime Armand-Dubois,
unbeliever and freemason, visited Rome in order to consult Dr. X, the
celebrated specialist for rheumatic complaints.
“What!” cried Julius de Baraglioul, his brother-in-law. “Is it your body
you are going to treat in Rome? Pray Heaven you may realise when you get
there that your soul is in far worse case.”
To which Armand-Dubois replied in a tone of excessive commiseration:
“My poor dear fellow, just look at my shoulders.”
Baraglioul was obliging; he raised his eyes and glanced, in spite of
himself, at his brother-in-law’s shoulders; they were quivering
spasmodically as though laughter, deep-seated and irrepressible, were
heaving them; and the sight of this huge half-crippled frame spending
the last remnants of its physical strength in so absurd a parody, was
pitiable enough. Well, well! They had taken up their positions once and
for all. Baraglioul’s eloquence wouldn’t change matters. Time perhaps?
Or the secret influence of holy surroundings?... Julius merely said in
an infinitely discouraged manner:
“Anthime, you grieve me.” (The shoulders stopped quivering at once, for
Anthime was fond of his brother-in-law.) “When I go to see you in Rome
three years hence, at the time of the Jubilee, I trust I may find you
amended!”
Veronica, at any rate, accompanied her husband in a very different frame
of mind. She was as pious as her sister Marguerite and as Julius
himself, and this long stay in Rome was the fulfilment of one of her
dearest wishes. She was a disappointed, barren woman who filled her
monotonous life with trivial, religious observances and, for lack of a
child, devoted herself to nursing her spiritual aspirations. She no
longer had much hope left, alas! of bringing her Anthime back to the
fold. Many years had taught her the obstinacy of which that broad brow
was capable, and the power of denial with which it was stamped. Father
Flons had warned her:
“Madam,” said he, “the most unyielding wills are the worst. You need
hope for nothing but a miracle.”
She had even ceased to mind much. They had no sooner settled in Rome
than they arranged their private lives independently of each other--he
on his side, she on hers; Veronica in the care of the household and in
the pursuit of her devotions, Anthime in his scientific researches. In
this way they lived beside each other, close to each other and just able
to bear the contact by turning their backs to one another. Thanks to
this there reigned a kind of harmony between them; a sort of
semi-felicity settled down upon them; the virtue of each found its
modest exercise in putting up with the faults of the other.
Their apartment, which they found by the help of an agency, combined,
like most Italian houses, unlooked-for advantages with extraordinary
inconveniences. It occupied the whole first floor of the Palazzo
Forgetti, Via in Lucina, and had the benefit of a fair-sized terrace,
where Veronica immediately set to work growing aspidistras--so difficult
to grow in Paris apartments. But in order to reach this terrace one had
to go through the orangery, which Anthime had immediately seized on for
a laboratory, and through which it was agreed she should be allowed to
pass at certain stated hours of the day.
Veronica would push open the door noiselessly and then, with her eyes on
the ground, would slip furtively by, much as a convert might pass a wall
covered with obscene graffiti; at the other end of the room, Anthime,
stooping over some villainous operation or other, with his enormous back
bulging out of the arm-chair on to which he had hooked his crutch, was a
sight she scorned to behold! Anthime, on his side, pretended not to hear
her. But as soon as she had passed out again, he would rise heavily from
his chair, drag himself to the door, and, with tightened lips and an
imperious thrust of his forefinger, would viciously snap to the latch.
This was the time when Beppo, the procurer, would come in at the other
door to take his orders.
* * * * *
He was a little ragamuffin of twelve or thirteen years old, without
either family or home. It was in front of the hotel in the Via Bocca di
Leone, where the couple had stayed for a few days while they were
looking for rooms, that Anthime had noticed him, soon after their
arrival in Rome. Here Beppo used to attract the attention of passers-by
with a grasshopper which lay cowering under a few blades of grass in a
little cage made out of twisted rushes. Anthime paid six soldi for the
insect and then in his broken Italian gave the boy to understand, as
best he could, that he wanted some rats to be taken to the apartment in
Via in Lucina, into which he was going to move the next day. Anything
that crept or swam or crawled or flew served to experiment on. He was a
worker in live flesh.
Beppo was a procurer born; he would have brought to market the eagle or
the she-wolf from the Capitol. The profession pleased him--indulged him
in his taste for thieving. He was given ten soldi a day; he helped
besides in the house. Veronica at first looked on him with no favourable
eye; but the moment she saw him crossing himself as he passed the image
of the Madonna at the north corner of the house, she forgave him his
rags and allowed him to carry water, coal and fire-wood into the
kitchen; he used even to carry the basket for Veronica when she went to
market--on Tuesdays and Fridays, the days when Caroline, the maid they
had brought with them from Paris, was too busy at home.
Beppo disliked Veronica; but he took a fancy to the learned Anthime, who
soon, instead of going laboriously down to the court-yard to take over
his victims, allowed the boy to come up to his laboratory. There was an
entrance to it direct from the terrace, which was connected with the
court-yard by a back staircase. Anthime’s heart beat quicker when he
heard the light patter of the little bare feet on the tiles. But he
would show no sign of it; nothing disturbed him in his work.
The boy used not to knock at the glass door: he scratched; and as
Anthime remained bending over his table without answering, he would step
forward three or four paces and in his fresh voice fling out a
“_Permesso?_” which filled the room with azure. From his voice one would
have taken him for an angel; in reality he was an under-executioner.
What new victim was he bringing in the bag which he dropped on to the
torture table? Anthime was often too much absorbed to open the bag at
once; he threw a hasty glance at it; if he saw it stirring, he was
satisfied: rats, mice, sparrows, frogs--all were welcome to this Moloch.
Sometimes Beppo brought him nothing; but he came in all the same. He
knew that Armand-Dubois was expecting him even empty-handed; and while
the boy, standing silent beside the man of science, leaned forward to
watch some abominable experiment, I wish I could certify that the man of
science experienced no thrill of pleasure--no false god’s vanity--at
feeling the child’s astonished look fall, in turn, with terror upon the
animal, and with admiration upon himself.
