A woman has her own troubles, as a man has his. And we male writers seldom do more than indicate the griefs of the other sex. The intelligence of the female reader must come to our aid, and fill up our cold outlines. So have I indicated, rather than described, what Margaret Brandt went through up to that eventful day, when she entered Eli's house an enemy, read her sweetheart's letter, and remained a friend.
And now a woman's greatest trial drew near, and Gerard far away.
She availed herself but little of Eli's sudden favour; for this reserve she had always a plausible reason ready; and never hinted at the true one, which was this; there were two men in that house at sight of whom she shuddered with instinctive antipathy and dread. She had read wickedness and hatred in their faces, and mysterious signals of secret intelligence. She preferred to receive Catherine and her daughter at home. The former went to see her every day, and was wrapped up in the expected event.
Catherine was one of those females whose office is to multiply, and rear the multiplied: who, when at last they consent to leave off pelting one out of every room in the house with babies, hover about the fair scourges that are still in full swing, and do so cluck, they seem to multiply by proxy. It was in this spirit she entreated Eli to let her stay at Rotterdam, while he went back to Tergou.
“The poor lass hath not a soul about her, that knows anything about anything. What avail a pair o' soldiers? Why, that sort o' cattle should be putten out o' doors the first, at such an a time.”
Need I say that this was a great comfort to Margaret.
Poor soul, she was full of anxiety as the time drew near.
She should die; and Gerard away.
But things balance themselves. Her poverty, and her father's helplessness, which had cost her such a struggle, stood her in good stead now.
Adversity's iron hand had forced her to battle the lassitude that overpowers the rich of her sex, and to be for ever on her feet, working. She kept this up to the last by Catherine's advice.
And so it was, that one fine evening, just at sunset, she lay weak as water, but safe; with a little face by her side, and the heaven of maternity opening on her.
“Why dost weep, sweetheart? All of a sudden?”
“He is not here to see it.”
“Ah, well, lass, he will be here ere 'tis weaned. Meantime God hath been as good to thee as to e'er a woman born; and do but bethink thee it might have been a girl; didn't my very own Kate threaten me with one; and here we have got the bonniest boy in Holland, and a rare heavy one, the saints be praised for't.”
“Ay, mother, I am but a sorry, ungrateful wretch to weep. If only Gerard were here to see it. 'Tis strange; I bore him well enow to be away from me in my sorrow; but oh, it does seem so hard he should not share my joy. Prithee, prithee, come to me, Gerard! dear, dear Gerard!” And she stretched out her feeble arms.
Catherine hustled about, but avoided Margaret's eyes; for she could not restrain her own tears at hearing her own absent child thus earnestly addressed.
Presently, turning round, she found Margaret looking at her with a singular expression. “Heard you nought?”
“No, my lamb. What?”
“I did cry on Gerard, but now.”
“Ay, ay, sure I heard that.”
“Well, he answered me.”
“Tush, girl: say not that.”
“Mother, as sure as I lie here, with his boy by my side, his voice came back to me, 'Margaret!' So. Yet methought 'twas not his happy voice. But that might be the distance. All voices go off sad like at a distance. Why art not happy, sweetheart? and I so happy this night? Mother, I seem never to have felt a pain or known a care.” And her sweet eyes turned and gloated on the little face in silence.
That very night Gerard flung himself into the Tiber. And that very hour she heard him speak her name, he cried aloud in death's jaws and despair's.
“Margaret!”
Account for it those who can. I cannot.
In the guest chamber of a Dominican convent lay a single stranger, exhausted by successive and violent fits of nausea, which had at last subsided, leaving him almost as weak as Margaret lay that night in Holland.
A huge wood fire burned on the hearth, and beside it hung the patient's clothes.
A gigantic friar sat by his bedside, reading pious collects aloud from his breviary.
The patient at times eyed him, and seemed to listen: at others closed his eyes and moaned.
The monk kneeled down with his face touching the ground and prayed for him; then rose and bade him farewell. “Day breaks,” said he; “I must prepare for matins.”
