Part V.

They Sang.

I.

Sudden, in golden arms he came:

I stood begirt with maiden bands:

Sudden he came, all bright like flame;

Upon my head he laid his hands.

“This day past victories I disown:

This day I seek the battle‐field

A stranger chief, a knight unknown,

Without a blazon on my shield.”

“Not man, but He the worlds who made,

My hope shall frustrate or approve”—

I only bent my knee, and said,

“Victor or vanquished, thee I love.”

II.

They set me on a milk‐white horse;

Our household tribe around me trod;

Like rivers down a rocky course,

On rushed the warriors vowed to God.

I rode, the victor’s destined prize,

Last stake when hope was all but gone:

The flashes from a virgin’s eyes

Like music swept the warriors on!

’Twas theirs their maid elect to guard,

The direful battle’s gentle guest:

’Twas mine to watch, inspire, reward;

To honor all—to crown the best.

But who that stranger chief from far

That like some brave ship tempest‐tossed

Bore on o’er all the waves of war;

Redeemed a battle all but lost?

I knew. The victor’s crown I dropp’d

Upon thy brows, my future lord:

That night thou satt’st—O boon unhoped—

The first time by my father’s board!

III.

The victory ours, the feasting o’er,

The nameless victor gazed around;

“Emir! I claim the prize of war,

Thy daughter’s hand.” My father frowned.

“Uplift her in thine arms,” he said;

“Then scale yon hillside smooth and dry:

This done, my daughter thou shalt wed:

To halt—forget not—is to die.”

I stood: my beating heart cried out,

“Thou canst not fail!” That cry he heard:

He raised me ’mid the warriors’ shout;

Forward he rushed without a word.

His breath came quick: his brows grew dark:

“My brother, lover, friend,” I cried:

He reeled: his eyes were stiff and stark:

I wept, “This day thou winn’st thy bride!”

He fell—but on the summit won,

Amid the vast and wide acclaim:

He lay, a dead man, in the sun:

I kissed his lips, and felt no shame.

Round him the warriors stood amazed;

His love—’twas that brought back his life:

Down on him long my father gazed,

Then spake, “My son, behold thy wife!”

IV.

On carpets heaped my mother sate:

I sate, I nestled on her knee;

We heard a murmur round the gate:

My mantle, purple as the sea,

I drew about my little feet,

And nearer sought my mother’s breast:

He came; she spake, not slow to greet

With courteous words the victor‐guest.

Slowly my veil my mother’s hands

Lifted, to boast the battle’s prize;—

“Prince! thou would’st give thy life and lands,

If I but raised it to her eyes!”

V.

I knew thee well when first we met;

I knew thee well when seldom seen;

When we had parted, plainlier yet

I read thy nature—nay, thy mien.

Thine earliest glance my tremors stayed;

Then softly, and by slow degrees,

With thee my confidence I made,

And, pleased, discovered I could please.

But now that we are drawn so near,

I lose thee in thine own fair light;

Vanish the outlines once so clear:—

I know thee more by faith than sight.

VI.

Upon my shoulder, lightly as a bird,

Her white hand lit: then back she fled, afraid;

Beside my seat once more she stood, nor stirred,

But loosed her hair, and round me dropped its shade.

Down to my feet it fell—a sudden night:

She spake, “Thy darkness and eclipse am I;

But thou my sunrise art, and all my light;

Still to weak things love grants the victory.”

More dulcet than the viol rang her laugh;

Low laughed her mother; laughed her nurse full loud:

“Not _thee_ I fear,” she cried, indignant half,

And kissed, methought, the head o’er which she bowed.

VII.

My Lyre reproved my childish mirth:

My Lute, remembering sad, old years,

Complained, “Thy feet are yet on earth;

Thou caroll’st in the vale of tears.”

I hung my head: ashamed I moved;

I answered soft with whispering voice,

“O Love! ’tis thou that stand’st reproved;

The fault is thine, if I rejoice;

“Not less this covenant have I made:

I will not fold my hands in sleep

Till aid to those who cry for aid

I stretch—have wept with them that weep.”

VIII.

He sang, “I dreamed. Of thee, all night, one thought

Shone like a white flower on a darkling mere

Or like one star that flashes, rapture‐fraught,

Through one blue gulf of heaven serene, and clear.”

She sang, “I dreamed not: happiest sleep is deep:

I woke as wakes the young bird in the woods;—

Thy spirit must have hung above my sleep,

A bower balm‐breathing from a thousand buds.”

We strove in song; we sang, my love and I,

Where laughed the streams, and where the rock’s broad breast

Echoed the untaught, ecstatic harmony:

We warred in happy songs; but hers was best.

IX.

Thou art not mine as I am thine:

As great, or greater, is thy love;

But loftier thoughts above thee shine,

And lordlier aims before thee move.

The hand now clasping mine—that hand

Let drop this hand to grasp the sword;

It hurled in ruin from our land

The impostor Prophet’s sons abhorred.

Manhood fell on thee with my tears

At parting. With a woman’s joy

I loved the warrior ’mid his peers—

’Twas girlish fancy loved the boy!

X.

Mother of him I loved and love,

My mother too, ere long, to be!

With loving words his choice approve,

And take thy daughter to thy knee:

So shall mine eyes, up‐gazing still,

Thine eyes in filial reverence watch;

My hand be subject to thy will;

My heart from thine its greatness catch.

The young can learn, and I am young

And labor to be good and true—

Tell her, O thou that know’st! I long

To give her age its honors due.

XI.

He sang, “Upon the myrtle’s silver stem

Thy name I carved. Henceforth that tree is mine!”

Low‐laughing ’neath her vine‐wrought anadem

She sang, “Thy name I graved upon the pine!

“The slenderer hand the stronger bark subdued—

Say, is it lordlier, bound and tamed to lead

The forest‐monarch from his sunburnt wood,

Or snare some little bird that took no heed?”

We sang in valleys where the spring flowers sprang

To passionate life: the eagle o’er us sailed:

Down plunged the torrents, and the gray cliffs rang:

We clashed our songs in war; but hers prevailed.

XII.

Methought to thine my angel spake:—

Near us he seemed, and yet above—

“Two children these! their sport they take;

They teach each other how to love.”

Thine angel answered thus to mine:

“When Virtue, perfected by pain,

Has changed earth‐love to love divine,

Then, stooping, we will lift these twain

“From this dull cave of mortal life

Low‐roofed, and dimly lit with spars,

To realms with love’s whole glories rife,

And over‐vaulted by the stars,

“Where souls that love their God are one;

Where He who made them is their joy:

Play on—too young for love—play on!

Your sports are sport of girl and boy!”

XIII.

Two hands—they meet; they part—’tis better so;

Parted, they meet to shape one coronal:

Two feet—they meet; they part, now swift, now slow

They pace to music through one palace hall.

Two eyes—they move in concord: wanderers long,

At last they rest on one unmoving star:

Two mouths, in kisses met, dispart in song—

Sweet are our meetings; sweet our partings are.

XIV.

I come, I go; yet neither shall repine:

Sad is the parting; the return is sweet:

Once more the battle with a voice divine

Decrees our severance. Soon once more we meet.

We part not, save in seeming. We are one,

In spirit one; in spirit we rejoice;

Two voices are we, blent in unison,

Two echoes of one mountain‐thrilling voice.

Nearer we are than words, than thought, can reach;

Nearer we shall be; nearest, met on high;

Nearest as not belonging each to each,

But both to Him—that Love Who cannot die.

The Veil Withdrawn.

Translated, By Permission, From The French Of Madame Craven, Author Of “A

Sister’s Story,” “Fleurange,” Etc.

XIII.

That evening we went to the opera, the next night to the theatre; then

came invitations without number to a series of dinners, _matinées_, and

_soirées_ that succeeded each other without intermission. I refrain from

enumerating them, for I am writing the history of my soul rather than my

exterior life. I will merely say, therefore, that after continuing this

course several weeks, I found myself in a most singular and unhappy frame

of mind. My thoughts, imagination, and whole mind became too much absorbed

in the amusements and pleasures the young are often carried away with

through curiosity and a superabundance of life and activity, which might

be satisfied more completely, however, and in a less dangerous way, than

by a career of pleasure, the almost inevitable effect of which is to

produce a kind of intoxication. This intoxication overpowered me to a

certain degree, but it left me, however, the faculty of realizing the

change that had come over me, and I felt a painful desire to be what I

once was. I had no peace of mind. I could not reflect or pray, even in my

short intervals of leisure, and, in order to avoid the irksomeness of

solitude, I gladly returned to the round of pleasure into which my husband

liked to draw me. I had, it is true, the double safeguard of his love for

me and my indifference to any other admiration but his. A vague uneasiness

sometimes crossed my mind like an ominous cloud, but I did not dream there

could possibly be any danger for either of us in the enervating atmosphere

of flattery and frivolity which we breathed more and more constantly.

Lorenzo continued to hover around me in public, or, if he remained at a

distance, to watch me with an attention that was disagreeable because it

seemed inexplicable. Nothing could have pleased me more than to have his

eyes always meeting mine, and to find him everywhere near enough to speak

to; but this was quite a different thing, for, even when I was not looking

towards him, I could feel his persistent eyes fastened on me, and as soon

as I raised my head he would turn away as if to avoid encountering my

glance. Was it with love or pride that his eyes thus followed me? Was it

not rather as if he expected to take me by surprise, or was mistrustful of

me? When this doubt occurred to my mind, I felt the blood rush to my face,

and love and pride revolt in my heart.

One day we were invited to a large dinner‐party in one of those

magnificent houses in Paris which have the now rare advantage of a fine

garden. It was past the season for full dress, and I merely wore a white

muslin trimmed with lace, and a wreath of flowers whose colors harmonized

with that perfect taste shown in everything at Paris. When I made my

appearance, the whole company united in exclaiming that my fresh toilet

was wonderfully becoming. Perhaps they were right. I was of an age that

flowers suited better than jewels, and my complexion could bear the light

of day without any danger. The days were now at their longest, so, in

spite of the interminable length of a grand dinner, the delicious twilight

hour was not quite gone when we rose from the table, and all issued forth

through the windows into the garden. If ever the sight of the green grass,

the leaves on the trees, the perfume and brilliancy of the flowers, and

the varied hues of the sky as day declines, are more attractive and

grateful at one time than another, it is certainly when contrasted with

the stifling atmosphere, the air impregnated with the odor of dishes, and

the brilliant artificial light, at a grand dinner in mid‐summer. Therefore

it was with inexpressible relief and an almost child‐like joy I flew down

the steps into the garden as soon as the master of the house left my

movements free, and strolled along the broad alley that divided the lawn,

inhaling with delight the freshness of the balmy air.... My life of

pleasure had never quenched the ardent love of solitude that sometimes

came over me, and I now longed to be alone. I desired this the more

because I felt uneasy about a new change in Lorenzo’s manner, and wished

to reflect undisturbed on the inference I should draw from it.