Anthime’s modest pretension, before going on to deal with human beings,
was merely to reduce all the animal activities he had under observation,
to what he termed “tropisms.” Tropisms! The word was no sooner invented
than nothing else was to be heard of; an entire category of
psychologists would admit nothing in the world but tropisms. Tropisms! A
sudden flood of light emanated from these syllables! Organic matter was
obviously governed by the same involuntary impulses as those which turn
the flower of the heliotrope to face the sun (a fact which is easily to
be explained by a few simple laws of physics and thermochemistry). The
order of the universe could at last be hailed as reassuringly benign. In
all the motions of life, however surprising, a perfect obedience to the
agent could be universally recognised.
With the purpose of wringing from the helpless animal the acknowledgment
of its own simplicity, Anthime Armand-Dubois had just invented a
complicated system of boxes--boxes with passages, boxes with trap-doors,
boxes with labyrinths, boxes with compartments (some with food in them,
some with nothing, some sprinkled with a sternutatory powder), boxes
with doors of different shapes and colours--diabolical instruments,
which a little later became the rage in Germany under the name of
_Vexierkasten_, and were of the greatest use in helping the new school
of psycho-physiologists to take another step forward in the path of
unbelief. And in order to act severally on one or other of the animal’s
senses, on one or other portion of its brain, he blinded some, deafened
others, emasculated, skinned or brained them, depriving them of one
organ after another, which you would have sworn indispensable, but which
the animal, for Anthime’s better instruction, did without.
His paper on “Conditional Reflexes” had just revolutionised the
University of Upsal; it had given rise to an acrimonious controversy, in
which many of the most distinguished men of science had taken part. In
the meantime fresh problems were crowding into Anthime’s mind; leaving
his colleagues to indulge in empty verbiage, he pressed forward his
investigations in other directions, for he was bold enough to aim at
storming God in His most secret strongholds.
He was not content with admitting in a general way that all activity
entails expenditure, and that an animal expends simply by the exercise
of its muscles or senses. After each expenditure, he asked himself: “How
much?.” And if the extenuated sufferer attempted to recuperate, Anthime,
instead of feeding him, weighed him. To have added any further elements
to the following experiment would have led to excessive complications:
six rats which had been bound and kept without food, were placed on the
scales every day; two of them were blind, two were one-eyed, and two
could see, but the eyesight of the two latter was continually being
strained by the turning of a little mechanical mill. After five days’
fast, what did their respective loss of weight amount to? Every day at
noon, Armand-Dubois filled in his specially prepared tables with a fresh
row of triumphant figures.
II
The Jubilee was at hand. The Armand-Dubois were expecting the
Baragliouls from day to day. The morning that the telegram came
announcing their arrival for the same evening, Anthime went out to buy
himself a neck-tie.
Anthime went out very little--as seldom as possible, because of his
difficulty in getting about; Veronica used often to do his shopping for
him, or the tradespeople would come themselves to take his orders from
his own patterns. Anthime was past the age for worrying about the
fashion. But though he wanted his tie to be unobtrusive--a plain bow of
black surah--still, he liked choosing it himself. The ends of the dark
brown satin spread tie, which he had bought for the journey and worn
during his stay at the hotel, were constantly coming out of his
waistcoat, which he always wore cut very low. This tie had been replaced
by a cream-coloured neckerchief, fastened with a pin, on which he had
had mounted a large antique cameo of no particular value. Marguerite de
Baraglioul would certainly not consider this neckwear dressy enough; it
had been a great mistake to abandon the little ready-made black bows he
used habitually to wear in Paris, and particularly foolish not to have
kept one as a pattern. What makes would they show him? He would not
settle on anything without having seen the principal shirt-makers in the
Corso and the Via dei Condotti. For a man of fifty, loose ends were not
staid enough; yes, a plain bow made of dull black silk was the thing....
Lunch was not before one o’clock. Anthime came in about twelve with his
parcel, in time to weigh his animals.
Though he was not vain, Anthime felt he must try on his tie before
starting work. There was a broken bit of looking-glass lying on the
table, which he had used on occasion for the purpose of provoking
tropisms. He propped it up against a cage and leant forward to look at
his own reflection.
Anthime wore his hair _en brosse_; it was still thick and had once been
red; at the present time it was of the greyish yellow of worn
silver-gilt; his whiskers, which were cut short and high, had kept the
same reddish tinge as his stiff moustache. He passed the back of his
hand over his flat cheeks and under his square chin, and muttered:
“Yes, yes. I’ll shave after lunch.”
He took the tie out of its envelope and placed it before him; unfastened
his cameo pin and then took off his neckerchief. Round his powerful
neck, he wore a collar of medium height with turned-down corners. And
now, notwithstanding my desire to relate nothing but what is essential,
I cannot pass over in silence Anthime Armand-Dubois’ wen. For until I
have learnt to distinguish more surely between the accidental and the
necessary, what can I demand from my pen but the most rigorous fidelity?
And, indeed, who could affirm that this wen had no share, no weight, in
the decisions of what Anthime called his _free_ thought? He was more
willing to overlook his sciatica; but this paltry trifle was a thing for
which he could not forgive Providence.
It had made its appearance, without his knowing how, shortly after his
marriage; and at first it had been merely an inconsiderable wart,
south-east of his left ear, just where the hair begins to grow; for a
long time he was able to conceal this excrescence in the thickness of
his hair, which he combed over it in a curl; Veronica herself had not
noticed it, till once, in the course of a nocturnal caress, her hand had
suddenly encountered it.
“Dear me!” she had exclaimed. “What have you got there?”
And, as though the swelling, once discovered, had no further reason for
discretion, it grew in a few months to the size of an egg--a
partridge’s--a guinea-fowl’s--and then a hen’s. There it stopped, while
his hair, as it grew scantier, exposed it more and more to view between
its meagre strands. At forty-six years of age, Anthime Armand-Dubois
could have no further pretensions to good looks; he cut his hair close
and adopted a style of collar of medium height, with a kind of recess in
it, which hid and at the same time revealed the wen. But enough of
Anthime’s wen!
He put the tie round his neck. In the middle of the tie was a little
metal slide, through which a fastening of tape was passed and then kept
in place by a spring clip. An ingenious contrivance--but no sooner was
the tape inserted into the slide than it came unsewn and the tie fell on
to the operating-table. There was no help for it but to have recourse to
Veronica. She came running at the summons.
