“He did; and he bade me treat with you about it. It’s an abominable snarl, this, they have got you into. My father says, your best way is to come straight to him in France, and abide till things take a better turn: he is high in favor with the King and can find you a very pretty place at court, and he takes it upon him in time to reconcile the Pope. Between you and me, the old Pope has no special spite in the world against you: he merely wants your lands for his son, and as long as you prowl round and lay claim to them, why, you must stay excommunicated; but just clear the coast and leave them peaceably and he will put you back into the True Church, and my father will charge himself with your success. Popes don’t last forever, or there may come another falling out with the King of France, and either way there will be a chance of your being one day put back into your rights; meanwhile, a young fellow might do worse than have a good place in our court.”
During this long monologue, which the young speaker uttered with all the flippant self-sufficiency of worldly people with whom the world is going well, the face of the young nobleman who listened presented a picture of many strong contending emotions.
“You speak,” he said, “as if man had nothing to do in this world but seek his own ease and pleasure. What lies nearest my heart is not that I am plundered of my estates, and my house uprooted, but it is that my beautiful Rome, the city of my fathers, is a prisoner under the heel of the tyrant. It is that the glorious religion of Christ, the holy faith in which my mother died, the faith made venerable by all these saints around us, is made the tool and instrument of such vileness and cruelty that one is tempted to doubt whether it were not better to have been born of heathen in the good old times of the Roman Republic, — God forgive me for saying so! Does the most Christian King of France know that the man who pretends to rule in the name of Christ is not a believer in the Christian religion, — that he does not believe even in a God, — that he obtained the holy seat by simony, — that he uses all its power to enrich a brood of children whose lives are so indecent that it is a shame to modest lips even to say what they do?”
“Why, of course,” said the other, “the King of France is pretty well informed about all these things. You know old King Charles, when he marched through Italy, had more than half a mind, they say, to pull the old Pope out of his place; and he might have done it easily. My father was in his train at that time, and he says the Pope was frightened enough. Somehow they made it all up among them, and settled about their territories, which is the main thing, after all; and now our new King, I fancy, does not like to meddle with him: between you and me, he has his eye in another direction here. This gay city would suit him admirably, and he fancies he can govern it as well as it is governed now. My father does not visit here with his eyes shut, I can tell you. But as to the Pope — Well, you see such things are delicate to handle. After all, my dear Agostino, we are not priests, — our business is with this world; and, no matter how they came by them, these fellows have the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and one cannot afford to quarrel with them, — we must have the ordinances, you know, or what becomes of our souls? Do you suppose, now, that I should live as gay and easy a life as I do, if I thought there were any doubt of my salvation? It’s a mercy to us sinners that the ordinances are not vitiated by the sins of the priests; it would go hard with us, if they were: as it is, if they will live scandalous lives, it is their affair, not ours.”
“And is it nothing,” replied the other, “to a true man who has taken the holy vows of knighthood on him, whether his Lord’s religion be defamed and dishonored and made a scandal and a scoffing? Did not all Europe go out to save Christ’s holy sepulchre from being dishonored by the feet of the Infidel? and shall we let infidels have the very house of the Lord, and reign supreme in his holy dwelling-place? There has risen a holy prophet in Italy, the greatest since the time of Saint Francis, and his preaching hath stirred all hearts to live more conformably with our holy faith; and now for his pure life and good works he is under excommunication of the Pope, and they have seized and imprisoned him, and threaten his life.”
“Oh, you mean Savonarola,” said the other. “Yes, we have heard of him, — a most imprudent, impracticable fellow, who will not take advice nor be guided. My father, I believe, thought well of him once, and deemed that in the distracted state of Italy he might prove serviceable in forwarding some of his plans: but he is wholly wrapt up in his own notions; he heeds no will but his own.”
“Have you heard anything,” said Agostino, “of a letter which he wrote to the King of France lately, stirring him up to call a General Council of the Christian Church to consider what is to be done about the scandals at Rome?”
“Then he has written one, has he?” replied the young man; “then the story that I have heard whispered about here must be true. A man who certainly is in a condition to know told me day before yesterday that the Duke had arrested a courier with some such letter, and sent it on to the Pope: it is likely, for the Duke hates Savonarola. If that be true, it will go hard with him yet; for the Pope has a long arm for an enemy.”
