One Candle

by Gale Sears

  Note

  Philippe Cardon’s dream of the men offering him the book and his prompting to put on his Sunday suit and go into town were actual occurrences written in several Cardon journals.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Torre Pellice

  October 10, 1850

  Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter’d saints, whose bones

  Lie scatter’d on the Alpine mountains cold,

  Ev’n them who kept thy truth so pure of old,

  When all our fathers worshipp’d stocks and stones;

  Forget not: in thy book record their groans

  Who were thy sheep and in their ancient fold

  Slain by the bloody Piedmontese that roll’d

  Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans

  The vales redoubl’d to the hills, and they

  To Heav’n. Their martyr’d blood and ashes sow

  O’er all th’ Italian fields where still doth sway

  The triple tyrant; that from these may grow

  A hundred-fold, who having learnt thy way

  Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

  John Malan, the poem’s orator, stood in front of his friends, hat over his heart, and walking stick thrust high into the air. Without its support, the old man swayed precariously, and both his friends called out to him in alarm.

  “Hey! Watch it! Careful!”

  “Put your stick down, you old fool!” Father Andrew commanded. “You’re going to fall on your head!”

  John steadied himself and glared at his companions. “What? No applause for my moving recitation of Milton’s sonnet?”

  Jean Cardon blew out a puff of air. “Bah! Vanity, my friend. Vanity.”

  Father Andrew gave John a measured look and smiled. “Well, I suppose since I was the one who asked for the poem, I should applaud its offering.” He began clapping and Jean Cardon joined him.

  John Malan leaned on his walking stick and bowed. “It is but a small gift I give. A small gift to the country peasants.”

  Andrew stopped clapping. “Enough of that now, you peacock. Come here and sit before you fall down.”

  John flourished his hat, plopped it on his head, and shuffled forward to the bench. His chortling laugh accompanied him. “And I remembered every word,” he said proudly.

  Jean helped him to sit. “You did, my friend. It was a miracle.”

  “What? What’s that?” John barked. “My mind is as clear as it was twenty years ago!”

  “Thou shalt not bear false witness,” Andrew instructed.

  The three friends laughed together. Slowly the calm of the autumn afternoon returned, and the men sat contentedly in the sun, listening to birdsong and watching the young priests as they harvested the last of the monastery garden. After a time, Andrew spoke.

  “It is a powerful poem.”

  “It is,” John said. “But why do you like it so much, my friend? It is a poem for the Waldenese. A poem for their suffering.”

  “Can I not have compassion for their suffering? You are my friends. It is your heritage. I admire what Cromwell did in your defense; I admire what Milton wrote.” He turned to them. “I wonder at times that we are friends. I’d think your anger would exclude me.”

  Jean Cardon gently tapped his cane on the hard dirt. “Should I live in the cemetery of my martyred race? Should my life be defined by something that happened two hundred years ago?”

  “But the persecutions—”

  Jean Cardon interrupted. “No, my friend. My soul would wither if I kept going back to that dark time.”

  John Malan leaned forward. “That’s not to say that we’re not grateful to Cromwell. We would not be sitting here today if he had not stood up to the butcher of Savoy. Our people would have been exterminated. Jean and I would never have been born.”

  “And that would have been a great pity,” Andrew said sincerely. “I would have missed your company.”

  “Think how we would have felt,” John scoffed.

  “Well, actually we would not have felt anything,” Jean quipped. “Because we wouldn’t have been born.”

  “Oh, now you’re the entertainer,” John returned. “Perhaps you should have recited the poem today.”

  “No, no,” Jean said quickly. “I know my limitations. I am not meant for the stage. I will leave that for others.”

  “Such as your granddaughter Madeleine,” Father Andrew said.

  “Yes, my sweet granddaughter,” Jean replied, his voice tender. “She loves to perform for people.” He turned to Andrew. “As does your great-niece Albertina.”

  Andrew smiled. “The two songbirds.”

  “The Pinerolo festival will be here soon,” Jean said.

  “Yes,” Andrew answered. “A little over a month. Do you know what they’re singing?”

  Jean shook his head. “No, Madeleine won’t tell me.”

  Andrew growled. “Albertina won’t tell me either.”

  John Malan chuckled. “Ah! The two secretive songbirds.”

  At that moment one of the gardeners approached the trio. “We have found these thistles at the edge of the garden,” he said, holding out the prickly plants to the Waldensian men. “We will give a quantity to our apothecaries, but I wondered if you would like some for your winter store?”

  “Ah! The plague killers!” John Malan said excitedly. “Yes, yes! Of course we would like some.” He looked at his friend. “Jean?”

  “Yes. I would love some, thank you,” Jean answered.

  John reached out and touched the purple fluff at the top of one of the plants. “They are delicious for food, too, not just medicine,” he instructed the young priest. “You should cook some up.”

  “I’m sure the cooks and the apothecaries will make good use of them,” the priest said, smiling. “We will gather yours into sacks and leave them by the edge of the garden.” He turned and headed back to join his fellows.

