Chapter VIII: The Confession (2)

"You betray me!" But checking himself, he added in a milder tone: "May God forgive you.--_Domine, in manus tuas commendo spiritum meum._"

"No, my good Father, do not doubt me; I do not wish to do you any harm. I swear it to you by the holy Madonna Nunziata, who being so near, as you may see, I might almost say, she hears me. We have no need of your life, but only of your gown. We only wish to become yourself for a little while, without your ceasing to be what you are. You shall be carried back in due time to the convent, without any harm being done you. Meanwhile, you cannot proceed without you allow us to bandage your eyes."

"Do as you will.... Many more insults did my Divine Master suffer for our sake. I grieve not for myself, but for the poor souls of those for whose ruin I see you are plotting some work of darkness."

And he offered his head to be bandaged, desirous of avoiding as much as possible the contact of those vile men. This done, and after they had assured themselves that he could not see, they conducted him to the square of the Nunziata, where they made him turn round many times in order that he might not recognise the way that they intended to take him; then they went along the via Studio, and the square of St. Marco, and entered into the Casino.

Having conducted him into a room prepared for the occasion, which looked upon the gardens where the windows had been strongly barred and nailed on the outside, Titta hesitating, his heart almost failing him for the shameless deed, said in a low voice:

"Father, you must allow me to remove your gown."

"Beware, you would commit a sacrilege, and if God should strike you now with sudden death, your soul would be irreparably lost."

"Father, _in primis_, I protest that I am not doing this for your injury; besides, I solemnly promise to restore it to you within a few hours; and finally, as the weather is so very warm, I cannot understand how a man can commit such a heavy sin in freeing you for a little while of such heavy hair-cloth."

"When I put this garment on, I swore that I would never lay it aside during my lifetime."

"And you do not break your oath, because you suffer violence, and your will does not consent to it."

"But why do you use violence against me? In what have I offended you? I never saw you before."

"Oh, Father, you ought to perceive that I am forced by others to do you violence."

"If you know evil, why do you not abstain from it?"

"It would have been difficult before now: but now impossible."

"Miserable man! I pity you. When you shall have brought me back this garment, it will be stained with blood: perhaps it will not be seen in the eyes of men, but God will see it: a Christian soul shall then stand before His throne, asking for vengeance, ... and he will have it."

"And would that it were the only one!" muttered Titta. "Father, it is getting late; give me your gown."

"No, rather take my life."

"I told you that we needed your garment, and not your life: I beg you with all my strength, and humbly beseech you not to force us to put our hands upon you. Take away the necessity of resorting to this extreme; we also are obeying those who are more powerful than we. And if we did not obey, we should all be killed."

"Well, tear it from my back, then;--and may God reward him who is the cause of it, according to his deserts."

Titta and the others closed around the friar, who resisted; but he was soon overcome, being but weak, and his adversaries too numerous. Having taken his gown, they went off hastily, like wolves having stolen the prey, to hide themselves in their cave; and Father Marcello, noticing from the silence that he was alone, took off his bandage.

Turning his eyes around, he saw a room adorned with splendid pictures, and fine works of sculpture both in marble and in bronze; he saw also a magnificent bed, a table loaded with various kinds of food and wines, and chandeliers which shed a brilliant light: but he turned his saddened eyes from all these things, and rested them upon a _prie-Dieu_, where was a crucifix and book, which from the size he soon recognised as a missal. With his heart full he threw himself at the feet of the crucifix, and burst into bitter tears.

He wept, for although he was a pious man, yet he was flesh and blood like all Adam's children; he wept for the atrocious injury which he had suffered, and the sacrilegious attempt; he wept for the offence done to God; he wept for the soul or souls of those against whom he plainly saw some treacherous deed was about to be committed; and he fervently prayed that the Lord might arise, and show his power to the wicked. Certainly never was a miracle begged with more ardent vows, nor expected with greater faith, nor more needed: but He, who might have worked it, decreed otherwise.