For the first time since our arrival at Paris he had not, to my knowledge,

watched one of my movements, though I had received more flattery that day,

perhaps, than ever before.... During the dinner he appeared devoted to his

neighbors—on one side, a lady who was still beautiful, though no longer in

the bloom of youth; and on the other, a young gentleman with a thoughtful,

striking face, who grew animated whenever Lorenzo addressed him, and

seemed to reply with much interest. I was told that the former was Mme. de

B——, the other the young Count Gilbert de Kergy, “a great traveller also,”

added the master of the house, beside whom I was seated. “And it was

solely the hope of meeting the Duca di Valenzano that induced him to

accept my invitation to dine with us to‐day. He does not care for the

_grand monde_; and when he returns from one of his extensive journeys, he

shuts himself up at home, or plunges into the charitable world, which is

another _grand monde_ little suspected by strangers who only come to Paris

for a time.”

All this might perhaps have interested me at some other time, but my mind

was now occupied in trying to ascertain the reality of the change I had

remarked. It was now my turn to give sly glances towards the other side of

the table, but I did not once detect Lorenzo looking towards me. And yet

it was not owing to the interest he took in the conversation. How many

times I had seen him apparently absorbed in conversation, while a rapid

glance of the eye convinced me he had been constantly attentive to every

movement I made. There was nothing of this kind to‐day. I knew him too

well not to perceive the difference, but I did not know what to think of

it, or if I had any reason to rejoice at it.

These thoughts beset me during the trifling conversation that varies the

_ennui_ of a large dinner, and even prevented me from perceiving that our

host was a gentleman of superior intelligence, and profiting by it. Before

leaving the table, I stealthily turned my eyes once more in the direction

they had so often taken within an hour. It was evident that Lorenzo did

not trouble himself any more about me to‐day than any other husband about

his wife in public. But this time I perceived his young neighbor looking

at me rather attentively, though with a look of seriousness almost

amounting to austerity, very different from the glances so often

encountered in the world which always made me lower my eyes. His inspired

me with a kind of sympathy, and did not give me the slightest

embarrassment.

I had, however, no opportunity for reflection during my walk, for I was

almost immediately surrounded by friends, and I soon turned back to hunt

for Lorenzo. Daylight was almost gone, which made it difficult to

recognize any one; but at last I discovered him on the steps by means of

his lofty stature and noble features, which were distinctly defined

against the light of the _salon_ within. Near him sat his next neighbor at

dinner, holding a fan in her hand, and talking in an animated manner.

Lorenzo appeared to be listening without making any attempt to reply. Once

or twice he turned his head towards the garden. He was looking for me,

perhaps....

It had now grown entirely too dark to distinguish any one around me. I was

standing motionless near a bench on which sat two or three gentlemen

talking together.

“Mme. de B—— looks almost as handsome as ever this evening,” said one of

them. “One would really think she was trying to regain her ascendency!...”

“It would be very difficult, however, to supplant that lovely, golden‐

haired Sicilian.”

“Impossible, certainly, in the eyes of any other man; but in those of her

husband, who knows?”

This was one of those speeches that are always flying at random, and

striking the ear on every side in the world—speeches which one hears

without listening to, but which weaken the moral sense, as physical

diseases are produced by breathing dangerous miasmata too frequently.

Since I had lived in this atmosphere many things of a similar nature had

been said in my presence. Alas! it was sufficient to hear Lorenzo and

Lando’s conversation to learn how far light words of this kind can go. I

therefore tried to attach no importance to the gossip I had thus

accidentally overheard. Even if Lorenzo did formerly pay homage to this

now somewhat faded beauty, why should I care? That did not trouble me for

the moment. My only anxiety was to ascertain if his happening to meet her

was the cause of the change I had observed, or if I must seek some other.

In a word, ought I to be anxious or to rejoice?

Having escaped, in the almost utter darkness, from those who tried to

detain me, I was slowly advancing towards the steps when I suddenly met

Lorenzo.... He was in search of me, for he had on his arm my thin mantle

of white cashmere, which he wrapped around my shoulders. I joyfully seized

hold of his arm, and said in a low tone: “Pray do not go in yet, Lorenzo.

Let us walk awhile in this beautiful covered alley.”

He began to laugh. “That would be very sentimental,” said he, “for people

who are no longer in their honey‐moon; but no matter, I consent. _Honi

soit qui mal y pense._ Besides, I see yonder an illuminated tent, where, I

am told, they are preparing a musical surprise for us. Let us go in that

direction.”

We walked a short distance without speaking. There was nothing absolutely

calculated to wound me in what he said, but his light, indifferent tone

was not what I longed to hear. Amid all the excitement of fashionable

society, I felt that his love constituted the only happiness of my life;

and if I had supposed that to be the only cause of his vigilance and

anxiety concerning me, I should never have sought to escape from it. But I

had been doubtful about this, and felt so still. And I was too open, too

confiding, and perhaps too petulant, to remain in doubt any longer.

“Let us stop here, Lorenzo,” I said when we arrived at the end of the

covered walk. “I see people coming this way. We can follow them into the

tent, and it will be supposed we came with the crowd.”

In fact, a brilliant _soirée_ succeeded the dinner. The _salons_ and

garden were filled with company. The light from the tent extended to the

place where we were standing, though we were out of sight. I sat down on a

bench against a tree, and Lorenzo took a seat beside me.

“I have a question to ask you,” said I suddenly. “Promise to give me a

sincere reply.”

He seemed surprised. He raised his eyebrows slightly, and his smiling face

became clouded.

“I do not much like to be questioned, Ginevra, I forewarn you.”

“But you always seem to like to have me answer your questions.”

“Yes, but without depending on it; for I know how to question and obtain

an answer without giving you the trouble to reply.”

“And is that why you look at me instead of speaking, and your eyes are

always following me so attentively?”

He smiled, and made no reply for a while.

“Perhaps that has been the cause of my doing so till to‐day.”

“Till to‐day?”

“Yes; since you ask me, I confess it without any hesitation. Love does not

always, among its privileges, possess the faculty of seeing clearly.

Therefore I have been mistrustful of mine, and have not allowed it to

influence me in the least in studying you.”

I made a slight gesture of surprise.

“Listen, Ginevra. One never knows what a young soldier is till his first

battle. Neither can one tell what a young woman of your age is till she

appears on the terrible battle‐field of the fashionable world. But if I

have any faculty, it is, I believe, that of not being deceived in a study

of this kind. Be assured, Ginevra, that from this time I shall watch you

no more.”

“Then, Lorenzo,” said I, somewhat hurt, “you really watched me through

suspicion, and all this time was necessary to convince you I am to be

trusted?”

“I wished to see you under fire,” said he, resuming his jesting tone. “Do

not complain of this, ma belle Ginevra. You have come out of the trial

victorious—victorious to such a degree that, though I thought you more

charming to‐day than ever, I have not once thought of watching you. And

yet,” continued he in a tone he tried to render playful, but which was

bitter in spite of himself, “those flowers that are so becoming to you are

not all calculated to reassure me.” And plucking a red carnation from my

wreath, he held it up before me with a smile that seemed cruel, and was

about to put it in his button‐hole when, pale as death, I snatched it from

his hand, and threw it as far as I could.

“Lorenzo!” I said in a trembling voice, “you are ungenerous!... and you

are very unjust!...”

I should have done better to say, as well as think, that he did not know

what he was doing. No; he little knew what had taken place in my soul

since the day he thus recalled, which was so sanguinary, so fatal in its

results. No; he could not conceive the intolerable pain he gave me by thus

suddenly reviving my regret, my sorrow, and my shame!...

He could read my heart to a certain extent, but how far he was—alas! how

incapable he was—of penetrating to the bottom of my soul, and fully

comprehending, or even suspecting, the radical change which that one day

had wrought in my nature.

He saw with surprise and alarm my agitation and the sudden paleness of my

face, and endeavored to calm me; but I noticed he was at once anxious and

annoyed about the emotion he had excited.

I made a violent effort to regain my self‐control, and soon succeeded in

allaying the throbbing of my heart. But I felt as if an icy wind had

crossed my path, chilling too soon the opening flowers of my dawning

happiness, and causing them to droop their heads.

XIV.

From that day Lorenzo, as he promised, ceased to manifest any interest in

what I did in society. But this apparent confidence afforded me no

pleasure. I remained painfully wounded at what had passed between us. I

considered his suspicions even more humiliating than those of my father,

and began to feel that the fault I had so greatly deplored had not merited

so long and cruel a chastisement.

Moreover, I was only relieved from the anxiety caused by his vigilance to

experience another which was soon to increase and reveal to me at last my

true destiny. It did not, in fact, require a long time to discover that

Lorenzo’s new attitude was sometimes less like confidence than

indifference. It frequently happened that I searched a long time for him

in the different _salons_ where we were accustomed to spend all our

evenings, without being able to find him. One day I perceived him talking

in a very animated manner with Mme. de B——, and, when I approached, I

fancied there was a slight expression of displeasure in his face, which,

though promptly concealed, was sufficient to cause me a painful sensation

of embarrassment.

When we were alone, however, I found him unchanged. His manner towards me

had lost nothing of its charm; he seemed as affectionate as ever, and yet

an invisible barrier had risen between us, which was constantly

increasing, and I began to experience a feeling of solitude that was

especially painful in society, but from which I was nowhere completely

exempt.

But the success of my first appearance in the world had now given way to

that of fashion. The arrival of some foreign prince, whose name I no

longer remember, prolonged the gay season at Paris this year, and one

reunion succeeded another as if it were carnival time. There was not one

to which I was not invited, and, though an undeniable need of rest began

to overpower the feverish activity that for some time had come over me, I

was unable to stop, for I began to perceive that a quiet, tranquil life

was insupportable to Lorenzo unless in his studio. Out of that, he wished

to be incessantly in motion, and, as he could not now seriously resume his

artist life, he gave himself up entirely to that of the world, and was not

yet indifferent to the pleasure of having me accompany him.

It was therefore impossible for me to extricate myself from the giddy

round of which I had grown so weary, and I sometimes envied those who were

satisfied with the mere pleasure of attracting attention. I felt

astonished then, and I still am, at the wonderful part played by vanity in

these gayeties, which are so different to those who participate in them

from what they seem to the crowd who are excluded. The music, the dancing,

the splendid apartments, the gayety of youth requisite to enjoy all this,

and, to crown the whole, the pleasure of meeting those who are dear, are

the chief attractions and keenest enjoyments which cause those who have

the power of exhausting them to be envied by all who are deprived of them.

If this were really all, such a life would be ennobled to a certain degree

in my eyes, for its dangers and its pleasures would at least be

commensurate with the love and the disapprobation of which they are the

object. But the seductions of the world consist chiefly in the

satisfaction of eclipsing others, and the intoxication it causes is almost

always produced, not by the pleasure it gives, but by the vanity of those

who mingle in it. This seems strange when we reflect upon it, and we can

see, without rising very high, that not only happiness, but pleasure, and

even amusement, can find a better source; and consequently those who

really possess these envied blessings are the people who are supposed to

be the most debarred from them.

