She Sang.
I.
I heard his voice, and I was dumb
Because to his my spirit cleaved:
He called to me from far. I come.
Because I loved him, I believed.
He said, “Though love be secret yet,
Eternity its truth shall prove.”
It seemed not gift, but ancient debt
Discharged, to answer love with love.
II.
Thy herald near me drew and knelt:
I knew from whom the missive came
Ere yet I saw, ere yet I felt
Thy sigil‐mark, or kissed thy name.
I read—’twas like a thousand birds,
Music confused of Paradise:
At last the words became _thy_ words;
Thy voice was in them, and thine eyes
Above them shone in love and power,
And flashed the meaning on the whole:
We were not severed, friend, that hour:
One day shall blend us, soul with soul.
III.
That face is valorous and grave:
To it, despite thine unripe spring,
Thy spirit’s might the painter gave:
It is the countenance of a king.
Look down, strong countenance, strong yet fair,
Through all this weak, unstable soul!
Like stars sea‐mirrored, kindle there
_His_ virtues—truth and self‐control!
Not beauty, nor that youthful grace
Uncareful girlhood’s natural dower,
Suffice. A child of royal race,
A hero’s wife should walk in power.
IV.
Like some great altar rises vast
That rock whereon our City stands,
With gray woods girt; with shade far cast
At morn dividing distant lands.
Nor war she fears, nor summer drouth,
By runnels pierced whose sparkling tide
Is drawn from mountains of the South
O’er myriad arches far descried.
Around her cliff‐like, stony zone,
From tower to tower, from gate to gate,
At eve, when sunset changes stone
To gold, her princes walk in state;
And priests entoning anthems sweet,
The people’s strength; and maiden choirs
That, passing, make them reverence meet;
And orphaned babes, and gray‐haired sires.
High up, with many a cloistered lawn,
And chapelled gallery widely spread,
Extends, flower‐dressed at eve and dawn,
The happy “City of the Dead.”
There musing sit I, day by day;
I sing my psalm; I pray for thee:
“If men could love, not hate,” I say,
“How like to heaven this earth would be!”
V.
Love bound a veil above my brow;
He wrapt it round me, o’er and o’er;
He said, “My little nun art thou,
My solitary evermore.
“Where hid’st thou when the falcons fly;
The flung jereed in music shrills?
When sweep the Arab horsemen by
In valleys of the terraced hills?
“Where are thy childhood’s blithesome ways?
The tales, the dances, and the sports?
The bards that sang thy beauty’s praise
Amid the hundred‐columned courts?”
Love took from me all gifts save one:
The veil that shrouds me is his gift:
Love! say to him I love, “Alone
That veil of severance thou canst lift.”
VI.
On crimson silk, ’mid leaf and flower
I traced thy name in golden thread;
A harper harped beneath my bower:
I rose, and brought him wine and bread.
He sang: methought he sang of thee!
“_My_ prince!” I cried—“how knew’st him thou?
His victories in the days to be?
His heaven‐like eyes, and king‐like brow?”
“O maid! I have not seen thy prince:
Old wars I sang; old victories won
In my far‐distant land long since;
I sang the birth of moon and sun.”
VII.
He culled me grapes—the vintager;
In turn, for song the old man prayed:
I glanced around; but none was near:
With veil drawn tighter, I obeyed.
“Were I a vine, and he were heaven,”
I sang, “I’d spread a vernal leaf
To meet the beams of morn and even,
And think the April day too brief.
“Were he I love a cloud, not heaven,
I’d spread my leaf and drink the rain;
Warm summer shower, and dews of even
Alike I’d take, and think them gain.”
“I would not shrink from wintry rime
Or echoes of the thunder‐shock,
But watch the advancing vintage‐time,
And meet it, reddening on my rock.”
VIII.
I often say, now thou art gone,
“How hard I seemed when he was here!”
I feared to seem too quickly won:
Love also came at first with fear.
I sang me dear old songs which proved
That many a maid had loved ere I:
No secret knew I till I loved:
I loved, yet loved reluctantly.
My heart with zeal more generous glowed
When he I loved was Danger’s mate.
Great Love in this his greatness showed—
He lifted thee to things more great.
IX.
My childhood was a cloistered thing:
No wish for human love was mine:
I heard the hooded vestals sing
The praises of their Love Divine.
The village maids with rival glee,
Flower‐filleting their unclipt hair,
Sang thus, “The meadow flowers are we”:
I thought the convent flowers more fair.
Yet false I am not. Still I climb
Through love to realms this earth above:
And those whom most I loved that time
Only for love’s sake fled from love.
X.
Dear tasks are mine that make the weeks
Too swift in passing, not too slow:
I nurse the rose on faded cheeks,
Bring solace to the homes of woe.
I hear the Vesper anthems swell;
I track the steps of Fast and Feast
I read old legends treasured well
Of Machabean chief or priest.
I hear, on heights of song and psalm,
The storm of God careering by:
Beside His Deep, for ever calm,
I kneel in caves of Prophecy.
O Eastern Book! It cannot change!
Of books beside, the type, the mould—
It stands like yon Carmelian range
By _our_ Elias trod of old!
The Farm Of Muiceron. By Marie Rheil. Concluded.
From The Revue Du Monde Catholique.
XXII.
During these terrible events, I dare say the combatants were not the most
to be pitied. They, at least, were in action, in the midst of powder and
noise; and if they fell, wounded or dead, they scarcely had time to know
it. But think of the poor friends and relatives who remained without news,
and almost without strength to seek any information! They were to be
pitied.
Perhaps you may live in a city, which does not prevent you from sometimes
going to the country; and so you can understand how certain villages are
isolated from all daily communication. Our hamlet of Ordonniers, although
near the large city of Issoudun, was, in this respect, worse off than many
other places; for when M. le Marquis was absent from the château, there
was no daily paper, none of the villagers being liberal enough to indulge
in that luxury. The Perdreaux, in their time, subscribed for a paper,
which came every other day, and gave the market prices and a jumble of
news of people and things here and there about a month old. Even this
resource no longer existed. M. le Curé was the only one who cared for what
was going on; but as his means were very limited, he contented himself
with a little paper which only came every Sunday.
Judge, then, of the terrible anguish at Muiceron; above all, when they saw
all the able‐bodied men of the commune leave; for you remember that then,
for the first time, the provinces showed their teeth at the news of the
horrors in Paris, and rose _en masse_ to go and punish the rebellious
children of a city that, in her selfishness, disturbed the whole of France
without any just right.
The women displayed great bravery. They fitted out their sons, husbands,
brothers, and betrothed, and let them leave for the dreadful struggle
without wincing. But the next day—but the following days! What anxiety and
what tears!
It was touching to see them each morning run before the country stage or
speak to the letter‐carrier, in hopes of hearing some words to reassure
them. Generally, the stage drove rapidly on at a gallop; for stage‐drivers
are not patient, and the poor creatures’ only information was an oath or
rough word. As for the letter‐carrier, he knew nothing positive, and was
content to give the flying reports, which were not enough to quiet those
troubled souls.
Jeanne and her mother kept at home. They prayed to God and wept, poor
things! It was the best way to learn patience; but their hearts sank
within them. It was a hard blow to have been so near happiness, and then
suddenly to see it fly, perhaps for ever.
Old Ragaud was miserable that he could not go off with the other men of
the neighborhood. He was too old, and this only increased his vexation, as
he was but three or four years older than Michou, and he was in the
battle! The sadness and ill‐humor of the poor old fellow rendered Muiceron
still gloomier, and the women neither dared stir nor sigh before him.
The little they knew was very terrible; and when the private letters began
to arrive, all the families were plunged in despair and sorrow. Our
commune alone lost three men; among them Cotentin, the miller, an honest
peasant, and father of four children. He was shot dead, almost at the
moment of his arrival; and the next day came the news of the death of
Sylvain Astiaud, son of the head‐forester, one of our bravest boys. Each
one trembled for his own at the announcement of these misfortunes, and at
last silence was considered a sure sign that mourning should be prepared.
Jeanne felt all her courage fail. She could no longer either eat or sleep,
and even feared to question the passers‐by. Certainly the good God, who
wished to sanctify the poor child, and make her a perfect woman, did not
spare her any suffering. He acted with her like a father who is tender and
severe at the same time; who corrects the faults of his child, knowing
well that they are more hurtful than death, and then recompenses her when
petting can no longer spoil her.
Therefore this little Jeannette had to go to the end of her trial before
relief came and her tears were dried. And this happened through that
giddy, wild Pierre Luguet, who had left, like the others, singing and
blustering, assuring the people around that he did not believe a word of
the current rumors, and that, in one hour after his arrival in Paris, he
would find out the whole truth, and send them all the news. But, behold!
as soon as he was in the midst of smoking and bleeding Paris, he lost his
senses, imagined himself killed before he had fired a shot, and wrote in
pencil, on a scrap of blood‐stained paper, a letter to his parents, all
sighs and tears. He bade them farewell, and begged them to pray for his
soul, as he would be dead before night; for no one could live in such a
terrible conflict. If he had only spoken for himself, it might have
passed; but he added that M. le Marquis, Jean‐Louis, and Michou were
certainly dead. He had sought for them everywhere, asked everybody, and no
one could give him good news. To crown his stupidity, he added that, among
the great heaps of corpses that lay yet unburied, he had recognized Jean‐
Louis’ blouse of gray linen bound with black; and therefore they must weep
for the death of that good, brave boy.
Poor Mme. Luguet ran straight to Muiceron to show that foolish letter. If
there had been the least degree of cool good sense among them, it would
easily have been seen they were the words of a brain addled from fear; but
in the mortal anxiety of the poor Ragauds, they took it all for good coin.
Jeanne fell on her knees, sobbing aloud, and, losing the little courage
she still possessed, wrung her hands in despair. Pierrette threw herself
beside her daughter, trying to comfort her; and Ragaud wept bitterly,
although he had said a thousand times a man in tears is not worthy to wear
breeches. In the evening, the true religion which filled those poor hearts
came to support them and give them some strength. They lighted tapers
before the crucifix and around the Blessed Virgin, and all night this
afflicted family prayed ardently for the repose of the souls of the
supposed dead—who were never better.
The next day you would have been shocked to have seen the ravages grief
had made on their honest faces. Jeannette, wearied out with weeping and
fatigue, slept in the arms of her mother, paler than a camomile‐flower.
Pierrette restrained her tears, from fear of awakening the child; but her
hollow eyes and cheeks were pitiful to see; and the sun shone brightly in
the room, without any one taking the trouble to close the shutters.
