One Candle

by Gale Sears

  London, England

  April 3, 1851

  My dear sister Eliza,

  I know that seven months have come and gone in the Valley of the Great Salt Lake without word from me, but it has been a sorrow to think on home and the passing of my dear Charlotte. As my mind contemplated the filial scenes, there was forever a sad vacancy—a sad vacancy that shadowed the beacon light. I therefore found it easier to spend my days in work and service, and the Lord has blessed me with bounteous opportunities for both.

  I have now been in England a little over three months, and a short sojourn in this land has served to bind more closely those feelings of interest with the Saints in the British Isles. The mission fares well under the wise and prudent presidency of F. D. Richards. The many interesting and useful publications he has issued, together with the enlarged and much improved edition of the hymns used by the Saints, in addition to his other labors, furnish a true testimony of his indefatigable zeal and enterprising spirit. I wish to follow his example.

  By letter from Father Andrew, and introduction from President Richards, I have secured the services of a retired Oxford professor who is working on the translation of the Book of Mormon into Italian. I have felt for many months the urging of the Spirit concerning this enterprise. It is of vital importance, Eliza, for I believe, like many of us, the Italian faithful will be drawn to the restored gospel of Christ because of the power of the Book of Mormon.

  It was this urgency that propelled me to travel in winter and leave the pleasant valleys of the Piedmont. As I took my departure, much kindly feeling was manifested towards me from those Waldensian faithful who have found interest in the gospel. With the pamphlets The Voice of Joseph and The Ancient Gospel Restored in my trunk, pockets, and hat, I crossed the Alps in the midst of a snowstorm, scarcely knowing whether I was heading toward England or Greece. It is one thing to read of traveling over the backbone of Europe in the depth of winter, but doing it is quite different.

  Eliza lowered the letter and glanced over at Charlotte’s headstone. “I can see him with his hat full of pamphlets, pushing on through a blizzard, can’t you?” she said with a chuckle. Her thoughts turned towards scenes of days growing up with her brother in Mantua, Ohio, and of Lorenzo’s mental and physical tenacity when confronted with a difficult task. Those qualities served him well as he tied himself to a new church that struggled to stand against prejudice and persecution. Such strength of character had served them both well. As Eliza found her place in the letter, she prayed for those in Italy who were seeking for the truth, as they would surely face the same challenges. “So, shall we see how he conquers the mountain?”

  As we approached the towering Alps, there came a heavy snowstorm, which made our journey very gloomy, dreary, and altogether disagreeable. We commenced the ascent of Mount Cenis, and though but one passenger beside myself saw proper to venture over the mountain, it was found that ten horses were barely sufficient to carry us forward through the drifting snow. The deep snow rendered it very dangerous making our way up the narrow road and short turnings. One stumble or the least unlucky toss of our vehicle would, at very many points of our path, have plunged us a thousand feet down rocky precipices.

  Eliza put her hand on her heart. “Thank you, brother, but I do not think we need to hear every detail of your adventurous life.” She rattled the paper in protest, and read on.

  We descended the mountain with much more ease to our horses, and more comfort to ourselves; and I felt thankful that my passage over those rocky steeps was completed.

  “Amen,” Eliza said, without taking her eyes from the paper.

  My time in England has been spent visiting conferences, meeting with the brethren, and preaching, as well as supervising the printing of more pamphlets and the work of translation. I keep myself busy, but must confess that I miss the growing flock of Saints in the valleys of the Piedmont. Elder Woodard, whom I left in charge, now informs me that there are nearly thirty members, with dozens more interested. He has raised up a branch of the Church under circumstances that would have paralyzed the efforts of anyone not in possession of the most unshaken confidence in the power of the Lord. In Italy we publish books and pamphlets at the risk of coming in collision with the Catholic Church and, thereby, the government. We cannot sell Bibles or books of scripture, and we are not permitted to preach in public. At every step we find ourselves far off from the religious liberty enjoyed in England, but in spite of every obstacle, we have disposed of nearly all we have printed, and the gospel message reaches the ears of the earnest seeker within the walls of the humble cottage.