As for me, I was no longer light‐hearted, but I tried to appear so in

society; for the sad expression I could not always disguise had excited

some observations that wounded my pride.

“What! the fair Ginevra really melancholy?” said Lando Landi, sitting down

beside me one evening at a concert, and speaking in the familiar tone

authorized by his relationship, but which was none the less displeasing.

“I have always denied it, because you are so invariably cheerful when I

see you out of this everlasting din, as I do every day. I only supposed

you a little weary of so gay a life—a thing conceivable, even in your

case, for one gets tired of everything, even of turning people’s heads;

but this evening you really have the air of a tragic muse.”

“I am a little fatigued, that is all.”

“Listen to me, cousin, and do not treat me so badly. I see you do not like

me, which proves I am not self‐conceited; and I am not angry with you,

which proves I am not malicious. Moreover, I greatly admire and love you,

and yet (give me some credit for this) I do not pay court to you.”

“Come, Lando, no more of such jests, but come to the point.”

“I was about to beg you to show some confidence in me. You are sad, and I

will tell you why: you have heard some nonsensical gossip about Lorenzo.

Now, cousin, let me tell you....”

“What gossip?” I asked, turning red with an air of displeasure.

“You understand me perfectly well. I am certain I tell you nothing new. It

may seem presuming to speak of this, but I must justify Lorenzo. Believe

what I say, and do not attach any importance to a passing politeness in

memory of former times, which means nothing, and really does not, on my

word of honor, merit such a flash from your beautiful eyes.”

He had indeed found the means of making them flame up.

“Really, Lando,” said I haughtily, “it would serve you right if I never

spoke to you again.”

But he was evidently so seriously astonished that I saw I was wrong. He

had been presuming without knowing it or intending it. I therefore

continued in a milder tone:

“I assure you, you are absolutely mistaken. I am neither sad nor anxious,

... only a little _ennuyée_, that is all. And to‐night I am sleepy, and

wish to return home as soon as possible. Give me your arm, and let us go

in search of Lorenzo.”

“It is not much after midnight,” he said; “you must really remain a while

longer to hear the last two pieces.”

“No, I tell you I have had enough of it. But if you wish to remain here,

you need not feel obliged to escort me. The first person I meet will

render me that service.”

“_Ma cher!_” said he, rising and shaking his head, as he concluded to give

me his arm.

We began our voyage of discovery through the long row of _salons_, but

could not find Lorenzo anywhere. Lando said nothing, but I noticed he cast

a quick, mistrustful glance around every room we entered, and it occurred

to me he had not told the truth, but merely wished to reassure me when he

knew Lorenzo was having a _tête‐à‐tête_ it was as humiliating for me to be

ignorant of as to discover. Lando had touched a sorer spot than I was

willing he should see. For in spite of an apparently very frank

explanation on this point from Lorenzo himself a few days before,

suspicion had entered my heart, and I was in constant need of being

reassured. Was not this acknowledging I already had reason to tremble?

At length we arrived at the last _salon_. Lorenzo was not there. There was

only a small room beyond, not as well lighted as the rest.

“That is the library,” explained Lando in his way; “or, at least, a

cabinet full of books, where no one ever goes.”

An almost imperceptible movement of his arm made me feel he wished to

prevent me from entering. This was enough to induce me to go straight to

the door, where I stopped short, at once reassured and amazed. Four men

were there by themselves, sitting around a card‐table with a green

covering. Two of them were playing, and Lorenzo was one of them; the

others followed the game with the most intense interest. I remained

leaning against the door, motionless, and my eyes fastened on him. Was

that really Lorenzo?... What a change in his countenance!... What a

strange expression in his mobile face! He did not perceive me, and I felt

that my voice would have sounded in his ear in vain. He neither saw nor

heard anything around him. His looks, his attention, his mind, and his

whole being seemed absorbed in the cards he held in his hand. He was calm,

but his slightly‐compressed eyebrows showed that luck was against him.

In a few minutes he drew a roll of gold pieces from his pocket, and threw

them on the table. His opponent rose, but Lorenzo remained in his seat,

and began a new game with one of those who had been watching the old one.

“Take a seat here,” said Lando, leading me towards one of the sofas in the

room where we were. “I am going to tell Lorenzo you are waiting for him.

Do not go in yourself.”

I made a sign of assent, and for the first time gave Lando credit for some

tact. His usually smiling face had, moreover, an air of anxious solicitude

that not only surprised me, but redoubled the strange, unexpected shock I

had just experienced. He went into the next room, and, after waiting a

long time, I at last saw him come out; but he was alone.

“It is impossible to speak to him till the end of the game,” he said in a

tone of vexation. Then, after a moment’s silence, he added with a forced

laugh: “My dear cousin, you would have done much better to follow my

advice and wait for Lorenzo in the concert‐room instead of coming here

after him. But since you persisted in doing so, allow me to give you one

bit of advice, now you have caught him falling into his old bad habit

again.”

“Again?” I said with an air of surprise.

“Well, yes.... For a year he did not touch a card, he told me, for he well

knew that for him the mere touch was like a spark that kindles a fire. He

vowed—not to play moderately, for he is incapable of moderation in

anything—but never to touch a card again, and he expressed great

satisfaction some days since that he had kept his promise so faithfully.

But to‐day he has broken it. Who knows what will happen to‐morrow? Make

use, therefore, of the influence you still have over him; use all the

persuasive powers you possess to induce him to resolve once more on a wise

course. It is a thing, you may be sure, that threatens your happiness, as

well as his, a thousand times more than all the fair ones in the past,

present, or future who should attempt to rival you!”

In spite of all that was displeasing in Lando’s manner, language, and

sentiments, and even in the expressions he made use of in giving me this

advice, I felt it was dictated by sincere interest, and it touched me. I

felt weighed down by this new trouble. This was a fear I had never

experienced before. It was absolutely foreign to everything that had

crossed my mind. Was this to live, love, and be happy? Everything around

me looked dark, and the night seemed to penetrate to my very soul.

The time I had to wait seemed interminable. The concert was over, the

rooms were growing empty, and we were to be the last. I rose with an

impatience I could no longer control, and went again to the cabinet.

Lorenzo was rising from the table just as I entered. I saw him slip

another roll of money into his opponent’s hands. Then he came towards me

with his usual expression. It was evident he had no suspicion of my having

been so near him for more than an hour.

“Excuse me, Ginevra,” said he. “What! is the concert over? And you had to

search for me?... It is unpardonable; but I had no idea they would get to

the end of that interminable programme so early.”

“But it is nearly two o’clock,” said I.

He glanced towards the clock, and looked surprised. Lando, meanwhile, had

hurried away to get my cloak; but he soon returned with it, saying the

carriage was waiting for us. I entered it with Lorenzo, after giving my

hand more cordially to his cousin than I had ever done before.

On the way home Lorenzo, after a long silence, thought proper to explain

that he had got tired of the concert, and for amusement had had recourse

to a game of _écarté_. Lando’s words were still in my ears. My heart, too,

was filled with inexpressible anxiety and profound affection for this dear

partner of my life who was so charming in manner, and whom it would have

been so sweet to love in peace! I leaned my head against his shoulder,

and, passing my arm through his, said:

“Lorenzo, if I take the liberty of giving you one word of advice, will you

follow it? If I beg you to make me one promise—a promise that will render

me happy—will you not grant it?”

He made so abrupt a movement that I was almost frightened. But he

immediately resumed his self‐control, and, softly kissing my hand and

forehead, said in a tone that was not rude, but which seemed to forbid all

reply:

“Ginevra, I think I told you the other day that I do not like to be

questioned, and I now tell you that I like advice still less, and, above

all, I cannot bear to make promises. So let this warning suffice. Avoid

these three shoals, if you wish to remain in my eyes what I now consider

you—the most charming of women.”

XV.

The following day was Sunday. Notwithstanding so fatiguing an evening, the

lateness of the hour when I retired, and the restless night that followed,

I was ready for Mass at the usual hour. But for the first time since my

marriage Lorenzo sent me word not to wait for him. Of course I had never

been under any great illusion as to his religious sentiments. I supposed

that habit, rather than piety, induced him to accompany me to church; but

I was far from suspecting that he had hitherto made it a point to do so

because he thought it necessary to keep an eye on me there as well as

elsewhere. Above all, I little expected the habit to be laid aside as soon

as he was reassured or became interested in something else. I consoled

myself on this occasion by thinking he would go to a later Mass; and for

the first time I went out alone and on foot, the distance being so short

between our hotel in the Rue de Rivoli and the Church of S. Roch.

The life I had led for two months was not precisely adapted to dispose my

soul for prayer. Besides, accustomed as I had been to the churches of

Italy, those at Paris seemed destitute of all beauty, and I found it

difficult to get used to so different an aspect. But other impressions

soon modified this. The goodness and piety that so thoroughly impregnated

the atmosphere which surrounded my childhood were rather the spirit of our

family than of the land that had providentially given me birth. And yet

there is, in Sicily, as well as all Southern Italy, a great deal of faith,

though it cannot be denied that, at this time, great moral relaxation and

religious indifference were too prevalent, especially among those who

belonged to the upper classes. There, more than anywhere else even, holy

souls led hidden lives, and edification was rather to be found in the

obscurity of certain firesides than in the world at large, or even in the

usages of public worship. All the religious exercises of our family were

performed in the chapel of the old palace we occupied. This chapel was

spacious, richly ornamented, and architecturally beautiful. We not only

heard Mass there on Sundays, but every day, and two or three times a week

Don Placido gave us an instructive, edifying discourse. My father, mother,

Livia, Ottavia, Mario (who, in spite of his faults, retained his respect

for holy things), and several faithful old servants constituted the

attentive, devout congregation. My childhood was not wanting in any of

those influences that have so powerful an effect on after‐life. Ottavia

often took Livia and myself to the evening Benediction in one of the

neighboring churches, and my heart still throbs at the remembrance of the

pious transport with which I knelt before the illuminated tabernacle on

which stood the monstrance. The church used to be filled solely by people

of the humbler classes, even on festivals. It was a rare thing to find a

single person belonging to the upper classes. What struck me, therefore,

above all, at Paris, was the complete difference of the churches in this

respect. I was at first even more surprised than edified. For if I had

often remarked the absence of the wealthy in Sicily, here I was struck

with the absence of the poor. I looked around for the people clothed in

rags, whose fervor had so often redoubled mine, and did not like to feel

that I was separated from them. This separation is much more marked where

the custom of private chapels has been established. Christian equality

calls the rich and great to the foot of the altar, no less than the poor

and lowly; and if they do not all meet there, whether in France or Italy,

we cannot blame those whose attendance at church is an example to the

absent, whatever rank they may belong to.

