“Yes, my Lord,” she said, “you may believe that I will love and pray for you; but now, you must leave me, and not come here any more, because grandmamma would not be willing that I should talk with you, and it would be wrong to disobey her, she is so very good to me.”
“But, dear Agnes,” began the cavalier, approaching her, “I have many things to say to you, — I have much to tell you.”
“But I know grandmamma would not be willing,” said Agnes; “indeed you must not come here any more.”
“Well, then,” said the stranger, “at least you will meet me at some time, — tell me only where.”
“I cannot, — indeed I cannot,” said Agnes, distressed and embarrassed. “Even now, if grandmamma knew you were here, she would be so angry.”
“But how can you pray for me, when you know nothing of me?”
“The dear Lord knoweth you,” said Agnes; “and when I speak of you, He will know what you need.”
“Ah, dear child, how fervent is your faith! Alas for me! I have lost the power of prayer! I have lost the believing heart my mother gave me, — my dear mother who is now in heaven.”
“Ah, how can that be?” said Agnes. “Who could lose faith in so dear a Lord as ours, and so loving a mother?”
“Agnes, dear little lamb, you know nothing of the world; and I should be most wicked to disturb your lovely peace of soul with any sinful doubts. Oh, Agnes, Agnes, I am most miserable, most unworthy!”
“Dear sir, should you not cleanse your soul by the holy sacrament of confession, and receive the living Christ within you? For he says, ‘Without me ye can do nothing.’”
“Oh, Agnes, sacrament and prayer are not for such as me! It is only through your pure prayers I can hope for grace.”
“Dear sir, I have an uncle, a most holy man, and gentle as a lamb. He is of the convent San Marco in Florence, where there is a most holy prophet risen up.”
“Savonarola?” said the cavalier, with flashing eyes.
“Yes, that is he. You should hear my uncle talk of him, and how blessed his preaching has been to many souls. Dear sir, come sometime to my uncle.”
At this moment the sound of Elsie’s voice was heard ascending the path to the gorge outside, talking with Father Antonio, who was returning.
Both started, and Agnes looked alarmed.
“Fear nothing, sweet lamb,” said the cavalier; “I am gone.”
He kneeled and kissed the hand of Agnes, and disappeared at one bound over the parapet on the side opposite that which they were approaching.
Agnes hastily composed herself, struggling with that half-guilty feeling which is apt to weigh on a conscientious nature that has been unwittingly drawn to act a part which would be disapproved by those whose good opinion it habitually seeks. The interview had but the more increased her curiosity to know the history of this handsome stranger. Who, then, could he be? What were his troubles? She wished the interview could have been long enough to satisfy her mind on these points. From the richness of his dress, from his air and manner, from the poetry and the jewel that accompanied it, she felt satisfied that, if not what she supposed, he was at least nobly born, and had shone in some splendid sphere whose habits and ways were far beyond her simple experiences. She felt towards him somewhat of the awe which a person of her condition in life naturally felt toward that brilliant aristocracy which in those days assumed the state of princes, and the members of which were supposed to look down on common mortals from as great a height as the stars regard the humblest flowers of the field.
“How strange,” she thought, “that he should think so much of me! What can he see in me? And how can it be that a great lord, who speaks so gently and is so reverential to a poor girl, and asks prayers so humbly, can be so wicked and unbelieving as he says he is? Dear God, it cannot be that he is an unbeliever; the great Enemy has been permitted to try him, to suggest doubts to him, as he has to holy saints before now. How beautifully he spoke about his mother! — tears glittered in his eyes then, — ah, there must be grace there after all!”
“Well, my little heart,” said Elsie, interrupting her reveries, “have you had a pleasant day?”
“Delightful, grandmamma,” said Agnes, blushing deeply with consciousness.
