The Hill of Venus

by Nathan Gallizier

  CHAPTER II

  THE PASSING OF CONRADINO

  Days and weeks in the cloisters of Monte Cassino sufficed to convinceFrancesco that he was not destined to find any friendships there. Theelder Villani had not seen fit, in an age of implied indulgence, tokeep secret the nature of his transgression, and the curious andunfriendly glances that met him on every turn had soon proclaimed thisfact to the newcomer, who writhed inwardly, but endured in silence.The changeless, endless rounds endured by many thousands of humansouls for all years of their lives, added new torture; he felt likethe stray leaf blown from its stem on the sheltering branch; would hisever be the prayerless peace for evermore?

  Thus month passed after month,--in dire, changeless monotony.--

  It was a stifling afternoon late in summer.

  Few of the monks felt energy enough to go about their usualhalf-hearted pastimes, and nearly all had retired to their cells incomatose languor. Francesco had gone up with the rest; but the sunstreamed brilliantly into his little cell through the western windowand from without there came to his ears the myriad droning ofephemeral insect life. His mind was weighted with many thoughts thatclamored for analysis.

  Gradually he felt immersed in a morbid train of reflections concerningas ever, the utter emptiness of his own existence, now really moreexiled in loneliness than ever before. For months now he had been inthe cloisters, and not one single word from the outer world concerninghis future had come to him. The time was fast approaching when he musttake the final vows. Had the Pontiff forgotten him? Had his emissarydeceived his father on his death-bed? Or--it was unthinkable--had hisfather deceived him, to make him pliable to his wishes? Was hedoomed to remain here till the end of time, severed from theworld,--forgotten?

  The very thought was unendurable. These conjectures were worse thanimmediate annihilation. No matter which it was to be,--he, the monk,was utterly powerless. It were far better not to yield himself tothese unwise fears. The Prior had been invisible to him for days. Healone might, by word or hint, have alleviated his fears; but he hadnot spoken.

  After brooding over these matters till he thought his brain wouldburst, Francesco determined to shake off the oppression of his celland to seek solace under the azure vault of Heaven.

  Suiting the action to the impulse, he opened the door noiselessly andstepped into the corridor without.

  About him there was absolute silence. He stood at the farthest cornerof the western wing. Nearly all the cells immediately about him wereuntenanted. For a moment or two he tarried, undecided. Then, followingan irresistible impulse, he stepped on to the trellised walk withoutand decided to ascend the top of the mountain.

  Escaping from the court and the cloisters, all hushed in dream-likestillness, he climbed a green knoll which several ancient pines markedstrangely with their shadows. There, leaning against one of thetrunks, he raised his eyes to the barrier of encircling mountains,discovered by the quivering sunlight falling directly on the forestswhich fringed their acclivities.

  The vast woods, the steep descents, the precipices and torrents alllay extended beneath, softened by a pale-blue haze that alleviated ina measure the stern prospects of the rocky promontories above. The skywas of the deepest azure. The hoarse roar of torrents, throwingthemselves from distant wildernesses into the gloomy vales below,mingled with the chant from remote convents.

  How long he had stood there, endeavoring to fix some purpose in hislife, something that would fill out the emptiness of his existence andgive him the strength to bear up under the burden of his destiny,Francesco could not have told, when a vague glittering movement on theopposite mountain slopes attracted his gaze, a glitter that told of anarmed array marching and riding among the hills. Even the woods seemedpeopled with shadowy forms, slowly emerging into the bright light ofhigh-noon, while out of the stillness there leaped the cry of a horn,hawberks glimmered and armor shone. Beyond the armed array themountains towered solemn and stupendous, fringed as with aureoles oflambent flame. The horsemen came from the North; there was a swirl ofthought in Francesco's brain, then his hand went to his heart:Conradino and his iron hosts were marching on Rome!

  And he, who had dreamed of espousing at some day the cause of the lastof the Hohenstauffen, who had hoped, by some great effort, to win thecrown of life and Ilaria's love, stood here on the summit of MonteCassino, separated by mountains, chasms and torrents from theglistening throng, which wound in one long, sinuous line towards theravines of Camaldoli, separated by a whole world from the realizationof the hopes nurtured in his childhood. He was the bondsman of theChurch,--the bondsman of the Pope.

  It was an indisputable fact; he was being caught in constantly evernarrowing circles.