It was in this state that M. le Curé found the Ragaud family. His entrance
at Muiceron renewed the lamentations; but Jeannette was calm, which
greatly pleased the good pastor, as he saw that his lessons, joined to
those of divine Providence, had borne their fruit.
He took the little thing aside, and, much affected by her deathlike
appearance, spoke gently to her, and asked her to walk with him on the
bank of La Range.
“My daughter,” said he, “it is not right to sink into such utter despair
about news which is yet uncertain. Show a little more courage, for a while
at least, until we hear something positive.”
“He is dead,” said Jeannette. “May the will of God be done! Alas! I should
have been too happy, if I had seen him again.”
“Why are you so certain? As for me, I confess Pierre’s letter would not
make me lose all hope.”
“They were three together,” said she. “Pierre has written; could they not
have written also?”
This argument was not bad. The _curé_ could not reply; for, without
acknowledging it, he did think the silence very strange. He made the poor
child sit down by the side of the swift‐running stream that glittered in
the bright sunshine, and spoke to her for a long time in such soothing,
touching words, Jeanne listened with profound respect and piety. He spoke
of the happiness of this world, which is but for a short time; of the
necessity of living and regaining her strength, that she might console her
parents; of the beautiful day of eternity; of the heavenly home, where we
will meet again the loved ones gone before us, never again to be
separated.
At another time, Jeannette would not have understood these words, and
perhaps might have even found them out of place; but now they fell upon
her heart like soft caresses.
“Oh!” said she, “it is only now I understand how dearly I loved him.
Father, tell me, can he see us from above?”
“You will have it, then, that he is absolutely dead,” said the _curé_,
smiling.
Jeannette, in spite of her grief, smiled in her tears.
“That is true,” she said; “perhaps he is not dead.”
Hope had re‐entered her soul with the consolations of the holy priest.
They walked down the road to the farm, and Jeannette thanked him with much
tenderness, and remarked, as it was near sunset, he must return home.
“One moment,” said the good _curé_; “you are a little egotist. I can’t go
without saying a word to father and mother.”
“Oh! yes,” said she, “of course you must; but, dear father, I will remain
here, and say my rosary in the shade under the trees; the air will
completely restore me.”
“Very well, dear child,” replied the _curé_; “and may the Blessed Virgin
console you, my daughter!”
Jeanne retired under the heavy foliage, and really took her little rosary
out of her pocket. But this wood recalled many sweet reminiscences. It was
there Jean‐Louis had found her and saved her life on that stormy night the
year before. She looked for the spot, near the woodman’s cabin, where he
had taken her in his arms with a father’s care; and as the remembrance of
all this past happiness, which she had then slighted, came back to her
heart, she leant against a tree, and hid her face in her hands.
Whether they were tears of repentance, of regret, of love, or of prayer
that fell from her eyes God only knows; and surely, in his infinite
goodness, he waited for this moment of supreme anguish, which could not
have endured much longer, to say to that heart‐broken child, “You have
suffered enough; now be happy!”
For in that same hour Jean‐Louis, wild with joy, leaped from the imperial
of the country stage on the highroad, and ran, without stopping to take
breath, toward his beloved Muiceron.
He also remembered the stormy night, and, from a sentiment you can well
understand, wished to see again the little hut, if only to throw a passing
glance.
He reached the spot, and was soon near the tree where Jeannette leant
motionless. He recognized her. The beating of his heart almost suffocated
him; for, with a lover’s instinct, he immediately knew, if she had come to
weep in that spot, it could only be on his account.
He advanced until he stood close behind her.
“Jeanne!” said he, so softly he scarcely heard his own voice.
Jeannette turned, and gave one scream. Her eyes wandered a moment, as if
she had seen a phantom, and she fell half‐dead into his arms.
“Jeanne! dear, dear Jeanne! don’t you know me?” said he, pressing her to
his breast. “I have caused you much sorrow, but it is all over—oh! it is
all over; tell me, is it not?”
The poor child could not speak; her emotion and joy were too great. But
such happiness don’t kill; and gradually she revived, although she still
trembled like a leaf.
“O Jeannet!” she said at last, “they wrote word you were dead.”
“And was that the reason you were weeping here all alone in this wood, my
poor, dear darling?” he tenderly asked.
“Yes,” said she, looking down; “I could not be consoled. Why did you not
send us some news?”
“I wished to surprise you,” said he, with simplicity; “and now I see I did
wrong.”
“One day more, and I would have been dead also,” said she, leaning on his
arm. “Cruel boy, go!”
She looked so lovely, still pale with grief, and yet as lively and
coquettish as before, Jeannet was obliged to clasp her once again in his
arms, and even kissed her, for which I hope you will pardon him, as I do.
“How good God is,” said he, “to permit us to meet again in this very
place! This is the second time, dear Jeannette, that I have saved you when
in great trouble; and I hope it is a sure sign that poor Jean‐Louis will
be able to comfort and assist you all the rest of his life.”
“You will never leave us again; you will promise that?” she replied. “When
you are away, all sorts of misfortunes happen. Oh! how much we have
suffered.”
And as these words suddenly recalled the sad events of the last six
months, her flirtation, her thoughtless conduct, and the lamentable scenes
that followed, she blushed, sighed, and leant her face, down which the
tears were streaming, against Jean‐Louis’ shoulder.
“My own Jeannette,” said he, “you must no longer think of all that sorrow,
now that God has made us so happy again. There is no misfortune which does
not carry with it a profitable lesson when we recognize in it the hand of
the Lord; and, for my part, although I have been nearly dead with grief, I
say that my present happiness has not been too dearly bought, and I would
consent to pass again through the same trials, on condition of possessing
a second day like this.”
“Oh! no,” said Jeanne, “I have had enough. I have not your courage, and I
will pray to God that I may be spared from such great trials. Come,” added
she, taking Jeannet’s arm, “we must go and surprise our parents. And the
dear _curé_ is just now with them! He told me so—the good, holy man told
me you were not dead.”
“But who set such a report afloat?” asked Jeannet. “For really I was not
even in danger.”
“Oh! what a story,” cried Jeanne. “You were in the fight; it could not be
otherwise.”
“Certainly,” said Jeannet, “I fought, and did my best; but I never for an
instant imagined the good God would let me die without seeing you again.”
“It is very well to have such happy thoughts,” said Jeanne joyfully; “if I
could have had them, I would not have been nearly dead with anxiety, and
hopeless from such great fear. Now I regret my tears, and would like to
take them back.”
“You would not be the richer for it,” said he, laughing; “but, Jeannette,
don’t laugh at me. It was neither presumption nor carelessness made me
think so. The good God put the faith in my heart; and then, didn’t I have
round my neck the silver medal you gave me the day of your first
communion? Wasn’t the image of the Blessed Virgin powerful enough to turn
aside the balls?”
“What!” said Jeannette with emotion, “have you still my medal? Is it the
very same one? Have you always worn it, in spite ... in spite of all....
Jeannet, show it to me; let me kiss it!”
“No,” said Jean‐Louis, blushing, “not now. I will show it to you later.”
“Right away; I won’t wait,” said she in the peremptory manner which so
well became her. “I like to be obeyed.”
“But,” said Jeannet, much embarrassed, “I can’t, because....”
“Because what?” she replied. “Don’t think you are going to be master here!
No, no, not more now than before, when, you remember, my mother said,
‘Jeannette is the boy....’ ”
“Really,” answered Jean‐Louis, “you have a good memory. Well, then, since
Jeannette is the boy, and I am the girl, I must submit to her wishes.”
And as, in spite of all this talk, he made no attempt to show her the
medal, another idea entered her head.
“You are wounded,” said she, “and you don’t wish me to see it.”
“That is not the reason,” he replied, unbuttoning his vest. “I don’t wish
you to believe any such thing.”
On opening his shirt, he showed the medal on his breast, and then the
curious Jeannette understood his resistance; for, near the blessed image
of our dear Mother, she recognized the long tress of blonde hair which had
been cut off during her illness.
“It has never left me,” said he; “but I dared not let you see it. Do you
forgive me? Your poor hair! I said to myself, While it rests upon my
heart, it is as though my little sister were watching over me. And in the
fight, I thought that, as the medal of the Blessed Virgin and your
precious souvenir were also exposed to the fire, I could not be killed;
and you see I was not mistaken.”
“Oh!” cried Jeannette, with tears in her eyes, “my dear Jeannet, I do not
deserve such love.”
They reached Muiceron, arm‐in‐arm. Oh! how refreshing was the shaded
court‐yard and the fragrant hedges! And then, the dear house looked so gay
in its new white coat, its green shutters, the fresh young vines that hung
from the trellis, and its slate roof newly repaired, all shining in the
soft rays of the sinking sun. The songs of the bullfinch and robin were
more joyous than the trumpets and horns on a patronal feast; and it seemed
as though the good God in heaven were well pleased, so beautiful was the
blue sky, flecked with golden‐edged clouds! Was it really the house we saw
six months ago? Jeannet, who had long loved it, scarcely recognized it; he
was mute with admiration, and, although he had left it in despair, he
accused himself of having neglected to look at it until now; for surely
his memory did not recall anything as joyous and beautiful as he now
beheld in his beloved Muiceron.
Shall we ask the reason? There is a great artist who can paint, with
colors of unparalleled brilliancy, whatever he chooses to place before our
eyes. He is called happiness; and God wishes him to walk beside us, both
in this world and the other.
The two dear children began to run as soon as they entered the court‐yard
of Muiceron. Jeannette was the first to spring across the threshold, and
fell speechless into her mother’s arms. Jean‐Louis quickly followed her,
and stood in the door‐way, holding out his hands to his parents. Then
there were cries, and tears, and confusion of kisses, and questions
without end and without reason. Their hearts overflowed. The little one,
as they always called the tall, handsome boy, was covered with caresses,
stifled with embraces quite overpowering; for country‐people drink in joy
by the bucketful and don’t put on gloves when they wish to show their
love. But you can imagine Jean‐Louis did not complain. M. le Curé alone
kept aside, with clasped hands, from time to time putting his handkerchief
to his eyes, and thanking God, while he waited his turn.