But to return to this Sunday morning. I knelt down and heard Mass with

much less distraction than usual. I was, it is true, rather sad than

devout at the time, but I prayed more fervently than I had done for a long

time, and, when I slowly and reluctantly left the church, the inner soul,

that resounds like a lyre under the divine hand, had received a slight

touch, and for the first time for a long while I felt the movement of one

of those hidden chords that cannot be sounded without causing all the

others to vibrate.

As I approached the door of the church, I noticed a young girl kneeling on

a chair, whose face did not seem wholly unknown to me. She held a purse in

her hand, and was soliciting contributions for orphans. I deposited my

offering, and received her smiling thanks in return. As I passed on, I

heard her whisper my name to a lady of noble and distinguished appearance

beside her (whom I supposed to be her mother), who, with her eyes fastened

on her book, had not observed me. As I went on, I recollected having met

this pretty girl two or three times in company, but did not know her name.

I felt surprised that she should know mine, though this often happens to

strangers who are pointed out as objects of curiosity, while they only

know a few of those around them.

I had no time, however, to dwell on this accidental meeting, or quietly

enjoy the impressions left by the services at church; for Lorenzo’s first

words immediately revived all the recollections of the morning.

“You are late, Ginevra,” said he. “It is half‐past eleven. Breakfast is

waiting, and I am in a hurry.”

We took seats at the table in silence, but he soon resumed:

“You have scarcely time to dress. Have you forgotten that we are going to

the races? Lando Landi is to come for us before one o’clock.”

Yes, I had completely forgotten it. I felt an earnest desire to withdraw

from the engagement. I wanted one day of peace and quiet repose. I felt

the need of drinking in more deeply the breath of pure air I had just

tasted. Could I not have a few hours to myself? Must I at once go where I

should inhale a different atmosphere? And what an atmosphere!...

Seeing that I remained silent and had a pensive air, he said in an

impatient tone:

“Well, Ginevra, what is it? What have you to tell me or ask me?...”

I replied without any circumlocution: “I have nothing to say, except that

I am tired to death of those races, and beg you to excuse me from

accompanying you to‐day.”

His face immediately cleared up. “Is that all?” said he. “As to that, you

are at perfect liberty to do as you please. You may be sure,” continued

he, laughing, “that I shall only contradict you on great occasions.... But

what will you do with yourself this afternoon, if you do not go to the

races?”

“I shall do like everybody else in France—go to Vespers.”

He gave a derisive laugh that was horrible.

“Everybody else, do you say? It would be very difficult to tell how many

in Paris even go to Mass!”

I looked at him, as he said this. He understood my meaning, and appeared

displeased.

“Come, Ginevra,” said he in an ill‐humored manner, “are you going to

insist that I must always agree with you?”

“By no means, Lorenzo, you know very well.”

“But you did not like it because you had to go to church without me this

morning.”

I hesitated an instant, but at last replied with some emotion:

“Of course I love to have you with me wherever I go, and more especially

there; but it would be better, however, for you to go to church always

without me than ever to go _solely_ for me.”

This reply increased his displeasure, and he said in a tone he had never

used before:

“Unfortunately, the truth is, my dear child, if I should consult my own

inclinations, I might perhaps never go at all.”

Tears came into my eyes, and my heart ached with the strongest feeling of

grief I had ever experienced!...

O my God!... I must have had some love for thee, even at that time, since

the very thought of any one’s not loving thee caused me so much pain!...

Lorenzo’s tone, look, and whole manner not only showed his utter

indifference, but the complete incredulity he felt. I had never suspected

it before, because it was something foreign to my experience. I knew it

was possible to violate the law of God, but did not know it could be

denied. I understood lukewarmness and negligence, for I had seen both in

others as well as in him; but I had never before encountered lack of

repentance and ignorance of duty. This cold denial of any love for God and

of all belief in him Lorenzo, of course, had not expressly declared, but

it had been betrayed by his manner doubtless even more than he would have

wished. With all the inconsistencies of my character and the faults of my

age, he must have seen that I had too lively and profound a faith not to

be displeased at anything that jarred on it, and heretofore he had been

circumspect without being hypocritical.

He saw the effect he had produced, and, as he had not become indifferent

to me, he regretted it; but he knew he could not at once repair his

mistake, and contented himself for the moment by trying to divert my mind

from it by a change of subject. And I likewise felt it would be better to

talk of something else. This prudence was by no means natural to my

disposition, but I began to understand his. Besides, his injunctions of

the evening before were still too recent to be forgotten.

The conversation did not last long, for Lando, punctual to his engagement,

arrived at half‐past twelve with a beaming face, a flower in his button‐

hole, and in his hand an enormous bunch of violets destined for me.

“What!” he exclaimed when he learned my intentions for the afternoon....

“But that is impossible! Not go to the races? Why, you must. Remain at

home when the weather is the finest in the world? I never heard of such a

thing.... Deprive me of the pleasure of taking you in my _calèche_, and

making everybody envy me?... That is the most cruel caprice that ever

entered a woman’s head!...”

Here Lorenzo left the room an instant to look for his hat, and Lando

suddenly began in another tone: “I am in earnest, cousin. You would do

much better to go.”

What did he mean? I remained doubtful and troubled, but Lorenzo

immediately returned, and I had no time for reflection. As they were

leaving the room, my husband approached, and, taking me by the hand,

looked at me with an expression his eyes now and then assumed, and which

always dispersed, as by some enchantment, the clouds that rose too often

between us. He slightly caressed my cheek with the glove in his hand, and

whispered with a smile:

“Come, Ginevra mia, do not be angry. Let me see you smile again.”

Then turning towards Lando, “It is not yet one o’clock,” he said. “Let us

start, and, before going to the Bois de Boulogne, we will stop at the

Madeleine.”

His looks, as well as his words, allayed my anxiety; but a thousand

different ideas crossed my mind, and after they were gone I remained

thoughtfully leaning on the balustrade of my balcony, where I followed

them with my eyes to the end of the street, wondering what Lando meant,

and if I had really done wrong not to accompany them.

The weather at that time was fine. The clearness of the sky, as well as

the verdure of the trees, attracted my attention more than the aspect of

the street, and of the garden already filled with the crowd of animated,

happy, and gayly‐dressed people, that give every pleasant summer day at

Paris the appearance of a festival. But I was absorbed in my own thoughts,

and looked at it all without noticing anything. I had a vague feeling

that, among the dangers that seemed to encompass me in the new life into

which I had been thrown, there were two I had special reason to dread. The

first—the greatest—would have broken my heart, and on that I could not

dwell for an instant.... The second threatened the loss of our property,

and would diminish our income, if not absolutely ruin us. This, too was

alarming, but much less so than the other in my eyes, though just the

contrary in Lando’s estimation, if I read him aright. After considerable

reflection, I concluded that he merely referred to something of the same

nature he had alluded to the evening before, and I put it aside to ask

myself with far deeper anxiety if I had really had a glimpse of Lorenzo’s

heart, as he looked at me on leaving the room, or whether he was playing a

part, and deliberately deceiving me. The heavenly expression that

sometimes beamed from his eyes always inspired me with a confidence in him

that was equal to my affection. I had just experienced its effect. The

look, however, was so transient that it rather resembled the reflection of

a distant light than any actual, real feeling. Whereas his mocking laugh

and the tone that to‐day for the first time accompanied it were—alas! I

could not doubt it—the expression of his real sentiments, and this

contradiction terrified me.... He seemed to possess two natures, and my

head grew weary in trying to decide which of the two was his real one—a

question I frequently had occasion to ask afterwards, and to wait a long

time for the reply—as doubtful to him then as it was to myself....

I left the window, and, buried in an arm‐chair, I allowed the time to pass

away in reflections of this kind without opening the book I held in my

hand, or noticing the gradual obscurity of the sky, that a short time

before had been so clear. It was not threatening enough, however, to

hinder me from going on foot to Vespers, which it was nearly time for, the

hour not being as late at S. Roch’s as elsewhere. I started without any

delay, giving orders for my carriage to be at the church door at the end

of the service.

The salutary impressions of the morning and the excessive anxiety and

sadness that I afterwards experienced had somewhat counteracted the more

or less unhealthy influences that result from a continued life of

pleasure. I was now in that frame of mind when it is easy to collect one’s

thoughts; when the soul, so to speak, flies to the first place of refuge

in which it is sure of repose.... Who has not experienced the strange,

mysterious, refreshing influence of prayer, even when mute and

inarticulate?... Who has not, in this way, laid down for an instant all

his sorrows, all his fears, all his sufferings, and afterwards taken up

the load again with a renewed strength that seemed to have lightened the

burden?...

I had suffered but little at that time in comparison with what life still

had in reserve for me. But after a while we learn to suffer, and in this

science, as in all others, it is the beginning one always finds the most

difficult. A fearful storm, it is true, had assailed the first flower of

my spring‐time, and spread darkness and gloom over the heavens of my

sixteenth year; but spring‐time and the sun returned, and at an age when

others only begin life I was commencing mine the second time. But this new

life of happiness was, I now felt, threatened in a thousand ways.

Apprehension, a worse torture than sadness; a vague, undefined fear, more

difficult to endure than the woes it anticipates; the uncertainty, doubt,

and suspicion, so much more intolerable to one of my nature than any

positive suffering, rendered my heart heavy and depressed, and I felt it

would be a relief to weep as well as to pray.

I knelt on the only vacant chair in the church, and remained a long time

motionless, my face buried in my hands, unable to give utterance to my

wants, but knowing God could read my heart, as, when we meet a friend

after a long separation, we are often silent merely because we have so

much to communicate, and know not where to begin. In this attitude I heard

Vespers sung for the first time in my life, this office of the church

being, as is well known, much less frequently used in the south of Italy

than in other places. I have already mentioned the public religious

observances of my childhood. I had, therefore, never heard Vespers chanted

in this way. The voices of the choristers were harmonious, and the

responses were no less so. A large number of the congregation joined in

the chant. There was something monotonous rather than musical in it, but

it was more musical than reading, and it produced a strangely soothing

influence on me. I laid aside all thought of myself, and attentively

followed the admirable lines of the Psalmist; and when the Magnificat was

intoned, I rose with the whole congregation to chant this divine hymn with

a sensation of joy and hope that, for the moment, made me forget the

painful impressions I felt when I entered beneath these arches now

resounding with its words....

Benediction followed, recalling the earliest, dearest remembrances of my

childhood, and increasing the emotion I already felt. When the monstrance

containing the divine Host was placed above the altar, I lost all thought

of where I was. I forgot whether it was Paris, Rome, or Messina, and

whether the arches above me were those of some magnificent church, or some

humble chapel, or a mere oratory like that in which I had prayed from my

childhood. What difference did it make? The sun shines everywhere alike,

and diffuses equal light in all places. How much more truly shines

throughout the whole Catholic world the living, uncreated Light, present

on all our altars! Time and place were forgotten. I was once more with my

beloved mother, once more with Livia, my sweet, saintly sister, and the

faithful Ottavia; and when, at the end of one of those hymns that are

usually sung before the Blessed Sacrament, a young voice, pure and clear,

uttered the word _Patria_,(164) it seemed at that moment to have a double

meaning, and designate, not only my earthly, but my heavenly country.