  Many questions would hourly assail him, questions like the hill-townsof Umbria, built on the brink of precipices, walled round withbarriers of unhewn rock, seeming so near from the ravine below, wherethe wanderer sees every roof, every cypress tree, every pillaredbalcony, but which he cannot approach by scaling the unscalable, sheerprecipice, but must slowly wind round from below, circling up and downendless undulations of vineyard and oakwood, coming forever upon atantalizing glimpse of towers and walls, forever seemingly close tothe heights above him, yet forever equally distant, till, at last, bya sharp unexpected turn of the gradually winding road, he standsbefore the gates.

  Thus was it with his own isolated soul, a soul unaffected by anyother, unlinked in any work, or feeling, or suffering with any anyother soul,--nay even with any physical thing.

  Thus it stood between himself and Ilaria. Thus they would foreverremain alone, never move, never change, never cease absorbing throughall eternity that which the eye cannot see.

  A soul purged perchance, of every human desire or will, isolated fromall human affection, raised above the limits of time and space,hovering in a limbo of endless desire, twisting mystical halfreasoning away from the peace-hungry soul!

  What a fate was his! What a vortex of passions he had been thrustinto!

  In the streets of Rome, Guelphs and Ghibellines were fighting. Tosouthward the Provencals ravaged the land. All over Italy thefree-lance companies lay waste and burned. The coarse religion of thecloister had no uplifting tendency. It was rather a perpetual smart.The first fervor of the great Franciscan and Dominican movements hadlong been spent. Nothing, save the ill-regulated enthusiasm ofheretical sects, had arisen to take its place. In monasteries andconvents scandals were almost the order of the day. It was true, thetorch of Franciscan faith still passed privately from hand to hand.Some of the ablest men of the Church were discussing the daring tenetsof direct Franciscan inspiration. Representatives of all phases ofmediaeval thought mingled with the adherents of a mystic Orientaltrend.

  Nevertheless, Francesco, in the dead of night, found himself waking tothe sense of a dreadful loss and loneliness. He had entered a hushedworld, where human and earthly values alike were ignored or forgotten,and the drama of the soul was all in all. The demon of disillusionmentwhich had beset him ever since he had ascended the heights of MonteCassino began to unfold his gloomy wings over the far horizon of hissoul.

  No one knew, save himself and perhaps he not fully, how deep ayearning for guidance underlay his sensitive distaste for the controlof men. His was a nature that craved to follow, as others craved tolead, but which submitted itself reluctantly, and never at the call ofconvention.

  Devastated Italy rose before his eyes,--nay, the whole world opened tothe inner vision, one great battle-field. Unconsciously his eyesfollowed the direction of the horsemen. Their vanguard had longdisappeared in the dusk of distant forest-aisles; still Swabia'siron-serried ranks were pouring from the sheltering boughs of the oaksabove San Geminiano.--

  Evening drew on apace.

  A procession, with its gay dresses and colored tapers gleaming like arainbow against the verdant hills along the curving, climbing roadfrom San Vitale, attracted Francesco's gaze, and with it a sudden dullpain contracted his heart as he strained his eyes towards the valley.<
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  It seemed like a bridal procession in its pomp, its splendor. A womanbestriding a palfrey rode gaily by the side of a man conspicuous indark velvet. Directly beneath where he stood, she suddenly raised herhead, as if she had divined his presence and desired a witness to herglory.

  With a low cry of pain Francesco drew back.

  At that moment, notwithstanding the height, he had recognized themagically fair features of Ilaria Caselli.

  Like an animal hunted to death, that wishes to die in its lair, he wasabout to withdraw, when he faced what appeared to be a peasant who hadcome with provisions to the cloister.

  As he saw the young monk he paused with a salutation, then,approaching him, he whispered:

  "Have you heard the news? Messer Raniero Frangipani and Madonna IlariaCaselli are passing on their bridal journey to Rome!"

  Francesco's face was so pale that no earthly tint seemed to haveremained in it. Only the large eyes gave evidence of life.

  "You come to me from her?" he questioned to the peasant.

  "She bade me tell you that from no motive of coercion,--but of her ownfree will and choice, the Frangipani's proposal had been accepted!"

  Francesco gave a sudden cry like one who leaps over a precipice, and,falling on his knees, buried his face in his hands.

  When he roused himself from the stupor which benumbed his limbs thepeasant had disappeared, with him the bridal procession and theSwabian contingents of Conradino.

  The full moon gazed down upon him through the great silence of themountain-world, and a thousand pines thrust up their midnight spearstowards the stars.