CHAPTER VI.Departures.
The next day was Sunday. Signor Elvi, whether a Christian or not, went to church with the family, apparently as a matter of course. Mary and Selina stole a glance at one another when the text of the sermon was given out: “Affliction worketh patience; and patience experience; and experience hope.”
How often it happens, that when the attention has been fixed on any idea or feeling, or train of ideas and feelings, some circumstance, or a great variety of circumstances, happens to illustrate or impress yet more deeply the subject of our thought! How eminently useful, in this way, is public worship! for it is scarcely possible that the subject of discourse should not have peculiarlyengaged the attention of some one among the hearers so recently as to secure a preparatory interest which must give double effect to what is declared and enforced. This was the case in the present instance. The excellent sermon which Mary and Selina now heard, not only enlarged their views of the subject on which they had talked the day before, but was so fixed in their memories that it recurred to them for a longtime afterwards, whenever suffering, fortitude, self-destruction, and even Signor Elvi and his countrymen were talked about.
The party returned from church by the longer way through the fields, which extended to the back gate of Mr. Byerley’s garden. Mary had put her arm within her father’s, as the Signor walked beside him. These three paced along slowly, while the rest went forward.
Mr. Byerley hoped that his friend had followed his own inclinations about attending worship, and had not accompanied the family merely out of complaisance and observance of custom.
“Convince yourself, from my freedom of yesterday,” was the reply. “If I withdrew myselffreely for my own pleasure, think you not I would likewise withdraw rather than dishonour the worship of God by entering his temple with an unwilling heart?”
“I did not know that you could join in Christian worship with a willing heart.”
“In some worship which is called Christian, I join not, because its superstition is greater than I can bear. Where the priest offers for the people prayers which they cannot understand, and makes them worship a dressed doll, and rings bells, and burns candles in the daylight, I feel no more that it is my God whom they worship, and I turn away as from idolatry. Such is the Christianity of my country. Far better is the simple homage of the spirit among the hills.”
“Far better, indeed,” said Mr. Byerley: “but why should not that simple homage be Christian? You have till lately seen no worship but the Catholic worship of your own country, where it is more grossly superstitious than almost any where else; but if you love truth, if you love religion as much as I believe you do,you will not be satisfied till you have learned a little more what Christianity is. You have already found that Latin prayers, wax lights, and incense make no part of it; and if you will go into our meeting-houses, you will find external observances more simplified still. From the solemn Easter service of our cathedrals, which you acknowledge to be impressive, down to the silent worship of the Friends’ meeting-house, which you would perhaps find no less so, you might, by discovering what Christianity is not, become better informed than you now are what it is.”
“I own, my friend, that this diversity is too perplexing for me. I meet many Christians; and they all tell me differently of their faith. I——.”
“Look to the records of their faith, and judge for yourself, instead of taking any man’s word.”
“I was about to say, that I look into the Scriptures and find many things which I cannot understand or believe; but much, very much, which is more pure in morals, more lofty in feeling, more grand in piety to God, and more winning in love to man, than I can find in anyother religion, whether in the heart or in books. Therefore I read very often the words of Christ with veneration, and therefore I attend the worship of your churches. I believe that all things come from God, the consolations of all religions, and of your best religion among others; and as long as I make use of it and give thanks for it, it matters not to me to enquire about those parts which I cannot believe.”
“You cannot be sure whether you can believe them or not till you do enquire,” observed Mr. Byerley, “as you would yourself remark in any other case; and as I think you will admit hereafter, when you have learned more of our faith, as separate from the superstitions with which you have hitherto seen it united. If you will only study this subject as fairly as you do any other which interests you, you will find Christianity far more precious to you than you can conceive: more precious than the religion which you now value above every thing. It is, in fact, the same religion, enlarged and enriched.”
“Ah! what is man without religion?” exclaimed his friend. “I believe not myself tohave suffered more than many others; but what but religion could have strengthened me to live? My country, my beautiful Italy, is spoiled and trampled on by tyrants; and I, her son, who loved her so much, how should I escape? I have given in sacrifice all I have; but neither myself nor her many devoted children have ransomed her from her slavery. Our struggles to set her free have doubled her chains; and her oppressors laugh at her miseries and insult her defenders, who, torn from her bosom, mourn eternally their exile.”
“The wrongs of your country, Elvi, afflict you more than your own. This is patriotism.”
“Give me no unjust praise, my friend: my own sorrows find fewer words because they lie deeper. My home, and they who dwell there, shall see me no more! When I saw my son fall on the field; when his generous spirit escaped before he could speak the last words of love to me; when, again, the sea rolled between me and my own land, and I had not given my wife one farewell, I thought that fate had heaped her last injuries upon me, and I trusted that I could notlive under so many griefs. But I talk no more of fate, but rather think of God; and though I live, and my griefs live also, and make a resting-place in my heart till death, I am content to remain till affliction has made me patient, and my patience has made me hopeful, as your apostle has wisely said. Now, what but religion could give me this content and this hope?”