To Be Continued.

Pius VI.

Those were terrible days. Even the faithful quailed, and asked each other

timidly whether it was possible that God’s enemies had at last prevailed,

and that the Rock had been shaken and the Word passed away. Voltaire had

come and done his work, and gone, leaving a new generation behind him to

fight the devil’s cause, to flaunt his standard over Christendom, to

revile “the Galilean,” and wage war against his church—the subtle, deadly,

persevering war of envious hatred, conquered impotence, malignant fury.

There was a shout of hellish triumph throughout the ranks of Voltaire’s

disciples; it seemed as if their victory was now secure; the old man of

the Vatican, who for generations had remained unconquerable as fate, was

in the power of the soldier who had conquered fate, who held Europe in the

hollow of his hand, who raised up kings with a nod, and overthrew

dynasties with a word. He had overcome the world, why should he not

overcome the pope? He had demolished a score of thrones, why should he not

annihilate this fisherman’s chair that for seventeen centuries had defied

the combined forces of the world? Poor fools! Why not!

Jean Angelo Braschi was born at Cesena on the 27th of December, 1717, of a

noble but poor family. His parents left him all the patrimony they had, a

faith of the royal antique sort, and an education worthy of the name he

bore. He was little more than a boy when Clement XIV. saw of what stuff

the young cleric was made, and appointed him his secretary. This was

Braschi’s first step on the ladder which was to lead him to the perilous

heights of the purple—“the dye of empire and of martyrdom.”

When Clement XIV., pursued by the entreaties and threats of European

potentates, yielded a weak concession to their cabals, and spoke of

“reform” to the general of the Jesuits (who answered, Loyola‐like, in

royal scorn of the implied calumny: _Sint ut sunt, aut non sint_),

Braschi, then cardinal, took his stand by their side, resented every

outrage offered to the sons of Ignatius, those courtiers of martyrdom in

all ages, and thus vindicated his future claim to a place in the palm‐

bearers’ ranks. He opened his house to the persecuted Jesuits; he braved

everything in his unswerving, uncompromising fidelity to their order. What

else could befall him but the crown of the confessor or the martyr?

Europe hailed his accession with delight. The pulses of the rising

monster, Revolution, were beginning to beat, and the nations were growing

afraid, they knew not yet of what; but all eyes were turned to Rome, as to

the rock where the safety of the world was anchored. The advent of a man

like Pius VI., firm as adamant, who could brave death, not merely for the

faith, but for every tittle of principle which the uttermost integrity of

the faith included—a man whom his enemies likened to Moses for his

meekness, and to Solomon for his strong wisdom; who lived like an

anchorite and officiated with the splendor of the prophet king, who loved

the beauty of God’s house and the place where his glory dwelt—the advent

of a priest like this to the papal throne gave joy all over Christendom.

Pius VI. was elected on the 15th of February, 1775. Seldom has the weight

of that unearthly crown fallen more heavily on its wearer’s brow than it

fell on that of the new pontiff. In the temporal order he saw before him a

mountain to be uplifted; in the spiritual order no far‐seeing eye could

fail to detect the ominous signs of the coming storm. Pius lost not a

moment in designing and carrying out vast schemes of material improvement

in his dominions. In those days the Pontine marshes were swamps of poison

that had hitherto defied all petty attempts at reclaiming them.

“How do you live in this dreadful place?” inquired a traveller of one of

the inhabitants of the dismal soil.

“Signor, we do not live; we die!” was the answer.

Pius VI. declared that henceforth they should live. Colossal works were

set on foot, and, if the pestilential marshes were not radically purified,

they were so much improved as to justify the people in proclaiming the

energetic pontiff as the worker of that miracle. During his pontificate

the draining was so successful that Pius himself declared this alone was

ample reward for all his sufferings. The port of Ancona was repaired, and

its entrance adorned with a light‐house; works of art were sought for,

revealed, and cherished. Spiritual works were founded and fostered with

royal munificence and paternal care. The Christian Brothers were called to

Rome and a noble school built for them, on the front of which was

inscribed the title so glorious and so dear to the Vicar of Christ: “Pius

VI., the Father of the Poor.”

But not even the wisdom and prestige of this ideal pontiff could suffice

to shelter him from the tempest that was slowly but steadily travelling

towards the Holy City. The infidel philosophers of France and Germany had

done their work; they had sown, and now the time had come for reaping.

Austria first showed symptoms of disaffection. Joseph II., who was too

cowardly to rescue his own sister(165) from the hands of the torturers,

had become the tool of his minister, Kaunitz, whose delight it was to

worry the pope with the small artillery of a cunning and treacherous

diplomacy. These weapons, however, were not the ones that could move Pius

VI. They glided off from the shield of his unalterable patience, humility,

and truth like arrows from a marble surface. Nor could the weak monarch

withstand the charm of the saintly pope when he came within its influence.

He rallied to his side when he visited Rome in 1783, and promised to be

faithful to him. But it was a broken reed, the friendship of the

vacillating Joseph.

Spain, Tuscany, and Venice next came to sadden the Holy Father’s heart and

strengthen his growing fears. His gentleness held them captive for a time;

but they too were of the tribe of broken reeds. When friends prove false,

then is the time for the treason of foes to flourish. Catherine of Russia,

the woman with the wily head of the snake joined to the cruel heart of the

tiger, came with honeyed words of reverence to tender offers of service,

nay, even of allegiance, to Pius. A far‐sighted woman, this tiger queen

who was stealing into Poland, and sucking the nation’s blood, as she

crawled into its heart. Then there was Frederick of Prussia, more honest

than many a self‐styled son of the church in those days; he was grateful

to the prince who first assigned him his title of king. Gustavus III. came

to do homage to the man who had drained the Pontine marshes, and made a

noble road through that region, so long the tomb of all who dwelt within

its poisonous area. Pius received these marks of courtesy with his

accustomed gentle grace; he knew what they were worth, and was grateful

without being beguiled. They were, in truth, the last rays of the sun that

was soon to set in darkness over his reign, and to close it in sufferings

unparalleled for fourteen centuries in the annals of the church.

France was to give the signal, and she was now ready. France, that had so

often raised the standard of the church, and defended it with the blood of

her fairest chivalry—France was to sound the war‐cry hounding on the

fanatics to the destruction of her own purest glory. The Reign of Terror

was inaugurated. The Constituent Assembly had decreed the civil

constitution of the clergy. Bishops were no longer to be what they had

hitherto been; they were henceforth to be the nominees of an unbelieving

mob; the beautiful structure of the spiritual hierarchy was to be

destroyed. To legalize the crime, an oath was exacted from the priesthood;

those who refused to take it—and their name was legion—were deprived of

the pittance allotted them by the state, and turned away to starve. Sixty

thousand preferred starvation to the bread thus bought at the price of

perjury. Of one hundred and thirty‐eight bishops, four only took the oath.

Monasteries were dissolved; scandals arose on all sides. The papal nuncio,

Cardinal de Bernis, was insulted and compelled to fly from Paris. The pope

was burned in effigy. Thus did France sound the tocsin that was to herald

in the earthquake—“a great horror of darkness and shakings of the world,

and a cup of trembling which all the nations shall drink.” Faith is being

driven out, and “philosophy” is riding in like a conqueror on her ruins.

Peace and the brave pageant of virtue and all goodly things are banished,

and in their place enter decay and chaos and unbelief; and then the

Revolution is ready. The world is wheeling round, humanity is going mad,

nothing is stable on the earth—nothing but the rock of Peter, against

which the storm beats in foolish and impotent rage. Pius raises his voice

above the whirlwind, and those who hearken hear it: “God is unchangeable.

Truth is immutable. The church can make no compromise. Let us stand

faithfully by the cross. God will save his own and redeem his word.”

Avignon exhibited a hecatomb of murdered priests. On the 24th of October,

1791, over two hundred were butchered in the _Glacière_ of that city. In

September of the following year three bishops and three hundred priests

were on one day massacred in Paris. Numbers fled to Rome for protection.

The fragments of the altar and the throne met in the Eternal City—Mesdames

de France and the King and Queen of Sardinia, proscribed prelates and

priests; and Pius opened his fatherly arms to all. This shelter was,

however, soon to be torn from them.

On the 15th of February, 1793, the commandant of the French fleet at

Naples walked into the Roman consulate, and ordered the consul to hoist

the red flag and the cap of liberty over the building. The consul refused;

a row ensued; blood was shed. The French government declared itself

insulted, and threatened the pope in violent language. Meantime, the

Directory succeeded to the Convention, and people drew a long breath, and

hoped a change had come for the better. But, as Carnot said: “If now there

was less blood shed, there were more tears.” The guillotine was still

erect, and its work only slackened because the arms of the executioners

were weary. The republican armies were progressing in their triumphal

marches. Italy still remained to be conquered. Bonaparte was entrusted

with the expedition. A series of victories brought him quickly to the

gates of Rome. He proposed the most humiliating conditions to the

Sovereign Pontiff. Pius was summoned to cancel every bull, brief, and

pastoral that the Holy See had issued from the beginning of the Revolution

to the present time. The pope firmly refused to comply. Bonaparte was at

first full of insolent fury, and threatened to annihilate Rome and the

Vatican. He relented, however, not out of deference to Pius, but to show

his defiance of the home government, and drew up a treaty of his own

invention, which, ruinous as it was, the Holy Father meekly signed, in

order to save his people and prevent bloodshed. This treaty of Tolentino,

as it was called, secured to Bonaparte the sum of thirty‐one millions of

francs, sixteen hundred cavalry horses, and a portion of the Romagna. The

Roman treasury was drained by this monstrous ransom; the people were

starving, the misery was terrible. Pius was broken‐hearted, but his

courage, fed by a faith that was anchored in God, never faltered. His

conduct all through these dreadful days was that of a saint. He found his

only solace in prayer and in fortifying the faith of his suffering flock.

But he had as yet only tasted the first drops of his chalice. The

Directory had resolved to get possession of Rome. A pretext must be

created, since Pius would not furnish even the semblance of one, for

breaking the iniquitous treaty, which had thus far secured to him the

integrity of the Holy City. General Duphot was fired on by the Roman

troops acting in discharge of their duty. Berthier was at once ordered to

leave Ancona, where he was stationed with the French army, and to march on

Rome and encamp under its walls. His first step was to issue a

proclamation exciting the citizens to revolt, insulting and calumniating

the pope and his government, and announcing himself as the liberator of an

oppressed people. He entered the city next day, and took possession by

placing seals on the museums and galleries, which were “henceforth the

property of the _grande nation_ that had come to set free the Roman

people.” A tree of liberty was planted on the capitol; tricolor flags

floated on the public monuments, and tricolor ribbons decked the ears of

Marcus Aurelius’ horse. The Holy Father was outraged in his own house; his

furniture was taken from him, and his jewels; he was despoiled even of his

pontifical robes; his private library, a valuable collection of 40,000

volumes, was seized and sold to a dealer for 12,000 crowns. The deliverers

of Rome crowned these proceedings by inviting their victim to wear the

tricolor cockade by way of a badge of authority from France. Pius VI.

replied with majestic meekness: “I can wear no livery but that with which

the church has clothed me.” This answer was distorted into an insulting

challenge to the French government, and Haller immediately received orders

to convey the pope by force out of Rome. Pius gently pleaded his age and

many infirmities, and entreated the poor grace of being allowed to die in

the midst of his people. “Oh! for that matter, you can die wherever you

are,” was the brutal retort, and measures were commenced for carrying him

away by force, in case he made any resistance. This was not likely; but

the old pontiff’s heart was breaking. “God’s will be done!” he murmured.