“Well,” said Elsie, with satisfaction, “one thing I know, — I’ve frightened off that old hawk of a cavalier with his hooked nose. I haven’t seen so much as the tip of his shoe-tie to-day. Yesterday he made himself very busy around our stall; but I made him understand that you never would come there again till the coast was clear.”
The monk was busily retouching the sketch of the Virgin of the Annunciation. He looked up, and saw Agnes standing gazing towards the setting sun, the pale olive of her cheek deepening into a crimson flush. His head was too full of his own work to give much heed to the conversation that had passed, but, looking at the glowing face, he said to himself, —
“Truly, sometimes she might pass for the rose of Sharon as well as the lily of the valley!”
The moon that evening rose an hour later than the night before, yet found Agnes still on her knees before the sacred shrine, while Elsie, tired, grumbled at the draft on her sleeping-time.
“Enough is as good as a feast,” she remarked between her teeth; still she had, after all, too much secret reverence for her grandchild’s piety openly to interrupt her. But in those days, as now, there were the material and the spiritual, the souls who looked only on things that could be seen, touched, and tasted, and souls who looked on the things that were invisible.
Agnes was pouring out her soul in that kind of yearning, passionate prayer possible to intensely sympathetic people, in which the interests and wants of another seem to annihilate for a time personal consciousness, and make the whole of one’s being seem to dissolve in an intense solicitude for something beyond one’s self. In such hours prayer ceases to be an act of the will, and resembles more some overpowering influence which floods the soul from without, bearing all its faculties away on its resistless tide.
Brought up from infancy to feel herself in a constant circle of invisible spiritual agencies, Agnes received this wave of intense feeling as an impulse inspired and breathed into her by some celestial spirit, that thus she should be made an interceding medium for a soul in some unknown strait or peril. For her faith taught her to believe in an infinite struggle of intercession in which all the Church Visible and Invisible were together engaged, and which bound them in living bonds of sympathy to an interceding Redeemer, so that there was no want or woe of human life that had not somewhere its sympathetic heart, and its never-ceasing prayer before the throne of Eternal Love. Whatever may be thought of the actual truth of this belief, it certainly was far more consoling than that intense individualism of modern philosophy, which places every soul alone in its life-battle, scarce even giving it a God to lean upon.
CHAPTER XI. THE CONFESSIONAL
The reader, if a person of any common knowledge of human nature, will easily see the direction in which a young, inexperienced, and impressible girl would naturally be tending under all the influences which we perceive to have come upon her.
But in the religious faith which Agnes professed there was a modifying force, whose power both for good and evil can scarcely be estimated.
The simple Apostolic direction, “Confess your faults one to another,” and the very natural need of personal pastoral guidance and assistance to a soul in its heavenward journey, had in common with many other religious ideas been forced by the volcanic fervor of the Italian nature into a certain exaggerated proposition. Instead of brotherly confession one to another, or the pastoral sympathy of a fatherly elder, the religious mind of the day was instructed in an awful mysterious sacrament of confession, which gave to some human being a divine right to unlock the most secret chambers of the soul, to scrutinize and direct its most veiled and intimate thoughts, and, standing in God’s stead, to direct the current of its most sensitive and most mysterious emotions.
> Every young aspirant for perfection in the religious life had to commence by an unreserved surrender of the whole being in blind faith at the feet of some such spiritual director, all whose questions must be answered, and all whose injunctions obeyed, as from God himself. Thenceforward was to be no soul-privacy, no retirement, nothing too sacred to be expressed, too delicate to be handled and analyzed. In reading the lives of those ethereally made and moulded women who have come down to our day canonized as saints in the Roman Catholic communion, one too frequently gets the impression of most regal natures, gifted with all the most divine elements of humanity, but subjected to a constant unnatural pressure from the ceaseless scrutiny and ungenial pertinacity of some inferior and uncomprehending person invested with the authority of a Spiritual Director.