“Good Father Jerome, before you go, how came I hither?”
“By the hand of Heaven. You flung away God's gift. He bestowed it on you again. Think on it! Hast tried the world and found its gall. Now try the Church! The Church is peace. Pax vobiscum.”
He was gone. Gerard lay back, meditating and wondering, till weak and wearied he fell into a doze.
When he awoke again he found a new nurse seated beside him. It was a layman, with an eye as small and restless as Friar Jerome's was calm and majestic.
The man inquired earnestly how he felt.
“Very, very weak. Where have I seen you before, messer?”
“None the worse for my gauntlet?” inquired the other, with considerable anxiety; “I was fain to strike you withal, or both you and I should be at the bottom of Tiber.”
Gerard stared at him. “What, 'twas you saved me? How?”
“Well, signor, I was by the banks of Tiber on-on an errand, no matter what. You came to me and begged hard for a dagger stroke. But ere I could oblige you, ay, even as you spoke to me, I knew you for the signor that saved my wife and child upon the sea.”
“It is Teresa's husband. And an assassin?!!?”
“At your service. Well, Ser Gerard, the next thing was, you flung yourself into Tiber, and bade me hold aloof.”
“I remember that.”
“Had it been any but you, believe me I had obeyed you, and not wagged a finger. Men are my foes. They may all hang on one rope, or drown in one river for me. But when thou, sinking in Tiber, didst cry 'Margaret!'”
“Ah!”
“My heart it cried 'Teresa!' How could I go home and look her in the face, did I let thee die, and by the very death thou savedst her from? So in I went; and luckily for us both I swim like a duck. You, seeing me near, and being bent on destruction, tried to grip me, and so end us both. But I swam round thee, and (receive my excuses) so buffeted thee on the nape of the neck with my steel glove; that thou lost sense, and I with much ado, the stream being strong, did draw thy body to land, but insensible and full of water. Then I took thee on my back and made for my own home. 'Teresa will nurse him, and be pleased with me,' thought I. But hard by this monastery, a holy friar, the biggest e'er I saw, met us and asked the matter. So I told him. He looked hard at thee. 'I know the face,' quoth he. ''Tis one Gerard, a fair youth from Holland.' 'The same,' quo' I. Then said his reverence, 'He hath friends among our brethren. Leave him with us! Charity, it is our office.'
“Also he told me they of the convent had better means to tend thee than I had. And that was true enow. So I just bargained to be let in to see thee once a day, and here thou art.”
And the miscreant cast a strange look of affection and interest upon Gerard.
Gerard did not respond to it. He felt as if a snake were in the room. He closed his eyes.
“Ah, thou wouldst sleep,” said the miscreant eagerly. “I go.” And he retired on tip-toe with a promise to come every day.
Gerard lay with his eyes closed: not asleep, but deeply pondering.
Saved from death, by an assassin
Was not this the finger of Heaven?
Of that Heaven he had insulted, cursed, and defied.
He shuddered at his blasphemies. He tried to pray.
He found he could utter prayers. But he could not pray.
“I am doomed eternally,” he cried, “doomed, doomed.”
The organ of the convent church burst on his ear in rich and solemn harmony.
Then rose the voices of the choir chanting a full service.
Among them was one that seemed to hover above the others, and tower towards heaven; a sweet boy's voice, full, pure, angelic.
He closed his eyes and listened. The days of his own boyhood flowed back upon him in those sweet, pious harmonies. No earthly dross there, no foul, fierce passions, rending and corrupting the soul.
Peace, peace; sweet, balmy peace.
“Ay,” he sighed, “the Church is peace of mind. Till I left her bosom I ne'er knew sorrow, nor sin.”
And the poor torn, worn creature wept.
And even as he wept, there beamed on him the sweet and reverend face of one he had never thought to see again. It was the face of Father Anselm.