“Let us bow to whatever he sees good to ordain!”

Forty‐eight hours were all that was allowed him to prepare for this sudden

departure. He devoted the short time entirely to the affairs of the church

and to the performance of his religious duties. The night of the 20th of

February was fixed for the departure. It was late when Haller brusquely

entered the Holy Father’s room, and found him prostrate before the

crucifix, bathed in tears. “It is time to go,” he said, and the French

escort entered and rudely hurried the old man down the Vatican stairs and

into the carriage that was waiting for him. In it were seated his

physician and his groom of the chambers, and two other officers of his

household. The people followed the carriage, loudly lamenting, and

invoking all blessings on their beloved pastor. At Viterbo many French

priests flocked round him with the Italian crowds, and fell on their knees

for a last benediction. The first halt of the travellers was in Tuscany.

The Directory would fain have sent their august prisoner to Sardinia, but

they were deterred in this by fear of the English government, and so

proceeded to Sienna, where for three months the Augustinian convent had

the privilege of harboring the persecuted Vicar of Christ. Whilst here the

finger of Providence showed visibly its protecting care of him. The Holy

Father had just left his room one morning when the ceiling fell in, and

crushed everything beneath it; the house was violently shaken by an

earthquake, and suffered much damage. This event forced Pius to seek

hospitality at the Monastery of Chartreuse, in Florence, where he arrived

on the 2d of June. Here some tender consolations awaited him. The Grand

Duke of Tuscany came frequently to the feet of his venerated pastor, to

assure him of his loyal attachment. The King and Queen of Sardinia also

gathered round him, driven from Rome, where they had been so lovingly

welcomed on being robbed of the throne which the saintly sister of Louis

XVI. had adorned so nobly. Her husband had ever been a devoted son of the

Holy Father, and now declared that the sight of his serenity in the midst

of trials so overwhelming was enough to make him forget his own sorrows.

“I cannot regret my throne, for I find more than it gave me at the feet of

your Holiness!” he once exclaimed.

“Alas! beloved prince,” replied Pius, “all is vanity here below. What

examples of this are we both! Let us look up to heaven; there await us

those thrones that can never perish.” They entreated him to go with them

to Sardinia the moment it was possible for themselves to return there; but

Pius refused. He alleged his age and suffering health as a reason for

remaining where he was; but the true motive was the fear that his presence

in the generous king’s dominions might prove fatal to him and his people.

They parted with many tears, never to meet again on earth.

All this time the captive pope devoted his whole mind to the government of

the church and the strengthening of his afflicted children. He lost no

opportunity of sending messages of encouragement to those who were at a

distance, exhorting them to suffer cheerfully, pointing to the day of joy

and of triumph that would soon dawn after the short night of darkness. His

own serenity was a fountain of hope and sweetness to all who beheld it.

Like the great apostle, he seemed in deed and in truth to glory in his

infirmities and in Christ crucified.

A multitude of proscribed priests and prelates had fled to England, whence

they wrote eloquent letters of condolence to their captive chief,

protesting their allegiance to him and to the faith, and their readiness

to die for both, if needful. These proofs of devout affection deeply moved

the Holy Father, and consoled him for much. The Directory began at last to

feel alarmed at the attitude of foreign cabinets towards the Holy See.

England spoke in fearless condemnation of the cruelty of the French

government towards Pius, and made no disguise of her sympathy with the

exiled priests and royalists. France commanded the Grand Duke of Tuscany

to drive the pontiff out of his states; but that prince replied with royal

dignity: “I did not bring the pope here, and I certainly will not drive

him away.” The grand duke paid for his boldness; his dominions were

forthwith invaded, and Etruria added to the French territory. Austria was

next appealed to, and requested to receive the pope into custody, a

convent on the Danube being named as a suitable abode; but Austria

haughtily declined. Spain lastly refused to become his jailer.

Nothing, therefore, remained but to secure his person by bringing him to

France. Humanity cried out against the barbarity of subjecting the

venerable old man to so long and painful a journey in his present state;

but France had no ears for the voice of humanity. Pius VI. was now

partially paralyzed; he was covered with blisters, and unable to move

without labor and acute pain. But what of that? He was dragged to Parma,

where a few days’ rest was granted. The medical men even then declared

they would not take the responsibility of proceeding with their prisoner,

lest he should die on the road. The French commissioner, impatient of so

paltry an obstacle in the way of his orders, burst into the pope’s room,

flung down the bed‐clothes, and, seeing with his own eyes the truth of the

report, turned on his heel with the remark, “Alive or dead, he must go

on!”

The cortège started accordingly. All along the road the gentle martyr was

cheered by the love and pity of the people. Multitudes ran for miles by

the side of his carriage, bareheaded, weeping, and invoking the blessing

of the Most High upon him. Pius was moved to tears at the sight of their

courage in thus openly compassionating him, and with his suffering hand,

almost disabled as it was, he made an effort to bless them again and again

from the window.

On the 24th they reached Milan. The escort, in order to hide his presence

from the people, and prevent similar scenes of enthusiasm and indignation,

conveyed their prisoner into the citadel at three o’clock in the morning.

On the 26th they hurried him out of his sleep in the dead of the night,

and conveyed him secretly to Oulx, and the next morning they started to

cross the Alps. Who shall describe the sufferings of Pius VI. during that

transit? His body was now one wound; his feeble strength was almost spent;

he seemed scarcely more than a breathing corpse. They placed him roughly

in a sort of sedan‐chair, while the rest of the escort followed on mules.

The road over the mountains was precipitous and stony; every step was

agony to the suffering pontiff. The cold was intense. Some Piedmontese

officers, touched with compassion, took off their warm pelisses, and

begged him to use them; the Holy Father thanked them with emotion, but

refused. “I do not suffer,” said he gently, “and I have nothing to fear;

the hand of God is upholding me. Courage, my friends! Let us put our

confidence in God, and all will be well with us.”

On the 30th the wayfarers reached Briançon. Pius was visibly moved on

beholding the soil of France, that unhappy land where such fearful crimes

were being perpetrated, but where God was already preparing miracles of

repentance. He was taken to the hospital for a lodging. The people,

horrified at the wretched, attenuated aspect of the Vicar of Christ, a

prisoner in the hands of the men who had deluged their country in blood,

were loud in expressing their pity and respect; they flocked in crowds

round the hospital, calling out for the Holy Father to appear at the

window and bless them. But the jailers forbade him to show himself, and

forced the people to disperse. The few companions of his exile who had

accompanied him so far were now taken from him, his confessor and valet

being alone permitted to remain. This cruel isolation lasted for nearly a

month, and would no doubt have been continued still longer if the progress

of Soovorof’s army in Italy had not frightened the Directory, and decided

them to send their prisoner further on to Grenoble, where he was rejoined

by his faithful attendants. Watched and humiliated as he was, his journey

hither was one long ovation in every village and town through which he

passed. The people would not be beaten off, but flocked in thousands to

greet him, falling on their knees round the carriage, rending the air with

their cries, and calling down vengeance on those who persecuted Jesus

Christ in the person of his vicar. The women everywhere were foremost in

testifying their devotion to the Holy Father. They disguised themselves as

peasants, as servants, or venders, and bribed the guards to admit them to

his presence, where ladies of the highest rank were proud to perform any

menial service for him.

At Grenoble a hundred young girls dressed in white came forth to meet him,

singing canticles and strewing flowers in his path. Pius VI. smiled

lovingly on them, and blessed them with tears in his eyes. Precautions

were useless; no threats could restrain the hearts of the pastor’s

children, and this sorrowful journey, in spite of its cruelties, resembled

the triumphal march of a king amidst his people. They reached Valence on

the 14th of July. The pope was lodged in the citadel. Close by, imprisoned

in a Benedictine convent, were thirty‐two priests who had shared his

hospitality in Rome, and been compelled to leave it when he had been taken

away. They entreated on their knees to be allowed to go and ask his

blessing; but the prayer was denied, and the Holy Father was strictly

forbidden to go beyond the garden‐gate, which was guarded day and night,

lest by showing himself he should excite disturbance amongst the people.

All prohibitions were alike to Pius now, for he felt that the goal was at

hand, and the journey would soon be ended. He was suffering terribly, and

knew that the hand of death was upon him. Sweet came the summons to the

pilgrim pontiff. “All journeys end in welcomes to the weary.” Pius had

trod the stony path, cross‐laden like his Master, crowned, like him, with

the thorny diadem of sacrifice and love, and now the promised land was in

sight, and angel songs were breaking on the pilgrim’s ear: “Come, thou who

hast suffered persecution for my sake; come and reign with me in my

kingdom.”

For some days the Holy Father remained altogether absorbed in prayer, as

if unconscious of everything around him. Often in the midst of his prayer

he would break out into expressions of pardon towards his enemies, or pity

for the sufferings of his children. “What are the sufferings of my body

compared to what my heart endures for them?” he once exclaimed. “My

cardinals, my bishops, scattered and persecuted, ... Rome, ... my people,

... the church, ... O my Saviour! in what a state am I forced to leave

them all.”

The symptoms of final dissolution now rapidly increased, and the pains he

endured were so terrible as to bring on long fainting fits.

On the 28th of August Pius asked for the last rites of the church. He

insisted, in spite of the agonies he was suffering, on being dressed in

full pontificals, and placed in a chair, so as to receive the Holy

Viaticum with the greatest possible reverence. His supreme devotion all

through life had been to the Blessed Sacrament. His desire was complied

with, and then, placing one hand upon his breast, and the other on the

Holy Gospels, he made with great solemnity his dying confession of faith

according to the pontifical formula. He then repeated several times, in

the most impressive tones, his free forgiveness of his enemies, invoking

the mercy and pardon of God upon them; he prayed earnestly also for the

conversion of France; this done, he received the Bread of Angels.