“Nothing, my friend. No other spirit of peace is always awake and always nigh. But whence did you derive your religion?”
“When, in my youth, I ceased to be a Catholic, I did not cease to regard God; but not till I became helpless and friendless did I know the full worth of piety. When I looked round and found no home, I humbly sought my home in the Presence which is every where; when there was no one near to mourn with me, or to love me, it was my true relief to pray; and when I have hope for my children and for my country, it rejoices me to commit it to Him who can fulfil what I can only hope. And above all, when I hear my countrymen curse the authors of their sorrows, it comforts me to disarm those curseswith more kindly prayers. Oh! that they would learn that revenge is not for man.”
Mary thought that their friend had learned more from the gospel than he himself was aware of. So thought their father.
“I have been grieved, though not much surprised,” said he, “to perceive how your countrymen long for revenge, and how bitterly they curse their oppressors.”
“Alas!” replied Elvi, “it makes me mourn for them and for our cause. They desire to crush their enemies under their feet, to shed their blood as a welcome libation to freedom, to hunt them as blood-hounds follow their prey; but the noblest hearts feel not thus. The strongest sight looks furthest, and sees a nobler issue than this. I ask them where is their faith, if not in Providence—in liberty. The chains of tyranny are strong, but the consuming power of time is yet stronger. Tyranny now puts forth her force to desolate the lands; but there is an immortal vigour in liberty which shall make her the queen of the world, when prisons shall be razed, and when blood shall cease to bepoured out like water. This is the faith which I would give to those who will not receive a better. Yet some of them will not live, even by this faith.”
Mary anxiously listened for what was to come next.
“If they have no higher faith than this,” observed her father, “I do not wonder that they obey the impulse to cast off life and sorrow together.”
“Nor I, my friends; for the temptation is indeed strong.”
“You have felt it to be so.”
“Once: one bitter hour—let us not speak of it. Now I am beyond its reach. I see how poor is the courage which cannot long endure. I see how impious is the impatience which will not wait till the designs of Providence are made known. I pity those who are thus weak, more than they pity me for what remains to me; and for myself—if my lot be to die for my own land, I am ready: if it be to suffer yet many years for her, I am willing. These vows I repeat, as yesterday, on the days which number my years since my birth.”
“Was yesterday your birth-day?”
“It was. In my own country, I went among the mountains—among the Alps, which as a child I climbed. There I was alone on that day. Here, no Alps are before me, but I go out alone to remember, and to meditate, and to hope; for while my heart beats, I cannot but remember: while there is a world around me, and a spirit within me, I must meditate: while there is a providence to be discerned, and a God to be hearkened to in all these things, I am apt to hope, and I cannot but pray.”
“Your faith is now your best blessing, and will prove your ample reward,” said Mr. Byerley, “whatever lot may befall your country and yourself; but tell me, honestly, if those of your countrymen who are without your faith do not look on you as almost a Christian?”
“I own they do; but they know as much less of your gospel than I, as I than you.”
Mary fell into a reverie about what she had heard; and when she listened again, her father and his friend were speaking of the political state of Italy. Having made sure of the factsthat Signor Elvi, so far from excusing the act of suicide, held it to be impious, selfish, and cowardly, she took the first opportunity, after her arrival at home, of communicating her discovery to Selina, who was never again heard to admire, even in the very lowest degrees of comparison, the resolution shown in the act of self-murder.
This was the last day of the Fletchers’ visit—the last day of the intercourse which all the girls enjoyed, and which Anna thought she could scarcely live without. She had come to an explanation, and almost an apology, with Selina, for her mirth the preceding evening. She owned that it was very provoking, when inclined to be sad, to see one’s dearest friend particularly merry; and she thought she should be more observant of Selina’s mood another time. She just hinted, however, that some accommodation from the other party was very possible; and that it might be desirable to meet half way. If Selina had looked a little more cheerful, she might have been more moderate in her laughter. “How was it possible, dear, to be cheerful, when I supposedthat Signor Elvi had shot himself?” was, however, an unanswerable question.
Long was the talk this night, when the friends should have been fitting themselves, by sleep, for the fatigues and various emotions of the next day. When the midnight clock told them that the last Sabbath they were to be together was gone, they had too much to say about the way in which they were to remember each other, to close their eyes. It was dawn before they slept. The next morning came the melancholy business of packing, and the disagreeable sight of corded trunks in the hall. Though the dinner was ordered very early, the hours hung heavily; for no one thought of doing any thing but wandering round the garden, and sitting in the balcony, and bidding farewell to every place.