Gradually their happiness toned down a little; but the excitement was so
great, each one showed his joy in some particular manner. Old Ragaud
whirled around the room, took off his cap to smooth his hair, and replaced
it, all the while laughing as though he did not know precisely what he was
about; and Pierrette forgot to ask the children what they wished to eat,
which was a sure sign her head was completely turned. As for Jeannette, I
must tell you that, like all innocent, warm‐hearted young girls, she dared
act, in presence of her parents and M. le Curé, as she would not have done
alone with her brother; she threw her arms around his neck every half‐
second, and clung to him so closely he could not stir an inch. Jeannet did
not show greater timidity; seeing her act with such _naïveté_, he neither
frowned nor looked sour, but accepted willingly what was so sweetly
offered him.
Fortunately, Marion, whom no one thought of, and who bellowed with joy in
chorus with the others, came to her senses sooner than any of them, and
thought of the supper. Jeannet smelt the butter frying on the stove, and
acknowledged he was very hungry. This covered Pierrette with confusion.
She felt very guilty that she had so neglected her duties, and asked a
thousand pardons; but Jeannet laughed, as he kissed her, and told her not
to be excited, as he could easily wait until the next day, being only
really hungry to see and kiss her.
Ragaud would not let the dear _curé_ go home. It was right that he should
wait until the end of the feast; and as the good pastor, who always
thought of everything, expressed a fear that old Germaine might be anxious
about him, they despatched a stable‐boy, with the wagon and quickest mare
at Muiceron, to fetch her.
What a fine supper that was! All these good people recovered their
appetites, and ate and drank as they had not done for a long while. I
leave you to imagine the stories that were told of the revolution. But
Jeannet, not wishing to cloud their present joy, was careful to relate
events as though all had been a kind of child’s play. Jeannette, however,
paused more than once as she was about to take a mouthful. She felt that
Jean‐Louis stretched a point now and then for love of her, and she showed
her gratitude by looking tenderly at him, while she pressed his hand under
the table.
At the dessert, they formed plans. They talked of re‐establishing the old
order of things, of living together again in peace and harmony, and that
there should be no more separations. Ragaud, especially, dwelt at length,
and very particularly, upon the happy future in store for all of them;
threw meaning glances right and left, in which could be remarked much
hidden meaning and not a little white wine. Jeannette smiled, blushed,
looked down; and, I fancy, Jean‐Louis’ heart beat high with hope and
expectation of what was to follow.
The good man ended by being much affected, though he endeavored to pass it
all off as a joke; for it was his wish always to appear deaf to any kind
of sentiment.
“After all,” said he, tapping Jean‐Louis on the shoulder, “here is a boy
upon whom we cannot depend. He is here now at this very moment; but who
knows if to‐morrow he will not be out of sight as quickly as the stars
fall from the sky on an August night? Isn’t it so, M. le Curé?”
“It is just as you say, Ragaud,” replied the _curé_. “ ‘He who has drunk
will drink again,’ says the proverb; and as this little one went off once
without giving warning, how can we know but he will do it again?”
“Oh! what nonsense,” said Jeannet. “My dear parents, I will never leave
you again!”
“Hum!” replied Ragaud, “you said that a hundred times before, and then
what did we see? One fine morning, no Jeannet!”
“We must tie him,” said old Germaine, laughing; “when Jeannette misbehaved
in school, I used to tie her by the arm to an end of the bench.”
“I remember it well,” said Jeannette; “and more than once I broke the
string.”
“Then we must find some other means, if that will not do; think of
something, Germaine,” replied Ragaud, winking over at the children.
“Think yourself, M. Ragaud,” said she. “Are you not master here?”
“That depends,” replied Ragaud. “If I were master, I would say to Jean‐
Louis, Marry, my boy; when you will have a wife and children, they will
keep you in the country more than all the ropes, even that of our well.
But Jeannet has declared he will not hear of marriage; and here is Jeanne,
who can’t be relied upon for advice, as she said the same thing not more
than a month ago, in presence of M. le Curé; so we can’t sing that tune
any longer.”
“But how do you know? Perhaps by this time they have both changed their
minds,” said the _curé_, smiling.
“Let them say so, then,” replied Ragaud, his eyes beaming with paternal
tenderness that was delightful to see.
“O father!” said Jean‐Louis, rising, “if I dared to understand you, I
would be wild with joy!”
“If you can’t understand me, little one, Jeannette perhaps can be a little
quicker. Speak, Jeanneton!”
The child instantly understood his meaning. In a second she was beside
Jeannet, took his hand, and both knelt down before their father.
“My children, ask M. le Curé’s blessing before mine,” said Ragaud
solemnly. “He is the representative of the good God, and it is God who has
conducted all.”
It was a touching scene. The good _curé_ extended his trembling hands over
Jean‐Louis and Jeannette, who bent low before him, weeping; then Ragaud
did the same with great simplicity, which is the sign of true piety, and
then Pierrette took each of their dear heads in her arms, kissed them, and
said:
“My poor darlings! May God protect you all the days of your life! You have
wept so much, you deserve to be happy together.”
The poor children were overwhelmed with joy so deep and tranquil they
could neither move nor speak. They kept close together, and looked
tenderly at each other with eyes that said much. M. le Curé left them for
awhile to themselves and their new‐found happiness. He knew enough of the
human heart to understand that great display of affection, loud weeping,
and noisy parade of words and actions are often marks of a very little
fire in the soul; while love which has been proved by deeds, and which is
scarcely seen, is always very ardent. As he had never doubted that
Jeannet, hitherto so perfect, would show and feel sincere affection as a
lover, he was glad to see he was not mistaken, and regarded with much
pleasure this young couple, who were so well matched.
However, it was very easy to see our _curé_ had something to say. Jean‐
Louis and Jeannette had softly retreated to the corner near the sideboard,
a little out of sight of the parents; and we must imagine that, feeling
themselves a little more at ease thus sheltered from observation, the
faculty of speech returned to them, as they could be heard whispering and
laughing like children at recreation. It was so charming to see them thus
relieved from all their difficulties, and swimming in the full tide of
happiness, like fish in the river, no one had the courage to disturb them.
But our _curé_ had his own idea, and would not leave until he had made it
known; so, as he saw Jean‐Louis and Jeannette might chatter away a long
while, he rose, as if to say good‐night, which made all the rest rise;
for, although intensely happy, they did not forget to be civil.
“My children,” said the pastor, addressing the old as well as the young,
“I will go to sleep to‐night very happy. For forty years, come next All‐
Saints, that I have been your _curé_, never have I assisted at a betrothal
as consoling as yours, for which I will return thanks to God all my life.
You are going to marry as is seldom done in the world nowadays; that is to
say, with hearts even more full of esteem than of love, which enables me,
in the name of the Lord, to promise you as much happiness as can fall to
the lot of mortals here below. You know already that a house built without
foundation cannot stand, and that the grain sown in bad soil bears no
fruit. It is the same with the sacrament of marriage, when it is received
by a soul that is frivolous and vain, and feels neither regret for the
past nor makes good resolutions for the future. Oh! how happy I am I
cannot say this about you; and how my old heart, which has pitied all your
sufferings, now is gladdened at your happiness, well deserved by the piety
and resignation of the one and the sincere repentance of the other—this is
for our betrothed. Great disinterestedness, and all the domestic virtues
of a Christian life is the praise I unhesitatingly bestow upon you, the
good parents! But if this reward is beautiful, if nothing can exceed it,
since it is the pledge of a whole life of peace and happiness, know that
the Lord will not be surpassed in generosity, and that he has prepared a
delightful surprise by my mouth, which will be like the crowning bouquet
on the summit of an edifice just completed.
“My dear Ragaud, I speak now to you. Twenty years ago, when your generous
heart received, without the slightest hesitation, a poor, abandoned child,
it was an honorable and religious act, which deserved the warmest praise;
but to‐day, when you give your only daughter to this same child, from pure
esteem of his noble qualities, without regard to the gossip of the people
around, this second action surpasses the first in excellence, and deserves
a special recompense from our good God.
“Well! you will soon have it. Jean‐Louis, my child, as it is generally
said, there is no sky without clouds. Perhaps even at this moment your
heart may have a little secret grief; for it is not forbidden to feel an
honest wish to give the woman you love all possible honor; and that cannot
be done when one comes into the world without family or name.
“Alas! for the name. I cannot repair that misfortune; but for the family,
know, my friends, that the blood of him whom you call son and brother is
equal to yours. In the name of my conscience, I here declare that Jeannet
is the son of Catharine Luguet, who died in my arms sincerely repentant,
and most piously giving me perfect license to reveal this secret, confided
in confession, when I should judge it necessary. I have waited a long
time, and I do not regret it. At no other time, I think, could you have
been happier to hear me tell such good news. So, Ragaud, embrace your
nephew; and you, my daughter Jeannette, in taking a perfect husband, you
gain, at the same time, a good cousin. Too much happiness never hurts any
one!”
“Ah!” said Germaine, wiping her eyes, “it was worth while staying so late
to‐night. I have been tempted half a dozen times to tell what M. le Curé
has just made known; for I also received the secret from poor dear
Catharine, and even before my master, although I do not pretend to
interfere with his rights.”
“M. le Curé,” said Ragaud, “if I am very happy to learn that our dear
child belongs to us by nature as much as by friendship, believe me when I
say that I am most grateful to God that, without my knowing it, he allowed
me to repair the too great severity with which I formerly treated my
niece. Alas! I well remember it, and most sincerely do I regret it; and if
she gave us this handsome boy a little too soon, according to the laws of
God and man, I have no right to blame her, as I was the cause, from want
of gentleness and kindness! Come, my son,” added the good Christian,
extending his arms to Jeannet—“come, that I may ask your pardon in memory
of your poor mother.”
Jean‐Louis threw himself on his father’s breast, whom he could not yet
call _dear uncle_, while Jeannette added her embrace, giving herself up to
the full joy of _cousining_ her future husband. Pierrette had her full
share of kisses, you can well fancy. It was so delightful to feel that he
really had a family, and was bound to the country by ties of flesh and
blood, and also to know that he belonged to the best people in the
neighborhood, the Luguets and Ragauds, that Jeannet, who in his whole life
never had a spark of vanity, felt a little glow of excitement and
satisfaction, perfectly natural, flame up in his heart. But his beautiful
soul quickly drove out such a feeling, to which he already reproached
himself for having listened, even for a moment, although it could be
easily understood, and was honorable in itself. The remembrance of his
unknown mother, dying in sorrow and want, and who would have been so happy
could she have witnessed his present joy, surmounted any personal
satisfaction. He questioned M. le Curé, and spoke in the most tender and
respectful manner in memory of his poor mother, and wished to know every
detail of her death, which was sad, but very consoling at the same time.