On the 29th, the following day, Extreme Unction was administered by the

Archbishop of Corinth. The Holy Father seemed to rally slightly after

this, and was able to turn his attention a little to temporal affairs. At

midnight the palpitations of his heart and other symptoms gave warning

that the end had come. The faithful little band of friends and fellow‐

captives gathered round their dying pastor, and kissed the hand that could

no longer lift itself to bless them. The Archbishop of Corinth gave the

papal absolution, which the Holy Father received with deep humility and

fervor, and, after a faint effort to give a last blessing to those who

were kneeling in tears at his feet, he breathed his last with the words of

the benediction half finished on his lips. It was an hour after midnight

on the 29th of August, 1799. Pius VI. was in his eighty‐second year, and

had governed the church for twenty‐four years, six months, and fourteen

days.

A cry of anguish and of exultation rang through Christendom when the news

of his death went forth. The faithful mourned their shepherd, the brave

pastor who had loved them and defended them even to death; the wicked

rejoiced and clapped hands, exclaiming, “Now we have done with him! This

old man is the last of the popes! He has died in a foreign land, hunted

like a dog, without honors or followers. His court and his hierarchy are

dispersed; we have done with Rome and Roman popes!” Short‐sighted fools,

that knew not how to distinguish between defeat and victory, because they

could not read the mystic scroll which the hand of God has traced above

the cross: “In this sign thou shalt conquer!”

The remains of the venerable old man were exposed for several days; the

crowds were so great, both day and night, that it was found impossible to

remove them at once, as had been intended. The people proclaimed the

martyr‐pope a saint, and flocked round the bier to gaze upon those worn

and emaciated features where the majestic peace of death now sat like a

golden shadow. For miles around Valence multitudes flowed in to see him,

to touch the bier, to throw flowers upon it, and bear them away again as

sacred relics. The authorities of the place did not even try to prevent

these public demonstrations of respect and enthusiasm. The Directory

thought fit to be silent regarding them, and even issued orders that the

pope should be laid out with the state becoming a sovereign. Thus the

victim who had been denied the commonest mercies of humanity when he was

on his death‐bed was surrounded in his coffin with the pomp and

paraphernalia of royalty.

The body was finally placed in the citadel of Valence, where it remained

until Bonaparte, on being raised to the consulate, had it removed under a

bombastic decree setting forth “the magnanimity of the _grande nation_ to

a good but weak old man who had for a while been the enemy of France,

owing to perfidious advisers, etc.” This grandiloquent proclamation ended

in the remains of the first sovereign in Christendom being transported to

the common burial‐ground, where the charity of a Protestant courageously

raised a small stone chapel over his grave. A few years later (1801) the

body was brought back to Rome, and placed in the fitting shrine of a

martyred pope—the Basilica of S. Peter. So does the King of Heaven

overturn the designs of earthly kings, making sport of their power, and

confounding their vain rebellion.

“Elias smote the waters of Jordan with his mantle, and with Eliseus passed

over on dry ground.... And Eliseus said unto him: I pray thee let a double

portion of thy spirit be upon me.”

And as the friends went on, behold a chariot of fire and horses of fire

came and parted them both asunder, and Elias went up to heaven, and

Eliseus saw him no more; but he took up the mantle of the prophet that had

fallen from him, and went back and stood by the banks of the Jordan, and

smote the waters with the mantle, and they parted, and he went over as

before.

And who are these that we behold like a cloud travelling towards us from

the West? Lo! they come, a grand procession, cleaving the waters, singing

glad songs, and bearing in their hands gifts of gold and frankincense.

Welcome, ye goodly company of pilgrims, who “have feared neither distance

nor danger” to come from the furthest ends of the earth to lay the tribute

of your love at the feet of Peter. Thrice welcome! ye sons and daughters

of America, who have come to clasp hands with your brethren of the Old

World, and to receive the loving embrace of our common father. May ye be

blessed ten thousand‐fold for the joy your love has brought to his

suffering heart!

One venerable figure shines forth amidst the band; the wisdom of nigh

fourscore years is on her brow, the peace of a long life spent in the

service of her Lord. She gazes on the wonders of the Holy City, on its

glorious shrines, its stately temples, its monasteries and convents, its

brave army of priests and monks and nuns, and, filled with holy envy at

the sight, her fervent spirit exclaims: “Oh! if we could but carry this

away with us. If we had these riches in America!”

“Nay, lady, grudge us not our treasure! Pray rather that this likewise may

not be taken from us, and give thanks to God for the great things that are

being accomplished in your own wonderful land. There the faith is like the

sun at daybreak, scarcely yet above the horizon, but already powerful and

splendid. What has become of that sun amongst us? Oh! I will not utter

it.... Verily, there is One who will blow with his breath, and the cloud

shall be scattered. Let us pray only that the day be hastened.”(166)

The mystic mantle which Christ first laid upon his apostle has descended

through the ages, through evil times and persecutions, to the prophet of

our own days, untorn, unstained, a garment of immortality and strength.

Now, as then, it bears him in safety through the flood; now, as then, does

he “throw salt upon the waters,” and cure them, so that all those who come

and drink thereof have life and salvation. For God changes not, nor can

those who love him and love one another in his love perish, nor their hope

be confounded.

Assunta Howard.

I. Juxta Crucem.

The full moon was pouring a flood of light upon the marble pavement of S.

Peter’s, and, by its weird influence, increased to an almost startling

immensity the vastness of that mighty work of art, worthy offspring and

expression of the faith which has subdued the world. The soft radiance in

the nave seemed to throw into deeper gloom and an almost immeasurable

space the ever‐burning lamps which, like fixed stars, surround the central

point of Christendom—the tomb of the great apostle, to whom was first

given the power of the keys. No one could remain unmoved in such an awe‐

inspiring scene; certainly not two, at least, of the three persons who

alone stood within the church, silently receiving impressions which come

but seldom in a life‐time. And yet, as the same sunbeam, falling upon

different objects, will produce different colors, so on these three minds

the impressions were stamped according to their preparation to receive

them. To the man, in whom the moonlight, bathing him in brightness,

revealed the appearance of gentle birth and refined culture, it was merely

the human, the miracle of art, the power of man to design and execute;

while the pure soul of the fair young girl at his side was struggling

through the human up to the divine. The patient old sacristan standing

apart, keys in hand, had dwelt for years in the midst of material and

spiritual greatness with a faith so simple that he never dreamed it was

sublime.

“How grand!” at length exclaimed Mr. Carlisle. “What a power there is in

architecture; and how well those master‐minds understood and used this

power for the elevation of man!”

“Yes,” replied his young companion; “and it seems to me that in church

architecture every detail should be symbolic, and the whole should convey

to the soul the impression of some one of God’s attributes. S. Peter’s is

so truly the home of the Christian world, and draws the heart so lovingly

to itself, that it always seems to express the paternity of God. But to‐

night there is more than this. It speaks to my very soul of the Father,

but ‘the Father of an Infinite Majesty.’ ”

Mr. Carlisle smiled. “Another of your pretty fancies, Assunta. One would

hardly expect to find such grave thoughts beneath this shining hair, which

the alchemy of the moonlight is fast turning into gold.”

The usual ready answer did not come; for any light conversation was out of

harmony with the emotion inspired by such surroundings. Besides, the young

girl was struggling with herself and against herself in a contest little

suspected by her companion. The wonderful influence of the time and place

had brought near the moment of defeat or victory. It is sometimes the way

of God with the soul to prepare it gradually for some struggle, and then

suddenly and unexpectedly to bring it face to face with the trial, and to

permit its whole future to hang upon the decision of a moment. Thank God!

to the faithful soul the strength is never wanting. It was such a crisis

as this which clouded the bright face and darkened with doubt the mind of

one in whom youth and innocence would seem to preclude the possibility of

mental conflict.

It was but a few days since she had become convinced that the guardian who

had been to her both friend and father had come to feel for her a love

which indeed might include that of father and friend, as the greater

includes the less, but which was something more than either. And with the

consciousness there came a strange yearning of her heart to go forth and

meet his heart with an equal love, to trust herself to the protecting care

she knew so well, to yield to the happiness which promised to gild her

life with a radiance too dazzling to be all of earth. But there arose a

barrier between them, and hence the struggle.

Strange how we play the devil’s advocate against our conscience! Must she

respect that barrier? What if he were almost an infidel; would it not be

her sweet mission to take heaven by violence, if need be, and by her

importunate prayers obtain for him the light of faith? Dangerous

sophistry! And yet on this quicksand how many women wreck themselves,

instead of steering the bark freighted with the loved soul into the calm

waters of truth!

They two, the guardian and his ward, had entered the church while yet the

setting sun was irradiating column and statue with a glowing splendor; and

they had continued to walk slowly and almost in silence up and down the

long nave until the light had faded and darkness had succeeded the short

twilight.

They were about to leave the calm influence and the majesty of repose

which this vast temple of God ever inspires, when suddenly the moon,

rising to a level with the window above the porch, poured its magic‐

working beams upon the pavement. They paused, and, turning to the

sacristan, who was about to close the doors for the night, begged a few

moments’ delay, which he, with unusual cordiality, granted.

And what were the busy thoughts which induced so prolonged a silence

during that hour’s walk, until the gathering darkness and then the rising

moon warned them how the time was passing, of which they had taken so

little note? Suffice it to say that the mind of each was filled with the

other. With Assunta Howard, the new sentiments kindled in her heart had

conjured up the memory of a scene which, associated with her first sorrow,

was a living picture to her imagination. Again, as if it were but

yesterday, she, a little child, entered the room of her dying mother, and

saw her lying pale and beautiful upon her bed, her crucifix in her hand,

and beside her the little table covered with white linen, upon which were

the exquisite flowers and the still burning candles placed there in honor

of her divine Lord, whom she had just received as the Viaticum of her

journey home. The little Assunta thought how much her mamma looked like

the beautiful S. Catherine, borne in the arms of the lovely angels, which

hung above her own bed; and she wondered if the angels would come before

she had time to kiss her mother once again. It was almost with a feeling

of awe that she whispered in the ear of the good priest who raised her in

his arms, “Is mamma a saint now?”

“My precious child,” said the mother, strengthened for this bitter parting

by the divine Guest who was reposing in her heart, “mamma must leave her

little Assunta, her good little girl. But before long I hope that I shall

be with the dear Jesus and his sweet Mother, whom you love so much. So you

will be glad for mamma, and always remember how much she loves you. I am

not very strong, my darling, but put your arms around my neck, and your

curly head close to mine, while I say something to you. You will not

understand me now, my poor child, but I know that you will try and

remember all, and one of these days you will know what I mean. My darling,

when you are grown up to be as tall as mamma, some one will perhaps find a

way into that loving little heart. My little daughter, if divine love

claims it, and our dear Lord wishes you to be all his own, do not

hesitate, but gladly give your life as a sweet offering to him who has

chosen you. Give him your whole heart without a fear. But if it is a human

love which seeks to make my treasure all its own, think long and well and

prayerfully, my child, before you give your heart into its keeping. And, O

Assunta! remember, never marry one who does not cherish your faith as you

do; who cannot kneel with you before the altar, and love you _in God_,

even as you do him. I do not ask you to promise me this, for I feel that

it would not be right to bind you by a promise which you cannot

understand. Yet it is your dying mother’s wish. But I must kiss the

wondering expression away from those dear eyes. One of these days dear F.