While Rose, Selina, and Anna were standing idly by the brink of the pond, they saw Mary running nimbly down the steps, and hastening towards them, evidently bringing good news. She had just heard of her father’s promise to take them abroad to join their friends, as soon as they should be settled at Tours. Joyfulnews indeed! and well-timed to cheer the parting. Months must pass away before they would meet; but that there was any certain prospect of meeting was delightful. Mary was older than her companions, and very much wiser in proportion, so that she could look forward with greater ease: she was therefore the happiest of the party; rather happier than her sister could understand.
Anna’s heart smote her when she felt, from time to time, a fear that she should not find her sister all she had found her—a fear that they might be dull together. She loved her father and sister very much; but she no longer looked forward to her daily occupations, and to daily intercourse with the household, with the pleasure and alacrity which had been habitual to her. This painful feeling, made up of regret and self-reproach, was at its height when Mr. Fletcher’s carriage drove from the door. She was so possessed with the idea that Mary would not feel the separation as she did, that she ran away at once to shed her tears in silence. If she had had any thought for any one but herself, she wouldhave perceived that her sister was also in tears, and that they did not flow the less amply because Anna broke from her, refusing to be comforted. After a while, Anna stole into the room her friends had occupied, for the purpose of feeding her grief with the visible signs of their former presence. Mary was already there, sitting on the chair on which a bandbox had stood to be packed, and twirling on her fingers a rejected piece of string. The sympathy which thus brought them together cheered them both, and they resolutely went the round of the apartment, to gather up every memorial of their departed guests. In a half-opened drawer, they found a note for each—notes which afforded abundance of painful pleasure, and which were immediately destined, by vow, to be kept for ever.
There is something so truly painful in partings, that no length of time, no frequency of the occasion, can reconcile us to them. The sight of the deserted room strikes gloom upon the heart, even if its inhabitant intends to return in a very few days or weeks. We sigh over every memorial we happen to meet with, even if the absentone is to return presently to claim it. The grief of a really terrible parting is transferred, by association, to the least important; and every body feels pretty much alike about them all. It is not to be wondered at that Mary and Anna, who were just beginning to taste the pleasures of friendship with new minds, and who were inexperienced in the regrets which attend such connexions, should be really and deeply melancholy during the first hours of separation; especially as they had the prospect of undergoing something of the same kind the next day, when Signor Elvi was to bid them farewell.
He was now with their father in the study, transacting the business which brought him to A——. He appeared no more to them the whole day, except at tea-time, when he was so busy talking politics that he had no more leisure than Mr. Byerley for taking further notice of the girls than his habitual politeness prompted. The sisters, feeling somewhat forlorn when again left together, sat down, face to face, to talk over the past week; and they comforted one another as well as they could, till sleep performed the office of comforter better still.
The next afternoon, when the Signor had bestowed on them his last smile, and with foreign politeness and native feeling kissed their hands at parting, they went to their father’s study to get rid of their ennui.
Mr. Byerley was, fortunately, in particularly good spirits. Much as he esteemed his late guests, and had on the whole enjoyed their society, he preferred his own quiet study, and the liberty to pursue his daily plans. To be gowned and slippered was quite a luxury; and to shut the door on all the world but his children, gave him a satisfaction which he was not unreasonable enough to expect to see reflected in the faces of his young companions. It was well that he was in a bright mood, for all his patience was needed to-day. Virgil could not be made to utter poetry, or even sense, this afternoon; and Fénélon’s French was far less intelligible than Signor Elvi’s. Anna’s memory furnished her with one provoking rhyme,
“The rule of three doth puzzle me,”
“The rule of three doth puzzle me,”
“The rule of three doth puzzle me,”
“The rule of three doth puzzle me,”
which was the only product she could obtainfrom her sum. Her father took pity on her perplexity, and explained once more what he knew she understood very well. He pointed with his finger to the place where the answer was to be written down, when lo! a huge tear-drop fell on it. Then came another, and another, till the divisor and the quotient became alike indistinguishable.
“What is all this about?” said her father, making her sit on his knee. “What makes you so unhappy this afternoon?”
Anna had so many reasons to give, that she did not know which to produce first. Before she could find voice to reply, her father’s attention was called away by stifled sobs from the other side of the table.
“You too, Mary! Come here, my dear, and tell me what has happened to you both.”