  The Waldenese were the first to receive the gospel, but by the press and exertions of the elders, it will be rolled forth beyond their mountain regions.

  “It is a miracle, Charlotte,” Eliza said, looking up. “Twenty years ago, the Church had six members. Now there are thousands.” Eliza’s mind caught an image of Joseph Smith preaching to her family, and her heart chilled. The mobs conspired to ruin the Church by killing the Prophet and driving us from our homes, she thought with ire. Yet here we are. Here, in this rugged mountain valley, and in many countries of the world. She took her watch from her pocket to check the time. “Oh, my! We need to finish. I have chores to do and I am sure you have heavenly work of some sort to accomplish.” She found her place and read.

  When I was called to Italy on my mission, President Young instructed that should I be inspired to expand the field of labor, then I must follow the prompting. Well, respecting the progress of the mission, I have undertaken prospects for the future, and I feel the work should open in the countries of Asia. Elder Willis I have appointed to the Calcutta mission. Elder Findlay is now on his way to Bombay. Elder Obray I have appointed to Malta, while Elder Stenhouse presides in Switzerland, and Elder Woodard in Italy. Having set in operation those missions, I turn my thoughts to the far distant fields of labor. I contemplate shortly undertaking a mission requiring all my energies—extending over nations, continents, islands, seas, oceans, and empires.

  Eliza sighed, and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I do not think he will be returning to us soon, Charlotte. Oh, how we will miss him, but it seems he has devoted his life to the service of God, and there is nothing to be done about it.” She shaded her eyes and looked up towards the mountains. “I will pray for you, my dear brother.” The words of the letter were blurred by tears as she read on.

  When finished with my work here in England, I will take my departure to Switzerland to check on the advancement of the mission, and then back to stay a time with the Saints in Italy. I will stay as long as the Lord directs, and then off to all the casualties of sea and land that must be encountered. To assist me in this enterprise, deeply do I feel to call for your prayers, dear sister. I have often relied on your spiritual strength to fortify my resolve. How comforting it is to know that my family is in the embrace of your kindness and fortitude. They will also be receiving the news of my plans to extend the boundaries of the mission, and thereby time away from those dearest to my soul. Please assure them of my love, especially my little ones. I miss hearing the sounds of their infant prattle.

  I testify that the Lord is aware of us. Be well.

  I remain forever,

  Your loving brother,

  Lorenzo.

  Eliza stood and stretched her back. She folded the letter and walked nearer to Charlotte’s headstone. “Well, that is that. It would seem your husband and my brother does not do things by half measures.”

  A young sister came into the cemetery, and in a moment, Eliza could see that it was Eleanor Jones, a Welsh girl who had made a promise to Joseph Toronto before his departure for Italy. Eleanor was moving in her direction and carrying a posy of flowers.

  “Hello!” Eleanor called, waving the bouquet. “I was just bringin’ flowers to Sister Snow’s grave.”

  “How kind,” Eliza said as she drew near. She put the
letter into its envelope and slipped it into her pocket.

  “Been here havin’ a chat, have ya?” Eleanor said, as she reached Eliza’s side.

  Eliza smiled at the young woman’s Welsh accent and outgoing manner. She liked that Eleanor did not treat her with anxious deference, as did many of the Saints. Her background in the Church might be notable, but in Eliza’s mind, not subject for awe. “We have been having a chat,” she answered amiably. “I had a letter from Elder Snow and came to share it.”

  “That is a glory. How’s he doin’?”

  “Well, he is in London supervising the Italian translation of the Book of Mormon.”

  Eleanor’s eyes grew wide. “My, my, my. The word is goin’ out to all the world, then?”

  “It would seem so.”

