Chapter VI: The Paradise of the Disillusioned 241 (4)

"Yes; it is not the thinking of them that is strange, but what do they mean to you? What does our law mean to you? What does our mystery mean to you? Nothing. You are given over to vain imaginations, the conceits of the mind. You have no humility, no faith. Your great possessions have turned your mind. Until the blow fell upon you, you had imagined that you were secure through life. You have put your trust in perishable things, and they have fallen through your fingers like water, like dry sand. What have you left sacred in the world? Your wisdom has made a desert about you, a desert where there is no God. What have you to hope?"

It was as if he mocked me, pitied me, understood me. He made me cold toward him; and at the same time my sorrow flooded me.

"What is my trouble to you? I can bear it alone," I said harshly. "The things which you have written I have read in our own philosophers."

"You have found nothing else in me which was not in them?"

"Nothing."

A gloom spread over his face, the light which had illuminated it died out, leaving only the smouldering fires of his eyes, which burned dimly. He dropped my hands. The others turned away their eyes and shifted uneasily.

"There is he in whose name I speak. The love of Christ constrained me."

I sat frowning, without comprehension.

"It is not yet time," he continued sadly. "One must have patience, exceeding patience. You do not understand what we teach concerning Christ, who is the Son of God. Yet you came to us willingly; you, a Roman, came and took the hand of a Jew, whose touch, to your fellows, is contamination; and, in my pride I said: Lo! I have triumphed over the wisdom of the Gentile. It is through God's grace only that I am called to be an apostle to men. It is through his grace alone that you will be saved; for you will come again. Tell me that you will come again."

"I shall come again," I said simply; the curious anxiety of his words troubled me vaguely. I felt a profound pity for this man, to whom even a stranger was a brother. I rose and took my cloak; as I passed out each gave me a salutation, the salutation of peace.

Outside it was dawn. The lupanars were giving up their dead, some sailors and devotees of the great goddess were already congregating in the wine-shops. Muffled as I was in my great coarse cloak they suspected me of being one of the Roman soldiers, and none spoke to me or offered me insult. I did not heed them but passed along the quays, looking at Acrocorinth towering like Eryx, that other home of the sea-born and lure for sailors, into the infinite blue of a cloudless sky. Wreaths of vapour cloaked its lower reaches, and it seemed like a great dome suspended in the air. On the other side laughed the wide sea in multitudinous ripples of light. It all seemed to reflect some childish half-conscious gaiety of my soul. My sorrow still lay there, but comforted with human sympathy, and the two mystical gifts of the Christians, peace and love.

* * * * *

It was only after I had escaped from the enchantment of his presence that I was able to understand the aims and ambitions of Paul, as he showed them in the letter which he had dictated that night, and which was to be copied and sent to all the communities that had come together in Greece, Asia and Italy. His aim was principally to abolish the restrictions which hampered conversion into his faith, rites of the Jews, circumcision, the use of certain meats which they had considered unclean, and the huge body of formulæ and observances, which had grown and developed out of casuistry and the old Hebrew law; but beyond and above that he wished them to propitiate the civil power. When he spoke of the abolition of the law he meant those rites and ceremonies which seemed a profanation of, a bartering with, the divinity. He felt that his mission was not to the Jews alone, but to all the nations of the world. In this he was opposed by the more rigid Christians at Jerusalem, who held that circumcision was necessary, and that only a Jew could be saved. One of the most rigid adherents of this narrower sect was a brother of Christ, who seemed to pass his whole life in the Temple, praying and fasting.

Paul was often bitter against this sect. Yet it was out of that same kind of formalism that he himself had sprung; and he seldom lost traces of it, except in a few isolated moments, when love and indignation burnt him up. I went among these Christians again and again; and each time became more fascinated by their hidden, gentle lives. A very intimate tie bound Caius to Paul, for Paul had initiated him into their mysteries, which were, I imagine, the same as in other religions, a purification and a mystic meal. Caius was a man of considerable power, but of immense reserve, from whom I learnt very little. Paul was a fanatic, impatient of the opposition to his teaching at Jerusalem. Sometimes in anger he would satirise his opponents and the rite of circumcision with a bitter and sardonic humour. He was honey to those he loved, gall to those who withstood him.