“Just sew this thing on for me, will you?” said Anthime.
“Machine-made,” she muttered, “rubbishy stuff!”
“It was certainly not sewn on very well.”
Veronica used always to wear, stuck into the left breast of her morning
gown, two needles, threaded one with white cotton, the other with black.
Without troubling to sit down, she did her mending standing beside the
glass door.
She was a stoutish woman, with marked features; as obstinate as himself,
but pleasant on the whole and generally smiling, so that a trace of
moustache had not hardened her face.
“She has her good points,” thought Anthime, as he watched her plying her
needle. “I might have married a flirt who would have deceived me, or a
minx who would have deserted me, or a chatterbox who would have deaved
me, or a goose who would have driven me mad, or a cross-patch like my
sister-in-law.”
“Thank you,” he said, less grumpily than usual, as Veronica finished her
work and departed.
* * * * *
With his new tie round his neck, Anthime engrossed himself in his work.
No voice was raised; there was silence round him--silence in his heart.
He had already weighed the blind rats. But what was this? The one-eyed
rats were stationary. He went on to weigh the sound pair. Suddenly he
started with such violence that his crutch rolled on the ground.
Stupefaction! The sound rats ... he weighed them over again--there was
no denying it--since yesterday, the sound rats had _gained_ in weight! A
ray of light flashed into his mind.
“Veronica!”
He picked up his crutch and with a tremendous effort rushed to the door.
“Veronica!”
Once more she came running, anxious to oblige. Then, as he stood in the
doorway, he asked solemnly:
“Who has been touching my rats?”
No answer. Slowly, articulating each word, as if Veronica had ceased to
understand the language, he repeated:
“Someone has been feeding them while I was out. Was it you, may I ask?”
Picking up her courage, she turned towards him, almost aggressively:
“You were letting them die of hunger, poor creatures! I haven’t
interfered with your experiment in the least; I merely gave them....”
But at this he seized her by the sleeve and, limping back to the table,
dragged her with him. There he pointed to his tables of records.
“Do you see these papers, Madam? For one fortnight I have been noting
here my observations on these animals. My colleague Potier is expecting
my notes to read to the Académie des Sciences at the sitting of May 17th
next. To-day, April 15th, what am I to put down in this row of figures?
What _can_ I put down?”
And as she uttered not a word, he began scratching on the blank paper
with the square end of his forefinger, as if it were a pen, and
continued:
“On that day Madame Armand-Dubois, the investigator’s wife, listening to
the dictates of her tender heart, committed--what am I to call it?--the
indiscretion--the blunder--the folly ...?”
“No! say I took pity on the poor creatures--victims of an insensate
curiosity.”
He drew himself up with dignity:
“If that is your attitude, you will understand, Madam, that I must beg
you henceforth to use the back staircase when you go to look after your
plants.”
“Do you suppose it’s any pleasure to me to come into your old hole?”
“Then, pray, for the future, refrain from coming into it.”
And, in order to add emphasis to his words with the eloquence of
gesture, he seized his records and tore them into little bits.
* * * * *
For a fortnight, he had said; in reality, his rats had been kept fasting
for only four days. And his irritation, no doubt, worked itself off with
this exaggeration of his grievance, for at table he was able to show an
unruffled brow; he pushed equanimity even to the point of holding out to
his spouse the right hand of reconciliation. For he was still more
anxious than Veronica that the religious and proper Baragliouls should
not be offered the spectacle of disagreements, which they would
certainly lay to the door of Anthime’s opinions.
At about five o’clock Veronica changed her morning gown for a black
cloth coat and skirt and started for the station to meet Marguerite and
Julius, who were due to arrive in Rome at six o’clock.
Anthime went to shave; he had consented to exchange his neckerchief for
a black bow; that must be sufficient; he disliked ceremony and saw no
reason why his sister-in-law’s presence should make him forswear his
alpaca coat, his white waistcoat, spotted with blue, his duck trousers
and his comfortable black leather slippers without heels, which he used
to wear even out of doors, and which were excusable because of his
lameness.
He picked up the torn bits of paper, pieced them together, and carefully
copied them out while he was waiting for the Baragliouls.
III
The Baragliouls (the _gl_ is pronounced Italian fashion, as in _Broglie_
[the duke of] and in _miglionnaire_) came originally from Parma. It was
a Baraglioul (Alessandro) who, in 1514, married as his second wife
Filippa Visconti, a few months after the annexation of the Duchy to the
Papal States. Another Baraglioul (also Alessandro) distinguished himself
at the battle of Lepanto, and was assassinated in 1589, in
circumstances which still remain mysterious. It would be easy, though
not very interesting, to trace the family fortunes up till 1807, the
year in which France took over the Duchy of Parma and in which Robert de
Baraglioul, Julius’s grandfather, settled at Pau. In 1828 Charles X
bestowed on him the title of Count--a title which was destined to be
borne with honour by his third son (the two elder died in infancy),
Juste-Agénor, whose keen intelligence and diplomatic talents shone with
such brilliancy and carried off such triumphant successes in the
ambassadorial career.
Juste-Agénor’s second child, Julius, who since his marriage had lived a
blameless life, had had several love affairs in his youth. But at any
rate he could do himself this justice--he had never placed his
affections beneath him. The fundamental distinction of his nature and
that kind of moral elegance which was apparent in the slightest of his
writings, had always prevented him from giving rein to his desires and
from following a path down which his curiosity as a novelist would
doubtless have urged him. His blood flowed calmly but not coldly, as
many beautiful and aristocratic ladies might have testified.... And I
should not have made any allusion to this fact, had not his early novels
made it abundantly clear--to which, indeed, their remarkable success in
the fashionable world was partly due. The high distinction of the public
to which they appealed enabled one of them to appear in the
_Correspondant_ and two others in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. And thus
he found himself, almost without an effort and while he was still young,
on the high road to the Academy. Already this destiny seemed marked out
for him by his fine presence, by the grave unction of his look and by
the pensive paleness of his brow.
Anthime professed great contempt for the advantages of rank, fortune and
looks--to Julius’s not unnatural mortification--but he appreciated a
certain kindliness of disposition in Julius and a lack of skill in
argument so great that free thought was often able to carry off the
victory.