“And so,” said Agostino, with an expression of deep concern, “that letter, from which the good man hoped so much, and which was so powerful, will only go to increase his danger!”
“The more fool he! — he might have known that it was of no use. Who was going to take his part against the Pope?”
“The city of Florence has stood by him until lately,” said Agostino, “and would again, with a little help.”
“Oh, no! never think it, my dear Agostino! Depend upon it, it will end as such things always do, and the man is only a madman that undertakes it. Hark ye, cousin, what have you to do with this man? Why do you attach yourself to the side that is sure to lose? I cannot conceive what you would be at. This is no way to mend your fortunes. Come to-night to my father’s palace: the Duke has appointed us princely lodgings, and treats us with great hospitality, and my father has plans for your advantage. Between us, there is a fair young ward of his, of large estates and noble blood, whom he designs for you. So you see, if you turn your attention in this channel, there may come a reinforcement of the family property, which will enable you to hold out until the Pope dies, or some prince or other gets into a quarrel with him, which is always happening, and then a move may be made for you. My father, I’ll promise you, is shrewd enough, and always keeps his eye open to see where there is a joint in the harness, and have a trusty dagger-blade all whetted to stick under. Of course, he means to see you righted; he has the family interest at heart, and feels as indignant as you could at the rascality which has been perpetrated; but I am quite sure he will tell you that the way is not to come out openly against the Pope and join this fanatical party.”
Agostino stood silent, with the melancholy air of a man who has much to say, and is deeply moved by considerations which he perceives it would be utterly idle and useless to attempt to explain. If the easy theology of his friend were indeed true, — if the treasures of the heavenly kingdom, glory, honor, and immortality, could indeed be placed in unholy hands, to be bought and sold and traded in, — if holiness of heart and life, and all those nobler modes of living and being which were witnessed in the histories of the thousand saints around him, were indeed but a secondary thing in the strife for worldly place and territory, — what, then, remained for the man of ideas, of aspirations? In such a state of society, his track must be like that of the dove in sacred history, who found no rest for the sole of her foot.
Agostino folded his arms and sighed deeply, and then made answer mechanically, as one whose thoughts are afar off.
“Present my duty,” he said, “to my uncle, your father, and say to him that I will wait on him to-night.”
“Even so,” said the young man, picking up his cloak and folding it about him. “And now, you know, I must go. Don’t be discouraged; keep up a good heart; you shall see what it is to have powerful friends to stand by you; all will be right yet. Come, will you go with me now?”
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br /> “Thank you,” said Agostino, “I think I would be alone a little while. My head is confused, and I would fain think over matters a little quietly.”
“Well, au revoir, then. I must leave you to the company of the saints. But be sure and come early.”
So saying, he threw his cloak over his shoulder and sauntered carelessly down the marble steps, humming again the gay air with which he had ascended.
Left alone, Agostino once more cast a glance on the strangely solemn and impressive scene around him. He was standing on a platform of the central tower which overlooked the whole building. The round, full moon had now risen in the horizon, displacing by her solemn brightness the glow of twilight; and her beams were reflected by the delicate frost-work of the myriad pinnacles which rose in a bewildering maze at his feet. It might seem to be some strange enchanted garden of fairy-land, where a luxuriant and freakish growth of Nature had been suddenly arrested and frozen into eternal stillness. Around in the shadows at the foot of the Cathedral, the lights of the great gay city twinkled and danced and veered and fluttered like fireflies in the damp, dewy shadows of some moist meadow in summer. The sound of clattering hoofs and rumbling wheels, of tinkling guitars and gay roundelays, rose out of that obscure distance, seeming far off and plaintive like the dream of a life that is past. The great church seemed a vast world; the long aisles of statued pinnacles with their pure floorings of white marble appeared as if they might be the corridors of heaven; and it seemed as if the crowned and sceptred saints in their white marriage-garments might come down and walk there, without ever a spot of earth on their unsullied whiteness.