The community in Corinth having fallen back during his absence into a moral laxity, almost excusable considering their environment, he withdrew them from all social intercourse with their fellow-citizens. They obeyed because they loved, but more, because they feared him. Before his conversion he had persecuted the Christians to turn them from their faith; afterwards he persecuted them to keep them in it. I learned the story of his conversion. It had its origin in the death of one called Stephen, who had been accused before the Jewish Collegium of blasphemy; a frivolous pretext for the punishment of one's opponents which had obtained everywhere but in Rome.

As you know, the law of the Empire is that no one shall be punished with death except by a Roman court, and only when he has been convicted of specified crimes; for the spirit of Roman usage has always been, in the words of Tiberius, that the injuries of the gods are the gods' affair. Stephen, after an argument with his accusers, suddenly cried out with a loud voice: "Behold, I see the heavens opened, and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God." With one accord his exasperated enemies stripped off their cloaks and laid them at the feet of Paul, who took charge of them; and they stoned Stephen, Paul consenting to his death.

Even at the time, perhaps, standing aside and taking no part in the murder, Paul's conscience may have reproved him. In any case the incident assumed, afterwards, an enormous importance for him. He could not speak of it without emotion. Perhaps also he feared that he might be accused to the Roman authorities for his part in the riot. His mind became abnormally excited.

Some days afterwards he set out for Damascus to bring up some more Christians to Jerusalem, to be tried by the same barbarous assembly. Suddenly at noon he saw a blinding light, and he fell to the ground. A voice called to him out of the sky. According to some accounts the voice uttered a phrase from Euripides: it is hard for thee to kick against the goads. The phrase had passed into current use. However strange it may seem that a voice from heaven should have uttered these words, it is perfectly natural that Paul should have heard them; he must have heard them before, many times.

But what goads were meant? The pricks of conscience, perhaps, for his share in the murder of Stephen; some secret remorse, against which he had steeled his heart, in the hope that time and use would cure it. Such was the conversion of Paul. His nature had suffered no change from it; he had merely found a new aim for his life, and the same zeal, which he had used in his persecution of the Christians, he now asserted in their cause. To himself this incident of his conversion seemed unnatural, miraculous; but to us it is simple, and easily explained, being merely a repetition of Stephen's vision. As I have already written, he was of delicate health; some nervous, constitutional weakness affected him; epilepsy, perhaps, or something akin to it. His accounts of what happened varied; for he seemed to have told the story in different ways to different people. In one account, those who were with him heard the voice, but did not see the light; and in another version they saw the light, but did not hear the voice. Paul himself had not known Christ in the flesh. He knew little of him, except that he had been born, had gathered about him a group of disciples, had preached, and had died on the cross.

His mind therefore could fashion no clear image in the vision. He could only see a light and hear familiar words. He himself always treated this vision of the risen Master as distinct from the visions which had been manifested to the other disciples, as a purely spiritual manifestation: "and lastly," he said, "He appeared to me as to an abortion." What does he mean by this phrase? Does it mean that Paul's spiritual birth was effected by violence, prematurely; that it was precipitated by the murder of Stephen? Is it remorse for Stephen's death that forces him to apply this hideous epithet to himself; or is it a reference to the lack of definite, sensible impressions; or to the fact of the lateness of his conversion; or merely a scornful reference to his own physical deformities? He was accustomed to speak with a bitter mockery of his infirmities, yet, it seemed also, with a little pride. He mentioned in the letter, which Caius showed me, that he had prayed for the removal of some physical disability, but the prayer had not been granted. The fragility of his vision was even used by his opponents, the small sect practising poverty at Jerusalem, among whom was the brother of their Master, as a ground for denying his mission. One is almost tempted to agree with them. The evidence is vague, the accounts vary. We may wonder into what form these floating legends will crystallise, if the community endures and increases; if they will ever form a complete unity, like the myths of Orpheus and Dionysos.

There are some who imagine that Christianity is but one of the many features of the new social movement, which was Gallio's opinion; but I cannot think so, for the reason that the Christians believe in the rapidly approaching end of the world. They believe that their Master, who was crucified, will return, even before his own generation has passed away, to judge the world. It is the cardinal point of their teaching. Any definite social reconstruction is consequently outside their aims; but the organisation of their communities, in so far as it can be called an organisation, resembles rather closely our popular funerary societies, which have always been looked upon with suspicion by the authorities.

