“You have taken the edge off the surprise I meant for you,” Elena said
when Tacita told her of her midnight walk. “But there still remains
something to please you with its novelty. Go and see the Basilica. The
door is open all day. You can go alone, and will enjoy it more so than
with company. When you come back I will have your new room all ready for
you. It is in front, over the great veranda, a little to the right.”
“Shall I meet many people in the street?” Tacita asked.
“You will see very few; and they will all be on some business. We are an
industrious community, and there is no one who has not something to do
in the morning. It is only toward evening that we walk for pleasure.”
“Will any one speak to me?”
“Probably not; but they will bow to you. You have only to bow and smile
in return.”
“Can I smile to everybody?”
“If the smile wants to come.”
“Oh, Elena, that is the best of all!” Tacita exclaimed. “Sometimes I
have met strangers whom it seemed impossible to pass without notice.
Perhaps the person appeared to be in trouble, or was uncommonly
_simpatica_; or for the moment I happened to feel strongly that we are
all ‘poor banished children of Eve.’ It was an affection that I cannot
describe, as though it were heaven to sacrifice your life in order to
save or console another. I gave, perhaps, a glance that rested a moment,
or a faint—oh, so faint!—hint of a smile; and I was always pained and
mortified, the person would look so surprised. It showed me plainly that
the earth is indeed accursed when our kindest impulses are so
misunderstood.”
While speaking, she put on a new dress that Elena had brought her. It
was a long robe of thin dark blue wool, bound at the waist by a silken
sash, a lighter tint of the same color. The wide straight sleeves fell
over the hands, or were turned back, such sleeves as may be gathered up
under a brooch at the shoulder. A long scarf of the woolen gauze served
to wrap the head and neck, if necessary. There were gloves of fine white
kid and russet shoes with silver buckles.
Elena wore the same style of dress in gray.
“Gray is our working color,” she explained. “Sometimes it is worn with
leathern belts, or sashes of another color. Gray alone, or with black,
or white, is mourning. White is our highest gala. The very old wear
white always. It gives that look of cleanliness and freshness which age
needs. The children are our butterflies. They wear gay colors. We never
change the form of our dress. The only variation is in color and
material. I think that you will scarcely find anything more graceful,
modest, or convenient.”
“It’s the prettiest dress I ever had,” said Tacita. “And now—and now”—
They went down stairs and stepped out into the veranda, and the full
splendor of what she had seen but in shadow burst upon Tacita’s view.
There was every shape and shade of verdure, and every shape of barren
rock and gleaming snow. There were mists of rose, blue, and gold that
were flowers. There was every depth of shadow, from the tender veil as
delicate as the shadow of eyelashes on the eye, to the rich dusk lurking
beneath some wooded steep or overhanging crag. The houses were of a
silvery gray, bright on the roofs with plants and awnings. Wherever
there was water, it glittered. The façade of the Basilica was like snow,
and its five windows blazed in the morning sun. The wavering path that
threaded the gardens was yellow, and shone with some sparkling gravel.
Tacita leaned over the balustrade and looked right and left. At every
turn some lovely picture presented itself.
“There is no one in the avenue,” Elena said. “But the archways will be
cooler.”
Tacita chose the deserted avenue, and walked timidly, almost without
raising her eyes, till the second bridge was passed, and the Basilica
rose before her, standing out from a mass of dark rock that almost
touched the tribune.
Nine steps of gray stone led up to the white balustrade. Within, at
either side was a square of turf, thick and fine, separated and
surrounded by a path of yellow gravel, sparkling with little garnets.
Three white steps above led to the double door, now wide open. There
were inscriptions on the fronts of the steps. The upper one bore in
Latin that most perfect of all acts of thanksgiving, _We give thee
thanks for thy great glory._ The vestibule was one third the width of
the Basilica, two narrow side doors, unseen from the front, having
vestibules of the same size. This was entirely unadorned, except by the
two valves of the carved door of cedar and olive-wood shut back against
the wall, and the shining folds of a white linen curtain shutting an
inner arch of the same size.
Lifting the linen band that drew these folds aside, Tacita was
confronted by another curtain, a purple brocade of silk and wool,
heavily fringed.