That there are advantages attending this species of intimate direction, when wisely and skillfully managed, cannot be doubted. Groveling and imperfect natures have often thus been lifted up and carried in the arms of superior wisdom and purity. The confession administered by a Fénelon or a Francis de Sales was doubtless a beautiful and most invigorating ordinance; but the difficulty in its actual working is the rarity of such superior natures, — the fact that the most ignorant and most incapable may be invested with precisely the same authority as the most intelligent and skillful.
He to whom the faith of Agnes obliged her to lay open her whole soul, who had a right with probing-knife and lancet to dissect all the finest nerves and fibres of her womanly nature, was a man who had been through all the wild and desolating experiences incident to a dissipated and irregular life in those turbulent days.
It is true that he was now with most stringent and earnest solemnity striving to bring every thought and passion into captivity to the spirit of his sacred vows; but still, when a man has once lost that unconscious soul-purity which exists in a mind unscathed by the fires of passion, no after-tears can weep it back again. No penance, no prayer, no anguish of remorse can give back the simplicity of a soul that has never been stained.
Il Padre Francesco had not failed to make those inquiries into the character of Agnes’s mysterious lover which he assumed to be necessary as a matter of pastoral faithfulness.
It was not difficult for one possessing the secrets of the confessional to learn the real character of any person in the neighborhood, and it was with a kind of bitter satisfaction which rather surprised himself that the father learned enough ill of the cavalier to justify his using every possible measure to prevent his forming any acquaintance with Agnes. He was captain of a band of brigands, and, of course, in array against the State; he was excommunicated, and, of course, an enemy of the Church. What but the vilest designs could be attributed to such a man? Was he not a wolf prowling round the green, secluded pastures where as yet the Lord’s lamb had been folded in unconscious innocence?
Father Francesco, when he next met Agnes at the confessional, put such questions as drew from her the whole account of all that had passed between her and the stranger. The recital on Agnes’s part was perfectly translucent and pure, for she had said no word and had had no thought that brought the slightest stain upon her soul. Love and prayer had been the prevailing habit of her life, and in promising to love and pray, she had had no worldly or earthly thought. The language of gallantry, or even of sincere passion, had never reached her ear; but it had always been as natural to her to love every human being as for a plant with tendrils to throw them round the next plant, and therefore she entertained the gentle guest who had lately found room in her heart without a question or a scruple.
As Agnes related her childlike story of unconscious faith and love, her listener felt himself strangely and bitterly agitated. It was a vision of ignorant purity and unconsciousness rising before him, airy and glowing as a child’s soap-bubble, which one touch might annihilate; but he felt a strange remorseful tenderness, a yearning admiration, at its unsubstantial purity. There is something pleading and pitiful in the simplicity of perfect ignorance, — a rare and delicate beauty in its freshness, like the morning-glory cup, which, once withered by the heat, no second morning can restore. Agnes had imparted to her confessor, by a mysterious sympathy, something like the morning freshness of her own soul; she had redeemed the idea of womanhood from gross associations, and set before him a fair ideal of all that female tenderness and purity may teach to man. Her prayers, — well he believed in them, — but he set his teeth with a strange spasm of inward passion, when he thought of her prayers and love being given to another. He tried to persuade himself that this was only the fervor of pastoral zeal against a vile robber who had seized the fairest lamb of the sheepfold; but there was an intensely bitter, miserable feeling connected with it, that scorched and burned his higher aspirations like a stream of lava running among fresh leaves and flowers.
The conflict of his soul communicated a severity of earnestness to his voice and manner which made Agnes tremble, as he put one probing question after another, designed to awaken some consciousness of sin in her soul. Still, though troubled and distressed by his apparent disapprobation, her answers came always clear, honest, unfaltering, like those of one who could not form an idea of evil.