The good father had only reached the convent the night before last. Gerard recognized him in a moment, and cried to him, “Oh, Father Anselm, you cured my wounded body in Juliers: now cure my hurt soul in Rome! Alas, you cannot.”
Anselm sat down by the bedside, and putting a gentle hand on his head, first calmed him with a soothing word or two.
He then (for he had learned how Gerard came there) spoke to him kindly but solemnly, and made him feel his crime, and urged him to repentance, and gratitude to that Divine Power which had thwarted his will to save his soul.
“Come, my son,” said he, “first purge thy bosom of its load.”
“Ah, father,” said Gerard, “in Juliers I could; then I was innocent but now, impious monster that I am, I dare not confess to you.”
“Why not, my son? Thinkest thou I have not sinned against Heaven in my time, and deeply? oh, how deeply! Come, poor laden soul, pour forth thy grief, pour forth thy faults, hold back nought! Lie not oppressed and crushed by hidden sins.”
And soon Gerard was at Father Anselm's knees confessing his every sin with sighs and groans of penitence.
“Thy sins are great,” said Anselm. “Thy temptation also was great, terribly great. I must consult our good prior.”
The good Anselm kissed his brow, and left him, to consult the superior as to his penance.
And lo! Gerard could pray now.
And he prayed with all his heart.
The phase, through which this remarkable mind now passed, may be summed in a word—Penitence.
He turned with terror and aversion from the world, and begged passionately to remain in the convent. To him, convent nurtured, it was like a bird returning wounded, wearied, to its gentle nest.
He passed his novitiate in prayer, and mortification, and pious reading and meditation.
The Princess Claelia's spy went home and told her that Gerard was certainly dead, the manner of his death unknown at present.
She seemed literally stunned. When, after a long time, she found breath to speak at all, it was to bemoan her lot, cursed with such ready tools. “So soon,” she sighed; “see how swift these monsters are to do ill deeds. They come to us in our hot blood, and first tempt us with their venal daggers, then enact the mortal deeds we ne'er had thought on but for them.”
Ere many hours had passed, her pity for Gerard and hatred of his murderer had risen to fever heat; which with this fool was blood heat.
“Poor soul! I cannot call thee back to life. But he shall never live that traitorously slew thee.”
And she put armed men in ambush, and kept them on guard all day, ready, when Lodovico should come for his money, to fall on him in a certain antechamber and hack him to pieces.
“Strike at his head,” said she, “for he weareth a privy coat of mail; and if he goes hence alive your own heads shall answer it.”
And so she sat weeping her victim, and pulling the strings of machines to shed the blood of a second for having been her machine to kill the first.
One of the novice Gerard's self-imposed penances was to receive Lodovico kindly, feeling secretly as to a slimy serpent.
Never was self-denial better bestowed; and like most rational penances, it soon became no penance at all. At first the pride and complacency, with which the assassin gazed on the one life he had saved, was perhaps as ludicrous as pathetic; but it is a great thing to open a good door in a heart. One good thing follows another through the aperture. Finding it so sweet to save life, the miscreant went on to be averse to taking it; and from that to remorse; and from remorse to something very like penitence. And here Teresa cooperated by threatening, not for the first time, to leave him unless he would consent to lead an honest life. The good fathers of the convent lent their aid, and Lodovico and Teresa were sent by sea to Leghorn, where Teresa had friends, and the assassin settled down and became a porter.
He found it miserably dull work at first; and said so.
But methinks this dull life of plodding labour was better for him, than the brief excitement of being hewn in pieces by the Princess Claelia's myrmidons. His exile saved the unconscious penitent from that fate; and the princess, balked of her revenge, took to brooding, and fell into a profound melancholy; dismissed her confessor, and took a new one with a great reputation for piety, to whom she confided what she called her griefs. The new confessor was no other than Fra Jerome. She could not have fallen into better hands.
He heard her grimly out. Then took her and shook the delusions out of her as roughly as if she had been a kitchen-maid. For, to do this hard monk justice, on the path of duty he feared the anger of princes as little as he did the sea. He showed her in a few words, all thunder and lightning, that she was the criminal of criminals.