Paul's exhortation to his community "to be in subjection to the higher powers," was written with the intention of guarding against any outbreak which might prejudice "the powers that be, and are ordained of God," against the communities, who seek only to be left to the peace of their quiet lives and the practice of their cult. They are a little humble folk for the most part, except where there are Jews among them, and then arises the question of the tribute money; whether it be lawful to pay it? That is the only cause which may put them in conflict with the authorities.

But there is a graver danger to the friends of Paul. They are for the most part humble artisans, followers of the lowest trades, mendicants, and cheap hawkers; despised by all classes, they are at once despised, hated, and feared, by the class immediately above them, with whom they must necessarily enter into competition where the dividing line is faint, or barely drawn at all. Beside this natural jealousy of an alien competition, there is the sense of distrust which the secrecy of their lives breeds in the minds of the citizens. People invariably suspect a man who leads a retired life, either of some shameful practices, or of a guilty past. Yet suspicion and persecution do not suffice to turn this little community out of the way they have chosen. After the day is over, they meet together, as one family, in some dimly-lit room, and greet each other with peace and love. It is time to awake out of sleep, they say; the hour approaches, the Lord cometh. That is their whole life, they have no active part in the great revolutionary social movement of slaves and freedom, they sit with folded hands, patiently, awaiting the coming of their Lord, who shall judge the world, and end it.

Moving among them, taking part almost in their daily life, a life removed and hidden from the world, how could I blame them? Their credulity even seemed sacred to me, it was so fragile a thing, of such delicate and exquisite growth, a desire which has lain always close to the heart of man. For me, beyond the flaming walls of the world sit the deathless gods in their quiet seats, peace flooding their hearts; and no sound of mortal anguish ascends to them, but they sit ever in their halls shining with silver and glittering with gold, and the lovely lyre makes an immortal music about them, and wine gladdens the feast, and the rhythmic motion of the dancing choirs; but for these poor artisans of Corinth the god is a companion by the way, they love to speak of him under homely words, he is the vine-dresser, the grafter of olives, the sower; he carries into their sordid lives the peace of wide skies and tranquil waters, he is the shepherd who tends his flock and leads them into pleasant pastures. Yes, behind Paul, the man of fire, whose life was an odyssey, full of arduous endeavour and storm, was another figure, a figure of singular beauty, before whom even the fire of Paul's ardour flickered and was tamed, the Christ whom man had crucified, and who had redeemed man from sin and death. They seemed to have fashioned him out of their own weary lives, their blood and tears; he had pity on their suffering, and suffered for them; he had mercy on their sin, and took it upon himself, they could bear all for his sake who had borne all for theirs; he had revealed to them sympathy and love.

The great central points of their teaching meant nothing to me. The promise for me was void; but the conditions of the promise, there was the charm. Sometimes I think that if I could have put away from me all my philosophical preoccupations, I would willingly have left everything I possessed, for the sake of that peace, that security, that trust in something outside ourselves, which is infinitely wise, infinitely merciful, infinitely loving. But faith, belief, is not an act of volition, it is the spiritual nature; it is the possession of children and of simple folk.

To those who have looked into the nature of things, who with Epicurus see man as only the momentary grouping together of a substance essentially transient and mutable, life itself is the end, a life of fine appreciations, retirement, and leisure, and a death that has no awakening. We, too, love our neighbour; we, too, have charity toward the bruised and broken lives about us; we, too, recommend all men to hide their lives, to be moderate, to abhor that which is evil and cling to that which is good. We are Christians without Christ.

My own grief was still with me, but a serene and hopeless resignation had taken the place of despair. The memory of Drusilla and my child haunted my waking moments, and daily thoughts, like vain phantoms escaped for a brief moment from the shadowy realm of fabled Proserpina. The past was part of my consciousness; as it is, I suppose of every man. I began again to frequent the Prefect's palace, to listen to his mellow wisdom which he cloaked in laughing phrase, as we passed easily from one subject to another without exhausting any. Seneca's raillery was dull beside his brother's; Seneca laughed at women and the comedy of manners, to Gallio nothing was sacred, not even his philosophic brother. At the same time I still continued to frequent the house of Caius, and the society of the Christians. It placed me in an anomalous position, and one day Gallio said laughingly that a friend had accused me of assisting at the secret rites and orgies of the Christians, but that he had replied I was more likely to frequent the pretty daughter of Caius. Then I remembered the daughter of Caius, a young girl of extraordinary beauty, with a perverse expression, blonde hair, and eyes like a cat, that watched every movement with a stealthy curiosity. She seemed lonely and out of place in that house of austere gravity.