She dropped the linen behind her, and stood cloistered between the two
for a moment; then, lifting a purple fold, stood before a screen that
seemed woven of sunshine. A gold-colored silk brocade with a bullion
fringe that quivered with light closed the inner edge of the arch.
Two contrary impulses held a momentary soft and delightful conflict in
her mind: an impatient desire to see what was beyond that veil, and a
restraining desire to let imagination sketch one swift picture of what
was so delicately guarded.
Then, holding her breath, she slipped past the scintillating fringes and
stood in the nave.
Flooded with the morning sunshine, the place was as brilliant as a
rainbow. Even the white marble footing of the walls, and the two lines
of white marble columns, overhung with lilies instead of acanthus
leaves, caught a sunny glow from that illumination. The walls, frescoed
with landscapes of every clime, showed all the rich hues of nature. The
blue ceiling sparkled with flecks of gold, there were golden texts on
the white marble of the lower walls that condensed the whole story of
Judaism and Christianity. On the pedestals of the ten lower columns were
inscribed the Ten Commandments. The pavement of polished green porphyry
reflected softly all this wealth of coloring, and as it approached the
tribune was tinted like still waters at sunset. For the Basilica of San
Salvador was simply the throne-room of its Divine King; and the throne
was in the tribune.
A deep alcove rising to the roof was lined with a purple curtain like
that of the portal; and raised against it, nine steps from the pavement,
was a throne made of acacia wood covered with plates of wrought gold.
From the arch above, where the purple drapery was gathered under the
white outspread wings of a dove, suspended by golden chains so fine as
to be almost invisible, hung a jeweled diadem that quivered with
prismatic hues. The footstool before the throne was a block of
alabaster; and on its front was inscribed in golden letters:
_Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give
you rest._
The white marble steps were in groups of three, each surmounted by a low
balustrade of alabaster hung with golden lilies between each snowy post.
A broad purple-cushioned step surrounded the lower balustrade. Otherwise
there was no seat nor resting-place but the pavement.
Tacita sank on her knees and gazed at that throne that shone full of
sunshine, half expecting that the light would presently condense itself
into the likeness of a Divine Face. The crown hung just where it might
have rested on the brow of an heroic figure enthroned beneath. And was
there not a quiver in the jewels as if they moved, catching and
splintering the sunrays on diamond points, or drinking them in smooth
rubies, or imprisoning their fluttering colors in white veiled opals, or
showing in emeralds a promise of the immortal spring of Heaven! And was
there not a whisper and a rustling as of a host preceding the advent of
some supreme Presence?
She put aside her fancies, and made a heartfelt thanksgiving to him who
was truly there, then rose and slowly approached the throne. The work
was all beautiful. The fluting of the columns was exquisite, and every
milk-white lily that was twined in their capitals was finished with a
loving hand. On the fronts of the steps were names of prophets, apostles
and saints, highest of all and alone, the name of Abraham surrounded by
the words he spoke to his son, Isaac, as they went up the mountain in
Moriah:—
_My son, God will provide himself a lamb for a burnt-offering._
Lower down were names of beneficent gods and goddesses, all names which
the children of men had lovingly and reverently worshiped, each
light-bearing god or goddess with a star to his name.
Tacita remembered her grandfather’s declaration: “Show me the path by
which any human soul has climbed to worship the highest that it could
conceive of the Divine, and I will see there the footsteps of God coming
down to meet that soul.”
Her heart expanded at the thought. It seemed the very spirit of the Good
Shepherd gathering all into his fold—all who lifted up their hearts in
search of something above their comprehension, but not above their love.
With a deep sigh of utter contentment she turned aside, and walked down
one aisle and up the other, looking at the frescoes.
The wall of the three vestibules extended quite across the Basilica with
a wide gallery above; and from the golden fringe of the portal to the
purple fringe of the apsis, one scene melted into another with such
artful gradations that there was no break in the picture; and all ended
against the ceiling in mountain, or tree-top, or vine, or in a flock of
birds, so that it did not seem an ending.
A glimpse of polar sea with an aurora of the north and icebergs began
the panorama; and then came full streams overhung by dark pine-trees
that presently showed green mosses and springing delicate flowers under
their shadows. The scene softened, and grew yet softer, till a palm-tree
was over-brushed by the purple curtain of the apse, and a line of
silvery beach, and a glimpse of sea and of a far-away misty sun-steeped
island just escaped its folds. There were sunsets shining through
forest-reaches, brooks dancing over stones, the curve of a river, the
violet outline of a mountain faint against the sky, lambs sunk in a
green flowery meadow and half submerged, looking like scattered pearls.