Every one listened with much emotion to poor Catharine’s story. I doubt
not that God then permitted her to know something of the loving sympathy
and compassion that filled those kind, good hearts, which most certainly
must have added to her happiness; for, since the church commands us to
believe that souls cannot die, can it be wrong to think that they see and
hear us, when the Lord allows them?
Jeannette, while the _curé_ spoke, was often much confused when she
thought of the dangerous result of coquetry, wilfulness, and too great
love of one’s own pretty face and fine dresses. She felt how kind God had
been to her, that she had not gone the same way as Catharine Luguet; for
she had walked down the same path, and had nearly fallen as low as she.
By way of recovering her spirits, she embraced Jeannet, and promised she
would be a good housekeeper, and nothing else.
“And also a pretty little wife, that will make me very happy,” replied
Jeannet, pressing her to his heart.
“Now,” said Pierrette, who for several moments had been very silent and
thoughtful, “I have just found out something that makes me feel how stupid
I am. I never before noticed that Jeannet is the living image of his dear
departed mother.”
“It is fortunate, Mme. Ragaud,” said Germaine, “that you have just
perceived it, after seeing him twenty years; for, in truth, the likeness
is so striking it has caused M. le Curé and me much embarrassment. It was
so easily seen that I prayed God would protect him in case of discovery;
and if there is one miracle in the whole story, it is that such a strong
resemblance did not sooner strike you.”
As it had just been mentioned, in the course of the story, that Catharine
Luguet, in her day, was the most beautiful girl in the country, this
declaration made Jeannet blush, and I dare not affirm it was not from
pleasure. They discovered, also, that Solange had a strong family
likeness, and Pierrette, more and more astonished, acknowledged it was
true, and that she was as stupid as an owl.
They had to separate at last, although no one felt the least fatigued; but
they had had enough for one day, and a little sleep after these heavy
showers of happiness would injure none of them.
As the surprises were not yet over, Jeannet had another charming one when
he saw his room newly painted and papered, and his bed, with white
curtains, perfumed with the iris‐root that our housekeepers love to use in
the wash. They installed him like a prefect on a tour of inspection, with
a procession of lights, and wishes of good‐night, and what do you want,
and there it was, and here it is; and if he slept quietly is something I
cannot say positively; but, at any rate, you needn’t worry about his eyes,
whether they were open or shut. What I can swear to is that his good angel
watched joyfully by his bedside, and took care to drive off all bad
dreams.
XXIII.
Now, I might make my bow, and wish you good‐night in my turn; for I think
you are satisfied with the fate of the little ones, and need have no
further anxiety on their account. But just as two beautiful roses in a
bouquet appear still more beautiful when they are surrounded by other
flowers and green leaves that rejoice the eye, so our friends will lose
nothing if I represent them to you for the last time among the companions
of their adventures who have served as an escort during the whole recital.
Consequently, if you will be patient a moment and listen to me, I will
tell you what became of the people and things that have remained in the
background for some time.
In the first place, according to the proverb, “Give every man his due.”
So we will commence with our good master, M. le Marquis, whom we left, if
you remember, wounded in the arm and seated on a log near the barricade in
the bloody days of June.
This wound, which was believed to be nothing, became inflamed and very
dangerous, owing to the great excitement of the patient and the extreme
heat of the summer. The poor marquis was obliged to keep his bed for a
long time, and they even feared they would be obliged to amputate the arm.
When the physicians made the proposition, he sprang up with a start on his
couch, and, weak and feverish as he was, did not hesitate to tell them, in
the most emphatic manner, that the first one who mentioned it again would
go out of the window with one turn of the hand that was still sound. They
advised him to be quiet and calm himself, all the while giving him to
understand there was no hope for him—which, in my opinion, was not the
best means of soothing him; but doctors never wish to be thought in the
wrong, and, without meaning to offend any one, I may say very many of us
are doctors on that point.
Our master was brave. He contented himself with saying:
“I prefer to be buried with two arms, rather than to live with one.”
“That depends on taste,” replied Michou, who nursed his master with loving
fidelity; “but he must not be contradicted.”
When the doctors left, M. le Marquis said to Michou:
“Come here, old fellow; these idiots of Parisians know as much about
revolutions and medicine as planting cabbages. Send for Dr. Aubry. I can
get along with him.”
M. Aubry was summoned by telegraph, and God so willed it that scarcely had
he seen the wound of M. le Marquis than he shrugged his shoulders, and
said he would answer for him; and added, with much satisfaction, that one
had to come to Paris to find doctors that talked like asses and acted like
butchers.
He made them bring him a quantity of pounded ice, which he applied to the
wounded arm, and took care that our master always kept a piece in his
mouth. In that way his blood was refreshed, and there was no longer danger
of the flesh mortifying. He added to this remedy another potion not less
wonderful, which was to distract the mind of the marquis by telling him
night and day—for he never slept—all kinds of stories, sometimes lively,
sometimes serious, but always suitable to his state; and so kept him
constantly amused and interested, which prevented him from thinking of his
poor arm. At the end of a week, he was out of danger, and he could get up,
eat the breast of a chicken, and think of going out in a few days. If I
would be a little malicious, I could tell you that the Parisian doctors
were not very well pleased at the triumph of their country colleague, and
perhaps would have been more content to see our master dead than their
prophecies frustrated; but I had better be silent than wanting in charity,
and therefore I prefer to let you think what you please about them.
Poor mademoiselle and Dame Berthe, during this painful time of anxiety,
acted admirably and showed great devotion and love. It was then seen that,
although they had their little defects on the surface, their souls were
generous and good. The old governess forgot her scarfs and embroideries,
and devoted herself to making lint, and no longer indulged in dreams of
the king’s entrance into Paris, but constantly recited fervent prayers,
which had not, I assure you, “the cause” in view. Mademoiselle received a
salutary blow. She became, through this trouble, serious and recollected;
began to see that in Paris nothing is thought of but pleasure and fine
toilets, and that, after all, at Val‐Saint there were a thousand ways of
passing her life in a pleasant way worthy of a Christian whom God had so
liberally endowed with riches.
One day, when she had gone out to pray and weep in a neighboring church,
she returned with her eyes radiant with joy, and said to Dame Berthe:
“All will be right. My father will be cured. I cannot explain to you why I
am so confident, but I am sure of it. When I was in the church before the
altar of the Blessed Virgin, the idea entered into my head to make a vow;
and I have promised to return to the country, and remain there the rest of
my life, to work for the poor, and to occupy myself with all other kinds
of good works, as my mother used to. I have too long neglected to follow
her example, and henceforth I will act differently. I depend upon your
assistance.”
Dame Berthe nearly fainted with admiration of her pupil’s saintliness. As
she was naturally very good, she was impressed with the beauty of the
project, and promised to do all in her power to aid her.
After that, mademoiselle looked like another person. She visited churches
and chapels, conferred with pious priests; and as monsieur improved every
day, he could accompany her in the carriage; and she took great pleasure
in confiding to him her new plans, proving to him that he could be much
more useful to “the cause” by instructing the peasants in politics than by
fighting the rabble in Paris; that, by his great wealth and the high
esteem in which he was held, he could make himself still more beloved; and
that, when they loved him, they would love the nobility which he
represented; so that when the time came—and it would not be far off—for
the triumph of his hopes, he could offer to the king a faithful population
devoted to good principles, which was scarcely possible in the present
state of affairs.
As she was in this happy frame of mind, you can imagine with what joy
mademoiselle received the news of the engagement of Jean‐Louis and Jeanne.
She immediately wrote a letter on the subject which deserved to be put
under glass and framed in gold; for not only did she congratulate the
Ragauds with the greatest affection, but she humbly accused herself of
having nearly ruined the happiness of her god‐daughter, and thanked God he
had directed all in a manner so contrary to her wishes. When you think
that this high‐born young lady spoke thus to the little daughter of a
farmer on her estate, we must admire the miracles of the religion which
teaches us that those who humble themselves shall be exalted; and I add,
for the benefit of those who fancy themselves lovers of equality, and talk
all kind of nonsense about it, that there never would have been the
slightest chance of planting a seed of it in the hearts of men, even
though it were no bigger than a grain of millet, if they had not
beforehand received instructions on that virtue from our dear mother, the
church.
About a month afterwards, M. le Marquis being perfectly cured, they all
returned to Val‐Saint; and it is unnecessary to say how universal was the
joy. It is equally useless to tell you that their first occupation was the
marriage of our children, which was so beautiful, so joyous, so enlivened
with the music of violins and songs, it resembled that of a prince and
princess in Mother Goose. During a whole week, the boys of the
neighborhood beat tin pans and fired off guns under the windows of
Muiceron, as signs of honor and rejoicing. With us peasants, joy is always
rather noisy, but, at least, it can be heard very far; and, besides, as we
don’t often have a chance of amusing ourselves, it is best to let us have
our own way.
There remains very little more for me to say, except that mademoiselle
persevered in her laudable resolutions, and became the angel of Val‐Saint.
One of her first good acts was to buy the house of the unfortunate
Perdreaux, which, since the sad end of its masters, had remained deserted
and shut up, no one daring to put it up at auction. Mademoiselle sent for
workmen, who soon transformed it into a fine school‐house, divided into
two parts by a garden, where nothing was spared in fruit‐trees, flowers,
and vegetables. The following year the school was ready for occupation,
and the Sisters were placed in charge of the girls, and a good teacher
over the boys. By good luck, they were able to obtain Solange, who came
among the first. Thus all our friends met again, and formed one family, of
which the good God was the true father.
M. le Curé was very old when he died, and Germaine soon followed him. This
good pastor left many regrets which are not yet assuaged; but he departed
from this world happy that he saw all his children around him leading
good, holy lives; and at the moment he expired, they heard him softly
repeat the _Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine, secundum verbum tuum in
pace_—which is a prayer of compline, printed in all the Breviaries.
Muiceron continued to prosper under the management of good Jeannet and his
dear wife. The Ragauds passed their old age in a dream of happiness, free
from clouds, amidst the love and respect of the community. Pierrette, who
had never sinned but from weakness of heart, was never cured of this
defect. On the contrary, it increased; and she devoted herself so
completely to spoiling the beautiful children that Jeanne gave her, that
more than once the parents had to cry, Stop! But aside from these little
troubles, which did not cause much difficulty, peace and concord never
ceased to reign in this house of benediction.