* * * * *

The stars began to disappear in the heavens, when from the interior of the church of Santa Croce, near the greater door in front, was heard a jingling of keys, and the tramp of heavy steps. Immediately after, the bolts were suddenly withdrawn. A lay-brother put out his head looking right and left, raising it as if snuffing the pure morning air, and rubbing his hands together, exclaimed:--"A beautiful morning!"--Then saluting again the sky with a look, he re-entered the church to see if the lamps were still burning; and as they shed only a feeble light, as if ready to go out, he hastened towards the vestry to refill them.

At this moment, a monk, groping along the walls, introduced himself suspiciously and stealthily into the church through the greater gate, and with hasty steps approached a confessional under the organ, opened it, and shut himself within it. Indeed this apparition might have frightened the boldest man, for in passing behind the columns of the navade it entirely disappeared, and suddenly crossing the rays of lamps hanging from the arches, might have been seen a dark and tall figure, like a phantom, moving swiftly over the pavement, and across the walls.

Not long after penitents began to arrive from different parts, some carrying in their hands lanterns, some lighted candles, whose flames the calm air hardly moved, and all gathered round the confessional beneath the organ, like doves around their grain. The confessions began: but on that day, with no little astonishment to the devotees, it seemed as if Father Marcello had put aside his accustomed mildness. He would listen inattentively, answer but little, and both in his words and manners appeared very different from his usual custom.

To a certain mother, who accused herself of having cursed her son, because he had threatened to strike her, he said:--"He was right, for he now punishes you for not having punished him enough at the proper time."

To a man, who having received a sum of money in trust from a friend, had invested it for his own use, and now asked for pardon and advice, he replied shortly and bitterly:--"Drown yourself in the Arno."

A woman came, who confessed that she was too prone to anger and bad language, and then quarrels arose between herself and her husband, and caused a scandal and trouble in the house: and she begged him some good counsels to reform this bad temper: and the monk, as if impatient, replied: "Ask your mother-in-law!"

Another woman, who after having enumerated a great number of sins, kept on so long that it would seem she never would end, he stopped short by asking:--"How old are you?"--"Sixty-five, Father, next August." "So much the better for you; for, since you are not able to leave sin, sin will soon leave you."

To a man, who with tears in his eyes confessed to having betrayed a relative by accusing him to the justice as a rebel and conspirator against the state, he shut the gate in his face, saying:--"Hell is wide enough!"

And lastly we will add what he said to a lawyer:--"Father,"--said the lawyer,--"in a certain lawsuit in which I knew that I was wrong, I deceived my adversary, and succeeded in getting a sentence in my favor." "My son; forensic defence seems to me sometimes like a game at cards played by two shrewd old gamblers. It is of no use! A sin more, or a sin less, more pulleys would be needed to hoist up a soul like yours into heaven, than to pull up the bells to the top of the belfry: you may go, it is all lost time."

It is not to be said how astonished the penitents went off. Is this,--thought they,--the holy man? This the great theologian and learned divine? Is he the man able to know our moral infirmities, pitiful in hearing them, benign in treating them? He appears more like a man-at-arms than anything else; and he would look better with a helmet and sword than the cowl upon his head, and the breviary in his hand.

Suddenly, two women wrapped in ample mantillas of black silk, little heeding the crowd that stood kneeling and crowded around the confessional, passed by; and whilst one entered the confessional, the other knelt on one side in the attitude of prayer. The crowd, knocked on each side, did not dare to murmur, but gave way respectfully, saying to themselves:--"These must be two great ladies; they pass and trample on us!"

"Father!" began the one who went to the confessional. The confessor started visibly; he carried the hem of his garment to his mouth, took it between his teeth, and thus repressing his emotion replied:

"Say on!"

"Father!..." And her words failed again. The confessor, no longer impatient, after a suitable space of time, repeated in a low tone:

"Say on!"

"Father, is it really true that God forgives every great sin?"