There were gray streaks of rain, and a glimpse of a rainbow; there was
sunrise over bald crags where an eagle stood black against its opal
background. The butterfly fanned its capricious way with widespread
wings, the bee and humming-bird dived into the flower, the stag stood
listening with head alert, the elephant pulled down the fruit-laden
branches, the dragon-fly spread its gauzy wings; but nowhere was there
any sign of man, nor of the works of man.
From one aisle to the other Tacita went, wondering more and more of what
famous artist this could have been the crowning work. From the portal at
both sides the scenes were arctic; but their procession was infinitely
varied. The small doors entering from the sides were scarcely visible in
rocks and arching trees. A heavy grapevine climbing to hang along the
ceiling seemed to hide all but the tiny cove of a pond spotted with
lilies, amid which floated a pair of swans.
At the left side, burning the jungle from which he issued, a tiger stood
and stared intently at the Throne.
But in all there was no sign of man, nor of the works of man.
When Tacita reached the Arcade on her return, Elena was waiting for her
at the lower entrance, and uttered an interrogative “Well?”
“I have no words! Don’t ask me about the Basilica. I met some people
coming back. How well they stand and walk. Standing and walking must be
taught here. Every one understands it so well. I kissed my fingers to a
little girl, and she came and touched my girdle, then brushed her
fingers across her lips, and ran away again before I could stop her. Oh,
it is all so lovely!”
They went up to a pleasant chamber that looked across the town. “This is
your room, dear,” Elena said. “The dining-room is just across the
corridor. We will have our dinner at our own little table before the
school-girls come in; and you can be served in your own room any time
you like. It is but a step more to take. And here is the salon, just
beside you. It is but little used; for except when a stranger comes, we
do not visit in San Salvador. Our houses are for our private life. We
meet frequently, may meet almost every evening at the assembly-room in
the Star-house; and as it is open every day, and there are a good many
nooks and corners there beside the chief rooms, there is always a place
for a tête-à-tête, or a little company. But some people will come here
to see you. You will like to make some acquaintances before going to the
assembly. I hope that you may feel rested enough to go to-morrow night.”
The salon was simply furnished, and had no need of other ornament than
the view seen from its windows. There was a single picture on the wall,
representing a young woman of a noble figure standing erect, her arms
hanging at her sides, and one hand holding a scroll. She wore the
costume of San Salvador of a tawny brown with yellow sash and scarf.
Under one foot, slightly advanced, lay a Cupid sprawling face downward,
the fragments of his bow and arrows scattered about. The face was of a
somewhat full oval, olive-tinted, with heavy black hair drawn back from
the temples, a delicate rose-color in the cheeks, and sweet red lips.
The large dark eyes looked straight out with a lofty and thoughtful
expression. The whole figure was instinct with a fine animal life, such
life as sustains a strong soul full of feeling and intelligence. All the
curves of the face were tender; but they were contradicted by an
assumption of reserve almost too severe for beauty. It was the picture
of a loving nature that had renounced love.
“That is our Iona,” Elena said. “She is the Directress of the girls’
school, and she is the women’s tribune. All classes have with us their
tribune, or advocate. Iona has traveled and studied in both continents.
She has advanced so far in astronomy that she teaches it even in the
boys’ school. Would you like to have her teach you our language? She has
offered herself as your teacher.”
“If she will take the trouble, I shall feel honored. What a
noble-looking creature! Is she a native of San Salvador?”
“Yes; and she has a brother here who has never been outside. Ion is one
of the cleverest boys we have. Their parents died when they were very
young.”
Later, when they had eaten their dinner, and Tacita was alone, there was
a tap at the door, and she rose to meet the original of the portrait.
Iona had tapped with her ivory tablets, and was pushing them into the
folds of her sash as she entered.
There was something electric in the instant during which the two paused
and looked at each other without speaking. Then Iona stepped forward,
gentle, but unsmiling, laid a hand on Tacita’s arm, and, bending, kissed
her lightly on the forehead.