As the last flower in the crown, I will tell you that M. Aubry, who was
not remarkable for devotion, was taken in hand by Sister Solange, and
quietly converted. He swore a little at first, as might have been
expected, and said it was a shame, at his age, to fall into the net of a
doctor in _cornette_ and petticoats, at whose birth he had been present,
and whom he had vaccinated; but the end of all was, the _cornette_ led him
by the nose to Mass and confession, where he was seen to weep, although he
tried to be very firm. As he was a good man, frank and open in all he did,
once the step was taken, he did not go back; and I knew him a long while,
and never saw him act but like a perfect Christian.
And now, at this late hour, I pray that God may send down upon you, as
well as myself, his choicest blessings, without which, you may truly
believe, there is nothing worth living for here below.
Public Worship.
Few observing persons have failed to remark the great change which within
a few years has been wrought in the ideas of people at large in regard to
public worship. It is not confined to any one of the religious
denominations around us. It pervades all, from the High‐Church
Episcopalian to those who still cling to the law of Moses. Insensibly, it
may be, but surely, the growth has all been in one direction, as surely as
the germ in the earth pushes towards the light.
Time was when the plain, unadorned meeting‐house of the Society of Friends
seemed the type all sought to attain in architecture; painting and
decoration would have caused a thrill of horror; Gothic architecture, with
groined roof and stained glass, were as far removed from the thoughts and
ideas as the Crusades; and if the sister art of music was admitted within
the portals of the room reserved for worship, the execution was of such a
fearful character that Old Folks’ Concerts make it a sure guide to
success, to mimic, for the amusement of this generation, the strange
religious music of half a century ago.
Then religion, as expressed in public worship, was plain, stern, hard,
unsympathetic, responsive to none of the finer feelings, the loftier
aspirations, the panting hopes of human nature feeling its misery, but
still looking heavenward.
Now the change has come. Insensibly, almost unconsciously, they have all
more or less come to confess their error. Just as they are returning to
the genuine Lord’s Prayer, after inflicting a spurious one on their
votaries for three centuries; just as they are returning to the true
reading of the Greek Testament, after three centuries’ bondage to the
Received Text, so they are returning, after three centuries of dry, hard,
formal worship, to something more in unison with man’s nature, man’s soul,
and man’s heart.
But how? The Reformation, that stern, matter‐of‐fact revolt, not only
stripped religion of all its poetry, whether manifested in the carven
stone, the painted glass or canvas, the strains of more than earthly
music, but it did more: it struck at the life of worship; and the present
movement which has made synagogues into temples and meeting‐houses into
churches—the work of men who “builded better than they knew”—yet is but a
factitious life; it is placing artificial fruit and leaves and flowers on
a dead trunk that has no vivifying sap to send through all the full,
gushing tide of life.
What is public worship?
Is there really a question of the day that can be brought home to
practical men like our American countrymen more distinctly than this? Long
creeds and the discussion of their various points, the old controversies
and chopping of texts, seem to have become singularly distasteful to the
men of our day. But the divine worship is a point that, presented squarely
and plainly, is easily grasped, and really involves in itself everything.
It is the generating principle, the fountain of faith and works.
About a century ago, in London, the question of worship was debated by
some of the leading ministers of the day, and the pamphlets form volumes.
A more vague series of arguments on all sides can scarcely be found; all
seemed to turn round and round the text that men were to “worship God in
spirit and truth,” but in what precise way was a matter none seemed able
to approach, even in the most remote manner. What constituted practically
the public worship of the Almighty seemed to be a point that was utterly
indefinite and indefinable.
Suppose, now, we were to ask the clergymen or laymen of the denominations
around us, What is the essential element of public worship, as
distinguished, on the one hand, from preaching, and on the other from
family worship of prayer? What would the answer be?
Public worship has, in common ideas, come to be almost identical with
preaching. The preacher makes the church; his popularity is its success;
with his decline in health, vigor, or voice, the church begins to melt
away, and a new preacher has to be evoked to give it life. But oral
instruction of the people, laudable as it may be, is not public worship;
it is addressed to the people, while worship is addressed to God. The
prevailing confusion of ideas on this point has turned the extemporaneous
prayers which in form are still addressed to the Deity really into appeals
to the people; so that the reporter who spoke of a prayer as being the
most eloquent ever addressed to a Boston congregation was correct in fact,
though the form was against him.
Preaching does not constitute public worship. The object of preaching is
the people; the object of worship is God.
What, then, is the essential element? Prayer recited or chanted—prayer
extemporaneous or in forms grown venerable by use, is common alike to
public and private worship, to the worship of the individual in his
closet, the family, or the gathering of families. It cannot be the
essential element of public worship. What, then, is the essential element,
or, if there be none, how can this public worship have any claim on the
individual that may not be satisfied by him alone, as in the case of Dr.
Bellows’ preferring isolation on the steamer’s deck to joining in the
religious exercises carried on below?
But there is certainly an obligation to render public worship to the
Almighty. The Sabbath rest prescribed by the Mosaic law was negative and
subsidiary to the positive command to worship God. It did not tell what
was to be done; that was provided elsewhere with the most detailed
injunctions.
Even as ideas have changed on one point, so they have on another.
With the Reformers of the XVIth century, faith was all and everything. Now
we have reached a time when faith has lost its ground; and, in the
thousands around us, nine out of ten will tell you that it makes no
difference what a man believes; if his life is right, he is safe. But yet
they make a distinction in works. It is not all works that have value in
the eyes of the world; it is those of benevolence—the corporal works of
mercy. They will shrug their shoulders and allow some little value to the
spiritual works of mercy, but it will not be much. Yet these works of
mercy, whether corporal or spiritual, have for their object our neighbor.
There is, however, a higher class of works—those which have God for their
object.
Good works towards God! some will exclaim; what need has God of our good
works? The need may be on our side, and the question is not one of need,
but of duty on our part.
Love is the fulfilling of the law—“he that loveth me keepeth my
commandments.” The Commandments to be kept, the works to be done, are
written on the two tables of the law; and the works to be done towards God
form the first and greater Commandment, and foremost on it—first of the
good works of which God is the object—is worship, public and private.
Have not common ideas, then, perverted the whole order? With the higher
appreciation of good works that is growing so visibly will come a logical
placing of them. The first table will reassert its rights; the great good
work towards God, public worship, will take its rightful place, and be
regarded as the great, imperative act on the part of man.
If so important, it must have its distinctive characteristics, its
essential elements—some thymiama exclusively assigned to it, never given,
we say, not to any mean use, but to high or holy use or honor of anything
that is not God.
Should no one around us tell what this element is, we must go back to the
past. The first Commandment, in its positive form, is: “The Lord thy God
thou shalt adore, and him only shalt thou serve.” In what essentially does
this adoration and service consist?
If we open the two oldest books we have—the Bible, record of a people who
preserved their faith in God; Homer, describing the life of a nation
fallen so early into idolatry that it preserved no tradition of the time
when the unity of God was acknowledged—if we open these to see what in the
earliest ages constituted divine worship, we find the answer clear and
plain—Sacrifice.
Leave the shores of the Mediterranean, strike to India, China, the islands
of the Pacific, and ask what constitutes public worship, the answer still
is, Sacrifice. Reach the western shores of America, question every tribe,
from the more savage nomads of the north and south to the more cultured
Aztecs, to the subjects of the Incas, and the answer never varies; it is,
Sacrifice.
Cross the Atlantic as you crossed the Pacific, the Celts of the Isles and
of Gaul, Scandinavian and German, repeat the burden, Sacrifice, till you
come again to the tents of the patriarchs on the plains of the Euphrates
or Jordan.
And what was sacrifice? A rite cruel, repugnant to all our ideas—one that
could not spring from man himself. It was the offering of an inferior life
to the offended Deity as a substitute for man’s life forfeited by sin—a
substitute deriving its value from a human life that was one day to
appease the Almighty absolutely.
The whole system is strange, yet the whole is universal. Before man slew
the beasts of the field for food, he slew them on the altar. Not Cain,
unaccepted of God, offers this bloody sacrifice. Doubly the type of sinful
man—sinful by descent and by act—Cain offers the fruits of the earth—badge
of sin and toil and sweat of brow; while Abel, pure and gentle, slays the
lamb that gambols affectionately around him—slays it to find favor with a
God of love. It could not have entered into the heart of man to conceive
this. Nothing less than a primitive revelation and command can explain
sacrifice—that offering of domestic animals as a type of the great atoning
sacrifice of the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world.
No matter how widely removed from the original seat of the race, no matter
how low in the grade of civilization, every known tribe on earth has a
worship and has sacrifices. The red men of our own land were long
considered as an anomaly in this respect; but they really had the whole
idea of sacrifice. One example will show it. When F. Jogues, the pioneer
priest of New York, was taken by the Mohawks in 1642, and reduced to the
condition of a slave, he attended a hunting party of the tribe. Ill
success in war and hunt had befallen the Mohawks, and, ascribing it to
their offended deity, they offered to this demon Aireskoi two bears with
this prayer: “Justly dost thou punish us, O demon Aireskoi!... We have
sinned against thee, in that we ate not the last captives thrown into our
hands; but if we shall ever again capture any, we promise to devour them
as we now consume these two bears”—recognizing the idea of substitution
and the efficacy of human blood as the great means of reconciliation. And
the missionary, to his horror, saw two women sacrificed and eaten in
fulfilment of this vow.
While the temple of Jerusalem stood, the Greek, the Roman, the Egyptian,
the Gaul, and the German would, on entering, have seen naught removed from
their ideas in the sacrifice offered. They might have wondered at the size
and beauty of the temple, the rich vestments of the sons of Aaron; they
might have been filled with awe at the absence of the image of the deity
worshipped there so grandly; but in the great rite of sacrifice, there was
nothing that was not familiar to them. In this the pagan nations were
still in harmony with the divine institution; and in default of the Mosaic
revelation, its appositeness could be proved by the common consent of
mankind in a matter inexplicable except on the supposition of a primitive
revelation.
The nearer and more striking the resemblance between the pagan sacrifices
and those of the people of God, the greater the evidence they bear to
corroborate it. Error may be old, but truth is older.
What, then, is the meaning of this ancient worship? The answer is plain:
“Jesus Christ, yesterday and to‐day and for ever”—“the Lamb slain from the
foundation of the world,” whose death was, when once accomplished in act,
to be thenceforward shown forth until he came.
The offering on Calvary alone gave life and efficacy to all the sacrifices
of Adam, of the patriarchs before and after the Flood, of the sacrifices
of Abraham, and those who, in his day, still believed in the true God, in
the sacrifices of the law promulgated by Moses.