In a few moments Father Antonio had glided back to the side of the young man, whom he found so lost in reverie that not till he laid his hand upon his arm did he awaken from his meditations.
“Ah!” he said, with a start, “my father, is it you?”
“Yes, my son. What of your conference? Have you learned anything?”
“Father, I have learned far more than I wished to know.”
“What is it, my son? Speak it at once.”
“Well, then, I fear that the letter of our holy father to the King of France has been intercepted here in Milan, and sent to the Pope.”
“What makes you think so?” said the monk, with an eagerness that showed how much he felt the intelligence.
“My cousin tells me that a person of consideration in the Duke’s household, who is supposed to be in a position to know, told him that it was so.”
Agostino felt the light grasp which the monk had laid upon his arm gradually closing with a convulsive pressure, and that he was trembling with intense feeling.
“Even so, Father, for so it seemed good in thy sight!” he said, after a few moments of silence.
“It is discouraging,” said Agostino, “to see how little these princes care for the true interests of religion and the service of God, — how little real fealty there is to our Lord Jesus.”
“Yes,” said the monk, “all seek their own, and not the things that are Christ’s. It is well written, ‘Put not your trust in princes.’”
“And what prospect, what hope do you see for him?” said Agostino. “Will Florence stand firm?”
“I could have thought so once,” said the monk, “in those days when I have seen counselors and nobles and women of the highest degree all humbly craving to hear the word of God from his lips, and seeming to seek nothing so much as to purify their houses, their hands, and their hearts, that they might be worthy citizens of that commonwealth which has chosen the Lord Jesus for its gonfalonier. I have seen the very children thronging to kiss the hem of his robe, as he walked through the streets; but, oh, my friend, did not Jerusalem bring palms and spread its garments in the way of Christ only four days before he was crucified?”
The monk’s voice here faltered. He turned away, and seemed to wrestle with a tempest of suppressed sobbing. A moment more, he looked heavenward and pointed up with a smile.
“Son,” he said, “you ask what hope there is. I answer, There is hope of such crowns as these wear who came out of great tribulation and now reign with Christ in glory.”
CHAPTER XXIII. THE PILGRIMAGE
The morning sun rose clear and lovely on the old red rocks of Sorrento, and danced in a thousand golden scales and ripples on the wide Mediterranean. The shadows of the gorge were pierced by long golden shafts of light, here falling on some moist bed of crimson cyclamen, there shining through a waving tuft of gladiolus, or making the abundant yellow fringes of the broom more vivid in their brightness. The velvet-mossy old bridge, in the far shadows at the bottom, was lit up by a chance beam, and seemed as if it might be something belonging to fairy-land.
There had been a bustle and stir betimes in the little dove-cot, for to-morrow the inmates were to leave it for a long, adventurous journey.
To old Elsie, the journey back to Rome, the city of her former days of prosperity, the place which had witnessed her ambitious hopes, her disgrace and downfall, was full of painful ideas. There arose to her memory, like a picture, those princely halls, with their slippery, cold mosaic floors, their long galleries of statues and paintings, their enchanting gardens, musical with the voice of mossy fountains, fragrant with the breath of roses and jasmines, where the mother of Agnes had spent the hours of her youth and beauty. She seemed to see her flitting hither and thither down the stately ilex-avenues, like some gay singing-bird, to whom were given gilded cages and a constant round of caresses and sweets, or like the flowers in the parterres,291 which lived and died only as the graceful accessories of the grandeur of an old princely family.
She compared, mentally, the shaded and secluded life which Agnes had led with the specious and fatal brilliancy which had been the lot of her mother, — her simple peasant garb with those remembered visions of jewelry and silk and embroideries with which the partial patronage of the Duchess or the ephemeral passion of her son had decked out the poor Isella; and then came swelling at her heart a tumultuous thought, one which she had repressed and kept down for years with all the force of pride and hatred. Agnes, peasant-girl though she seemed, had yet the blood of that proud old family in her veins; the marriage had been a true one; she herself had witnessed it.