* * * * *
At six o’clock Anthime heard his guests’ carriage draw up at the door.
He went out to meet them on the landing. Julius came up first. In his
hard felt hat and his overcoat with silk _revers_, he would have seemed
dressed for visiting rather than for travelling, had it not been for the
plaid shawl he was carrying on his arm; the long journey had not in the
least tried him. Marguerite de Baraglioul followed, leaning on her
sister’s arm; she, on the other hand, was in a pitiable state; her
bonnet and chignon awry, she stumbled upstairs with her face half hidden
by her handkerchief, which she was holding pressed up against it like a
poultice.
As she drew near Anthime, “Marguerite has a bit of coal dust in her
eye,” whispered Veronica.
Julie, their daughter, a charming little girl of nine years old, and the
maid, brought up the rear, in silent consternation.
With a person like Marguerite, there was no question of making light of
the matter. Anthime suggested sending for an oculist; but Marguerite
knew all about the reputation of Italian saw-bones and wouldn’t hear of
such a thing for the world. In a die-away voice she murmured:
“Some cold water! Just a little cold water! Oh!”
“Yes, my dear Marguerite,” went on Anthime, “cold water may relieve you
for the moment, by bringing down the inflammation, but it won’t cure the
evil.” Then, turning to Julius: “Were you able to see what it was?”
“Not very well. As soon as the train stopped and I wanted to look in her
eye, Marguerite got into such a state of nerves....”
“Don’t say that, Julius. You were horribly clumsy. Instead of lifting my
eyelid properly, you pulled my eyelashes so far back....”
“Shall I have a try?” said Anthime. “Perhaps I shall be able to manage
better.”
A facchino brought up the luggage, and Caroline lighted a lamp.
“Come, my dear,” said Veronica, “you can’t do the operation in the
passage.” And she led the Baragliouls to their room.
The Armand-Dubois’ apartment was arranged round the four sides of an
inner court-yard, on to which looked the windows of a corridor which ran
from the entrance hall to the orangery. Into this corridor opened,
first, the dining-room, then the drawing-room (an enormous badly
furnished corner room, which the Armand-Dubois left unused), then two
spare rooms, which had been arranged, the larger for the two Baragliouls
and the smaller for Julie, and lastly the Armand-Dubois’ bedroom. All
these rooms communicated with each other on the inside. The kitchen and
two servants’ rooms were on the other side of the landing....
“Please, don’t all come crowding round,” moaned Marguerite. “Julius,
can’t you see after the luggage?”
Veronica made her sister sit down in an arm-chair and held the lamp
while Anthime set about his examination.
“Yes, it’s very much inflamed. Suppose you were to take off your
bonnet?”
But Marguerite, fearing perhaps that in the disordered state of her hair
certain artificial aids might become visible, declared she would take it
off later; a plain bonnet with strings wouldn’t prevent her from leaning
her head back against the chair.
“So, you want me to remove the mote out of your eye before I take the
beam out of my own,” said Anthime, with a kind of snigger. “That seems
to me very contrary to the teaching of Scripture.”
“Oh, please don’t make me regret accepting your kindness.”
“I’ll say no more.... With the corner of a clean handkerchief ... I see
it.... Good heavens! Don’t be frightened! Look up! There it is!”
And Anthime, with the corner of the handkerchief, removed an
infinitesimal speck of dust.
“Thank you! Thank you! I should like to be left alone now. I’ve a
frightful headache.”
* * * * *
While Marguerite was resting and Julius unpacking with the maid and
Veronica looking after the dinner, Anthime took charge of Julie and led
her off to his room. His niece, whom he had left as a tiny child, was
hardly recognisable in this tall girl, whose smile had become grave as
well as ingenuous. After a little, as he was holding her close to his
knee, talking such childish trivialities as he hoped might please her,
his eye was caught by a thin silver chain which the child was wearing
round her neck. “Medallions!” his instinct told him. An indiscreet jerk
of his big forefinger brought them into sight outside her bodice, and,
hiding his morbid repugnance under a show of astonishment:
“What are these little things?” he asked.
Julie understood well enough that the question was not a serious one,
but why should she take offence?
“What, uncle? Have you never seen any medallions before?”
“Not I, my dear,” he lied; “they aren’t exactly pretty pretty, but I
suppose they’re of some use?”
And as even the serenest piety is not inconsistent with innocent
playfulness, the child pointed with her finger to a photograph of
herself, which she had caught sight of propped up against the glass over
the mantelpiece, and said:
“There’s a picture of a little girl there, uncle, who isn’t pretty
pretty either. What use can it be to you?”
Surprised at finding a Christian capable of such pointed repartee and
doubtless of such good sense too, Uncle Anthime was for a moment taken
aback. But he really couldn’t embark on a metaphysical argument with a
little girl of nine years old. He smiled. The child made use of her
advantage immediately, and, holding out her little sacred images:
“This,” said she, “is my patron saint, St. Julia; and this, the Sacred
Heart of Our....”
“And haven’t you got one of God?” interrupted Anthime absurdly.
The child answered with perfect simplicity:
“No, people don’t make any of God. But this is the prettiest--Our Lady
of Lourdes. Aunt Fleurissoire gave it to me; she brought it back from
Lourdes; I put it round my neck the day that Papa and Mamma offered me
to the Virgin.”
This was too much for Anthime. Without attempting for a moment to
understand all the ineffable loveliness that such images call up--the
month of May, the white and blue procession of children--he gave way to
his crazy desire to blaspheme.
“So the Holy Virgin didn’t want to have anything to do with you, since
you are still with us?”
The child made no answer. Did she realise already that the best answer
to certain impertinences is to say nothing? As a matter of fact, after
this senseless question, it was not Julie, it was the unbeliever that
blushed; and then, to hide this moment of confusion--this slight qualm
which ever secretly accompanies impropriety--the uncle pressed a
respectful and atoning kiss on his niece’s candid brow.
“Why do you pretend to be so naughty, Uncle Anthime?”
The child was not to be deceived; at bottom, this impious man of science
had a tender heart.
Then why this obstinate resistance?
At that moment Adèle opened the door.
“Madame is asking for Miss Julie.”