Their sacrifices were but types and figures—substitutes for that which was
to be accomplished in the person of the Messias; when that was once
accomplished, it became the act of public worship, to be offered by man to
the end of time.
The public worship of the new law is the sacrifice of Calvary, not
renewed, not repeated—for “Christ dieth now no more”—but “shown forth,”
made sensible.
The essential element of public worship is the death of the Man‐God on
Calvary; and under the new law, this must be shown in something higher and
nobler than the types and animal sacrifices of the old law. It is the one
sufficient act of worship, fulfilling all the intentions and designs of
the ancient typical sacrifices—adoration, praise, thanksgiving,
propitiation, and impetration. No public worship that does not directly
connect itself with this great sacrifice can be at all a public worship
acceptable to God.
The Almighty has certainly instituted a worship showing forth this death,
and that alone will he accept.
Man cannot set up a public worship for himself. Worship is a debt which
man owes to the Most High, and it is not for the debtor to fix the mode of
paying that debt. In the discussion alluded to already, they frequently
quoted the words of Jesus to the Samaritan woman, but overlooked the great
lesson of that whole incident. When that erring woman, pressed hard on her
moral delinquency, changed the subject, with womanly adroitness, to the
great religious division between the Jews and Samaritans, she asked: “Our
fathers adored on this mountain; and you say that at Jerusalem is the
place that men must adore”—meaning, evidently, “offer the sacrifices of
the law.”
Christ answered: “Salvation is with the Jews.” The Mosaic church was the
ark, and out of it there was no salvation. And yet the Samaritans had,
according to modern ideas, every requisite. They had the law of Moses, and
revered and followed it closely; they had priests of the sons of Aaron,
won to their side; they offered all the sacrifices commanded by the law,
and as the law commanded; and they had and exercised the right of private
judgment in the matter of the place. And precisely this last point
vitiated the whole, and made their sacrifices utterly worthless in the
eyes of God. They did not conduce to salvation. To be in the way of
salvation, they must be in communion with the high‐priest at Jerusalem,
and their sacrifices could not be vivified by man or angel. They were
worthless. “Salvation was with the Jews.”
The essential element of public worship is, then, the sacrifice of
Calvary; and the public worship of the new law must be connected with that
act by divine institution. No institution devised by private judgment,
however seemingly fit to human eyes, can have any real value. It is not
for man to make, by his private judgment, a form of public worship that
will avoid the sentence, “Salvation is not in it.” As the figurative
sacrifices of the old law derived their value from divine institution as
typical of Calvary, so the public worship of the new law must be connected
with Calvary by divine institution.
Now, in the popular forms of public worship in our days, there is no
essential element, either of divine or human creation, to connect it with
Calvary. It is inferior even to the Samaritan worship, which Christ so
decisively condemned. What claims, then, can it have?
The Catholic who is asked why he cannot attend a Protestant worship finds
his answer here. “Why,” it will be said, “there can be no harm in it.
Reading the Scriptures, singing psalms out of Holy Writ, and a moral
explanation of some part of Scripture cannot but be good.” Even supposing
the explanation to contain nothing contrary to faith, a Catholic cannot
accept it. It is not of God’s institution, and, as unauthorized and human,
must be rejected of God. There was no detail in the Samaritan worship that
a Jew could condemn, yet he had to condemn it as a whole; for, by God’s
institution, all this, done on Mount Sion, was acceptable to him and
contributed to salvation; done elsewhere, was repugnant and availed not.
So absolute is the necessity of adhering to divine institution to give any
value to our religious acts that we see in the Acts that the Jewish
priests, whose authority had been so fully sustained, were, by the
institution of the priesthood of the new law, superseded; and when they
attempted to exercise functions under the new law, the very devils laughed
them to scorn. If men of a priesthood instituted by God had thus lost
power, how could men self‐constituted make themselves more acceptable, or
create a form of worship that could be acceptable, to God?
Nor can any such power exist in the civil authority, be it emperor, king,
parliament, or congress. Saul, usurping the headship of the church and the
functions of the priesthood, only drew down judgment on himself, and his
race ceased to rule over the people.
The only example in the old law that even remotely resembles the liberty
assumed in the last centuries by men to form modes of worship is that of
Michas in the Book of Judges, who made his own god, his own temple, his
worship, and constituted one of his sons as priest till he was able to
obtain an apostate Levite.
Man, of himself, would have as much right to make his god like Michas as
to make his worship. He can make neither, and cannot give saving power to
his form of worship any more than he can divinity to the deity his brain
may devise.
Let us, then, see whether there exists under the new law an institution in
which the one great sacrifice of Calvary is made perpetually present to
the end of time. The Reformers, before introducing their own experimental
forms of public worship, since so varied—now reduced to the plainest form,
then more cheering, but all based on the synagogue service of the Jews,
which was not divine worship, as the temple service was—rejected a form of
public worship coeval and coextensive with Christendom, full of the spirit
and echo of the temple service of Jerusalem, that was really and solely
divine worship—they rejected the Mass.
The Jews even now recognize that their synagogue service is not worship;
they still admit the necessity of a sacrifice, as witness one of the most
common forms of prayer offered up in the synagogue: “O Lord, in the time
when the temple stood, when a sin was committed the guilty one brought
sacrifices, and it was atoned unto him; but now, through our sins, we have
no temple, no altar, no priests to offer up sacrifices which shall atone
for our sins. Let the remembrance of our prayers, of the many prayers we
offer up, O Lord, be acceptable in the place of sacrifices.”
There had been heresies and schisms before the XVIth century. They had
been almost countless; but Arian and Pelagian, Donatist and Nestorian, all
retained the Mass, the authority of all tradition, in Asia, Europe, and
Africa, making it too daring an attempt for any to endeavor to modify or
abolish it. By the concurrent testimony of all Christians of every tongue
and land the Mass was the public worship of God, instituted by the
apostles under the command of Jesus Christ and the direction of the Holy
Ghost; and to this day it is retained in the Oriental lands, where the
apostles and their immediate successors preached, although many of those
countries have for centuries rejected the spiritual authority of Rome, and
would not adopt the slightest form or ceremony peculiar to the Latin
Church.
A movement against the Mass could not arise in any of these lands. It
could arise only in nations just emerged from the darkness of paganism,
with its spirit still strong within them, and with no apostolic tradition
to inspire them with reverence.
The German race, last to accept the Gospel, was the first to reject it.
The Real Presence was denied, and with that dogma they cast aside the Mass
as the great act of public worship, and the whole theory of the Christian
priesthood. In England alone an attempt was made to keep a hollow form and
a compromise which James I. sneeringly styled an ill‐said Mass.
In each country, government or individuals then attempted to get up
something to take the place of the public worship which had for fifteen
centuries gathered Christians around the altar of God, and, while all
cried for liberty, made the new forms obligatory by civil law; and in
England, the government, by fine and imprisonment, compelled men to go to
the churches torn from Catholic worship, in order to follow the newly‐
devised common prayer; and in New England, men who turned with loathing
from this, punished just as stringently all who dissented from the
standing order or refused to attend the congregational form of worship.
Yet both were confessedly mere human inventions, to which no more divine
sanction could be ascribed than to the form of opening a court of justice.
Of course the first generation of the Reformed recollected the old
Catholic worship, and kept up some resemblance to it; but as the memory
died away, one point after another was cast aside, till every original
trace was lost, and everything was made as bald and plain as possible.
Then a new great discovery was made. Satisfied with their own position,
they looked at the Catholic worship, now become strange and wonderful in
their eyes, and they discovered a striking analogy between it and pagan
worship. Middleton, in the last century, expatiated wonderfully on the
point; and our readers know how offensively our fluent, superficial
Prescott, in his _Conquest of Mexico_, draws the comparison. But these men
never seem to have thought that God might have his own views of his own
worship, and that he could not have left the world without a guide on this
point; they forgot that one fully explained type of worship of the ante‐
Christian era was before us to guide us in our search.
Take one of our average countrymen, from Prescott’s own State, and set him
down in the temple of Jerusalem while the high‐priest was still offering
the sacrifices of the law. What would his impressions be? He would
certainly deem it a very pagan affair; the architecture would, in his
eyes, be unsuited to a meeting‐house; the vestments heathenish or—what to
him would perhaps be synonymous—popish; the incense clearly so; and a
radical defect in the whole would be, in his eyes, that the congregation
took no part, and that the building was not adapted to preaching.
If, at the morning hour of prayer, or when the shadow of Mount Sion fell
lengthening towards the Mediterranean, he entered the sacred enclosure,
and beheld the priest, in rich robe, enter, incense in hand, to offer it
on the golden altar, while the people were kept rigorously without, he
would have found it sadly at variance with his ideas.
If, as the sun began to gild the golden face of the tower, he saw a devout
Jew coming with his wife and little ones, bearing in his arms a lamb, to
have it offered in sacrifice for him or some sick child at home, and
taking back part to eat as part of the religious rite, he would think all
this needed reforming, and that it was very nearly as bad as the popish
way of having Masses said.
The only question would be whether the Almighty was wrong, or whether his
own stand‐point was utterly wrong.
Certainly, neither in the Jewish temple service nor in the worship of any
pagan nation could he find the type of his own. The pagan had strong and
striking resemblances with the Jewish; the worship of Christendom grew out
of the Jewish temple service.
To this day chants echo through Catholic aisles that were first heard on
Mount Sion. To the Catholic the old temple service would be intelligible;
the edifice, the vestments, the incense, the priestly performing of a
great act, would all be in harmony with ideas with which he had been
imbued from youth; to him there would be the most natural of natural
things in having sacrifice offered for him or his; he would kneel without
in the crowd, offering, through the priest within, the smoking
incense—offering it, as each one around him did, for his own wants of soul
or body. In all the ideas of worship of the Jew he would be at home, and
could join in the same spirit in every religious act that marked life from
circumcision till the Kadisch, or prayer for the dead, poured forth beside
the grave in the valley of Josaphat.
Those who find the Catholic worship too like the pagan would have
condemned the divinely‐instituted worship of the Mosaic law as still more
like it. That paganism bears its testimony to the Catholic worship is an
argument in its favor, not against it; for the pagan worship was a divine
institution, perverted more in its object than in its form. Had it been
purely the coinage of man’s brain, of man’s private judgment—one of those
ways that seem right unto a man, though the ends thereof lead to
death—there would be no such resemblance.
Is it not a striking fact that the Catholic, trained to the worship of his
church, would be at home in the temple of Jerusalem during that divinely‐
instituted worship, while to the Protestant it would be utterly repugnant?
