The Saint Part 5

"That your hat was in disorder!"

"Oh, that is not true! Really not true!"

Sparkling with mirth, and at the same time trembling at the idea of the great danger she had encountered unawares, she protested that it was impossible; she had looked in the mirror of her _necessaire_ so many times before reaching Hergyswyl.

Every moment of that hour pa.s.sed two years before, they recalled together jestingly; she often kissing his breast, and he her hair.

Giovanni had not waited for her at the station, where there was a crowd of holiday-makers, but a few yards distant, on the road leading to the hotel. He had seen her coming, tall, slender, with a tiny sprig of _Olea fragrans_, the sign they had chosen, at her breast. He had approached her, his head bared, and they had pressed one another's hands in silence. He had signed to the porter, who was following with her travelling bag, to precede them. They had followed slowly, their throats contracted by a nameless emotion. She had been the first to murmur, in her sweet refined voice: "_Mon ami_."

Then he had spoken in subdued tones, in broken sentences, of his infatuation, of his love, of his ecstasy, and had not noticed when they pa.s.sed the hotel. Twice the porter called after them:

"_Monsieur! Madame! C'est ici!_" and neither had heard. Then the girl had gone to her room smiling, but pale with fatigue, and with aching head. Giovanni went out again to wander among the level gardens and orchards of Hergyswyl, breathing hard like a man exhausted by excess of feeling, blessing every stone and every leaf of this verdant corner of a foreign land, the lake, sleeping in its bosom, the crowd of great religious mountains; blessing G.o.d, who at his time of life had sent him such a love. And he had returned soon, too soon, to the hotel. The only other guests there on that May day, an old German professor and his daughter, had gone up Mount Pilatus. There was no one in the little reading-room. In that reading-room Maria and Giovanni had spent two happy hours, hand in hand, talking with hushed voices, often trembling in fear lest some one should come in.

"Do you remember," said Maria, "that there was a fireplace in the room, near the sofa where we sat?"

"Yes, dear."

"And that it was cold, although it was May; so cold that the waiter came in to light the fire?"

"Yes, and it was then I made you cry."

"Could you repeat those same words to-day?"

"Oh, no!"

So saying, Giovanni kissed his wife's white forehead reverently, as if it were a holy thing. When the waiter came in to light the fire in the little salon at Hergyswyl, Giovanni had dropped the beloved hand, and had said, while the servant still lingered:

"The old log will surely burn on to the end, but who can tell how long the youthful flame will last?" Maria had not answered, but had looked at him, her eyes dilating, and dimmed by the cold touch of the unjust suspicion, as the gla.s.s of a hothouse is dimmed by the touch of a frost outside.

No, Giovanni had never again harboured such a thought. He and Maria often said to each other that perhaps there was no other union on earth like theirs, so penetrated with, so full of peace derived from the solemnly sweet and grave certainty that, no matter how G.o.d might order their existence after death, their spirits would surely be united in the love of the Divine Will. Nevertheless, they did not neglect to lay the desire of their souls before the Almighty. The prayer they had just prayed together, both wrapt in inward contemplation, had been composed by Giovanni, and ran as follows:

"Father, let it be with us as Jesus prayed that last night; life with Him in Thee, for all eternity."

Even in the present they were two in one, in the narrowest, the most accurate sense of the phrase, for their duality was also perceptible in their spiritual union; as, when a green current mingles with a blue current, it sometimes happens, at the beginning of their united course, that broken waves flash here and there--some the colour of the woods, some as blue as the sky. Giovanni was a mystic, who harmonised all human affections with Divine love, in his heart. His wife, who had come through him from Protestantism to a Catholicism thirsting for reason, had entered into his mystic soul as far as was possible; but love for Giovanni predominated in her over every other sentiment. She was rich and he comfortably off, but they lived almost poorly, that they might have greater means for their broad charities. They lived in Rome in the winter, in Subiaco from April to November, in the modest villa of which they had hired the second floor. Only on books and on their correspondence did they spend freely. Giovanni was preparing a work on reason in Christian morality. His wife read for him, made extracts, took notes.

"I should so much like to go to Hergyswyl next summer," said she, "that you might write the last chapter of the book there, the chapter on Purity!"

So saying, she clasped her hands, happy in the vision of the little village, nestling among the apple trees at the head of the tiny bay, the calm lake, the great religious mountains, the quiet days, spent in work and peaceful contemplation. She was acquainted with the entire plan of her husband's work, with the subject of each chapter, with the princ.i.p.al arguments.

The chapter on Purity was her favourite because of its rational trend.

