The scholarly apostle, thus disowned by his kith and kin, was eagerly
welcomed by Holy Church, the more warmly that he had come of his own
inward grace and refused the tribute of annual crowns with which the
Popes often rewarded true religion--at the expense of the Ghetto,
which had to pay these incomes to its recreants. It was the fashion to
baptize converted Jews in batches--for the greater glory--procuring
them from without when home-made catechumens were scarce, sometimes
serving them up with a proselyte Turk. But in view of the importance
of the accession, and likewise of the closeness of Epiphany, it was
resolved to give Joseph ben Manasseh the honor of a solitary baptism.
The intervening days he passed in a monastery, studying his new faith,
unable to communicate with his parents or his fellow Jews, even had he
or they wished. A cardinal's edict forbade him to return to the
Ghetto, to eat, drink, sleep, or speak with his race during the period
of probation; the whip, the cord, awaited its violation. By day Rachel
and Miriam walked in the precincts of the monastery, hoping to catch
sight of him; nearer than ninety cubits they durst not approach under
pain of bastinado and exile. A word to him, a message that might have
softened him, a plea that might have turned him back--and the offender
was condemned to the galleys for life.
Epiphany arrived. A great concourse filled the Basilica di Latran. The
Pope himself was present, and amidst scarlet pomp and swelling music,
Joseph, thrilled to the depths of his being, received the sacraments.
Annibale de' Franchi, whose proud surname was henceforth to be
Joseph's, stood sponsor. The presiding cardinal in his solemn sermon
congratulated the congregants on the miracle which had taken place
under their very eyes, and then, attired in white satin, the neophyte
was slowly driven through the streets of Rome that all might witness
how a soul had been saved for the true faith. And in the ecstasy of
this union with the human brotherhood and the divine fatherhood, and
with Christ, its symbol, Giuseppe de' Franchi saw not the dark,
haggard faces of his brethren in the crowd, the hate that smouldered
in their dusky eyes as the festal procession passed by. Nor while he
knelt before crucifix and image that night, did he dream of that other
ceremonial in the Synagogue of the Piazza of the Temple, half-way from
the river; a scene more impressive in its sombreness than all the
splendor of the church pageant.
The synagogue was a hidden building, indistinguishable externally from
the neighboring houses; within, gold and silver glistened in the
pomegranates and bells of the Scrolls of the Law or in the broidery of
the curtain that covered the Ark; the glass of one of the windows,
blazing with a dozen colors for the Twelve Tribes, represented the
Urim and the Thummim. In the courtyard stood a model of the ancient
Temple of Jerusalem, furnished with marvellous detail, memorial of
lost glories.
The Council of Sixty had spoken. Joseph ben Manasseh was to suffer the
last extremity of the Jewish law. All Israel was called together to
the Temple. An awful air of dread hung over the assemblage; in a
silence as of the grave each man upheld a black torch that flared
weirdly in the shadows of the synagogue. A ram's horn sounded shrill
and terrible, and to its elemental music the anathema was launched,
the appalling curse withdrawing every human right from the outlaw,
living or dead, and the congregants, extinguishing their torches,
cried, "Amen." And in a spiritual darkness as black, Manasseh tottered
home to sit with his wife on the floor and bewail the death of their
Joseph, while a death-light glimmering faintly swam on a bowl of oil,
and the prayers for the repose of the soul of the deceased rose
passionately on the tainted Ghetto air. And Miriam, her Madonna-like
face wet with hot tears, burnt the praying-shawl she was weaving in
secret love for the man who might one day have loved her, and went to
condole with the mourners, holding Rachel's rugged hand in those soft,
sweet fingers that no lover would ever clasp.
But Rachel wept for her child, and would not be comforted.