"This is the greatest sin of which you might perchance accuse yourself. Have you truly examined your own conscience? Are you disposed not to hide any of your acts, words, deeds, omissions, thoughts, in short everything? Remember that St. Augustine teaches, that confession is the open demonstration of our internal infirmity with the hope of obtaining a cure; and although this is a great deal, yet it is not enough, and a contrite and repentant heart is also required: have you brought with you this repentant heart? If so, as I hope, speak; man may first be weary with sinning, before Divine mercy with forgiving."

"_Amen_, Father, _amen_! I will speak confiding in pardon, not because I deserve it, but because, as you say, Divine mercy is great. I have been a sinful daughter, mother, wife, citizen, all in short...."

"Well!"

"As a citizen, I have done no good: many I have injured, and if even I did good to any one, I feel that I was moved less by charity than by a vain pomp of appearing generous. I hid not from my left hand the alms done by my right; I was pleased that the world should know it, and people should talk of it."

"This is not a merit, but not a sin. You have bought worldly fame: these alms you will not find registered in the books of heaven. _Recipisti mercedem tuam_, you have received your reward. It is the charity of the Pharisee; and it is generally what the present world give. Men now give a penny with a sound of trumpets, they notify it with ringing of bells, and large printed notices on all the corners of the street ... _Vanitas vanitatum_ ... it is all a vanity! Hence you may consider that you have already received your reward for the charities done."

"As a daughter I paid but little attention to the advices and admonitions of my father.--I cannot live for ever!--he would often say to me: but happy he, and myself also, if he had given me less advice, and, may God have mercy on his soul, a better example!"

"And as a wife?"

"Wife!--Nature gave me a fatal gift: a most ardent imagination, restless desires, a wonderful disposition to learn, and a retentive memory. I learned, and exercised with passion all that which is capable of exalting the mind and ennobling the heart. Educated among luxuries, fêted, and constantly flattered with sweet words; surrounded by pleasures, and manners loosened to all sorts of dissipations; given as wife to a man whom I did not know, nor who knew me; we fancied each other but little, and loved less; he a soldier, I a worshipper of the muses. One day, oppressed by insupportable _ennui_, my husband went off; he was to remain away three months, and he stayed three years. I dared to presume too much to myself, and pride overcame me. Then I fancied a destiny, which only my mind conceived, an invincible passion nourished only by my own fancy, and creating, and I may almost say lending to a man worthless in himself, the qualities of perfection, which I dreamed in the ideals of my poetry ... I dug with my own hands the abyss wherein I fell ... and I was lost. When I awoke from that dream, I saw my house full of shame, and before me a most degraded man, and myself more degraded than he. The harvest of guilt was fully reaped by me;--bitter tears, ineffable grief, contempt for myself, repentance, late indeed, but great, deep, and such a one that God may have seen equalled, but never greater."

"And was the time long that you lived in sin?" inquired the confessor, with a harsh, slow voice.

"Oh, Father, enough ... seek no more, if you do not wish to see me die of shame at your feet."

"Well! But was your lover a relative of yours? What is his name?"

If Isabella had been less moved at that moment, the name of Troilo would have certainly escaped from her mouth: but unable to speak, being forced to catch her breath, she remembered she was not obliged to reveal the name of the accomplice, but rather charity imposed upon her to keep it religiously secret; hence when the confessor insisted:

"Was your lover a relative of yours? What is his name?"

She resolutely replied:

"I accuse myself, not others. I cannot tell you more, nor ought you to ask, nor I to tell."

"What! This is important! For the sin varies and increases according to the degree of the relationship. And it behooves me to explain to you, that two are the forms of relationship, the first natural, the second religious; that is, for example, to hold a child for baptism, confirmation, and so forth.... Hence by the canonical laws, the cousin of your husband, for example, would be a relative of the second degree, and then the adultery would become incest, a sin which offends God more, and disturbs a great deal more the laws of civil life."

"Alas! you make me shudder with horror!"

