Part 7

Irene set herself zealously to visit all the holy places. First, she descended into the valley, to the Church of Santa Maria dei Angeli. It had once stood in the heart of a dreaming forest, where, in the fourth century, some monks had built a tiny chapel, round which, partly in cells, partly in caves, the brotherhood had settled. In this primitive little settlement, St. Francis lived and prayed and died. Later on his remains were removed and buried in the new and magnificent fortress-like Franciscan Monastery, whose white walls and towers now shine dazzlingly in the sun. The old forest has long since disappeared, and the touching little chapel is almost lost in the centre of the magnificent temple built around it. Monks show visitors round the monastery, pointing out the cell in which St. Francis died, the grotto in which he slept, and the little garden where grew the roses without thorns, that God had sent him as a special grace.

Irene went also to do homage to the body of St. Clara, who, influenced by the teaching of St. Francis, left the world, her family and friends, retired into a convent, and founded the Order of the Clarissians. St. Clara, too, passed her life in the modest little convent of St. Damian, and it was only after her death that her body was transferred to the gorgeous Church of the New Convent, where, in a niche, enclosed in a glass coffin, it rests in nun’s attire, and with a capuchin drawn over the blackened features.

Most of all, however, Irene enjoyed her excursion to Carceri, the distant hermitage in a mountain cave, where St. Francis had often prayed and fasted. She ordered a carriage a day in advance, and, at the appointed hour, Giuseppe, a handsome young Umbrian, drove up to the door of the hotel, raised his hat, and smiled caressingly to the waiting Irene. They traversed the entire town at a walking pace, on account of the steep, narrow streets, and this slow drive was a sort of triumphal progress for young Giuseppe. He seemed to be on a friendly footing with the whole place; every man they met on their way turned and walked for a while beside the carriage, his hand on the shaft, and conversing animatedly with Giuseppe. They all emphatically persuaded him to come, at some particular time and for some particular reason, to the Piazza Nuova, and he repeatedly swore by all the saints to keep the appointment.

At last they passed through the old fortress gates, and Giuseppe drove up to a small house, from the window of which peeped a pretty, sunburnt, smiling little face. Giuseppe jumped from his box, and leaving Irene at the mercy of the scorching Italian sun, disappeared into the house. Time passed; the young horse, peacefully regaling itself on fresh grass, was certainly in no hurry to proceed, and Giuseppe stayed away so long that Irene grew seriously angry. At last he appeared wreathed in smiles, and announced that the bullocks would be brought round in a moment.

“The bullocks!” exclaimed Irene; “but why do we want bullocks?”

“How should we do without them?” he retorted. “We are going into the mountains. A horse cannot make that journey alone. We must have two bullocks.”

Irene waited with some curiosity. In about ten minutes a middle-aged woman, probably the mother of the pretty sunburnt girl, appeared, leading by a rope two enormous, splendid, grey bullocks, with immense horns. They were evidently perfectly tame, and the woman, placing them in front of the horse, tied them to the carriage. Giuseppe helped solely with advice, exchanging playful glances the while with the pretty daughter, who was hopping about near him on one foot, the other foot, evidently wounded, being tied up with a white rag.

After much delay the procession started. The road was indeed appalling! A narrow, steep, stony mountain path, over which no man in his senses would ever dream of driving a carriage. But what will not an Italian do when there is a chance of earning a few _lire_?

In front, leading the bullocks, walked the woman with a shawl pushed well down over her forehead. She looked sufficiently modest and respectful, and was also sufficiently careless and untidy, to remind one of a Russian peasant woman. The thin useless little ropes she had brought broke every minute, the ends falling and getting entangled in the animals’ feet. Giuseppe was furious, constantly jumped off the box, and bitterly reproached the poor woman.

At last the bullocks were unharnessed, the relieved horse trotted gaily along a wider and much smoother road, and Irene thought that her troubles were over. Alas, however! At a turn of the way appeared a peasant waiting with two other bullocks (white ones this time), and the same story began all over again. The road grew always worse and more dangerous, and Irene hardly knew whether to be more frightened or delighted with the wonderful view that greeted her gaze. Assisi, with its stone walls and towers, lay spread out before her like a fairy-fortress, with a background of blue hills, and surrounded by a frame of grey-green olive-trees and dark cypresses. In the foreground, like carpets flung down at random, gleamed brilliant patches of emerald grass—the whole picture, indeed, was so fresh, so lovely, so poetical, that it might have been torn from a masterpiece by Botticelli.