Joseph will remind you of my request when you are old enough to

understand—will you not, father? But my little girl can remember that she

is to be poor papa’s dear comfort, and never forget the little prayer for

him every day, that God will give to him—tell me what you ask for papa, my

darling?”

The little Assunta answered through her sobs: “I want papa to love my

blessed Mother Mary, and I ask God to make him. And, mamma, you said I

must say faith; but I don’t know what that means, except when I say it in

the catechism, and so I ask God to make him as good as mamma is, and a

saint just like S. Joseph in my picture; and I think he will, mamma,

because you know he heard me once when I asked him to let me go to school

to Sister Rose.”

The mother smiled, as she replied:

“How earnestly I hope so, my daughter! And papa has promised me to leave

you with the good Sisters for a long time; so you must please him by being

his good, obedient child. And now, my dear, precious little girl, kiss

me—once again, my darling. I am very tired, and must rest. Perhaps, when I

wake up, I shall see, instead of my darling’s golden curls, the golden

gates of the celestial city. When I am gone, Assunta, child of Mary, say

every day: ‘Dear Jesus, take mamma home soon.’ Now call papa.”

The priest, who had stood by in silence, came forward and lifted the poor

bewildered child down from the bed. He saw that the strength which had

until now supported the mother in this time of trial was quite exhausted.

She uttered aloud the words, “Thy will, not mine”—words which, since that

night beneath the olives in Gethsemane, express both the bitterness of the

chalice and the ministry of the angel—then her eyes closed; and though for

a short time consciousness remained, they never opened until the

resplendent majesty of the glorious humanity of her divine Lord burst upon

her soul’s vision.

As the child turned away to obey her mother’s request, the priest began to

repeat the _Proficiscere, anima Christiana_, with which the church so

lovingly speeds her children on their last journey; and for the first time

she realized that her mother was indeed going from her. She crept softly

from the room, only to rush away to her own little chamber, where,

kneeling before the picture of S. Catherine, evermore associated with that

great, first sorrow, she poured out the grief of her loving, childish

heart in sobs and tears.

And it was this scene which was again before the mental eye of the young

girl as she stood there in the moonlight, herself so fair a picture. Her

sainted mother, with her look of heavenly repose, and the angel‐borne S.

Catherine, blended themselves into one image in her mind, while the Holy

Spirit was guiding her innocent soul. Suddenly an impulse seized her;

perhaps it was what mystic writers call an inspiration. Turning to her

guardian, whose eyes had for some time been wonderingly fixed upon her,

she hastily exclaimed: “One moment, my friend,” and then walked quickly

towards the chapel, where hung the lamp which told of the divine Presence

upon the altar.

Mr. Carlisle was quite accustomed to what he was pleased to call her

“pretty, graceful piety,” and so, without surprise, he turned to exchange

a few words with the patient sacristan, while, on her knees before her

Lord, Assunta fought and conquered in the first real battle of her life.

She realized fully now the love which seemed to offer her such human

happiness, and she knew what it would cost her to refuse it. But then came

the remembrance of her mother’s dying words—“Unless he can love you _in

God_”—and her heroic soul gathered up its strength for the consummation of

the act of sacrifice. With one appealing, heart‐breaking prayer for help,

she bowed her head, and made to God the promise which her mother had not

required from the child. And those alone who know what it is to offer up

the crown and joy of life in sacrifice can understand the peace and rest

which came to her troubled heart, even through the vision of a life robbed

of its brightness.

Absorbed as she was, she had forgotten the world outside and its

distracting claims until her guardian stood beside her.

“_Petite_,” he whispered, “in thy orisons be all my sins remembered. But

since the list is somewhat long, I think you must not wait to recall them

now. Your one moment has lengthened into fifteen by my watch, and I have

exhausted my powers of eloquence in my endeavors to charm that good old

man into forgetfulness of the flight of time. Can you not leave heaven for

earth and us poor mortals? There are so many angels up in heaven, they can

afford to spare us our only one.”

Rising hastily, Assunta exclaimed: “I have been very thoughtless, and you,

as always, kind and patient. We will go at once.”

Her gentle apologies to the old sacristan added value to the gift she

slipped into his hand; and as he closed and locked the door behind them,

he muttered to himself:

“She is a saint anyhow, if she is an American.”

As they passed down the steps towards the carriage, Mr. Carlisle suddenly

stopped, exclaiming: “Why, child, what is the matter? You have the real

martyr‐look on your face. I read there, as in a book, that combination of

suffering and triumph which we see in pictures, representing those times

when men were not so chivalrous as now, and inflicted persecutions on

account of a devotion which is so natural to your sex, and which,” he

added, laughing, “is so particularly becoming where the woman is young and

pretty. But,” he said uneasily, “I cannot see that expression in the face

of my _petite_. Sunshine is her element; and the cloud which should cast a

shadow upon her life would burst forth in thunder over mine. But what is

it? Has the moonlight enchanted you?”

“No, dear friend,” replied Assunta, endeavoring to speak gayly. “Enough

that you grant me the triumph. The laurel wreath is a woman’s ambition.

You need not bestow the martyr’s palm until it is deserved. And now let us

go home.”

“Indeed, that is the one thing in this world which I do not intend to do,

at least at present. Thanks to my good sister’s well‐timed headache, we

have a rare opportunity to follow out our own sweet will in the most

unconventional manner. There is no respect for the world and the propriety

Clara preaches left in me to‐night. I, for one, shall take advantage of

the absence of that inconvenient third party and her friend Mrs. Grundy to

drive to the Colosseum. If you decline to accompany me, I will just remind

you that the walk home is somewhat long and the hour somewhat late.”

Saying which, he gave his order to the coachman, and took his seat beside

Assunta in the barouche. After a short silence, he continued:

“The cat‐is‐away sensation takes me back to my school‐boy days. Though I

confess dear Clara to be the very best of the tabby race, still she does

show her claws sometimes when I propose an escapade that shocks her sense

of what is becoming at the advanced age of thirty‐five. To see the

Colosseum to‐night is not to be resisted. There is no dampness whatever in

the air, and the moon has risen just high enough to make the shadows

perfect.”

“I think,” said Assunta, “that it must be a very guilty conscience that

needs so many words in its justification. I, for my part, am so strong in

innocence that I will meet Clara on my return with an unblushing brow—to

speak poetically—as far as the Colosseum is concerned. The evening is

certainly lovely enough to reduce even your friend Mrs. Grundy to a spirit

of meek acquiescence. ‘How beautiful is night!’ Do you remember the first

lines of _Thalaba_? It must have been just such a moon as this that

suggested the opening of that remarkable poem.”

“Did you not read it to me? How can you ask, then, if I remember? However,

I did not hear it then for the first time. The dogs, with their human

eyes, made a great impression even upon my boyish mind. But here we are.”

And jumping down from the carriage, he held out his hand to her.

One moment she hesitated; for, by that instinct which is the shadow of a

coming event, she felt that her trial was not yet at an end. But if it

must come, why not then? She might never again be so prepared to meet it.

There is a fervor of heroism which immediately succeeds a sacrifice that

makes us strong to endure. If there is a step to be taken, it is better

not to wait until the inevitable reaction is upon us with its enervating

influence.

The hesitation was too instantaneous to be remarked, and Assunta allowed

her guardian to assist her to alight; and placing her arm within his, they

passed the sentinel, and entered the vast amphitheatre. It was indeed a

perfect Roman night; and, to an artistic eye, nothing could be more

imposing than the strong contrast between the deep gloom beneath those

bewildering arches, which threw their dark shadows across the open arena,

and the brightness of a winter’s moon. The two walked towards the centre,

and seated themselves upon the steps of the large cross which rises in the

midst of this mighty relic of heathen Rome. Assunta almost shuddered, as

if at an evil omen, when she observed that she had unconsciously placed

herself so that the shadow of the cross fell directly upon her, and

stretched out its unnatural length at her feet. But even had she been

superstitiously inclined, she might well have felt that no place could be

so safe and sure as beneath the shadow of the cross; it rested so

protectingly on her young head, seeming to stand between her and evil.

Soon she realized this, and checked the impulse which, alas! too many of

us follow when suddenly we find ourselves close under Calvary—the mount

whose crown is a cross, and whose cross is salvation—the impulse to move

“out of the shadow into the sun,” out of the cloud which wraps us about in

love into the sunlight with which the world seeks to dazzle us into

forgetfulness.

Gradually they fell into a quiet conversation, the beauty of the scene,

the many associations of the past which cling to these ancient walls,

furnishing ample topics. At last Mr. Carlisle, turning suddenly to

Assunta, said:

“And how many years is it since your poor father summoned me to his

bedside, and told me of the troublesome charge I should find in the

convent, to be transferred into my hands when the patience of the nuns had

reached the limit of endurance, and my young lady the age of eighteen?”

“It is five years since, my most ungracious and ungrateful guardian. But

you will soon be released from duty. The fifteenth of next August will be

my twenty‐first birthday. It was because I came into the world on the

Feast of the Assumption that my dear mother gave me the name, at which all

her good, practical American friends wondered and held up their hands.

Well, on that morning I shall offer you freedom, and I shall expect to

hear you exclaim, quoting your favorite Shakespeare, ‘For this relief much

thanks!’ ”

“And I suppose you will think,” said Mr. Carlisle, somewhat bitterly,

“that it will be enough, after all these years, to say, ‘You have been

kind to me, my guardian, quite like a father; I am very grateful, and hope

that we may meet again’; and with a good‐by and a pretty courtesy shake

off the shackles, and take yourself, with all your sunshine, out into the

world to make bright the life of others, forgetting him whose life you

alone have the power to darken by absence. Ah! child,” he said, his tone

changing to tender earnestness, “do you not know with what tie I would

bind you to me so that no age could have the right to separate us? Do you

think that it is as a father that I love you? That might have been once;

but now it is the love of a man of thirty‐five, who for the first time has

found his ideal of woman realized. Assunta, do I ask too much? When that

day comes of which you speak, will you not give me the right to devote my

life to you? You were looking forward to the day which was to give you

freedom; and you hesitate to put yourself under bondage? If you knew my

love for you, you would believe that I ask but the right to love and

protect you always. Have I been so severe a guardian that you dare not

trust me as a husband? Assunta, you do not speak. If you cannot love me

now, will you not at least let me try to win your love?” And as he looked

into the face which she now turned towards him, he exclaimed with a

mingling of doubt and triumph, “Child, you do love me!”

It was well for Assunta that she had fought her battle beforehand, else

she could hardly have hoped to conquer now. “My dear, kind friend,” she

said sadly, “I would have given much to spare you this. It seems indeed a

poor return for all you have been to me to reject the love for which I am

very grateful. But it must be so. I cannot marry you, Mr. Carlisle.”

The triumph in his face faded; but, fortunately for his diminishing hope,

doubt remained.