Marguerite de Baraglioul, it seems, was afraid of her brother-in-law’s
influence and had no wish to leave her daughter alone with him for long.
He ventured to say as much to her in a whisper a little later on, as the
family were going in to dinner. But Marguerite, with an eye still
slightly inflamed, glanced at Anthime:
“Afraid of you? My dear friend, Julie is more likely to convert a dozen
infidels like you than to be moved a hair’s breadth by any of your
scoffs. No, no! Our faith is not so easily shaken as that. But still,
don’t forget that she is a child. She knows that in an age as corrupt as
this, and in a country as shamefully governed as ours, nothing but
blasphemy can be looked for. Nevertheless, it’s sad that her first
experience of offence should come from her uncle, whom we should so much
like her to respect.”
IV
Would Anthime feel the calming effect of words so temperate and so wise?
Yes; during the first two courses (the dinner, which was good but plain,
did not comprise more than three dishes altogether) and as long as the
talk meandered in domestic fashion round about subjects that were not
contentious. Out of consideration for Marguerite’s eye, they first
talked about eyesight and oculists (the Baragliouls pretended not to
notice that Anthime’s wen had grown); then about Italian cooking--out of
politeness to Veronica--with allusions to the excellence of her dinner;
then Anthime enquired after the Fleurissoires, whom the Baragliouls had
recently been to see at Pau, and after the Comtesse de Saint-Prix,
Julius’s sister, who was in the habit of spending her holidays in that
neighbourhood; and then after the Baragliouls’ charming elder daughter,
whom they would have liked to bring with them to Rome, but who could
never be persuaded to leave her work at the Hospital for Sick Children,
in the Rue de Sèvres, where she went every morning to tend the
suffering little ones. Julius then broached the serious subject of the
expropriation of Anthime’s property: Anthime, when travelling as a young
man for the first time in Egypt, had bought a piece of land, which,
owing to its inconvenient situation, had hitherto been of very little
value; but there had lately been some question of making the new
Cairo-to-Heliopolis railway pass through it. There is no doubt that the
Armand-Dubois’ budget, which had suffered from risky speculations, was
in great need of this windfall. Julius, however, before leaving Paris,
had discussed the affair with Maniton, the consulting engineer of the
projected line, and he advised his brother-in-law not to raise his hopes
too high--for the whole thing might very well end in smoke. Anthime, for
his part, made no mention of the fact that the Lodge, which always backs
its friends, was looking after his interests.
Anthime spoke to Julius about his candidature to the Academy and his
chances of getting in; he spoke with a smile, for he had very little
belief in them; and Julius himself pretended to a calm and, as it were,
resigned indifference. What was the use of saying that his sister, the
Comtesse de Saint-Prix, had got Cardinal André up her sleeve, and in
consequence the other fifteen immortals who always voted with him?
Anthime then said a vague word or two of sketchy compliment about
Julius’s last novel, _On the Heights_. As a matter of fact he had
thought it an extremely bad book; and Julius, who was not in the least
deceived, hurriedly put himself in the right by saying:
“I was quite aware that you wouldn’t like a book of that kind.”
Anthime might have excused the book. But this allusion to his opinions
touched him in a sore place; he began to protest that they never in the
least influenced his judgment of works of art in general, or of his
brother-in-law’s novels in particular. Julius smiled condescendingly,
and, in order to change the subject, enquired after his brother-in-law’s
sciatica, which he inadvertently called “lumbago.” Ah! why had he not
enquired instead about his scientific researches? Then it would have
been a satisfaction to answer him. But his “lumbago”! It would be his
wen next, most likely! But his brother-in-law, apparently, knew nothing
about his scientific researches--he _chose_ to know nothing about
them.... Anthime was exasperated and his “lumbago” was hurting him. With
a sneering laugh, he answered viciously:
“Am I better? Ha, ha, ha! You’d be very sorry to hear that I was!”
Julius was astonished and begged his brother-in-law to say why such
uncharitable feelings should be imputed to him.
“Good heavens! You Catholics aren’t above calling in a doctor when one
of you falls ill; but when the patient gets well, it’s no thanks to
science--it’s all because of the prayers you said while the doctor was
looking after him. You would think it a gross impertinence if a man who
didn’t go to church got better.”
“Would you rather remain ill than go to church?” said Marguerite,
earnestly.
What made her poke _her_ oar in? As a rule she never took part in
conversations of general interest, and as soon as Julius opened his
mouth, she would meekly efface herself. This was man’s talk. Pooh! Why
should he show her any consideration? He turned to her abruptly:
“My dear girl, kindly understand that if I knew that an instantaneous
and certain cure lay to my hand, there--do you hear?--_there!_” (and he
pointed wildly to the salt-cellar) “but that before taking it, I must
beg the Principal” (this was his jocose name for the Supreme Being on
the days when he was in a bad temper) “or beseech him to intervene--to
upset for my sake the established order--the natural order--the
venerable order of cause and effect, I wouldn’t take his cure. I
wouldn’t! I should say to the Principal: ‘Don’t come bothering me with
your miracle! I don’t want it--at any price! I don’t want it!’”
He stressed each word--each syllable. The loudness of his voice matched
the fury of his temper. He was frightful.
“You wouldn’t want it? Why not?” asked Julius, very calmly.
“Because it would force me to believe in God--who doesn’t exist,” he
cried, banging his fist down on the table.
Marguerite and Veronica exchanged anxious glances, and then both looked
towards Julie.
“I think it’s time to go to bed, my darling,” said her mother. “Make
haste. We’ll come and say good night to you when you’re in bed.”
The child, terrified by the dreadful words and diabolical appearance of
her uncle, fled.
“If I am to be cured, I want to owe it to no one but myself. So there!”
“Then what about the doctor?” ventured Marguerite.
“I pay him for his visits. We are quits.”
“Whilst gratitude to God,” said Julius in his gravest, deepest voice,
“would bind you....”
“Yes, brother Julius, and that is why I don’t pray.”
“Others pray for you, my dear.”