When the confession was over, he came out of his recess to speak with Agnes a few words face to face. His eyes had a wild and haggard earnestness, and a vivid hectic flush on either cheek told how extreme was his emotion. Agnes lifted her eyes to his with an innocent wondering trouble and an appealing confidence that for a moment wholly unnerved him. He felt a wild impulse to clasp her in his arms; and for a moment it seemed to him he would sacrifice heaven and brave hell, if he could for one moment hold her to his heart, and say that he loved her, — her, the purest, fairest, sweetest revelation of God’s love that had ever shone on his soul, — her, the only star, the only flower, the only dewdrop of a burning, barren, weary life. It seemed to him that it was not the longing, gross passion, but the outcry of his whole nature for something noble, sweet, and divine.
But he turned suddenly away with a sort of groan, and, folding his robe over his face, seemed engaged in earnest prayer. Agnes looked at him awestruck and breathless.
“Oh, my father!” she faltered, “what have I done?”
“Nothing, my poor child,” said the father, suddenly turning toward her with recovered calmness and dignity; “but I behold in thee a fair lamb whom the roaring lion is seeking to devour. Know, my daughter, that I have made inquiries concerning this man of whom you speak, and find that he is an outlaw and a robber and a heretic, — a vile wretch stained by crimes that have justly drawn down upon him the sentence of excommunication from our Holy Father, the Pope.”
Agnes grew deadly pale at this announcement.
“Can it be possible?” she gasped. “Alas! what dreadful temptations have driven him to such sins?”
“Daughter, beware how you think too lightly of them, or suffer his good looks and flattering words to blind you to their horror. You must from your heart detest him as a vile enemy.”
“Must I, my father?”
“Indeed you must.”
“But if the dear Lord loved us and died for us when we were his enemies, may we not pity and pray for unbelievers? Oh, say, my dear father, is it not allowed to us to pray for all sinners, even the vilest?”
“I do not say that you may not, my daughter,” said the monk, too conscientious to resist the force of this direct appeal; “but, daughter,” he added, with an energy that alarmed Agnes, “you must watch your heart; you must not suffer your interest to become a worldly love: remember that you are chosen to be the espoused of Christ alone.”
While the monk was speaking thus, Agnes fixed on him her eyes with an innocent mixture of surprise and perplexity, which gradually deepened into a strong gravity of gaze, as if she were looking through him, through all visible things, into some far-off depth of mysterious knowledge.
“My Lord will keep me,” she said; “my soul is safe in His heart as a little bird in its nest; but while I
love Him, I cannot help loving everybody whom He loves, even His enemies: and, father, my heart prays within me for this poor sinner, whether I will or no; something within me continually intercedes for him.”
“Oh, Agnes! Agnes! blessed child, pray for me also,” said the monk, with a sudden burst of emotion which perfectly confounded his disciple. He hid his face with his hands.
“My blessed father!” said Agnes, “how could I deem that holiness like yours had any need of my prayers?”
“Child! child! you know nothing of me. I am a miserable sinner, tempted of devils, in danger of damnation.”
Agnes stood appalled at this sudden burst, so different from the rigid and restrained severity of tone in which the greater part of the conversation had been conducted. She stood silent and troubled; while he, whom she had always regarded with such awful veneration, seemed shaken by some internal whirlwind of emotion whose nature she could not comprehend.
At length Father Francesco raised his head, and recovered his wonted calm severity of expression.
“My daughter,” he said, “little do the innocent lambs of the flock know of the dangers and conflicts through which the shepherds must pass who keep the Lord’s fold. We have the labors of angels laid upon us, and we are but men. Often we stumble, often we faint, and Satan takes advantage of our weakness. I cannot confer with you now as I would; but, my child, listen to my directions. Shun this young man; let nothing ever lead you to listen to another word from him; you must not even look at him, should you meet, but turn away your head and repeat a prayer. I do not forbid you to practice the holy work of intercession for his soul, but it must be on these conditions.”
“My father,” said Agnes, “you may rely on my obedience;” and, kneeling, she kissed his hand.
He drew it suddenly away, with a gesture of pain and displeasure.
“Pardon a sinful child this liberty,” said Agnes.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 176