  “Thank you!” John called after him. “Not too heavy! I can’t carry much weight anymore.” He looked about and sighed deeply. “It is getting on towards the late of day, isn’t it? It will chill when the sun goes down. I guess I should be going.” He stood and looked up at the mountains. “It is hard to think of winter coming soon.”

  “Then do not think about it,” Jean said, standing.

  “Six or seven months of snow in the high mountains,” John replied. “My heart weeps for those who must battle the harsh conditions: not enough wood for the fire, sleeping in the shed with the animals for warmth at night, eating the last of the turnips.”

  “There, there, old friend, you must let go of your sadness,” Jean said. “The Waldenese have survived their mountain ghetto for hundreds of years. God is aware of the suffering we have endured to keep the primitive church alive.” He patted his friend on the back. “Besides, warm weather has held on for a few extra weeks—perhaps we will have a mild winter.” He turned to Andrew. “Good-bye, old friend. We will see you tomorrow.”

  “Thank you for the conversation and the poem,” Andrew answered.

  Jean laughed. “Conversation? John and I would bore a tree stump—weather, crops, life in the mountains, our aches and pains. Pshaw! You are very kind, my friend, to put up with us. You, who have traveled Europe and dined with princes.”

  Andrew took his friend’s gnarled hand. “I used to like conversation with clever men, now I like conversation with good men.”

  Jean’s head nodded several times. “Well, I may be good, but I don’t know about John Malan.”

  “What? What’s that?” John questioned, being too far away to hear the subdued exchange.

  “Nothing, nothing. Andrew was just saying how much he enjoyed your poem.”

  John beamed. “Well then, tomorrow I shall come with another.”

  “Delightful!” Andrew sai
d. “I will be glad to hear it.”

  The two men waved and trudged off to get their sacks of thistles. As they made their way onto the path to town, they passed by a man who nodded to them and stopped to talk. Andrew could not hear what they were saying, but it seemed likely the man had asked for directions, because he saw both his friends point to the monastery. The man gave them a little bow, and then headed towards the garden to speak to one of the young priests. Andrew leaned forward. He thought he recognized the man, but couldn’t be sure. He squinted, and saw Father Pious pointing at him. What is all this about? Andrew wondered. As the man drew near he recognized the minister who had blessed his great-nephew. It was evident that the man was seeking him out and he wondered at his intent. Father Andrew smiled at the man as he neared and he smiled back.

  “Good day, Father Andrew,” Lorenzo said, holding out his hand. “I am Lorenzo Snow, and I was wondering if I might speak with you? I’m staying at your nephew’s inn.”

  “Yes, yes. I know you. Please, sit down. You were at the bedside of my little Joseph.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you are a minister from America?

  “Yes.”

  “And you wish to speak with me about your faith.”

  “Actually, no.”

  “No?”

  “Well, I mean, if you were to ask me questions, I would certainly answer, but I’m more interested in asking you questions.”

  Andrew gave him a smile. “Well, that is unusual. A preacher who does not want to preach.”

  “It’s just that I am unsure of my French and Italian; I don’t think they would be sufficient for someone like you.”

  “Tchet! Someone like me? What do you mean?”

  “Rene and his family have told me stories about your life.”

  “Ah! Exaggerated. Highly exaggerated, I am sure, Monsieur Snow! That would be the way of it.”

  “Well, if even half of what they say is true . . .” Lorenzo said.

  “That was another lifetime. Another lifetime,” Andrew deflected. “And what’s this about you having trouble with the language? Not so. I have heard you speak both the languages now, and you are not bad. A little halting, but it is to be expected.”

  “Thank you for that. Your little Joseph says he can hardly understand me at all.”

  Andrew laughed loudly. “That boy is a pestilence!”

  “Perhaps,” Lorenzo said. “But a funny pestilence.”

  “Oh, indeed,” Andrew affirmed. “The boy makes me laugh.” He wiped his eyes and looked over at Lorenzo. “And you are a minister from America?”

  “I am.”

  “I know your America well, Monsieur Snow. I admire your founding documents—the Constitution, the Declaration of Independence. I have translated them several times.” The old priest looked down at his ink-stained fingers. “We, the people . . . in order to form a more perfect union.” He recited the words softly as his mind wandered to another time and place. He rubbed his hands together and cleared his throat. “I have even met your Thomas Jefferson, you know,” he said in a stronger voice.

  “What?”

  Andrew beamed over at Lorenzo. “Ah, that my family did not tell you?” Lorenzo shook his head. “Yes, I met him when I was eighteen,” Andrew continued. “In a library in Paris.”

  “How . . . what . . . what was he like?” Lorenzo stammered.

  “Magnificent. He was quite tall. I remember wondering if the vibrant air of America made men taller. And he was bright. So bright, so learned—yet he was not pompous. He carried himself with great dignity. The French did not know what to do with him.”

  “What do you mean?” Lorenzo asked.