In it her husband intended to propose and to solve the following problem: "Why does Christianity exalt, as an element of human perfection, that renunciation which subjects man to fierce struggles, is of no benefit to any one, and closes the door of existence to possible human lives?" The answer was to be deduced from, the study of the moral phenomenon in its historical origins, and its development; to this study the first two chapters of the work were dedicated. Selva showed by the example of the brutes, who sacrifice themselves for their young, or for companions of their own kind, and are sometimes capable of strictly monogamous unions, that in inferior animal nature the moral instinct becomes manifest and develops in proportion as the carnal instinct diminishes. He maintained the hypothesis that the human conscience was thus being progressively developed in the inferior species. He now proposed to return to this conclusion, and to lay down the general principle that the renunciation of carnal pleasures for a satisfaction of a higher order signifies the striving of the species towards a superior form of existence. He would then examine the exceptional cases of individuals who, with no other end in view than that of honouring the Divinity, oppose to the carnal instincts--greatly stimulated in them by intellect and sensual imagination--a still stronger instinct of renunciation. He would show that many creeds furnish such examples and extol renunciation, but that It must, however, always remain a spontaneous action on the part of the individual. He was willing to admit that it would be both a blameworthy and foolish action, did it not correspond to a mysterious impulse of Nature herself--to that so-called spiritual element--which persists in its eternal antagonism to the carnal instinct, in obedience to a cosmic law. Unconscious collaborators of Him who governs the universe, these heroes of supreme renunciation imagine that only through their sacrifice are they honouring Him, while in reality they incarnate, according to the Divine design, the progressive energy of the species, strengthening their own spiritual element, that it may have the power to create for itself a superior corporeal form, more in the likeness of the Master; thus their purity is human perfection, is the elevation on which our human nature culminates, and touches the nebulous beginnings of an unknown superhuman nature.

"When I think of incarnate purity," said Giovanni, "I see! Don Clemente before me. Did I tell you he is coming to the meeting to-night? He will come down directly after supper."

Maria started. "Oh!" said she, "I almost forgot to tell you Noemi has written to me. She was to leave Milan yesterday with the Dessalles, They are going to stay in Rome a day or two, and then they are coming here."

"You recalled this because I mentioned Don Clemente," said Giovanni smiling. "Yes," replied his wife; "nevertheless, you know I do not believe."

How could Don Clemente's lofty forehead, his blue eyes, so serene and pure, have known pa.s.sion? In the soft, submissive, almost timid voice of the young Benedictine there was--to Maria's mind--a chast.i.ty too delicate, a purity too virginal.

"You do not believe," Giovanni answered, "and perhaps, after all, you are right; perhaps, after all, he is not Maironi. Still it will be better to let him know to-night, in some way, that Signora Dessalle is coming to Subiaco, and that she will, of course, visit the convents.

Especially as he would be obliged to accompany her, being the Father who receives visitors."

There could be no doubt about this. Maria herself would warn him. As she did not believe him to have been Jeanne's lover it would be easier for her to speak naturally to him of her. But what a terrible thing it would be if he really were Maironi, and if they should meet face to face, quite unprepared, in front of the monastery, he and the woman! Was Giovanni quite sure the monk was coming to the meeting? Yes, quite sure.

Don Clemente had obtained the abbot's permission while Giovanni was at the convent, and had at once told him. He was coming, and would bring with him, and introduce to them, the man who helped the kitchen-gardener, of whom he had already spoken to Giovanni. Thus, another time, the gardener could come alone, and would teach him to bank up the potatoes in the little piece of ground he had hired behind the villa, intending to cultivate it with his own hands. Manual labour, to which he had recently taken, was a pet hobby of Giovanni's of which Maria did not altogether approve, deeming it incompatible with his habits and with his age. However, she respected his whim and held her peace. At that moment the girl from Affile, who served them, came to tell them that their guests were on their way upstairs, and that supper would be ready shortly.

Three people, in fact, were ascending the narrow winding stair of the little villa, Giovanni went down to meet them. First came his young friend Leyn, who, on greeting Giovanni, begged to be excused for preceding the two ecclesiastics who were his companions.

"I am master of ceremonies," he explained, and proceeded to introduce them there on the stairs.

"The Abbe Marinier of Geneva. Don Paolo Fare of Varese, with whose name you are already acquainted."

Selva was slightly perplexed; nevertheless he at once invited his guests to follow him, and conducted them to the terrace, where some chairs had been placed.

"And Dane?" said he anxiously to Leyn, taking his arm, "And Professor Minucci, and Father Salvati."

"They have arrived," the young man replied, smiling. "They are at the Aniene. I must tell you about it--but it is a long story! They will be here presently."