  Eleanor laid her small bunch of flowers on the grave. “There ya are, my friend Charlotte. I’m sure ya have better flowers in heaven, but ’tis the best I can do.”

  “She cherished your friendship, you know,” Eliza offered.

  “Aye, I know it,” Eleanor said with a crooked grin. “We kept each other movin’ forward on the trek across—I with my stories, her with her kindness.” She patted the headstone and turned to face Eliza. “Uh . . . I was wonderin’ if Elder Snow had anything to say about Elder Toronto? If you don’t mind my askin’? It’s just that I don’t get word as Joseph doesn’t know his letters.”

  “Of course, my dear! I should have thought. I’ve only received a few letters from Elder Snow, but most contain news of your Joseph.”

  The young woman brightened. “Is that a fact?”

  “It is. If you’ll come by the house later this afternoon, I’ll share all the news with you.”

  “Oh, Sister Snow, that would be heather on the hillside.”

  Eliza smiled at the very Welsh expression. “I’m sure you’ve heard that he traveled to southern Italy to preach to his family.”

  “I have not!”

  “Oh, dear. I think perhaps you should come with me now, and we’ll fill in the whole story of your Mr. Toronto,” Eliza said picking up her blanket.

  “That would be a joy.” The two women started off together. “And I’ll tell you one thing for sure,” Eleanor said, a tone of conviction in her voice.

  “And what is that?”

  “When Elder Toronto returns home, I’ll surely be teachin’ him his letters.”

  Eliza laughed. “I am sure you are equal to the task, Miss Jones. More than equal.”

  Notes

  The story of Elder Snow’s treacherous trip over the Alps was taken from his journal.

  Elder Snow was in London from January 1851 to February 1852, attending to the translation of the Book of Mormon.

  Switzerland, Malta, Bombay, and Calcutta were missions opened under the direction of Elder Lorenzo Snow.

  Eleanor Jones and Elder Joseph Toronto were introduced by the Prophet Brigham Young upon Joseph’s arrival home from his mission to Italy. I found her such an interesting character, I decided to bring her into the story earlier.

  Chapter Thirty

  Torre Pellice

  July 10, 1851

  The three friends sat in the shade of the garden wall. The wall, tall as a man and speckled with lichen, retained the coolness of the night in its smooth stones. That blessing would last a few more hours until the midmorning sun began to bake the countryside.

  “It’s good to be up early in the summertime,” John Malan said with a yawn.

  “Up early?” Jean Cardon replied. “You are still sleeping.”

  “And so am I,” Father Andrew grumbled. “So stop talking or you’ll wake me.”

  John Malan protested. “I just meant it was good to be up in the cool of the morning. Later it will be dreadful.”

  “Humph,” Andrew grunted.

  “At least we’re not them,” Jean Cardon said, pointing.

  Andrew opened his eyes a slit to see the younger priests working in the garden. “I put in my years doing that,” he said.

  “You? You, the man of learning and letters?” Jean Cardon teased, sitting forward. “Never.”

  “I did, you old fool. You saw me in the past.”

  “In the old days,” John Malan chimed in. “The old old days.”

  Andrew opened his eyes and gave his friends a malicious grin. “Yes, that’s right, and you two were with me in the old old days. We have been friends since Noah boarded the ark.”

  The three friends laughed.

  After a time, Jean Cardon sobered. “The years went by too quickly.” His companions nodded. “I remember when I was teaching my young sons how to build houses and plant crops.”

  John Malan sighed. “And to take care of the milk cows.”

  “Time runs swifter than any river,” Andrew said.

  “Perhaps things will be different on the other side,” John Malan said, his voice sounding hopeful.

  Jean Cardon let out an exasperated breath of air. “Of course things will be different. It will be heaven.”

  “But what will we do?” John persisted. “Will we work? Will we eat? Will we tell each other stories?”

  “Will I hear the sweet singing of my Madeleine?” Jean Cardon broke in.

