“Well, Paolo?” said the cavalier, suddenly starting.
“My Lord, the men are all going back to-night.”
“Let them go, then,” said the cavalier, with an impatient movement. “I can follow in a day or two.”
“Ah, my Lord, if I might make so bold, why should you expose your person by staying longer? You may be recognized and” —
“No danger,” said the other, hastily.
“My Lord, you must forgive me, but I promised my dear lady, your mother, on her death-bed” —
“To be a constant plague to me,” said the cavalier, with a vexed smile and an impatient movement; “but speak on, Paolo, — for when you once get anything on your mind, one may as well hear it first as last.”
“Well, then, my Lord, this girl, — I have made inquiries, and every one reports her most modest and pious, — 79the only grandchild of a poor old woman. Is it worthy of a great lord of an ancient house to bring her to shame?”
“Who thinks of bringing her to shame? ‘Lord of an ancient house!’” added the cavalier, laughing bitterly,—”a landless beggar, cast out of everything, — titles, estates, all! Am I, then, fallen so low that my wooing would disgrace a peasant-girl?”
“My Lord, you cannot mean to woo a peasant-girl in any other way than one that would disgrace her, — one of the House of Sarelli, that goes back to the days of the old Roman Empire!”
“And what of the ‘House of Sarelli that goes back to the days of the old Roman Empire’? It is lying like weeds’ roots uppermost in the burning sun. What is left to me but the mountains and my sword? No, I tell you, Paolo, Agostino Sarelli, cavalier of fortune, is not thinking of bringing disgrace on a pious and modest maiden, unless it would disgrace her to be his wife.”
“Now may the saints above help us! Why, my Lord, our house in days past has been allied to royal blood. I could tell you how Joachim VI.” —
“Come, come, my good Paolo, spare me one of your chapters of genealogy. The fact is, my old boy, the world is all topsy-turvy, and the bottom is the top, and it isn’t much matter what comes next. Here are shoals of noble families uprooted and lying round like those aloes that the gardener used to throw over the wall in springtime; and there is that great boar of a Cæsar Borgia turned in to batten and riot over our pleasant places.”
“Oh, my Lord,” said the old serving-man, with a distressful movement, “we have fallen on evil times, to be sure, and they say his Holiness has excommunicated us. Anselmo heard that in Naples yesterday.”
“Excommunicated!” said the young man, — every feature of his fine face, and every nerve of his graceful form seeming to quiver with the effort to express supreme contempt. “Excommunicated! I should hope so! One would hope through Our Lady’s grace to act so that Alexander, and his adulterous, incestuous, filthy, false-swearing, perjured, murderous crew, would excommunicate us! In these times, one’s only hope of paradise lies in being excommunicated.”
“Oh, my dear master,” said the old man, falling on his knees, “what is to become of us? That I should live to hear you talk like an infidel and unbeliever!”
“Why, hear you, poor old fool! Did you never hear in Dante of the Popes that are burning in hell? Wasn’t Dante a Christian, I beg to know?”
“Oh, my Lord, my Lord! a religion got out of poetry, books, and romances won’t do to die by. We have no business with the affairs of the Head of the Church, — it’s the Lord’s appointment. We have only to shut our eyes and obey. It may all do well enough to talk so when you are young and fresh; but when sickness and death come, then we must have religion, — and if we have gone out of the only true Roman Catholic Apostolic Church, what becomes of our souls? Ah, I misdoubted about your taking so much to poetry, though my poor mistress was so proud of it; but these poets are all heretics, my Lord, — that’s my firm belief. But, my Lord, if you do go to hell, I’m going there with you; I’m sure I never could show my face among the saints, and you not there.”
“Well, come, then, my poor Paolo,” said the cavalier, stretching out his hand to his serving-man, “don’t take it to heart so. Many a better man than I has been excommunicated and cursed from toe to crown, and been never a whit the worse for it. There’s Jerome Savonarola there in Florence — a most holy man, they say, who has had revelations straight from heaven — has been excommunicated;81 but he preaches and gives the sacraments all the same, and nobody minds it.”