Mary came and, as she was wont, told her father all that she herself knew of what was in her mind; ending by owning, with a half-smile, that she should not have shed any tears if Anna had not; but that now she had once begun, she did not know when she should be able to leave off.Her father, hasty as he was sometimes, was now full of tenderness, though he did not weakly encourage their overflow of melancholy. He said no more about study, but talked to them of the prospect of meeting their friends again, and of much which was to be done in the mean time. He showed that he fully understood the new pleasure of companionship which they had just enjoyed, and that he shared their sympathy with his foreign friend’s misfortunes, and their admiration of his conduct under them; but he led them to perceive how wrong it is to allow inactive sympathy to interfere with active duty.
When the tears had disappeared, and smiles came forth again, he sent them to put on their bonnets, that they might have a walk together once more.
As soon as the fresh air blew on her face, Mary’s impulse was, as usual, to sing; but crying is a bad preparation for singing, and she was obliged to keep her music till her voice, as well as her spirit, had recovered its tone.
Anna was too much absorbed to observe where her father was leading her, till they entered anarrow, dark alley, and turned up a broken, winding stair. When they had reached the top, Mr. Byerley desired them to wait outside a door at which he knocked, till he should come to them. When the door was opened from within, the girls obtained a view, for an instant, of a wretched apartment inhabited by a sick man, who was stretched on a low bedstead, without curtains, and furnished only with a rug. Pain and want were visible in the face of the sufferer; and the boy who opened the door likewise appeared half-famished.
“O, papa!” said Mary, when Mr. Byerley joined them again in a few minutes, “who are these poor people?”
“They are foreigners, my dear, in the extreme of distress.”
Anna’s attention was immediately fixed.
“Foreigners, papa? Where do they come from?”
“From Italy. The man is an image-maker, whom you may have seen about the streets with his board. He maintained himself and his son by his ingenuity; and even contrived to put theboy to school, where he made good progress; but it is all at an end now. The poor man was seized with a rheumatic fever some weeks ago, and when he will be better there is no saying; for no complaint is more tedious. His money is all gone; and they have both parted with all their clothes but what they had on before they applied to any body for assistance. When I first saw them, yesterday, they seemed almost starved.”
“Why did you not tell us, papa? We might have done a great deal for them by this time.”
“I wished first to learn all the particulars of their story, and at the same time to give them the pleasure of conversing with a countryman; and therefore I took Elvi to see them last night. He is satisfied of the truth of their statements, and will obtain some relief, if possible, from the fund for the relief of distressed foreigners in London. He had nothing else to give, I am sorry to say; but his kindness and his promise have cheered his poor countryman, and done him more good, he says, than medicine. Yousee, Anna, we must not bestow all our compassion on Elvi: he is not the most unfortunate of emigrants, hard as is the emigrant’s lot.”
Anna shook her head. Her father continued.
“Elvi himself said that such a scene as this made him ashamed of dwelling on his own sorrows.”
“He does not,” exclaimed Anna: “he thinks of every body sooner than himself.”
“He does, my dear, to all appearance—to admiration; but I believe he has very severe struggles to undergo when no human eye sees, and none are near to feel with and for him. I will not say that he reproaches himself for this, but he is anxious to bear in mind that others suffer more than himself. ‘I am not sleepless,’ he says, ‘from hunger and pain, like this man. I can see the sun shine and be consoled. I am soothed by friendly words and kind deeds, and my poverty is not real, but only future, since I have clothes and food; but this man tosses on his straw bed through the night, and groans in anguish through the day. He has no bread nor clothes,nor is any one near to give. His son too is wasting before his eyes; and they have nothing but their faith to make them dare look forward one single day. I must think of them when I am sad.’ Elvi is right.”
“Certainly, papa,” said Mary; “but still I think we cannot judge of a person’s griefs by what their condition seems to be. Do not you think some people may feel exile and disappointment more than other people feel sickness and want?”
“I do, my dear. The degree of suffering depends more on the state of the person’s mind than on his outward circumstances: a very refined and amiable person may suffer more from the disappointment of his affections and the ruin of his country, than a very stupid and ignorant person from actual want. All these evils are equally real; but there are these differences—that we can understand and estimate the one kind better than the other; and we can always relieve the one, and scarcely ever the other: and of course, our first concern is with that which we can measure and relieve.”
“That is, we should think more of this poorman, and of what we can do for him, than of Signor Elvi, this afternoon. So we will.”
“Happily there is no occasion to feel less for Elvi because we can do more for his poor countryman,” said her father: “if we are but careful todowhat we can and what we ought, we may make ourselves sure that our feelings will be right. We are to take care of our actions, and to leave our feelings to take care of themselves.”
This doctrine did not quite suit Anna’s taste. She made no objection to it in theory; but when she had made sure of the image-man being taken care of by other people, she lapsed into her reveries about patriotism and friendship; or rather about one patriot and one friend.