“Yes, indeed,” she said to herself, “were justice done, she would now be a princess, — a fit mate for the nobles of the land; and here I ask no more than to mate her to an honest smith, — I that have seen a prince kneel to kiss her mother’s hand, — yes, he did, — entreat her on his knees to be his wife, — I saw it. But then, what came of it? Was there ever one of these nobles that kept oath or promise to us of the people, or that cared for us longer than the few moments we could serve his pleasure? Old Elsie, you have done wisely! keep your dove out of the eagle’s nest: it is foul with the blood of poor innocents whom he has torn to pieces in his cruel pride!”
These thoughts swelled in silence in the mind of Elsie, while she was busy sorting and arranging her household stores, and making those thousand-and-one preparations known to every householder, whether of much or little, who meditates a long journey.
To Agnes she seemed more than ever severe and hard; yet probably there never was a time when every pulse of her heart was beating more warmly for the child, and every thought of the future was more entirely regulated with reference to her welfare. It is no sinecure to have the entire devotion of a strong, enterprising, self-willed friend, as Agnes had all her life found. One cannot gather grapes of thorns or figs of thistles, and the affection of thorny and thistly natures has often as sharp an acid and as long prickers as wild gooseberries; yet it is their best, and must be so accepted.
Agnes tried several times to offer her help to her grandmother, but was refused so roughly that she dared not offer again, and therefore went to her favorite station by the parapet in the garden, whence she could look up and down the gorge, and through the arches of the old mossy Roman bridge that spanned it far down by the city-wall. All these things had become dear to h
er by years of familiar silent converse. The little garden, with its old sculptured basin and the ever-lulling dash of falling water; the tremulous draperies of maiden’s-hair, always beaded with shining drops; the old shrine, with its picture, its lamp, and flower-vase; the tall, dusky orange-trees, so full of blossoms and fruit, so smooth and shining in their healthy bark, — all seemed to her as so many dear old friends whom she was about to leave, perhaps forever.
What this pilgrimage would be like, she scarcely knew: days and weeks of wandering, — over mountain-passes; in deep, solitary valleys, — as years ago, when her grandmother brought her, a little child, from Rome.
In the last few weeks, Agnes seemed to herself to have become wholly another being. Silently, insensibly, her feet had crossed the enchanted river that divides childhood from womanhood, and all the sweet ignorant joys of that first early paradise lay behind her. Up to this time her life had seemed to her a charming dream, full of blessed visions and images: legends of saints, and hymns, and prayers had blended with flower-gatherings in the gorge, and light daily toils.
Now a new, strange life had been born within her, — a life full of passions, contradictions, and conflicts. A love had sprung up in her heart, strange and wonderful, for one who till within these few weeks had been entirely unknown to her, who had never toiled for, or housed, or clothed, or cared for her as her grandmother had, and yet whom a few short interviews, a few looks, a few words, had made to seem nearer and dearer than the old, tried friends of her childhood. In vain she confessed it as a sin, in vain she strove against it; it came back to her in every hymn, in every prayer. Then she would press the sharp cross to her breast, till a thousand stings of pain would send the blood in momentary rushes to her pale cheek, and cause her delicate lips to contract with an expression of stern endurance, and pray that by any penance and anguish she might secure his salvation.
To save one such glorious soul, she said to herself, was work enough for one little life. She was willing to spend it all in endurance, unseen by him, unknown to him, so that at last he should be received into that Paradise which her ardent imagination conceived so vividly. Surely, there she should meet him, radiant as the angel of her dream; and then she would tell him that it was all for his sake that she had refused to listen to him here. And these sinful longings to see him once more, these involuntary reachings of her soul after an earthly companionship, she should find strength to overcome in this pilgrimage. She should go to Rome, — the very city where the blessed Paul poured out his blood for the Lord Jesus, — where Peter fed the flock, till his time, too, came to follow his Lord in the way of the cross. She should even come near to her blessed Redeemer; she should go up, on her knees, those very steps to Pilate’s hall where He stood bleeding, crowned with thorns, — His blood, perhaps, dropping on the very stones. Ah, could any mortal love distract her there?294 Should she not there find her soul made free of every earthly thrall to love her Lord alone, — as she had loved Him in the artless and ignorant days of her childhood, — but better, a thousand times?
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 191