At last the bullocks turned into a cavern-like opening among the rocks, from which issued a whiff of cold air. They had reached the entrance to the monastery, and Irene alighted and followed the path between two stone walls. A deathlike silence surrounded her. The sun caressed the as yet leafless old trees, birds sang, the path grew always narrower, and at last the old gates barred the way. Irene rang the bell. A decrepit old door-keeper, walking with difficulty, led her into a tiny courtyard with a stone well in its centre, and passed her on to a young Franciscan, just on the point of acting as guide to an Englishwoman who had come from Assisi on foot.

The tiny retreat was arranged partly in natural grottos and partly in little cave-cells, hewn out of the rocks. The little staircases and doors were so narrow and low that one could nowhere stand upright. Here, in the twelfth century, lived, at times, St. Francis, and la sua compagnia; then, later on, St. Bernard of Siena, and many other saints. The poetic stillness of the place, and its sacred associations, had attracted them, and they had jealously guarded the few small relics of St. Francis that had been left there—a tiny narrow pillow, a little box for the Holy Sacrament, and a cross.

The young Franciscan explained to the two visitors the arrangement and disposition of the settlement. He showed them the sort of things that are always shown in all monasteries; an old, faded sacred image, that was superstitiously supposed to have on one occasion spoken to some nun, and a miraculous crucifix, carved from some specially sacred wood. Lowering his voice, the monk added that an influential cardinal had once taken this crucifix away to his splendid chapel in Rome, but that during the very first night after its arrival there it had disappeared, and returned miraculously to its old place. He showed them also the precipice into which St. Francis had flung the devil who had come to tempt him (the latter had been smashed to pieces on the stones below, and had never again returned to the settlement), and the mountain-stream, whose noisy rush had disturbed the saint’s meditations, and whose voice he had silenced for ever.

Irene was specially touched by the little platform in the heart of the forest, from which, according to tradition, St. Francis had preached sermons to the birds. How beautiful, how poetic was this legend! Having withdrawn himself from human companionship, far away from men who in their pride imagine themselves to be superior beings, specially created, made of special clay, St. Francis had humbled himself before God’s greatness, and had understood that birds were his dear, innocent brothers. He longed to share with them the rapture that filled his soul, and the birds, understanding this rapture, joyfully sang and twittered in answer. Man was not made for solitude—and the hermit, having isolated himself in the desert, found the way to salvation in the friendship of tame birds and beasts.…

Having once seen all the sights of Assisi, Irene seldom ventured out of doors. She spent most of her time on the little terrace of the hotel, admiring the view that was spread out before her, and growing, day by day, more attached to it. What a wealth, indeed, of variety and beauty was to be found there! At seven o’clock each morning she opened her window and let in the fresh, fragrant air. The whole valley then seemed to be asleep, wrapped in a dewy mist. At mid-day, however, all was smiling and basking in floods of brilliant sunlight, and towards five in the afternoon the sun, like a great ball of fire, disappeared in the West, the sky grew pale, and light-blue shadows gradually began to draw their veils across the plain. Even lovelier still was the night, when bright stars trembled like diamonds in the dark sky, and the young moon shone as far away, as coldly, and as indifferently as she shines in the North and in the mountains. The whole great valley was dotted with little lights; the neighbouring town of Perugia made a sudden splash of brightness, and the white roads wound about mysteriously among the dark fields. The silence was indescribable; not a sound was to be heard, except, from time to time, the distant barking of a dog, or the throb of a far-off, passing train.

Irene began to feel the vague weariness of springtime. She had experienced so much of late, and had received so many new impressions, that her mind needed rest. She did not want to think about anything. Her thoughts moved lazily; she was placidly happy on the little terrace, with its palms and its flowers; she had no wish to go anywhere, she wanted only to repose in her comfortable wicker sofa-chair, and delight in nature.

She often thought of Gzhatski, but always unwillingly, even with displeasure.

“Why did I ever meet that man?” she thought resentfully. “Until he came, everything went well!” But for him, she would already have taken the veil, and would probably have found happiness. Why had she ever paid attention to the words of a mere passer-by, who had occupied himself with her affairs simply because he had nothing else to do? Very soon he would return to his Russia, where he had so many interests and so many friends, and would never even remember Irene. Perhaps it would be better to stay at Assisi until after he had left Rome.

Having arrived at this decision, Irene wrote to Père Etienne, telling him that the mountain air was agreeing with her splendidly, and that she would not return to Rome till Easter. She posted her letter, and feeling pleased and relieved, went for a stroll in the balmy evening air. What was her astonishment and annoyance when, on her return, she found Gzhatski in the entrance-hall of the hotel, eagerly questioning the proprietor about something. Her face expressed such frank displeasure, that Gzhatski felt provoked.

“What an unexpected meeting!” he said as naturally as possible, pretending, somewhat unsuccessfully, to be much astonished. “I was told you had taken the veil in one of the Roman convents.”

“Not yet,” smiled Irene, “but it is as a preparation for that event that I am recuperating here in the mountain air.”