The Mass in Latin, Greek, Coptic, Armenian, Abyssinian, Sclavonic, is
almost identical, and in all rites claims to have been instituted by the
apostles by divine authority. The form is the same, though varying parts
have varied. The Jewish worship was simply action; the Christian worship
has, from the earliest period, combined action and a form of words. The
language of the Mass is older than any of the books of the New Testament.
Is it unworthy of the great act? The answer will best be a challenge to
produce anything, from the days of the Reformation, which can at all
approach it in grandeur; in its recognition of all the attributes of God
and of the nothingness of man in his sight; in all and everything that
could embody the idea of worship. It has, perhaps, the most sublime
thought ever written. Longinus quoted the “Let there be light, and there
was light,” as a sublime thought that paganism admired. Yet this record of
the creative act is less sublime than “We thank thee for thy great glory.”
That man, the creature of God, should thank him for existence, for his
intellect and body, for truth imparted, for life, health, happiness, for
loved ones and their love, for all the blessings ever bestowed on him, or,
soaring higher, ever bestowed on men and angels, might be admirable; but
when man, losing sight entirely of himself and of all created things,
looks up to God, and, overwhelmed with love, thanks him for his great
glory, for his attributes, for being what he is, he soars from the depths
of nothingness to the height of sublimity. One of the modern objections to
religion is its selfish character; the Mass answers this by its utter
abnegation of self, just as it formally disavows the sufficiency of human
works.
The action is worthy of divine worship. A man stands at the altar, not
self‐instituted, but called as Aaron and his race were—stands there with
powers traced back through the apostles to Christ. He approaches as a
sinner among sinners, acknowledging his unworthiness, striking his breast
with the publican, not vaunting himself with the Pharisee. Then follow
soon the glorious canticle, in which the sinner rises, in thought and
hope, to God, prayer, lessons from the Old Testament or the New, a portion
of the gospels, a solemn profession of faith. Then properly begins the
Sacrifice, at which, in early days, only the baptized could be present,
and not even such of them as were subjects of public penance.
Bread and wine appear on the altar. Even among the pagans, fruits of the
earth were offered to inferior deities alone. In the Bible, they mark the
sinful race, like Cain, or men without the chosen people, like
Melchisedec. It is in itself an inferior offering, and bears the stamp of
man’s fall. Bread and wine are doubly suggestive. It is not merely fruits
of the earth raised by man’s toil and the sweat of his brow; it is food
prepared by still further toil.
The priest stands there as the type of fallen man, with such offering as
fallen man can give; but if this were all, his sacrifice would be but that
of Melchisedec. His language shows that the sacrifice has, so to speak, no
beginning or end; that it is one act, and that time is not regarded. The
bread and wine are treated, not as what they are, but what they are to
become. It is not that the sacrifice of guilty Cain may become that of the
pious Abel, the sacrifice of the uncalled Melchisedec become that of
Abraham the elect; not that this sacrifice of fallen man may become the
Paschal lamb, but Christ our Pasch himself; and such it is in thought
already when the priest offers the bread as an immaculate host, and the
wine as the chalice of salvation—offers them for his own sins and those of
all Christians; for the salvation of those present and that of the whole
world. He offers it again in memory of the passion, resurrection, and
ascension of our Lord, and in honor of all who have faithfully served him
on earth.
He never separates himself from the people for whom he offers it. From the
commencement to the end, it is their sacrifice and his; in fact, as if to
prevent any forgetfulness of this, he turns, as the awful moment of
consecration approaches, to say: “Brethren, pray that my sacrifice and
yours may be acceptable to God, the Father Almighty.”
Then, with the Preface that sounds like the triumphant march of an
approaching monarch, comes the consecration. The types of sinful man
disappear, and Jesus Christ is all. He is the priest; he is the victim. He
makes the only oblation that can take away sin. He offers the only victim
which can render his Eternal Father due adoration, homage, and honor;
which can alone call down graces and blessings.
The priest and people, adoring the divine High‐Priest and Victim, offer
through him that sacrifice of Calvary for all mankind, for the living and
the dead, for the church and all its members. Then, repeating the prayer
he himself enjoined, the divine Victim is consumed, and the solemn rite
hastens to a close.
Sublime in its conception, sublime in all its parts, sublime alike in
action and in words, the world has never beheld a more adequate public
worship of God. In itself, in its antiquity, its wide extent, it is one of
the strongest arguments in favor of the church. Its wonderful adaptability
to all nations and all conditions of social elevation are no less
striking. A public worship, in which the most polished and cultivated
minds of civilized nations can join, absorbed and taking part, while the
poor peasant enters as well into its spirit, and offers it for all his
wants; a sacrifice that can come home to the savage and the sage, to men
of the frozen North and the parching tropics, which makes the church a
home in all lands where not a syllable uttered in the streets falls
familiar on the ear—such is the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass of the Catholic
Church—a worship distinct from any other service, offered to God alone,
and combining in the highest degree everything that can be conceived as
fitting in that great act—divine institution, the character of sacrifice,
identity with the oblation of Calvary—the only adequate worship ever
offered to God.
The Answered Prayer.
“Mortal cannot make
Conditions with the Creator.”—_Schiller._
Into my broken heart
Pour gracious balm,
Where the deep waters start
Breathe holy calm;
Over my weary life
Shed deep repose,
Shelter me from the strife,
Baffle my foes!
I have not shunned my task
Early or late;
I have not turned to ask
“Wherefore?” of fate.
Only one cry went up,
Hopeless at length—
“Father! to drink thy cup
Grant me thy strength.”
Now at the last I stand
Waiting from heaven,
Patient, with outstretched hand,
Alms never given!
Grant me, O God! I pray,
One answ’ring sign
Ere I withdraw for aye!
Speak! Am I thine?
Cometh the sign at last—
Bolt hot and red,
Falling to crush and blast
Desolate head;
Driving the cowering form
Wildly across
Life’s heath, through flood and storm,
On—to the cross!
The Veil Withdrawn.
Translated, By Permission, From The French of Madame Craven, Author Of “A
Sister’s Story,” “Fleurange,” Etc.
IV.
From that day I resumed my former habits, and, except the liveliness of my
childhood, which had disappeared never to return, I became almost the same
as before. This sudden and unhoped‐for restoration brought cheerfulness
once more to our gloomy house, and a ray of joy to the sad, anxious face
of my father. I say anxious; for it was more so, if possible, than sad.
There was an anxiety in his look, whenever he turned towards me, that was
quite inexpressible. Had he so trembled for my life, and afterwards for my
reason, as hardly to credit I was restored to him? Perhaps so; but if his
anxiety had really outlived its cause, though that might explain his
profound solicitude, it could not account for the coldness of manner he
now manifested, instead of the warm affection to which he had accustomed
me from infancy. And when I endeavored to fathom the cause of this change,
only one reason occurred to me, which I repelled with terror, and on which
my mind utterly refused to dwell!...
I had not seen my brother (the elder of the two children by my father’s
first marriage) since my illness. When I went to the supper‐table for the
first time, he was not there. But this did not cause me any great regret,
for I feared Mario more than I loved him. I was glad, therefore, to find
no one present but my father, my sister Livia, and Ottavia, who, from a
waiting‐maid, had merited, from her long services, to be promoted to a
duenna. I say _duenna_, and not governess; for she would scarcely have
been able to teach us to read and write. But she knew many things much
more important. She was one of those good, simple souls, so frequently met
with in Italy among people of her station, uncultivated from a human point
of view, but wonderfully conversant with everything relating to the
principles of the Christian religion, the practice of charity, and the
grandeur of the Christian’s hopes. Sometimes thoughts came spontaneously
from her heart and lips which were far more admirable than are to be found
in any book. Therefore my father, notwithstanding her undeniable ignorance
in many respects, did not consider her useless in the training of his
children, but treated her with a consideration bordering on respect.
Hitherto my life had been surrounded by, and, so to speak, permeated with
a mother’s love; and when I was suddenly deprived of this light and
warmth, an overpowering grief, as has been related, took possession of my
soul, which at first it seemed impossible I could survive. Now I was
calmer; but there was still a void, a wretchedness, a grief in my heart,
which, though not as violent as at first, had become fixed and permanent.
I thought sometimes of young birds, whose mothers had been caught in the
fowler’s net, left pining alone in their nests, or of poor little fish
drawn out of the water and left on the shore in the heat of the sun. I
seemed to be like them: my heart and soul were out of their element and
deprived of their necessary food.
In this state, Ottavia and my kind sister Livia were the only persons in
the house who afforded me any comfort. I always sought shelter beside
them; for the sight of my father increased my depression, and I was afraid
of my brother’s stern and penetrating eye.
Mario, at this time, was twenty‐seven years of age. He was remarkably
handsome at first sight; but his stern, gloomy face, seldom expressive of
kindness, and never of affection, greatly modified this first impression,
and it was nearly impossible to feel entirely at ease with him.
Nevertheless, he had many noble qualities, and in some respects resembled
my father; but he had not inherited his kindness of heart.... My brother
was unyielding and jealous, and, if not bad at heart, at least had an
unpleasant disposition, and was often in an insupportable humor. He made
me habitually feel that he regarded me as the child of a different mother,
and could not forgive Livia, who was his own sister, for loving one who,
according to him, had come to rob them of the full share of their father’s
love.
At the time of Fabrizio dei Monti’s second marriage, Mario, then only
twelve years old, had manifested so great a repugnance to it, and so much
ill‐will towards her who was about to take his mother’s place at their
fireside, that Fabrizio decided to send him away; and for several years
Mario lived away from home, only returning from time to time for an
occasional visit. It was only within a year he had become a permanent
member of the household. At that time the malady that was to prove fatal
to my mother had begun its ravages, and the remaining days of her life
were already numbered. Whether it was this knowledge, or because he was
softened and disarmed by the charm of her beauty and the angelic sweetness
of her manner, it is certain he became quite a different person, and, in
her presence at least, was never harsh or severe towards us. Perhaps this
change would have been complete could he have remained longer under the
sweet influence we were all so unhappily deprived of!
On the 15th of July—the day that ended so fatally—Mario was absent. He had
left home the evening before, and, when he returned, he learned, at the
same time, the calamity that had occurred and that which so speedily
threatened to follow. I have been assured that he manifested a lively
grief at my mother’s death, and had inquired about me, not only with
interest, but even with anxiety. But the recollections of the past were
still vividly impressed on my memory, and it was not to him my heavy,
bleeding heart turned for consolation at such a time.