“Thou art the devil, that with thy money hath tempted one man to slay his fellow, and then, blinded with self-love, instead of blaming and punishing thyself, art thirsting for more blood of guilty men, but not so guilty as thou.”
At first she resisted, and told him she was not used to be taken to task by her confessors. But he overpowered her, and so threatened her with the Church's curse here and hereafter, and so tore the scales off her eyes, and thundered at her, and crushed her, that she sank down and grovelled with remorse and terror at the feet of the gigantic Boanerges.
“Oh, holy father, have pity on a poor weak woman, and help me save my guilty soul. I was benighted for want of ghostly counsel like thine, good father. I waken as from a dream.
“Doff thy jewels,” said Fra Jerome sternly.
“I will. I will.”
“Doff thy silk and velvet; and in humbler garb than wears thy meanest servant, wend thou instant to Loretto.”
“I will,” said the princess faintly.
“No shoes; but a bare sandal.'
“No father.”
“Wash the feet of pilgrims both going and coming; and to such of them as be holy friars tell thy sin, and abide their admonition.”
“Oh, holy father, let me wear my mask.”
“Humph!”
“Oh, mercy! Bethink thee! My features are known through Italy.”
“Ay. Beauty is a curse to most of ye. Well, thou mayst mask thine eyes; no more.”
On this concession she seized his hand, and was about to kiss it; but he snatched it rudely from her.
“What would ye do? That hand handled the eucharist but an hour agone: is it fit for such as thou to touch it?”
“Ah, no. But oh, go not without giving your penitent daughter your blessing.”
“Time enow to ask it when you come back from Loretto.”
Thus that marvellous occurrence by Tiber's banks left its mark on all the actors, as prodigies are said to do. The assassin, softened by saving the life he was paid to take, turned from the stiletto to the porter's knot. The princess went barefoot to Loretto, weeping her crime and washing the feet of base-born men.
And Gerard, carried from the Tiber into that convent a suicide, now passed for a young saint within its walls.
Loving but experienced eyes were on him.
Upon a shorter probation than usual he was admitted to priest's orders.
And soon after took the monastic vows, and became a friar of St. Dominic.
Dying to the world, the monk parted with the very name by which he had lived in it, and so broke the last link of association with earthly feelings.
Here Gerard ended, and Brother Clement began.
“As is the race of leaves so is that of men.” And a great man budded unnoticed in a tailor's house at Rotterdam this year, and a large man dropped to earth with great eclat.
Philip, Duke of Burgundy, Earl of Holland, etc., etc., lay sick at Bruges. Now paupers got sick and got well as Nature pleased; but woe betided the rich in an age when, for one Mr. Malady killed three fell by Dr. Remedy.
The Duke's complaint, nameless then, is now diphtheria. It is, and was, a very weakening malady, and the Duke was old; so altogether Dr. Remedy bled him.
The Duke turned very cold: wonderful!
Then Dr. Remedy had recourse to the arcana of science.
“Ho! This is grave. Flay me an ape incontinent, and clap him to the Duke's breast!”
Officers of state ran septemvious, seeking an ape, to counteract the bloodthirsty tomfoolery of the human species.
Perdition! The duke was out of apes. There were buffaloes, lizards, Turks, leopards; any unreasonable beast but the right one.
“Why, there used to be an ape about,” said one. “If I stand here I saw him.”
So there used; but the mastiff had mangled the sprightly creature for stealing his supper; and so fulfilled the human precept, “Soyez de votre siecle!”
In this emergency the seneschal cast his despairing eyes around; and not in vain. A hopeful light shot into them.
“Here is this,” said he, sotto voce. “Surely this will serve: 'tis altogether apelike, doublet and hose apart.”
“Nay,” said the chancellor peevishly, “the Princess Marie would hang us. She doteth on this.”
Now this was our friend Giles, strutting, all unconscious, in cloth of gold.
Then Dr. Remedy grew impatient, and bade flay a dog.