“Yes, the air is lovely,” agreed Gzhatski, hurriedly. “And the views are beautiful. I hardly expected to find all this in the Apennines.”

Irene took it upon herself to show Gzhatski all the sights of Assisi. Sergei Grigorievitch praised everything, was delighted with all he saw, was respectful to the monks who acted as guides in the churches and monasteries, and bought a whole collection of various Catholic souvenirs.

“Can you guess what I have found to amuse me in Rome?” he asked Irene one day at dinner. “I go to the churches and listen to the Catechism lessons. I assure you it is most interesting. On one side of the church sits a nun, surrounded by little girls, and on the other, a monk, with a class of little boys, to whom he addresses questions, in turn. If you could only see what lovely little faces they have! These same Italians, that are so horrid when they grow up, are, at the age of eight or ten, exactly like Raphael’s cherubs. Of course, they don’t understand anything yet about the Catechism. What is the use of a catechism when the little legs of the pupils run all by themselves, so that there is no stopping them? The greater part of the lesson consists, for the ‘Pater,’ in persuading his listeners to sit still, not to swing on their chairs, not to jump up, not to run about the church, and not to fight.

“It is amusing, too, to listen to their conversations with their teacher. I remember once, for instance, he asked one such little Cupid the number of the Sacraments, or something like that. The answer had to be _five_. The young rascal thought for a moment, then smiled roguishly, spread out all the five fingers of his right hand, and, silently, with a triumphant air, held them to the Pater’s nose. Do you imagine the priest was offended at this lack of respect? Not in the least! He is an Italian himself, and teaches his Catechism more by means of gestures than words. Oh! what amusing people! When I look at those children, I feel a great heartache because I have not a little sonlet like that of my own!”

“But why do you not get married, if you so much want to have children?”

“Get married? That is not so easy. I will tell you a conversation I once had on the subject with my small nephew Seryozha. He is my godson, and will probably be my heir. We are enormous friends. When I go to stay in the country with his mother, my cousin, Seryozha never leaves me for a moment, and if only you could hear our conversations! He has the straightforward, logical, fearless intelligence of most small boys of his age. And so, on one occasion, he announced to me that as soon as ever he grows up, he will get married, just because he wants to have little children, whom he likes. ‘There is only one trouble,’ he added, very seriously, ‘I shall have to live all the time with my wife; there is no escape.’ He said it so well, that I gave him a hearty kiss. You see, although I am forty, and Seryozha is only eight, he explained to me quite clearly why I do not marry.”

“The poor wife!” laughed Irene.

On the following day, Gzhatski left Assisi. Just as he was getting into the cab to go to the station, he suddenly turned to Irene, who was there to say good-bye, and exclaimed:

“By the way, I had quite forgotten. I brought you a present from Rome. Please accept it,” and he took a book from his pocket, and handed it to her.

“What is it?” stammered Irene vaguely.

“It is a Life of St. Amulfia. Like you, she found that her vocation was to enter a convent. I thought that, as a future nun, it might be interesting and useful to you to know something of her convent life.”

Irene accepted this gift somewhat mistrustfully. It seemed suspicious, especially as Gzhatski obstinately avoided meeting her glance, while an ill-concealed smile trembled on his lips.

Irene went back to her favourite terrace, and for a long time watched the cab going down the hill, raising a cloud of dust. A suspicion arose in her heart, that Gzhatski had come to Assisi exclusively with the purpose of giving her this book, and she began to read it with great interest.

X

Saint Amulfia lived in the seventeenth century. Her parents were French _petits bourgeois_, uneducated, poor, almost peasants. From her earliest childhood, she was greatly attracted by convent life, and always nursed the dream of one day becoming a nun. Her relations tried to dissuade her from this project, and wished her to marry. Amulfia, however, found all men repulsive, and the very thought of marriage filled her with horror and disgust. For a long time, lacking the dower without which no one is accepted in Catholic convents, she was unable to join the order she had chosen. At last, however, after the death of her parents, their small capital being divided among the children, she took her portion to the convent, and was received as a novice.

From the very first days of her entry, she astonished all the nuns by her humility, and the fervency of her prayers. At night, in her cell, she chastised herself with ropes, ran needles into her fingers, and covered herself with wounds. As always happens when the organism is weakened by torture and privation and a constant state of nervous exaltation, she began to see visions. Christ appeared to her, and she spoke with Him, as with her heavenly bridegroom, who claimed her as exclusively His own, and forbade her to continue even her friendly relations with a good and kind young nun for whom she had felt a special sympathy on entering the convent. “Si elle ne se retirait pas des créatures,” threatened the Heavenly Bridegroom, “Il saurait se retirer d’elle,” and the saint obeyed, and turned away from her friend.