This remark came from Veronica, who up till now had said nothing. At the
gentle sound of her well-known voice, Anthime started and completely
lost all self-control. Contradictions and incoherences came jostling
from his lips. “You have no right to pray for a person against his will,
to ask for a favour for him without his leave. It’s treachery! You
haven’t gained much by it, however. That’s one comfort. It’ll teach you
what your prayers are worth. Much to be proud of. I’m sure!... But,
after all, perhaps you didn’t go on praying long enough.”
“Don’t be alarmed! I _am_ going on,” Veronica announced in the same
gentle voice as before. And then, smiling quietly, as though she stood
outside the range of his tempestuous anger, she went on to tell
Marguerite that every evening, without missing a single one, she burnt
two candles for Anthime and placed them beside the wayside figure of the
Madonna standing at the north corner of the house--the same figure in
front of which she had once caught Beppo crossing himself. There was a
recess in the wall close by, into which the boy used to tuck himself,
when he wanted to rest. Veronica could be sure of finding him there at
the right time. She couldn’t have managed by herself, as the shrine was
too high up--out of the reach of passers-by. But Beppo (he was a slim
lad now of about fifteen) by clinging to the stones and to a metal ring
that was in the wall, scrambled up and was able to place two candles,
already lighted and flaring, beside the holy image.... The conversation
insensibly drifted away from Anthime--closed over him, so to speak, as
the sisters went on to talk of the simple, touching piety of the common
folk, who love most to honour the rudest statues.... Anthime was
completely engulfed. What! not content with feeding his rats behind his
back, Veronica must needs now burn candles for him! His own wife! And,
moreover, mix Beppo up in all this idiotic tomfoolery.... Ha, ha! We’ll
soon see!
The blood rushed to Anthime’s head; he choked; his temples drummed a
tattoo. With a huge effort he rose, knocking down his chair behind him.
He emptied a glass of water on to his napkin and mopped his forehead.
Was he going to be ill? Veronica was all concern. He pushed her away
brutally, made for the door and slammed it behind him; they heard his
halting step, accompanied by the dull thud of his crutch, clatter down
the passage.
This abrupt departure left them perplexed and saddened. For a few
moments they remained silent.
“My poor dear!” said Marguerite at last. This incident served once again
to illustrate the difference between the two sisters. Marguerite’s soul
was of that admirable stuff out of which God makes his martyrs. She was
aware of it and with all her might yearned to suffer. Life unfortunately
offered her little to complain of. Her lot overflowed with blessings, so
that she was reduced to seeking occasions for her power of endurance, in
the trifling vexations of daily life. She did her best to find thorns in
the smoothest path and caught eagerly at anything that had the smallest
resemblance to a bramble. It must be admitted that she was an adept in
the art of managing to get herself slighted; but Julius seemed
continually endeavouring to give her less and less scope for exercising
her virtues. Is it to be wondered at, then, that her attitude towards
him was always discontented and complaining? How splendid her vocation
would have been with a husband like Anthime! She was vexed to see her
sister make so little of her opportunities. Veronica, indeed, eluded
every grievance; sarcasms and jeers alike slipped off her smiling
unruffled smoothness like water off a duck’s back. She had no doubt long
ago become reconciled to the solitude of her life; Anthime, moreover,
didn’t really treat her badly--she didn’t grudge him speaking his mind.
She explained that the reason he spoke so loud was that he found it so
difficult to move. His temper would be less violent if his legs were
more active; and as Julius asked where he could have gone to, “To the
laboratory,” she answered, and when Marguerite added that perhaps it
would be as well to go and see whether he hadn’t been taken ill after
such a fit of anger, she assured her it was better to let him get over
it by himself and not pay too much attention to his outburst.
“Let us finish dinner quietly,” she concluded.
V
No! Uncle Anthime had not stayed in his laboratory.
He had passed rapidly through the room in which the six rats were
bringing their long-drawn sufferings to a close. Why did he not linger
on the terrace which lay bathed in the glimmer of the western sky?
Perhaps the celestial radiance of the evening might have calmed his
rebel soul--inclined his.... But no, he stopped his ears to so wise a
counsel. He went on, took the difficult winding stairs and reached the
court-yard, which he crossed. To us, who know what efforts each painful
step cost him, this crippled haste seems tragic. When shall we see him
show such savage energy in a good cause? Sometimes a groan escaped his
lips; his features were distorted. Where would his impious rage lead
him?
The Madonna, who stood in the corner niche, was watching over the house
and perhaps interceding for the blasphemer himself. Grace and
radiance--whose light was borrowed from Heaven’s own--streamed from her
outstretched hands upon the world below. This figure of the Virgin was
not one of those modern statues, made out of Blafaphas’ newly invented
_Roman Plaster_, such as the firm of Fleurissoire and Lévichon turn out
by the gross. In our eyes the very artlessness of the figure makes it
all the more expressive of the people’s simple piety--gives it an added
beauty--an enhanced eloquence. The colourless face, the gleaming hands,
the blue cloak, were lighted by a lantern, which hung some way in front
of the statue; a zinc roof projected over the niche and at the same time
sheltered the ex-votos, which were fixed to the wall on each side of it.
A little metal door, of which the beadle of the parish kept the key, was
within arm’s reach and protected the fastening of the cord to which the
lantern was attached. Two candles burnt day and night before the statue.
Fresh ones had been placed there that afternoon by Veronica. At the
sight of these candles which were burning, he knew, for him, the
unbeliever’s wrath blazed out afresh. Beppo, who was munching a crust
and a stalk or two of fennel in his hole in the wall, came running to
meet him. Without answering his friendly greeting, Anthime seized him by
the shoulder and, bending down, whispered something in his ear. What
could it have been to make the boy shudder? “No! No!” he protested.
Anthime took out a five-lira note from his waistcoat pocket. Beppo grew
indignant.... Later on he might steal perhaps--perhaps he might even
kill--who knows with what sordid defilement poverty might not smirch his
brow? But raise his hand against his protectress?--against the Virgin to
whom every night he breathed out a last sigh before he slept, and whom,
every morning when he woke, he greeted with his first smile? Anthime
might try in turn entreaties, blows, bribes, threats; nothing would make
him yield.
But don’t let us exaggerate. It was not precisely the Virgin that was
the object of Anthime’s fury. It was more particularly Veronica’s
candles that enraged him. But Beppo’s simple soul could make nothing of
such distinctions; and, moreover, the candles had by now been
consecrated; no one had the right to extinguish them.