Meanwhile the Abbe Marinier had gone out on the terrace, and now exclaimed:

"_Oh, c'est admirable!_"

Don Paolo Fare, always loyal to his native Como, murmured, "Beautiful, beautiful indeed!" as if he would have liked to add, "but if you could only see my country!"

Maria joined them, and the introductions were repeated; then Leyn told his story while Marinier let his little sparkling eyes wander over the landscape, from the pyramid-shaped Subiaco, standing out with a dark scenic effect against the bright background in the west, to the wild hornbeams close by, which shut out the east.

Don Fare was devouring Selva with his eyes, Selva, the author of critical essays on the Old and New Testament, and especially of a book on the basis of future Catholic theology, which had elevated and transfigured his faith. Baron Leyn was telling his story. At the station of Mandela it had been very windy, and Professor Dane greatly feared he had taken cold; suspecting that there would be no cognac in the house of such an alcohol hater as Selva, and, moreover, the hour having arrived at which it was his daily custom to take two eggs, he had stopped at the Albergo dell' Aniene for the eggs and cognac. On the terrace of the restaurant, which faced the river, there was too much air, and in the small adjacent rooms there was too little, so he had ordered his repast served in a room at the hotel, and had sent the eggs back twice. Then the others had walked on, leaving him in the company of Professor Minucci and Father Salvati.

As Professor Dane, who was so delicate and sensitive to the cold, was not of the party, Giovanni proposed having supper on the terrace. He at once abandoned the idea, however, on perceiving that it did not suit the Abbe from Geneva. The elegant, worldly Marinier took as great care of his own person as did his friend Dane, but with more dissimulation and without the excuse of ill-health. He had not, stayed to supper at the Aniene with his friend, because, on a previous visit to Subiaco, he had found the cuisine of that hotel too simple to suit his taste, and he had hopes of a French supper from Signora Selva. Baron Leyni knew well how fallacious such hopes were; but in a spirit of mischief he refrained from enlightening him. There was barely: room for the five people in the tiny dining-room. It was fortunate the other two had not come. In fact, neither the Abbe Marinier nor Don Fare was expected, but others who had been expected were absent. A monk and a priest, men of repute from northern Italy, who should have been present, had both written to apologise for their absence, to the lively regret of Selva, of Fare, and of Leyn. Marinier, on the other hand, proffered his apologies for having intruded. Dane was responsible for his presence, as Leyn was for the presence of Don Paolo Fare. Selva protested. Friends of his friends were, of course, always welcome. Leyn and Dane both knew they were free to bring any one in whom they had confidence, any one who shared their views. Maria was silent; she was not greatly pleased with Abbe Marinier.

She also felt that Leyn and Dane would have done well had they abstained from introducing strangers without notifying Giovanni.

Marinier spoke, with slightly knitted brows, after a close scrutiny of his bean soup.

"I fear," said he, "we shall weary Signora Selva if we talk now of the subject to be discussed at the meeting."

Maria rea.s.sured him. She should not be present at the meeting, but she took the liveliest interest in its objects.

"Very well, then," Marinier continued. "It will be a great advantage to me to become better acquainted with those objects, for Dane has spoken of them only in rather vague terms, and I do not feel sure that I entirely share your views."

Don Paole could not restrain a movement of impatience. Selva himself seemed slightly annoyed, because unanimity of opinion on certain fundamental principles was surely necessary. Without this unanimity the meeting might prove worse than useless, even dangerous. "Well," said he, "there are many Catholics in Italy and outside of Italy who, with us, desire certain reforms in the Church. We wish them to be brought about without rebellion, to be the work of the legitimate authorities. We desire reforms in religious instruction, in the ceremonies, in the discipline of the clergy, reforms even in the highest sphere of ecclesiastical government. To obtain these ends it is necessary to create a current of opinion strong enough to induce the legitimate authorities to act in conformity with our views, be it twenty, thirty, or even fifty years hence. Now we who hold these opinions are widely dispersed, and, save in the case of those who publish articles or books, are ignorant of one another's views. Very probably a large number of pious and cultured people in the Catholic world feel as we do; and I believe it would afford the greatest a.s.sistance in the spreading of our opinions if we could, at least, know one another. To-night a few of us are to meet together for a first discussion."

While Giovanni spoke, the others kept their eyes fixed on the Genevese.

The Abbe gazed steadily as his plate. A brief silence followed, and Giovanni was the first to break it.

"Has Professor Dane not told you this?" he asked.

"Yes, yes," replied the Abbe, raising his eyes from his plate at last; "he has told me something similar." The tone was that of one who only half approves. But, why, then, had he come? Don Paolo looked displeased; the others were silent. An embarra.s.sing pause ensued. At last Marinier said:

"We will discuss this again to-night."