"Now then, speak: is the man a relative of yours?"

"Yes, a cousin of my husband."

"Cousin!"

"Nor is that all."

"No?"

"I am an unhappy mother ... a son."

"A son? What is his name? How old is he?"

"Only a few months old."

"Not years, eh ... not years?"

"No, months; but what matters this?"

"It matters a great deal."

"And as he is not a brother to his brother, I banished him from my house, not however from my heart."

"And where did you send him? Where is he now?"

"There is no need of my saying this, Father. I have done like the eagle; I have made a nest for him where human malice cannot reach him. As regards property, my legitimate son will not be a sufferer, for I have left him all the property my father left me."

Here she remained a moment in silence: then remembering the time was fast passing, she added:

"And now, Father, keep your promise. I have revealed everything to you; opened my whole heart: now you must console me with hope; proffer the great word, which will restore me my lost innocence, and make me worthy of hoping for pardon;--open to me the gates of heaven; give me, you who have the power, absolution...."

And as the friar did not reply, Isabella entreated eagerly:

"Why are you silent, Father? Is my sin so great that the Lord in his mercy cannot forgive? Did not Peter deny Him? Did not Paul persecute Him? And yet did they not become chosen vessels, and apostles of the people? I ask not so much; a particle of pity would be enough, a drop of consolation and oblivion. Release me from sin, save me from despair. I know that _in articulo mortis_ you can absolve cases reserved only to the Pope. Listen, you may consider me on the point of death; believe me, I am in my last agony; only a few hours remain to me to live; near the dreaded departure, you cannot deny me the bread of hope and pardon, through which the soul appears before the tribunal of God, where trembling and trusting it awaits the sentence of the minister, who represents God upon this earth, to be confirmed...."

And still the friar answered not.

Isabella again prayed, begged, and wept, but still in vain. The confessional had become as silent as the grave. Then Isabella reached her hand impatiently within the niche occupied by the confessor, striving to meet him in the dark, fearing some sudden accident had befallen him. Let the reader imagine how great was her wonder, her grief, her terror, when she felt assured the friar had disappeared. A cold shudder crept over her heart; and with a sigh she fell senseless upon the ground.

And it was fortunate for her to have Lady Lucrezia by her side; who, little occupied by her own thoughts, paid careful attention to what was passing. She hastened to her assistance, and succeeded in a short time in restoring her.

Isabella, thinking on the one hand of the danger which she had run of raising a great deal of scandal in the church if the people had recognised her, on the other hand seeing that the dawn was beginning to lighten the sky, leant trembling on the arm of Lucrezia, and hastily left the church.

Coming out into the air, she raised her eyes to heaven, where the stars had disappeared one by one, not like lights blown out by a gust of wind, but like sparks that are consumed within a greater fire:--thus human souls, emanations from the Divinity, set free from the flesh which bind them, love to mingle again in the great bosom of God. From the east a delicate veil of vapors tinted with gold surrounded beautiful Florence, like a Madonna of her immortal painters encircled by a radiated halo. Nature with all created things, as a harpist pours from the chords of his lyre a torrent of melody, raised to the Creator a morning hymn; there was no object nor being which either with a prayer, or a vow of the heart, or the happiness of a look, or with perfume, or with a song towards heaven, did not salute the Father of light, and an indistinct murmur was diffused forth and forth in the distance like a trepidation of the old mother Earth rejoicing in feeling her chilled bones warmed by the beneficial heat. Hail, O firstborn of the thought of God; hail, O Sun, for there is nothing dead before you, and everything breathes and revives, and from the very sepulchres where lay my beloved dead you bring out flowers, ornaments for the hair of young lovers, and loving maidens.