Anthime, exasperated by this resistance, pushed the boy away. He would
act alone. Setting his shoulder against the wall, he seized his crutch
by the lower end and, swinging it backwards, hurled it with terrific
violence into the air. The wooden missile rebounded from the inside wall
of the niche and fell noisily to the ground, bringing with it some
fragment or other of broken plaster. He picked up his crutch and stepped
back to look at the niche.... Hell and fury! The two candles were still
burning! But what was this? The statue’s right hand had disappeared and
in its place there was nothing to be seen but a piece of black iron rod.
For a moment he gazed with disillusioned eyes at the melancholy result
of his handiwork. That it should end in such a ludicrous assault!...
Fie! Oh, fie! He turned to look for Beppo; the boy had vanished.
Darkness was closing in; Anthime was alone; but what was this he caught
sight of, lying on the pavement?--The fragment which he had brought down
with his crutch; he picked it up--it was a little plaster hand, which
with a shrug of his shoulders he slipped into his waistcoat pocket.
Shame on his brow and rage in his heart, the iconoclast went up again to
his laboratory; he wanted to work but the abominable effort he had just
made had shattered him. He had no heart for anything but sleep. He would
certainly not say good night to anyone before he went to bed. And yet,
just as he was entering his room, a sound of voices stopped him. The
door of the next room was open and he stole into the darkness of the
passage.
Little Julie in her night-gown, like some tiny familiar angel, was
kneeling on her bed; at the head of the bed, full in the light of the
lamp, Veronica and Marguerite were both on their knees; a little further
off, Julius, with one hand on his heart and the other covering his eyes,
was standing in an attitude at once devout and manly; they were
listening to the child’s prayers. The deep silence in which the scene
was wrapped brought back to Anthime’s recollection a certain tranquil,
golden evening on the banks of the Nile. Like the blue smoke that had
risen that evening into the pureness of the sky, the little girl’s
innocent prayer rose straight to Heaven.
Her prayers were no doubt drawing to a close; the child had gone through
all the usual formula, and was praying now in her own words, out of the
fullness of her heart; she prayed for the little orphans, for the sick,
for the poor, for sister Genevieve, for Aunt Veronica, for Papa, for
dear Mamma’s eye to be well soon.... As he listened, Anthime’s heart
grew sore within him; from the threshold of the door where he was
standing, he called out in a voice that was meant to be ironical, and
loud enough to be heard at the other end of the room:
“And is God not to be asked anything for Uncle Anthime?”
And then, to everyone’s astonishment, the child, in an extraordinarily
steady voice, went on:
“And please, dear God, forgive Uncle Anthime his sins.”
These words struck home to the very depths of the atheist’s heart.
VI
That night Anthime had a dream. There was a knock at his bedroom
door--not the door into the passage, nor the door into the next room;
the knock was at another door, which he had not noticed in his waking
hours and which led straight into the street. That was why he was
frightened, and at first, instead of answering, lay low. There was a
faint light which made the smallest objects in the room visible--a sort
of dim effulgence, such as a night-light gives--but there was no
night-light. As he was trying to make out where this light could come
from, there was a second knock.
“What do you want?” he cried in a trembling voice.
At the third knock, he fell into a kind of daze; an extraordinary
feeling of yielding--in which every trace of fear was swallowed
up--paralysed him. (He called it afterwards a tender resignation.) He
suddenly felt both that he was incapable of resistance and that the door
was going to open. It opened noiselessly and for a moment he saw nothing
but a dark alcove, which at first was empty, but in which, as he gazed,
there appeared, as in a shrine, the figure of the Holy Virgin. At first
he took the small white form for his little niece Julie, dressed as he
had just seen her, with her bare feet showing below her night-gown; but
a second later he recognised her whom he had insulted; I mean that her
appearance was the same as the wayside statue’s; he could even make out
the injury to her right arm; and yet the pale face was still more
beautiful, still more smiling than before. Without seeming to walk
exactly, she came gliding towards him, and when she was close up against
his bedside:
“Dost thou think, thou who hast hurt me,” she asked, “that I have need
of my hand to cure thee?” And with this she raised her empty sleeve and
struck him.
It seemed to him that it was from her that this strange effulgence
emanated. But when the iron rod suddenly pierced his side he felt a stab
of frightful pain and woke up in the dark.
* * * * *
Anthime was perhaps a quarter of an hour before coming to his senses. He
felt in his whole body a strange kind of torpor--of stupefied
numbness--and then a tingling which was almost pleasant, so that he
doubted now whether he had really felt any pain in his side; he could
not make out where his dream had begun or ended, and whether he was
awake now or whether he had dreamt then. He pinched himself, felt
himself all over, put his arm out and finally struck a match. Veronica
was asleep beside him with her face to the wall.
Then, untucking the sheets and flinging aside the blankets, he let the
tips of his bare feet slide down, till they rested on his slippers. His
crutch was there, leaning beside the bedside table; without taking it,
he raised himself by pushing with his hands against the bed; then he
thrust his feet well into the leather slippers; then, stood bolt upright
on his legs; then, still doubtful, with one arm stretched in front of
him and one behind, he took a step--two steps alongside the bed--three
steps; then across the room.... Holy Virgin! Was he ...?
Noiselessly and rapidly he slipped into his trousers, put on his
waistcoat, his coat.... Stop, my pen! What rashness is yours? What
matters the cure of a paralysed body, what matter all its clumsy
agitations, in comparison with the flutterings of a newly liberated
soul, when first she tries her wings?
When, a quarter of an hour later, Veronica, disturbed by some kind of
presentiment, awoke, she became uneasy at feeling that Anthime was not
beside her; she became still more uneasy when, having struck a match,
she saw his crutch (which of necessity never left him) still standing by
the bedside. The match went out between her fingers, for Anthime had
taken the candle with him when he left the room; Veronica hastily
slipped on a few things as best she could in the dark, and then in her
turn leaving the room, she followed the thread of light which shone from
beneath the laboratory door.
“Anthime, are you there, my dear?”
No answer. Veronica, listening with all her might and main, heard a
singular noise. Then, sick with anxiety, she pushed open the door. What
she saw transfixed her with amazement.