“Well, it’s all a maze to me,” said the old serving-man, shaking his white head. “I can’t see into it. I don’t dare to open my eyes for fear I should get to be a heretic; it seems to me that everything is getting mixed up together. But one must hold on to one’s religion; because, after we have lost everything in this world, it would be too bad to burn in hell forever at the end of that.”
“Why, Paolo, I am a good Christian. I believe, with all my heart, in the Christian religion, like the fellow in Boccaccio, — because I think it must be from God, or else the Popes and Cardinals would have had it out of the world long ago. Nothing but the Lord Himself could have kept it against them.”
“There you are, my dear master, with your romances. Well, well, well! I don’t know how it’ll end. I say my prayers, and try not to inquire into what’s too high for me. But now, dear master, will you stay lingering after this girl till some of our enemies hear where you are and pounce down upon us? Besides, the troop are never so well affected when you are away; there are quarrels and divisions.”
“Well, well,” said the cavalier, with an impatient movement,—”one day longer. I must get a chance to speak with her once more. I must see her.”
CHAPTER IX. THE ARTIST MONK
On the evening when Agnes and her grandmother returned from the Convent, as they were standing after supper looking over the garden parapet into the gorge, their attention was caught by a man in an ecclesiastical habit, slowly climbing the rocky pathway towards them.
“Isn’t that Brother Antonio?” said Dame Elsie, leaning forward to observe more narrowly. “Yes, to be sure it is!”
“Oh, how glad I am!” exclaimed Agnes, springing up with vivacity, and looking eagerly down the path by which the stranger was approaching.
A few moments more of clambering, and the stranger met the two women at the gate with a gesture of benediction.
He was apparently a little past the middle point of life, and entering on its shady afternoon. He was tall and well proportioned, and his features had the spare delicacy of the Italian outline. The round brow, fully developed in all the perceptive and æsthetic regions, — the keen eye, shadowed by long, dark lashes, — the thin, flexible lips, — the sunken cheek, where, on the slightest emotion, there fluttered a brilliant flush of color, — all were signs telling of the enthusiast in whom the nervous and spiritual predominated over the animal.
At times, his eye had a dilating brightness, as if from the flickering of some inward fire which was slowly consuming the mortal part, and its expression was brilliant even to the verge of insanity.
His dress was the simple, coarse, white stuff-gown of the Dominican friars, over which he wore a darker traveling-garment of coarse cloth, with a hood, from whose deep shadows his bright mysterious eyes looked like jewels from a cavern. At his side dangled a great rosary and cross of black wood, and under his arm he carried a portfolio secured with a leathern strap, which seemed stuffed to bursting with papers.
Father Antonio, whom we have thus introduced to the reader, was an itinerant preaching monk from the Convent of San Marco in Florence, on a pastoral and artistic tour through Italy.
Convents in the Middle Ages were the retreats of multitudes of natures who did not wish to live in a state of perpetual warfare and offense, and all the elegant arts flourished under their protecting shadows. Ornamental gardening, pharmacy, drawing, painting, carving in wood, illumination, and calligraphy were not unfrequent occupations of the holy fathers, and the convent has given to the illustrious roll of Italian Art some of its most brill
iant names. No institution in modern Europe had a more established reputation in all these respects than the Convent of San Marco in Florence. In its best days, it was as near an approach to an ideal community, associated to unite religion, beauty, and utility, as ever has existed on earth. It was a retreat from the commonplace prose of life into an atmosphere at once devotional and poetic; and prayers and sacred hymns consecrated the elegant labors of the chisel and the pencil, no less than the more homely ones of the still and the crucible. San Marco, far from being that kind of sluggish lagoon often imagined in conventual life, was rather a sheltered hotbed of ideas, fervid with intellectual and moral energy, and before the age in every radical movement. At this period, Savonarola, the poet and prophet of the Italian religious world of his day, was superior of this convent, pouring through all the members of the order the fire of his own impassioned nature, and seeking to lead them back to the fervors of more primitive and evangelical ages, and in the reaction of a worldly and corrupt Church was beginning to feel the power of that current which at last drowned his eloquent voice in the cold waters of martyrdom. Savonarola was an Italian Luther, — differing from the great Northern Reformer as the more ethereally strung and nervous Italian differs from the bluff and burly German; and like Luther, he became in his time the centre of every living thing in society about him. He inspired the pencils of artists, guided the counsels of statesmen, and, a poet himself, was an inspiration to poets. Everywhere in Italy the monks of his order were traveling, restoring the shrines, preaching against the voluptuous and unworthy pictures with which sensual artists had desecrated the churches, and calling the people back by their exhortations to the purity of primitive Christianity.