  “Yes, what of that?” John said. “What of that? Will all my family be near me, or will they be scattered to the wind?”

  Father Andrew’s mind went to his discussion with Elder Woodard and the wonder of eternal sealing, but it was not his doctrine to share. “Our minds are finite, my friends. We cannot comprehend eternity or the mansions of heaven. The scriptures tell us that all tears will be dried, so I think it will be a place of peace and happiness.”

  Some of the tension left John Malan’s face. “Thank you for that.” He sighed. “You’re right. You’re right, of course. Eye hath not seen nor ear heard nor hath it entered into the heart of man the things that God hath prepared for them that love Him.”

  “My son Philippe and his family have been listening to the preaching of the Mormon missionaries,” Jean Cardon said.

  Yes, and my Albertina with them, Andrew thought, vexation causing him to pound his walking stick on the ground.

  “What’s troubling you, friend?” Jean Cardon asked.

  “It’s just that we’ve had a difficult time convincing Albertina that she must not attend any more of their meetings.”

  “Well, you know that my John and his family have joined with them,” John Malan said with a little shake of his head. “Turned their back on their faith. Baptized.” John took a deep breath. “I do not understand it. The Waldensian synod wanted him to be an elder in our church, and he said no, and now he is an elder in the Mormon Church? I do not understand.”

  Jean put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I do not understand it myself, but Philippe says they bring back the light of the ancient church.”

  “But the Waldenese have always felt that we are the light of the ancient church,” John countered.

  “Wait! Wait now!” Father Andrew said firmly. “I think we have something to do with the apostle Peter, if my mind serves me.”

  John Malan chuckled. “If your mind serves you? Well, that is the question, isn’t it?”

  Jean Cardon smiled broadly and collapsed back against the cool stone wall. “Ah! It is too pleasant a morning for worries and troubles. I say we let God figure it out.”

  “Probably a good idea,” John Malan agreed. “He is smarter than we are, anyway.”

  “He is, indeed,” Andrew said. His tone and features softened, but not the argument in his mind. He closed his eyes and images swam into his head: Albertina reading from the Bible, Father Pious throwing the ancient parchment into the fire, the weathered faces of his Waldensian friends, he and his fellow priests chanting morning prayers.

  “Father Andrew! Father Andrew!”

 
It was the grating, nasal voice of Father Pious, and Andrew shuddered.

  “Ah, here comes the Northern Star,” John Malan quipped.

  “John Malan!” Jean Cardon scolded. “You will not get into heaven.”

  John gave him a crooked grin. “I think I will let God figure that out.”

  Jean Cardon squinted at the approaching figure, and then over to Father Andrew. “Be ready,” he counseled. “He has tragedy written on his face.”

  Andrew grunted. “Bah! That gnat cannot trouble me. Remember that I watched the guillotine drop.”

  Breathless, Father Pious reached their side. “Father . . . Father . . .”

  “Take a breath,” Andrew offered petulantly.

  Father Pious gulped air and glared at him. “Your nephew . . . is . . . here.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why the running and the yelling? Unseemly behavior for a priest.”

  Father Pious stood straighter and slowed his breathing. “He has come to fetch . . . ah . . . collect you. I overheard him talking with Father Nathanael, so I ran ahead to tell you. Something about your great-niece”—he paused—“and baptism.”

  Andrew stiffened. “Baptism?”

  Father Pious was gratified to see the color drain from Father Andrew’s face. Andrew struggled to stand and Jean Cardon supported his arm.

  “I must go. I must go,” Andrew gasped, stumbling forward.

  “Here! See here!” John Malan said, pushing against his cane and standing. “You cannot just go off on your own.”

  Father Pious stepped forward, reaching out for the old priest’s arm. Andrew pulled it away. “No! I do not wish to walk with you. It was your great pleasure to run ahead and give me this news, wasn’t it?”

  Father Pious gave him an innocent look. “You do not wish my help?”