These visions were known to the whole convent, but did not astonish anybody. The other nuns also held converse with God, and sometimes on the most trifling subjects. For instance, there was one who greatly disliked cheese which, for this very reason, her superior had once ordered her to eat, as a penance. So she went to church, threw herself on her knees before the Crucifix, and prayed for five hours, with tears and sobs, for strength to eat her little piece of cheese. At last, she heard a voice, ordering her to arise, and make yet one more effort. She obeyed, and the miracle was accomplished: although with shudders of disgust, she yet succeeded in swallowing the cheese.

Not only God, however, but also Satan played a great part in the lives of the nuns. On one occasion, for instance, an absent-minded novice fell down the stairs, but managed not to hurt herself. She told of her experience in the following words: “Satan pushed me at the top, but a guardian angel was waiting at the bottom, and caught me in his arms.”

There was only one nun in the convent who saw no visions. This was Sister Jeanne, the matron of the hospital, a busy, active, energetic woman, devoted to the sick who were brought to the hospital from the village. Saint Amulfia’s biographer spoke of this sister with great severity. “She so completely exhausted her charity in favour of the sick whom she tended,” he said, “that she had none left for the sisters who were her subordinates in this work.”

Having received Saint Amulfia as assistant nurse, Sister Jeanne constantly scolded her for her clumsy carelessness. Saint Amulfia, indeed, had spent so great a part of her time in conversation either with God or with Satan, and had grown so absent-minded, that she was completely incapable of giving a patient a spoonful of medicine, or a cup of beef-tea, without spilling them all over the bed!

At last, from a novice, Saint Amulfia became a full-blown nun, and from this time onward called Christ her “Celestial Husband.” The visions continued, and the conversations became so grotesque that Irene, on reading them, sometimes quite involuntarily burst into peals of laughter. She always, however, immediately and reproachfully stopped herself, thinking in horror:

“How dare I? What am I doing? She was a _Saint_!”

With every page, however, Irene’s perplexity grew. What if there were similar saints among the Sœurs Mauve? What if (God forbid!) she herself should become a saint? Irene tried to console herself with the thought that all this had taken place in the seventeenth century, in days of ignorance and mental darkness—on the other hand, however, she remembered that that had been the century of Corneille, Molière, Racine, the brilliant Madame de Sévigné, the golden age, indeed, of French literature. Beyond this, the entire arrangement of life in a Catholic Convent was new to her, and surprised her exceedingly. She had imagined a refuge for women who had been disappointed in life, and who longed for a quiet harbour where they would be sheltered from the storms of the world, and where, safely anchored at last, they could end their days in holiness and prayer. She had imagined the relations of the nuns to each other, as polite and friendly, much like those of well-bred people staying in the same hotel, and meeting each other every day at dinner. In reality there appeared to be a severe régime, by which she, Irene, would be obliged to submit in every way to the will of her Superior, who might be a trivial-minded, common person, capable of forcing her subordinates to spend their time in performing such “sacrifices” or “great deeds” as eating something they did not like, or occupying themselves with something useless that could not interest them.

Irene shuddered at her own carelessness. Having made no enquiries whatever, she had painted for herself an imaginary romantic picture, and had been on the point of sacrificing in its favour the personal liberty she had always enjoyed. What, if on closer acquaintance, the happiness of that unknown, much-dreamt-of convent life proved to be an illusion? What if she should afterwards wish to escape from it, and it were too late, no return being possible? There came back to Irene’s recollection long-forgotten stories of unloved wives or unwanted daughters, who had been hidden away in Catholic convents, and whom no one had afterwards succeeded in saving or even tracing. For that matter, thought Irene, there was not even, in her case, anyone who would trouble about trying to trace her—so terribly alone was she in the world! For the first time in her life, she shuddered with sheer fright, and, together with this sudden fear, the thought of Gzhatski as her protector flashed through her mind.

“Yes, _there_ is a man who will not let any harm come to me!” she thought. “He is of the kind that would find and save his friends, if they were at the end of the earth, or at the bottom of the sea!”

Irene threw down the book that had so disturbed her peace of mind, but her restlessness, nevertheless, grew. Assisi lost its charm for her, and a sudden spell of bad weather offering itself as an excuse, she hurried her departure, and returned to Rome.

XI

As soon as she arrived in Rome, Irene sent for Gzhatski.

“Are you not ashamed of yourself?” she asked him reproachfully, “for having given me such a horrible book? What was your object? Of what benefit could such a book be to anybody?”

“I only wanted to open your eyes to convent life,” he answered, “you seemed to know nothing but its outer, or decorative side, so I thought I would show you what is hidden under that charming exterior.”

“But Saint Amulfia lived in the seventeenth century! Surely everything has changed since then?” protested Irene weakly.