“A dog is next best to an ape; only it must be a dog all of one colour.”
So they flayed a liver-coloured dog, and clapped it, yet palpitating, to their sovereign's breast and he died.
Philip the Good, thus scientifically disposed of, left thirty-one children: of whom one, somehow or another, was legitimate; and reigned in his stead.
The good duke provided for nineteen out of the other thirty; the rest shifted for themselves.
According to the Flemish chronicle the deceased prince was descended from the kings of Troy through Thierry of Aquitaine, and Chilperic, Pharamond, etc., the old kings of Franconia.
But this in reality was no distinction. Not a prince of his day have I been able to discover who did not come down from Troy. “Priam” was mediaeval for “Adam.”
The good duke's, body was carried into Burgundy, and laid in a noble mausoleum of black marble at Dijon.
Holland rang with his death; and little dreamed that anything as famous was born in her territory that year. That judgment has been long reversed. Men gaze at the tailor's house, here the great birth of the fifteenth century took place. In what house the good duke died “no one knows and no one cares,” as the song says.
And why?
Dukes Philip the Good come and go, and leave mankind not a halfpenny wiser, nor better, nor other than they found it.
But when, once in three hundred years, such a child is born to the world as Margaret's son, lo! a human torch lighted by fire from heaven; and “FIAT LUX” thunder's from pole to pole.
The Dominicans, or preaching friars, once the most powerful order in Europe, were now on the wane; their rivals and bitter enemies, the Franciscans, were overpowering them throughout Europe; even in England, a rich and religious country, where under the name of the Black Friars, they had once been paramount.
Therefore the sagacious men, who watched and directed the interests of the order, were never so anxious to incorporate able and zealous sons and send them forth to win back the world.
The zeal and accomplishments of Clement, especially his rare mastery of language (for he spoke Latin, Italian, French, high and low Dutch), soon transpired, and he was destined to travel and preach in England, corresponding with the Roman centre.
But Jerome, who had the superior's ear, obstructed this design.
“Clement,” said he, “has the milk of the world still in his veins, its feelings, its weaknesses let not his new-born zeal and his humility tempt us to forego our ancient wisdom. Try him first, and temper him, lest one day we find ourselves leaning on a reed for a staff.
“It is well advised,” said the prior. “Take him in hand thyself.”
Then Jerome, following the ancient wisdom, took Clement and tried him.
One day he brought him to a field where the young men amused themselves at the games of the day; he knew this to be a haunt of Clement's late friends.
And sure enough ere long Pietro Vanucci and Andrea passed by them, and cast a careless glance on the two friars. They did not recognize their dead friend in a shaven monk.
Clement gave a very little start, and then lowered his eyes and said a paternoster.
“Would ye not speak with them, brother?” said Jerome, trying him.
“No brother: yet was it good for me to see them. They remind me of the sins I can never repent enough.”
“It is well,” said Jerome, and he made a cold report in Clement's favour.
Then Jerome took Clement to many death-beds. And then into noisome dungeons; places where the darkness was appalling, and the stench loathsome, pestilential; and men looking like wild beasts lay coiled in rags and filth and despair. It tried his body hard; but the soul collected all its powers to comfort such poor wretches there as were not past comfort. And Clement shone in that trial. Jerome reported that Clement's spirit was willing, but his flesh was weak.
“Good!” said Anselm; “his flesh is weak, but his spirit is willing.”
But there was a greater trial in store.
I will describe it as it was seen by others.
One morning a principal street in Rome was crowded, and even the avenues blocked up with heads. It was an execution. No common crime had been done, and on no vulgar victim.
The governor of Rome had been found in his bed at daybreak, slaughtered. His hand, raised probably in self-defence, lay by his side severed at the wrist; his throat was cut, and his temples bruised with some blunt instrument. The murder had been traced to his servant, and was to be expiated in kind this very morning.
Italian executions were not cruel in general. But this murder was thought to call for exact and bloody retribution.