“You are welcome to San Salvador!” she said with deliberation, in a
melodious, bell-like voice. “I hope that you will be contented here.
Does the place please you?”
“I am enchanted!” Tacita said. “I ask myself continually if I have not
found the long-lost garden of Eden.”
The two contemplated each other with something more than curiosity.
Tacita was conscious of a certain restraint and something akin to
disappointment while talking with this woman, who was even more
beautiful than her portrait. The form, the teeth, the mass of hair were
the most superb that she had ever seen; and though the skin was dark,
every faintest wave of color was visible through it. While she talked,
the color deepened in her cheeks till she glowed like a rose.
The blue dress with its silver clasps might have been too trying to her
olive skin but for this lovely blush.
Iona proposed herself courteously as teacher, and Tacita thankfully
accepted, offering herself in return for any service she might be able
to perform.
“Be quite at ease!” her visitor replied, not unkindly. “You will soon
have an opportunity. I have already thought that you might be willing to
assist in the Italian classes. You speak the language beautifully. But
for some time yet you will have employment enough in seeing the place
and becoming acquainted with the people and their customs. Of course
Elena has already told you that there need be no restraint on your
wanderings. Every one you meet will be a friend, whether he can tell you
so or not. The language most useful to you will be French, though there
is scarcely a language, living or dead, which some one here does not
speak.”
Tacita begged to know something of the government of San Salvador.
“We have a few general principles which give form to every detail,” Iona
said. “For personal disorders in the young, parents and teachers are
held responsible; for any social disorder, our rulers are held
responsible. Probably, all blame is finally laid on the father and
mother, and more especially on the mother. The training of the child is
held to be of supreme importance, and there is no more dignified
occupation. We say, ‘The mother of children is the mother of the state.’
No diseased or deformed person is allowed to have children. You will not
hear any mother in San Salvador complain of her child as having a bad
temper, or evil dispositions. She would be told that the child was what
she made it.
“The children stay at home till they are about four years of age. Then
their whole day is spent at school, where all their meals are taken. The
mothers take their turns, all who have not infants, as matrons of the
schools, a week at a time. Their sole duty is to see that the food is
good and sufficient, that the little ones have their nap, and that their
health is thought of. I suppose you know that we have public kitchens
where all the cooking is done. The kitchen for the children is by
itself, and so is that for the sick. Here also the ladies serve their
week in a year or thereabout, as matrons. They make the bill of fare,
and have an eye to the sending out of all but the food for the children
and the sick, these having their special matrons.
“We do not lay much stress on the form of a government. The important
thing is personal character. A republic may be made the worst of
tyrannies; and an absolute monarchy might be beneficent, though the
experiment would be a dangerous one. The duty of a government is to obey
the laws and compel everybody else to obey them. That is literal. We
have no sophistries about it. Of course, Dylar is our chief, and in some
sense he is absolute. Yet no one governs less than he. We take care of
the individual, and the state takes care of itself. Moreover, the Dylar
have always been the first to scrupulously obey our laws and observe our
customs. There is a council of elders; Professor Pearlstein is
president. No one under sixty years of age is eligible. Each class has a
tribune chosen by itself. I hold a sinecure as tribune for the women. I
fancy”—looking at her companion with a smile of sudden sweetness—“that
you may be our long looked for tribune for the children.”
“Surely it should be a mother to hold that office,” Tacita said.
“Think a moment!” said Iona, her smiling eyes lingering on the sweet
face.
“It is true,” said Tacita slowly. “Parents do not always understand
their own children.”
“They are sometimes cruel to them when they think themselves kind,” Iona
said with energy. “They sometimes ruin their lives by their partiality.
They sometimes tread as with the hoofs of a beast on the feelings of the
most sensitive of their flock. How often are children mute! The finer
they are, the more isolated are their puzzled and often grieving souls.
They sometimes suffer an immense injustice without being able to right
themselves, or even to complain; and this injustice may leave them
morally lame for life. Children should be shielded from pain even as you
shield a young plant from the storm. When the fibres of both are knit,
then give them storm as well as sunshine.”
“I see that the boys and girls are kept apart both in their education
and socially,” Tacita remarked. “I have heard that point discussed
outside.”