Her Anthime was there, straight in front of her. He was not sitting; he
was not standing; the top of his head was on a level with the table and
in the full light of the candle, which he had placed upon it; Anthime,
the learned man of science, Anthime the atheist, who for many a long
year had bowed neither his stiff knee nor his stubborn will (for it was
remarkable how in his case body and soul kept pace with each
other)--Anthime was kneeling!
He was on his knees, was Anthime; he was holding in his two hands a
little fragment of plaster, which he was bathing with his tears, and
covering with frantic kisses. At first he took no notice of her, and
Veronica, astounded at this mystery, was afraid either to withdraw or to
go forward and was already on the point herself of falling on her knees
in the doorway opposite her husband, when, oh, miracle! he rose without
an effort, walked towards her with a steady step, and, catching her in
his arms:
“Henceforth,” he said, as he pressed her to his heart and bent his face
towards hers, “henceforth, my dearest, we will pray together.”
VII
The conversion of the unbeliever could not long remain a secret. Julius
de Baraglioul did not delay a single day before communicating the news
to Cardinal André in France, who spread it abroad amongst the
conservative party and the higher clergy; while Veronica announced it to
Father Anselm, so that it soon reached the ears of the Vatican.
Doubtless Armand-Dubois had been the object of special mercy. It would
perhaps be imprudent to affirm that the Virgin had actually appeared to
him, but even if he had seen her only in a dream, his cure was still a
matter of fact--incontrovertible, demonstrable and assuredly miraculous.
Now if perhaps in Anthime’s opinion it was enough that he should have
been cured, in the Church’s it was not. A public recantation was
demanded of him, which was to be accompanied by a ceremony of unusual
splendour.
“What!” said Father Anselm to him a few days later, “in the course of
your errors you have propagated heresy by all the means in your power,
and now you would elude the duty of allowing Heaven to dispose of you
for its own high purposes of instruction and example? How many souls
have been turned aside from the true Light by the false glimmers of your
misguided science? It lies with you now to bring them back to the fold,
and you hesitate? It lies with you? Nay! It is your strict duty. I will
not insult you by supposing that you do not feel it.”
No! Anthime would not elude his duty. But he could not help fearing its
consequences. He had heavy pecuniary interests in Egypt which, as we
have seen, were in the hands of the freemasons. What could he do without
the help of the Lodge? And how could he hope to be assisted by the very
institution he was flouting? Formerly he had expected fortune at their
hands, and now he saw himself absolutely ruined.
He confided as much to Father Anselm, and Father Anselm, who had not
been aware of Anthime’s high rank as a freemason, rejoiced at the
thought that his recantation would be all the more striking. Two days
later Anthime’s high rank was no longer a secret for any of the readers
of the _Osservatore_ and the _Santa Croce_.
“You are ruining me,” said Anthime.
“On the contrary, my son,” answered Father Anselm, “we are bringing you
salvation. As for your material needs, take no thought for them. The
Church will provide. I have dwelt at length upon your case to Cardinal
Pazzi, who is going to speak to Rampolla about it. I may tell you,
moreover, that the Holy Father himself is informed of your recantation.
The Church understands what you have sacrificed for her sake, and will
undertake that you do not suffer. Don’t you think, though, that upon
this occasion you have over-estimated” (and he smiled) “the value of the
freemasons’ influence? Not but what I know well enough that they must be
reckoned with only too seriously. Never mind! Have you calculated the
amount that their hostility may cost you? Tell it me roughly” (he raised
his left forefinger to his nose with good-humoured slyness) “and fear
nothing.”
Ten days after the celebration of the Jubilee, Anthime’s recantation
took place in the Gesù, attended by every circumstance of excessive
pomp. It is not for me to relate this ceremony, which was described in
all the Italian papers of the time. Father T., the Jesuit General’s
socius, pronounced one of his most remarkable orations on this occasion.
“The freemason’s sick and tormented soul had doubtless come near to
madness and the very extremity of his hatred had foreboded the coming of
Love.” The preacher recalled Saul of Tarsus and pointed out that
Anthime’s act of iconoclasm showed a surprising analogy to the stoning
of St. Stephen. The reverend father’s eloquence swelled and rolled
through the aisle, as the thronging surges of the tide roll through the
vaults of some sounding cavern, and Anthime thought the while of his
niece’s childish treble, and in his secret heart he thanked her for
having called down upon her infidel uncle’s sins the merciful attention
of her whom henceforth he would serve alone.
From that day onwards, Anthime, absorbed by more elevated
preoccupations, scarcely noticed the noise that was made about his name.
Julius de Baraglioul suffered in his stead and never opened a paper
without a beating heart. The first enthusiasm of the orthodox press was
answered by the vituperation of the liberal organs. An important article
in the _Osservatore_--“A New Victory for the Church”--was met by a
diatribe in the _Tempo Felice_--“Another Fool.” Finally the _Dépeche de
Toulouse_ headed Anthime’s usual page, which he had sent in the day
before his cure, with a few gibing introductory remarks. Julius, in his
brother-in-law’s name, wrote a short, dignified letter in reply, to
inform the _Dépeche_ that it need no longer consider “the convert” as
one of its contributors. The _Zukunft_ was beforehand with Anthime and
politely thanked him for his services, intimating that there would be no
further use for them. He accepted these blows with that serenity of
countenance which is the mark of the truly devout soul.
“Fortunately the columns of the _Correspondant_ will be open to you,”
snarled Julius.
“But, my dear fellow, what in the world could I write in them?” objected
Anthime benevolently. “None of my former occupations has any further
interest for me.”
Then silence closed down over the affair. Julius had been obliged to
return to Paris.
Anthime, in the meanwhile, pressed by Father Anselm, had obediently
quitted Rome. The withdrawal of the Lodge’s assistance had been rapidly
followed by the ruin of his worldly fortunes; and the applications which
Veronica, confident of the Church’s support, had urged him to make,
merely resulted in wearing out the patience of the influential members
of the clergy and finally in setting them against him. He was advised in
a friendly way to go to Milan. There he was to await the long-since
promised compensation and any scraps which might fall from a celestial
bounty that had grown in the meantime singularly lukewarm.