The criminal was brought to the house of the murdered man and fastened for half an hour to its wall. After this foretaste of legal vengeance his left hand was struck off, like his victim's. A new-killed fowl was cut open and fastened round the bleeding stump; with what view I really don't know; but by the look of it, some mare's nest of the poor dear doctors; and the murderer, thus mutilated and bandaged, was hurried to the scaffold; and there a young friar was most earnest and affectionate in praying with him, and for him, and holding the crucifix close to his eyes.
Presently the executioner pulled the friar roughly on one side, and in a moment felled the culprit with a heavy mallet, and falling on him, cut his throat from ear to ear.
There was a cry of horror from the crowd.
The young friar swooned away.
A gigantic monk strode forward, and carried him off like a child.
Brother Clement went back to the convent sadly discouraged. He confessed to the prior, with tears of regret.
“Courage, son Clement,” said the prior. “A Dominican is not made in a day. Thou shalt have another trial. And I forbid thee to go to it fasting.” Clement bowed his head in token of obedience. He had not long to wait. A robber was brought to the scaffold; a monster of villainy and cruelty, who had killed men in pure wantonness, after robbing them. Clement passed his last night in prison with him, accompanied him to the scaffold, and then prayed with him and for him so earnestly that the hardened ruffian shed tears and embraced him Clement embraced him too, though his flesh quivered with repugnance; and held the crucifix earnestly before his eyes. The man was garotted, and Clement lost sight of the crowd, and prayed loud and earnestly while that dark spirit was passing from earth. He was no sooner dead than the hangman raised his hatchet and quartered the body on the spot. And, oh, mysterious heart of man! the people who had seen the living body robbed of life with indifference, almost with satisfaction, uttered a piteous cry at each stroke of the axe upon his corpse that could feel nought. Clement too shuddered then, but stood firm, like one of those rocks that vibrate but cannot be thrown down. But suddenly Jerome's voice sounded in his ear.
“Brother Clement, get thee on that cart and preach to the people. Nay, quickly! strike with all thy force on all this iron, while yet 'tis hot, and souls are to be saved.”
Clement's colour came and went; and he breathed hard. But he obeyed, and with ill-assured step mounted the cart, and preached his first sermon to the first crowd he had ever faced. Oh, that sea of heads! His throat seemed parched, his heart thumped, his voice trembled.
By-and-by the greatness of the occasion, the sight of the eager upturned faces, and his own heart full of zeal, fired the pale monk. He told them this robber's history, warm from his own lips in the prison, and showed his hearers by that example the gradations of folly and crime, and warned them solemnly not to put foot on the first round of that fatal ladder. And as alternately he thundered against the shedders of blood, and moved the crowd to charity and pity, his tremors left him, and he felt all strung up like a lute, and gifted with an unsuspected force; he was master of that listening crowd, could feel their very pulse, could play sacred melodies on them as on his psaltery. Sobs and groans attested his power over the mob already excited by the tragedy before them. Jerome stared like one who goes to light a stick; and fires a rocket. After a while Clement caught his look of astonishment, and seeing no approbation in it, broke suddenly off, and joined him.
“It was my first endeavour,” said he apologetically. “Your behest came on me like a thunderbolt. Was I?—Did I?—Oh, correct me, and aid me with your experience, Brother Jerome.”
“Humph!” said Jerome doubtfully. He added, rather sullenly after long reflection, “Give the glory to God, Brother Clement; my opinion is thou art an orator born.”
He reported the same at headquarters, half reluctantly. For he was an honest friar though a disagreeable one.
One Julio Antonelli was accused of sacrilege; three witnesses swore they saw him come out of the church whence the candle-sticks were stolen, and at the very time. Other witnesses proved an alibi for him as positively. Neither testimony could be shaken. In this doubt Antonelli was permitted the trial by water, hot or cold. By the hot trial he must put his bare arm into boiling water, fourteen inches deep, and take out a pebble; by the cold trial his body must be let down into eight feet of water. The clergy, who thought him innocent, recommended the hot water trial, which, to those whom they favoured, was not so terrible as it sounded. But the poor wretch had not the nerve, and chose the cold ordeal. And this gave Jerome another opportunity of steeling Clement. Antonelli took the sacrament, and then was stripped naked on the banks of the Tiber, and tied hand and foot, to prevent those struggles by which a man, throwing his arms out of the water, sinks his body.