Father Antonio was a younger brother of Elsie, and had early become a member of the San Marco, enthusiastic not less in religion than in Art. His intercourse with his sister had few points of sympathy, Elsie being as decided a utilitarian as any old Yankee female born in the granite hills of New Hampshire, and pursuing with a hard and sharp energy her narrow plan of life for Agnes. She regarded her brother as a very properly religious person, considering his calling, but was a little bored with his exuberant devotion, and absolutely indifferent to his artistic enthusiasm. Agnes, on the contrary, had from a child attached herself to her uncle with all the energy of a sympathetic nature, and his yearly visits had been looked forward to on her part with intense expectation. To him she could say a thousand things which she instinctively concealed from her grandmother; and Elsie was well pleased with the confidence, because it relieved her a little from the vigilant guardianship that she otherwise held over the girl. When Father Antonio was near, she had leisure now and then for a little private gossip of her own, without the constant care of supervising Agnes.
“Dear uncle, how glad I am to see you once more!” was the eager salutation with which the young girl received the monk, as he gained the little garden. “And you have brought your pictures; oh, I know you have so many pretty things to show me!”
“Well, well, child,” said Elsie, “don’t begin upon that now. A little talk of bread and cheese will be more in point. Come in, brother, and wash your feet, and let me beat the dust out of your cloak, and give you something to stay Nature; for you must be fasting.”
“Thank you, sister,” said the monk; “and as for you, pretty one, never mind what she says. Uncle Antonio will show his little Agnes everything by-and-by. A good little thing it is, sister.”
“Yes, yes, — good enough, — and too good,” said Elsie, bustling about; “roses can’t help having thorns, I suppose.”
“Only our ever-blessed Rose of Sharon, the dear mystical Rose of Paradise, can boast of having no thorns,” said the monk, bowing and crossing himself devoutly.
Agnes clasped her hands on her bosom and bowed also, while Elsie stopped with her knife in the middle of a loaf of black bread, and crossed herself with somewhat of impatience, — like a worldly-minded person of our day, who is interrupted in the midst of an observation by a grace.
After the rites of hospitality had been duly observed, the old dame seated herself contentedly in her door with her distaff, resigned Agnes to the safe guardianship of her uncle, and had a feeling of security in seeing them sitting together on the parapet of the garden, with the portfolio spread out between them, — the warm twilight glow of the evening sky lighting up their figures as they bent in ardent interest over its contents. The portfolio showed a fluttering collection of sketches, — fruits, flowers, animals, insects, faces, figures, shrines, buildings, trees, — all, in short, that might strike the mind of a man to whose eye nothing on the face of the earth is without beauty and significance.
“Oh, how beautiful!” said the girl, taking up one sketch, in which a bunch of rosy cyclamen was painted rising out of a bed of moss.
“Ah, that indeed, my dear!” said the artist. “Would you had seen the place where I painted it! I stopped there to recite my prayers one morning; ’twas by the side of a beautiful cascade, and all the ground was covered with these lovely cyclamens, and the air was musky with their fragrance. Ah, the bright rose-colored leaves! I can get no color like them, unless some angel would bring me some from those sunset clouds yonder.”
“And oh, dear uncle, what lovely primroses!” pursued Agnes, taking up another paper.
“Yes, child; but you should have seen them when I was coming down the south side of the Apennines; these were everywhere so pale and sweet, they seemed like the humility of our Most Blessed Mother in her lowly mortal state. I am minded to make a border of primroses to the leaf in the Breviary where is the ‘Hail, Mary!’ — for it seems as if that flower doth ever say, ‘Behold the handmaid of the Lord!’”