At the end of our gloomy repast, my sister was informed that there were
several visitors in the drawing‐room. It was the hour when my father
received his friends and the clients he had not been able to see in the
morning. Livia immediately left the table, and I was about to follow her,
when my father stopped me, and kept me beside him till he had looked over
some documents which had just been brought him. He then gave me his arm to
the _salon_. This was certainly done with kindness and an air of
affection, but with a kind of gravity constantly perceptible as he kept me
beside him the remainder of the evening. How gladly I would have exchanged
this affectionate solicitude, that could not lose sight of me, for one
such look as I used to receive!...
It was strange! but when I thought of my mother, no remorse was mingled
with so affecting a remembrance. I felt as if a constant communication was
maintained between her soul and mine; that she _saw_ my repentance, was
aware of my resolutions, and, to sum up my impressions—childish, perhaps,
but so lively and profound that they have never been effaced—that _peace
had been made between us_. But the thought that my father might be aware
of all that took place during that hour of fearful memory, or the
possibility of his knowing the foolish act I committed in my mother’s
presence, alas! while she was dying, and that he might attribute the
dreadful catastrophe that followed to that act, inspired me with genuine
terror, which was only checked by a secret, constant conviction that my
mother had not been able, during the few short hours of the following
night, to divulge my secret to any one, even to him. But then, who could
have told him, or what other reason could there be for the change that
made me feel as if I had lost my father as well as my mother, and that the
heavens were darkened on that side also?
The next day I was alone in my chamber, collecting my books in order to
resume my studies, as if my mother were still alive to direct me, when my
sister came in breathless, as if from running. She stopped to take breath,
and locked the door before speaking.
Livia was two years younger than her brother. She was not handsome; but
her form was noble and graceful, her eyes were strikingly beautiful, and
her smile, though somewhat sad, was incomparably sweet. But a nose
somewhat too long, a chin a little too short, and thick hair parted on a
forehead a little too low, made her rather unattractive at the first
glance, and perhaps caused the absurd notion I shall soon have occasion to
refer to. But all who knew Livia regarded her as an angel of goodness, and
forgot the defects of her face.
“Gina!” she hurriedly exclaimed, as soon as she could speak, “my dear
little Gina! Mario has returned, and is coming up to see you. Listen to
me,” embracing me as she continued. “I think he means to tell you
something that will distress you—something I wish you could remain for
ever ignorant of. But it is useless. He is determined you shall know it,
and, after all, it may be as well. Only, _carina_, promise to be calm. If
he scolds you, or speaks in his usual severe way, do not answer him.
Control yourself. Let him go on, Gina mia! I beg of you. No matter if he
distresses you for a moment; he will soon go away, and I will console
you....”
I had no time to answer these incoherent supplications, for at that very
instant I heard my brother’s steps in the gallery. He stopped at my door,
and, finding it fastened, gave a low knock.
“You need not worry,” I whispered to Livia. “Remain here, and I will do as
you wish, I assure you.”
Livia embraced me once more, and then opened the door. Mario entered. I
advanced to greet him, and then stopped with surprise at seeing him so
pale and altered. He looked as if he had been ill also. Neither of us
spoke for a moment, for he likewise seemed to be astonished at my
appearance. He must, indeed, have found me greatly changed since he last
saw me. I had grown so tall during my illness that my face was nearly on a
level with his, and the long black dress I wore made me appear even taller
than I really was. I had lost the freshness of my complexion. The thick,
fair hair of which I had been so proud no longer shaded my face, but was
drawn back from my forehead, and confined under a black net. He had no
reason now to chide me for too much attention to my appearance. He could
not make any cutting jests about my hair, as he used to when I arranged it
like a crown on my brow, or left it in long curls at the caprice of the
wind, according to the whim of my vanity. He had left me a child—a child
wilful and full of freaks, whom he only noticed in order to correct for
some fault. He found me a young lady, whose sad, distressed, and somewhat
austere look seemed the very reverse of the picture left in his memory. He
seemed affected to find me so changed, and held out his hand with a
cordiality much more affectionate than usual. Then, after a moment’s
silence, he said with a kindness he had never before manifested:
“You have passed through a great trial, my poor Ginevra. I have felt for
you, and participated in your grief, I assure you.”
I was touched by these words, and was about to reply, when he resumed:
“Yes, you have suffered, I see; but it seems also to have been a great
benefit to you.”
My heart was ready to burst, and I at once drew myself up: “Benefit to
lose my mother! O Mario! how can you say so?”
He frowned. “I do not mean in that sense, Ginevra, as you must be aware.
But perhaps I am mistaken,” he continued, resuming his ordinary tone,
which I only remembered too well. “It may be you have only changed
exteriorly. I hope it is otherwise, my dear sister, and that your childish
vanity and foolish coquetry....”
“Mario!” murmured Livia in a beseeching tone, scarcely raising her eyes
from her work. This exclamation escaped her almost involuntarily; for she
knew better than any one else that the least reply only acted as a
stimulant when he was inclined to be ill‐humored or angry. Therefore this
slight interruption only served to make him continue in a louder tone.
“Yes, it is possible her coquettish disposition may not be overcome, and
it would not be right to spare it. I am only acting as a friend by
speaking plainly about the misfortunes it has caused.”
O merciful heavens!... Did he know my fearful secret, and was he about to
tell me what I dreaded more than anything else in the world to hear? My
heart throbbed violently, but I breathed once more when he added:
“Thank God, Ginevra, in the midst of your tears, for having taken your
mother out of the world without the least suspicion of your behavior.”
Though these words allayed my chief anxiety, they seemed far more
insulting than I merited. A flush rose to my cheeks, and I haughtily drew
up my head, as I replied: “I never concealed anything in my life from my
mother, Mario. And now she is gone, who alone had the right to admonish
me, it belongs to my father, and not to you, I beg you to remember, my
dear brother.”
I sat down and leaned my head against my hand, that he might not perceive
the heart‐felt anguish he had caused me. I was by no means prepared for
what followed.
“You are mistaken, my charming little sister,” he said in a cool, ironical
tone, “and it is well to tell you, as you seem to be ignorant of it, that
when young ladies play a game that endangers their reputation and the
honor of the name they bear, they often oblige their brothers to take a
part in it.”
Notwithstanding my folly and defects, I was really nothing but a child at
that time, and his words conveyed no definite meaning to my mind. I turned
around and looked him in the face with an air of surprise that showed I
did not comprehend him. The eyes that met mine were no longer full of
mockery, but sad and stern.
“Look at that, sister,” he said in a grave tone, throwing on the table a
small paper package that was sealed. “The contents of that paper may
recall a circumstance you seem to have forgotten, and perhaps make you
understand my meaning.”
I hesitated a moment. I was afraid without knowing why. But finally I took
up the paper, and tore open the wrapper. A withered flower fell out, which
I gazed at with surprise, but without the slightest recollection.
“Do you not recognize it?”
I shook my head.
“Nevertheless, that flower came from your hands.”
I shuddered. He continued in the bitterest tone:
“It is true it was then red, ... red as the blood that had to be shed to
restore it to you.”
The horror with which I was filled at these words struck me dumb. I
clasped my icy hands, and turned deadly pale, without the power of
uttering a word! Livia sprang from her seat.
“Mario, you have no heart, or soul, or mercy! Go away. It was not your
place to tell her about this misfortune.”
But Mario, excited as usual by contradiction, continued without any
circumlocution, and even more violently than before.
“No, no. It is better for Ginevra to learn the truth from my lips; for I
am the only person that dares tell her the real state of the case. And I
will do it without any disguise, for it may cure her. She shall listen to
what I have to say. It will do her good. And I shall conceal nothing....”
I will not repeat the words that fell from his lips like a torrent of
fire!... Besides, I can only recall their import. All I can remember is
that they met the very evening of that fatal day—where and how I do not
recollect. Flavio was talking to several other young men, and, without
observing Mario’s presence, insolently mentioned my name. My brother
snatched the carnation from his button‐hole. The next day the encounter
took place....
I felt ready to drop with fright and horror. “Oh!” I said in a stifled
voice, “can it be that my brother has killed Flavio Aldini with his own
hand? O my God. my God! My punishment is greater than I deserve!”
“No, no,” he eagerly replied, “it was not I who....” He stopped, ... and
then continued in a calmer tone, but somewhat bitterly:
“Compose yourself, dear sister; it was my blood alone that was shed in
this encounter.”
“May God forgive me!” I shudderingly exclaimed with the fervent, sincere
piety I always manifested with the simplicity of childhood. “And may he
forgive you, too, Mario; for you likewise have committed a deed forbidden
by God.”
A faint smile hovered on Mario’s lips, but it immediately gave way to a
graver expression; for notwithstanding his defects, he was by no means
disposed to be impious.
“Forbidden by God! That is true, Ginevra; but it is, I would hope, a deed
he sometimes excuses, especially when the person insulted gets the worst
of the encounter.”
As he said this, he put his hand to his breast, as if suffering from pain.
I was again struck with his extreme paleness, as well as other traces of
illness in his altered appearance, and was penetrated with shame and
remorse. A feeling more akin to affection than I had ever felt for him
sprang up in my heart, and I said to him humbly:
“Mario, you have done right to be plain with me, and I thank you. What you
have said will, I trust, effect my entire cure. At any rate, you have done
your duty.”
He had never known me to yield to him before. I had always revolted
against his ill‐humor and harshness, whether just or not, and sometimes
replied with an impertinence that justified his resentment. He was touched
at seeing me in this new attitude, and, for the first time in his life,
clasped me in his arms and kissed me with real affection. He then left the
room, making a sign for Livia to follow him. She did so, but returned in a
few minutes. Tears were in her eyes, and her lips were slightly
tremulous—a sure indication in her of some sudden and profound emotion.
Mario had not told me every thing. His anger had died away, and he left it
for kinder lips than his to communicate the rest.
V.
The affliction and repentance that so speedily followed the brief moment
when I saw Flavio Aldini for the last time seemed to have effaced the
transient impression produced at our only meeting, as a stream, suddenly
swelled by a storm, washes away every trace left on the sand. I should
have met him again with indifference, and perhaps even with aversion; for
he would have been always associated with the first misfortune and first
remorse of my life. Nevertheless, when Livia, after considerable
hesitation, uttered the words, “_Flavio Aldini is dead_,” a cry almost of
despair escaped from my lips; and the horrible thought at once occurred to
me that Mario had deceived me—that he was the murderer, and that this
flower, a thousand times abhorred, had cost the life of him who had
obtained it through my vanity and thoughtlessness!...