He was then let down gently into the stream, and floated a moment, with just his hair above water. A simultaneous roar from the crowd on each bank proclaimed him guilty. But the next moment the ropes, which happened to be new, got wet, and he settled down. Another roar proclaimed his innocence. They left him at the bottom of the river the appointed time, rather more than half a minute, then drew him up, gurgling and gasping, and screaming for mercy; and after the appointed prayers, dismissed him, cleared of the charge.
During the experiment Clement prayed earnestly on the bank.
When it was over he thanked God in a loud but slightly quavering voice.
By-and-by he asked Jerome whether the man ought not to be compensated.
“For what?”
“For the pain, the dread, the suffocation. Poor soul, he liveth, but hath tasted all the bitterness of death. Yet he had done no ill.”
“He is rewarded enough in that he is cleared of his fault.”
“But being innocent of that fault, yet hath he drunk Death's cup, though not to the dregs; and his accusers, less innocent than he, do suffer nought.”
Jerome replied somewhat sternly—
“It is not in this world men are really punished, Brother Clement. Unhappy they who sin yet suffer not. And happy they who suffer such ills as earth hath power to inflict; 'tis counted to them above, ay, and a hundred-fold.”
Clement bowed his head submissively.
“May thy good words not fall to the ground, but take root in my heart, Brother Jerome.”
But the severest trial Clement underwent at Jerome's hands was unpremeditated. It came about thus. Jerome, in an indulgent moment, went with him to Fra Colonna, and there “The Dream of Polifilo” lay on the table just copied fairly. The poor author, in the pride of his heart, pointed out a master-stroke in it.
“For ages,” said he, “fools have been lavishing poetic praise and amorous compliment on mortal women, mere creatures of earth, smacking palpably of their origin; Sirens at the windows, where our Roman women in particular have by lifelong study learned the wily art to show their one good feature, though but an ear or an eyelash, at a jalosy, and hide all the rest; Magpies at the door, Capre n' i giardini, Angeli in Strada, Sante in chiesa, Diavoli in casa. Then come I and ransack the minstrels' lines for amorous turns, not forgetting those which Petrarch wasted on that French jilt Laura, the sliest of them all; and I lay you the whole bundle of spice at the feet of the only females worthy amorous incense; to wit, the Nine Muses.”
“By which goodly stratagem,” said Jerome, who had been turning the pages all this time, “you, a friar of St. Dominic, have produced an obscene book.” And he dashed Polifilo on the table.
“Obscene? thou discourteous monk!” And the author ran round the table, snatched Polifilo away, locked him up, and trembling with mortification, said, “My Gerard, pshaw! Brother What's-his-name had not found Polifilo obscene. Puris omnia pura.”
“Such as read your Polifilo—Heaven grant they may be few—will find him what I find him.”
Poor Colonna gulped down this bitter pill as he might; and had he not been in his own lodgings, and a high-born gentleman as well as a scholar, there might have been a vulgar quarrel.
As it was, he made a great effort, and turned the conversation to a beautiful chrysolite the Cardinal Colonna had lent him; and while Clement handled it, enlarged on its moral virtues: for he went the whole length of his age as a worshipper of jewels.
But Jerome did not, and expostulated with him for believing that one dead stone could confer valour on its wearer, another chastity, another safety from poison, another temperance.
“The experience of ages proves they do,” said Colonna. “As to the last virtue you have named, there sits a living proof. This Gerard—I beg pardon, Brother Thingemy—comes from the north, where men drink like fishes; yet was he ever most abstemious. And why? Carried an amethyst, the clearest and fullest coloured e'er I saw on any but noble finger. Where, in Heaven's name, is thine amethyst? Show it this unbeliever!”