“And what will you do with the cyclamen, uncle? does not that mean something?”
“Yes, daughter,” replied the monk, readily entering into that symbolical strain which permeated all the heart and mind of the religious of his day, “I can see a meaning in it. For you see that the cyclamen puts forth its leaves in early spring deeply engraven with mystical characters,87 and loves cool shadows, and moist, dark places, but comes at length to wear a royal crown of crimson; and it seems to me like the saints who dwell in convents and other prayerful places, and have the word of God graven in their hearts in youth, till these blossom into fervent love, and they are crowned with royal graces.”
“Ah!” sighed Agnes, “how beautiful and how blessed to be among such!”
“Thou sayest well, dear child. Blessed are the flowers of God that grow in cool solitudes, and have never been profaned by the hot sun and dust of this world!”
“I should like to be such a one,” said Agnes. “I often think, when I visit the sisters at the Convent, that I long to be one of them.”
“A pretty story!” said Dame Elsie, who had heard the last words, “go into a convent and leave your poor grandmother all alone, when she has toiled night and day for so many years to get a dowry for you and find you a worthy husband!”
“I don’t want any husband in this world, grandmamma,” said Agnes.
“What talk is this? Not want a good husband to take care of you when your poor old grandmother is gone? Who will provide for you?”
“He who took care of the blessed Saint Agnes, grandmamma.”
“Saint Agnes, to be sure! That was a great many years ago, and times have altered since then; in these days girls must have husbands. Isn’t it so, Brother Antonio?”
“But if the darling hath a vocation?” said the artist, mildly.
“Vocation! I’ll see to that! She sha’n’t have a vocation! Suppose I’m going to delve, and toil, and spin, and wear myself to the bone, and have her slip through my fingers at last with a vocation? No, indeed!”
“Indeed, dear grandmother, don’t be angry!” said Agnes. “I will do just as you say, — only I don’t want a husband.”
“Well, well, my little heart, — one thing at a time; you shan’t have him till you say yes willingly,” said Elsie, in a mollifie
d tone.
Agnes turned again to the portfolio and busied herself with it, her eyes dilating as she ran over the sketches.
“Ah! what pretty, pretty bird is this?” she asked.
“Knowest thou not that bird, with his little red beak?” said the artist. “When our dear Lord hung bleeding, and no man pitied him, this bird, filled with tender love, tried to draw out the nails with his poor little beak, — so much better were the birds than we hard-hearted sinners! — hence he hath honor in many pictures. See here, — I shall put him into the office of the Sacred Heart, in a little nest curiously built in a running vine of passion-flower. See here, daughter, — I have a great commission to execute a Breviary for our house, and our holy Father was pleased to say that the spirit of the blessed Angelico had in some little humble measure descended on me, and now I am busy day and night; for not a twig rustles, not a bird flies, nor a flower blossoms, but I begin to see therein some hint of holy adornment to my blessed work.”
“Oh, Uncle Antonio, how happy you must be!” said Agnes, her large eyes filling with tears.
“Happy! — child, am I not?” said the monk, looking up and crossing himself. “Holy Mother, am I not? Do I not walk the earth in a dream of bliss, and see the footsteps of my Most Blessed Lord and his dear Mother on every rock and hill? I see the flowers rise up in clouds to adore them. What am I, unworthy sinner, that such grace is granted me? Often I fall on my face before the humblest flower where my dear Lord hath written his name, and confess I am unworthy the honor of copying his sweet handiwork.”
The artist spoke these words with his hands clasped and his fervid eyes upraised, like a man in an ecstasy; nor can our more prosaic English give an idea of the fluent naturalness and grace with which such images melt into that lovely tongue which seems made to be the natural language of poetry and enthusiasm.
Agnes looked up to him with humble awe, as to some celestial being; but there was a sympathetic glow in her face, and she put her hands on her bosom, as her manner often was when much moved, and, drawing a deep sigh, said, —
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 172