  “Well, your Monsieur Jefferson did not go for women, excessive drinking, or gambling. What were they to make of that? The favorite pastimes of the French did not tempt him? How odd. Indeed, the court of King Louis and Marie-Antoinette considered him very odd. Your Monsieur Jefferson would rather be off buying books.”

  “But others admired him?”

  “Of course, the intellectuals and those wishing for a different kind of government. We looked to him—to America—as our guide.”

  “France did negotiate a constitution,” Lorenzo said.

  Andrew sighed. “True, but it lacked the wisdom and inspiration of the American document. We did not take the time to study things out as did your founders. We were too heated by the fire of revolution.” Father Andrew fell silent.

  “Amazing,” Lorenzo said, attempting to envision the events the priest was describing.

  Andrew roused himself. “Ah, Monsieur Snow! I am sorry. It has been wonderful to speak to you about America, but you have come to see me for a purpose, and here I am wasting your time with my meanderings.”

  “Far from wasting my time, Father Andrew.”

  “So, why have you come to see me, Reverend Snow?”

  “Actually, ministers of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints are called elders.”

  “Elders?”

  “Yes. But please, you must call me Lorenzo.”

  Father Andrew nodded. “For respect, I think I will call you Elder Snow.” He chuckled. “But the name of your church is long, Elder Snow.”

  “It is,” Lorenzo answered.

  “Say it one more time for me.”

  “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

  “Well, the Church of Jesus Christ is clear, but what is the meaning of Latter-day Saints?”

  “We believe under the direction of Jesus Christ, the primitive church of the Lord has been restored.”

  “Restored?”

  “Yes. And attaching “Latter-day Saints” is a way to distinguish the Saints of today from those two thousand years ago.”

  Andrew nodded. “That is sensible . . . sensible.” He clapped his hands together. “But again! I am keeping you from your errand, Elder Snow. Why have you come?”

  “Several reasons, Father Andrew. If you don’t mind me taking up your time?”

  “Of course not; I have an abundance of time.”

  Lorenzo reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small softcover booklet. He stared down at it as he spoke. “We have just received these from the printer in Torino. It is a treatise I wrote explaining our beliefs.” He handed it to Father Andrew.

  “For me? Thank you, Monsieur. Something you wrote?”

  “Yes.”

  Andrew fished a pair of glasses from his pocket. “The Voice of Joseph,” he read from the cover.

  “It was translated into French by a professor from the University of Paris.”

  “Very good. And you would like me to read it?”

  “Yes, but more than that I would like you to peruse it: correct anything you see wrong, or question something that isn’t clear. Your suggestions will be helpful if I need to rewrite it.” Lorenzo hesitated. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  Father Andrew took his glasses off and looked straight into Lorenzo’s eyes. “After what you did for my great-nephew, Elder Snow? I would be glad to take on many projects for you. This will be no trouble at all.” Andrew’s gaze slid over to the burnished hillsides. After a time, he spoke—his voice a whisper. “It is as though you stood on the edge of the great lake of death and called the child back to you. How did you do that?”

  “The Lord was the power of the blessing.”

  “Yes, of course. But it was your voice to which He listened. Your voice that brought the miracle.”

  At that moment Father Pious approached. He gave Lorenzo a distrustful look before bowing to Andrew. “Honored one, Father Nathanael told me to come and fetch you when I was done with the gardening.”

  “Fetch me? Did he actually say you were to fetch me?” Father Andrew barked.

  Father Pious stiffened, and Lorenzo could see that he was in
censed by his superior’s tone and embarrassed by the rebuke, especially since it was in front of a stranger. “I . . . I . . . no, he did not say fetch.”

  “I would hope not. What do you think me, the family dog?”

  “I am sorry, your grace.”

  “And how dare you interrupt me when I’m having a fine conversation with this gentleman.”

  Father Pious’s eyes narrowed and he turned to speak to Father Andrew as though Lorenzo were not present. “Your grace, we have heard word of this man and his companions.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Yes. They have been going about the countryside preaching heresy to the people. It is probably best that you send him away.”

  “Really? Send him away?”

  “Yes. You do not want to give the wrong impression.”

  Father Andrew leaned forward. “And what impression is that?”

  Father Pious’s eyes flicked over to Lorenzo’s face. “Well, that you are listening to his false teachings. It would not be good for our congregants to see you associating with him. I mean, what would they think?”

  “Yes. What would they think, indeed?” Andrew closed his eyes and turned his face heavenward. “Brother Pious?”

  “Yes, Father Andrew?”

  “Would you do me a favor?”

  “Of course,” came the stiff reply.

  “Would you go in and find Father Nathanael? Tell him that I want to stay outdoors for a few more minutes speaking with the false preacher who brought my nephew back from the grave.”

  Father Pious pressed his lips together. After a chill hesitation, he managed the words, “Of course.”

  Father Andrew opened his eyes and gave the man an even look. “And then say that I would like for him to come and fetch me.”

  Father Pious flinched at the unmistakable reprimand. “You do not wish me to return and—”

  “No.”