“And 'twas that amethyst made the boy temperate?” asked Jerome ironically.
“Certainly. Why, what is the derivation and meaning of amethyst? {a} negative, and {methua} to tipple. Go to, names are but the signs of things. A stone is not called {amethustos} for two thousand years out of mere sport, and abuse of language.”
He then went through the prime jewels, illustrating their moral properties, especially of the ruby, the sapphire, the emerald, and the opal, by anecdotes out of grave historians.
“These be old wives' fables,” said Jerome contemptuously. “Was ever such credulity as thine?”
Now credulity is a reproach sceptics have often the ill-luck to incur; but it mortifies them none the less for that.
The believer in stones writhed under it, and dropped the subject. Then Jerome, mistaking his silence, exhorted him to go a step farther, and give up from this day his vain pagan lore, and study the lives of the saints. “Blot out these heathen superstitions from thy mind, brother, as Christianity hath blotted them from the earth.”
And in this strain he proceeded, repeating, incautiously, some current but loose theological statements. Then the smarting Polifilo revenged himself. He flew out, and hurled a mountain of crude, miscellaneous lore upon Jerome, of which, partly for want of time, partly for lack of learning, I can reproduce but a few fragments.
“The heathen blotted out? Why, they hold four-fifths of the world. And what have we Christians invented without their aid? painting? sculpture? these are heathen arts, and we but pigmies at them. What modern mind can conceive and grave so god-like forms as did the chief Athenian sculptors, and the Libyan Licas, and Dinocrates of Macedon, and Scopas, Timotheus, Leochares, and Briaxis; Chares, Lysippus, and the immortal three of Rhodes, that wrought Laocoon from a single block? What prince hath the genius to turn mountains into statues, as was done at Bagistan, and projected at Athos? What town the soul to plant a colossus of brass in the sea, for the tallest ships to sail in and out between his legs? Is it architecture we have invented? Why, here too we are but children. Can we match for pure design the Parthenon, with its clusters of double and single Doric columns? (I do adore the Doric when the scale is large), and for grandeur and finish, the theatres of Greece and Rome, or the prodigious temples of Egypt, up to whose portals men walked awe-struck through avenues a mile long of sphinxes, each as big as a Venetian palace. And all these prodigies of porphyry cut and polished like crystal, not rough hewn as in our puny structures. Even now their polished columns and pilasters lie o'erthrown and broken, o'ergrown with acanthus and myrtle, but sparkling still, and flouting the slovenly art of modern workmen. Is it sewers, aqueducts, viaducts?
“Why, we have lost the art of making a road—lost it with the world's greatest models under our very eye. Is it sepulchres of the dead? Why, no Christian nation has ever erected a tomb, the sight of which does not set a scholar laughing. Do but think of the Mausoleum, and the Pyramids, and the monstrous sepulchres of the Indus and Ganges, which outside are mountains, and within are mines of precious stones. Ah, you have not seen the East, Jerome, or you could not decry the heathen.”
Jerome observed that these were mere material things. True greatness was in the soul.
“Well then,” replied Colonna, “in the world of mind, what have we discovered? Is it geometry? Is it logic? Nay, we are all pupils of Euclid and Aristotle. Is it written characters, an invention almost divine? We no more invented it than Cadmus did. Is it poetry? Homer hath never been approached by us, nor hath Virgil, nor Horace. Is it tragedy or comedy? Why, poets, actors, theatres, all fell to dust at our touch. Have we succeeded in reviving them? Would you compare our little miserable mysteries and moralities, all frigid personification, and dog Latin, with the glories of a Greek play (on the decoration of which a hundred thousand crowns had been spent) performed inside a marble miracle, the audience a seated city, and the poet a Sophocles?
“What then have we invented? Is it monotheism? Why, the learned and philosophical among the Greeks and Romans held it; even their more enlightened poets were monotheists in their sleeves.