“It will never be discussed here,” said Iona with decision. “All have
equal opportunities; but they do not have them in common. The result
justifies the rule. When the boys and girls approach a marriageable age
they are allowed a free intercourse and free choice. In questions
concerning the honor of the state we have no theorizing; and the state
has as much interest in the child as the parent has. It has more. The
parent suffers from the sin, or gains by the honor of his child for but
a few years; the state may suffer or profit from the same cause for
centuries. Besides, a well-organized and orderly government is of more
importance to the well-being of every individual than any other
individual can be. The love of no individual can console a man in the
midst of anarchy, or when he is the victim of a tyrant. You have to
thank your parents for human life, if you hold it a boon; and you have
to thank your government for making that life secure and free.”
“And if you have not security and your reasonable degree of freedom?”
asked Tacita.
“Then the greater number of your people are bad, and the few have an
opportunity to be heroic.”
“My grandfather had no respect for the opinions of majorities,” Tacita
said. “He said that out of a thousand persons it was quite possible that
one might be right and nine hundred and ninety-nine wrong. He said that
the history of the world is a history of individuals.”
As Iona rose to go, the door opened, and Elena came in followed by
Dylar.
Tacita went with some agitation to meet this man, who was still, to her,
a mystery. Nor was he less a mystery when she found him simply a
dignified and agreeable gentleman, with nothing strange about him but
his costume of dark blue cloth, a sort of cashmere of silk and wool,
soft and softly tinted. It was made in the Scottish, or oriental
fashion, with a tunic to the knee and a silken sash of the same color.
He wore long hose of black silk, silver buckles to his shoes, and on his
turban-shaped cap, made of the same blue cloth, was a silver band,
closed at the left side by a clasp of a strange design. A hand pointing
upward with all its fingers was set inside of a triangle that was
inclosed in a winged circle.
Seeing Tacita’s glance touch this symbol more than once, Dylar explained
it. “We have all some badge, according to our occupation,” he said. “The
hand is manual labor. I am a carpenter, and have served my
apprenticeship, though I seldom do any work. The triangle is scientific
study, and the winged circle is a messenger. All those who, having their
home here, go out on our errands, wear this winged circlet. It is the
only badge I really earn; but I wear the three as Director of all.”
“I hope that I may be allowed to earn one,” Tacita said, trying to
settle her mind into a medium position between the strange romance of
her first impressions of this man and the not unfamiliar reality of
their present meeting. The penetrating eyes were there; but they only
glanced at her kindly, and did not dwell. A slight smile, full of
friendliness, illumined his face as he spoke to her; but between it and
her there floated a shadow-face, having the same outlines and colors,
but fixed in a gaze of intense and self-forgetful study.
“I am not clairvoyant,” he said presently, his eyes laughing; “but I
fancy that your thought has made a flight to Madrid during the last few
minutes.”
“Could I help it?” she said blushing. “I could not venture to ask; but”—
“You can ask anything!” Dylar said. “If you show no curiosity, I shall
think you indifferent. I am told that the resemblance is striking. Of
course I cannot judge. The original of that portrait was the founder of
San Salvador, and a Dylar, my ancestor. But, my lady, I had already seen
something more than a picture resembling you when we met in Madrid. I
had seen yourself, not alone in Venice, but years before, in Naples. You
spoke to me. Do you remember?”
“Oh! I could not have looked at you and forgotten,” she answered with
conviction.
“Pardon! You looked and spoke. And you gave me an alms.”
He searched in the folds of his sash for a coin, and showed it to her.
It was an Italian _baiocco_ polished till it looked like gold.
“You went to Naples ten years ago with your mother and grandfather,”
Dylar said. “You visited the Museum. Two men were seated side by side on
the steps as you went up, a young and an old man; and the old man
stretched his hand out for alms. Your mother gave him something. The
young man did not ask, but you gave him this _baiocco_, and you said,
‘My brother, I am sorry that it is not more.’”
For a moment she could not speak. Then she said,—
“I was taught to call the poor brother and sister. I could not know that
I was taking a liberty.”
“The liberty of heaven!” said Dylar. “Well! I thought that you would
come here some day. And you are here!”
He rose, looking down, as if to temper somewhat the joyousness of his
exclamation.
“Ask all the questions you choose,” he said. “Do in all things as if you
were in your father’s house. Farewell, till we meet again.”