Isabella raised her eyes to heaven, and her smile returned upon her pale face; then turning her head to the spot where the sun was about rising, she thus spoke:

"How beautiful is life! But in order to enjoy it we must possess the youth of years, the youth of the heart, innocence, and enthusiasm; we must be able to stand the comparison with the odor of the flowers, with the songs of birds, with the varied tints of the wings of the butterfly, with the exultation of the first rays of the morn. O life! since I cannot enjoy thee as I could once, I will not suffer thee as I am: he who has ceased to reign let him throw aside his crown; the royal mantle left upon the shoulders of him who has no longer a kingdom, is a weight and an ignominy. But is death approaching, perhaps welcomed like the shadow of the tree to the traveller, who has walked from dawn over burning sands under the scourge of the sun? Do I approach it with the desire of the wearied laborer, who sees towards evening, by the uncertain gleam of twilight, appear in the distance the belfry of his village? Can I say to the grave: Thou art my bridegroom? Does peace await me beyond the threshold of life? Yes, peace awaits me, for I have loved, hoped, and suffered greatly. I repent of another sin, which is for having desired to put a mediator between myself and God. The priest has repulsed me from the temple: for me it is sufficient that thou, O Creator of all, dost not repulse me from heaven. I confess myself to Thee, O Lord! Thou hast no need of declarations, for with a look Thou hast seen through my heart, and penetrated even to its inmost recesses. I could wish that my spirit might fly towards Thee upon the first ray which is about to pour down from behind that mountain.... But if this cannot be, keep Thine arms open, O Lord, for it will not be long before I shall seek shelter under the mighty wings of Thy pardon."

* * * * *

The penitents around the confessional waited a long time for Father Marcello to return; but he did not appear; they went into the vestry to inquire about him: they sought in his cell, in the library, and through the convent, but they could not find him.

Feeling alarmed, the monks went round inquiring about him; some one said he thought he saw him in the street of Diluvio, with his hood drawn over his eyes, walking hastily, as if called to some death-bed; another said that he thought he saw him passing through Borgo a Pinti, so trembling in his walk, that often getting entangled in his gown, he was on the point of falling. Where, however, he had gone, all were ignorant, and could not even imagine. The astonishment increased, not without also a little fear. The Prior sent some zealous fathers of the order to inquire courteously of the guards of the gates: they went, they sought diligently, but no one was able to give any information about him. Meanwhile between searches, terror, and grief, the day had already passed; to which succeeded a few hours of the evening, and the monks were assembled in the refectory, some praying, some conversing; the boldest ones offered themselves to ascend upon the pulpits, and announce to the people the disappearance, and perhaps martyrdom, of Father Marcello; the timid ones advised waiting to inquire better into the matter, and not to hasten it: there were as many opinions as there were heads, as it always happens in an assemblage of men who meet to decide upon a doubtful event;--when suddenly there was heard a slight ring at the bell. They all rose to a man, for we always see the spirit of corporation to be very strong, and all went to the door. Who can describe the tears, the cries of joy, the hearty welcomes, the embraces, and the demonstrations of affection that broke forth from these brothers, when they saw re-appear their beloved Father Marcello? He replied to all, kissed and embraced all of them: sweet tears of gratitude ran down his cheeks; but his face appeared pale, and so deeply impressed with some internal grief, as to excite at the same time pity and fear.

He spoke briefly, and said:--that he had run a great danger; it was really a miracle that he was alive; he owed his life to the mercy of God, and certainly also to the prayers of his brothers: he thanked them from the bottom of his heart, and begged them to be pleased to accompany him to church to render thanks to the Almighty, that with so visible aid had saved him from so imminent a danger.

They went, and thanked God; afterwards Father Marcello closeted with the Prior, and having discussed the matter, and the consequences, thought best to gain time, in order to avoid scandal, and keep himself aloof, that no evil may happen to him and to the Order. He was sent to Rome, in order to inform the Pope of the manner in which the ministers of the Church were abused, and that he might inquire into it; and then returning with the help of the Pontiff to preach against these false Catholics, who committed such nefarious acts, that the Lutherans themselves would be ashamed of it.

It was Titta, who, conducting the friar unharmed to the convent, had kept faithfully his word.