"She is already famous as a beauty," said Gallio.

"I go there on business," I said with a smile, and willing to let him believe what he would; and, I added, after a moment's thought: "she is charming."

Gallio laughed, and then changed his tone quickly.

"I do not advise you to frequent that quarter of our delightful town," he said. "It is the haunt of the worst characters in Corinth, thieves, sorcerers, and charlatans inhabit it. Even the house of Caius is not free from suspicion; it is said that some of our ladies go there for love-potions, or for other purposes."

I was thinking, and did not reply to the innuendo. Gallio watched me for a moment curiously, in silence. I did not speak.

"I have bought a little masterpiece, a painting by Parrhasios of the triumph of Bacchus. Come and see it; it only arrived from Athens this morning."

* * * * *

The next time I visited the house of Caius I spoke to Paul of what Gallio's suspicions were; a sullen glow filled his eyes.

"It is no new thing," he said; "on every side we are looked upon with suspicion and distrust; we are poor, and live cheek by jowl with the evil things of life, and therefore we are also evil. The rich, and those in high places trample upon us; yet we shall be justified."

Pride filled him.

"In a little time you go away to Rome, and I to Jerusalem to carry alms to the saints there, whom the Jews persecute. We are like two travellers, who have met together in an inn, and spoken of their travels; but at dawn they separate and go their several ways. Shall we meet again? You are not one of us, but perchance God will lead you to us. Be humble; put away all vain imaginings of the mind; love all things; suffer all things."

He gazed at me sadly for a time.

"If you would but close your eyes and put out your hand trustfully, God would lead you through the darkness. You are almost of us; and yet you are not of us. There is a barrier which you cannot pass: you cannot believe."

Then, again, after a moment's pause.

"You must not come here again."

He rose and left me. The last time I saw that small, bald head poised upon the huge misshapen shoulder was when they were framed in the doorway; then the curtain fell and he had gone. I sat a little while, almost sorrowful. Then a small, delicate hand was slid into mine, and I heard a soft voice whispering:

"You are going away. Take me with you."

It was the daughter of Caius, she clung to me and gazed appealingly at me out of her precocious eyes.

"Take me away with you," she repeated. "I shall do anything for you; only take me away, take me away. I cannot stay here. It will kill me. They are so good and I am wicked; yes, I am very wicked. Some one told me I was beautiful, and it pleased me. I want to go with you. I am wicked. I want people to see that I am beautiful...."

* * * * *

Serenus began to roll up his manuscript.

"It is too dark to read the rest. But now you know the Christians. What do you think of them?"

"I think as I have always thought," said Rufus; "all Jews are alike. They are the enemies of the human race; their religion is one of despair, and they do not hope to find salvation in this world. The East is the home of all credulity and superstition. Come to dinner and let us arrange to do something to-morrow. A hunt?"

"What happened to the girl?" enquired Marcus, stretching himself slowly.

Serenus looked over the sea, toward the fishing-boats, each of which showed a light.

"Go down to the house, both of you, and bathe. I shall follow presently. We shall dine sumptuously to-night; and, yes, to-morrow we shall hunt. It will pass the time."

They left him. For a little while he sat watching the lights out at sea, the spires of mist wreathing above the olives, the dance of fire-flies over the sloping lawn. He sat motionless for some time; then he rose, and sighed.

"A little pleasure, and then darkness and silence," he said.

He began to walk slowly toward the house. A path below him echoed with the sound of footsteps and voices; looking through the low branches he thought that he discovered in the uncertain light the figure and features of Paul, surrounded by the slaves of the household.

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_TO MRS C. B. FAIRFAX_

IV

THE JESTERS OF THE LORD

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IV

THE JESTERS OF THE LORD

The fountain rose into the sunlight singing, broke flowering a moment, and fell with a chime of sweetness into the basin. Francis looked at it with delight. The fine mist of spray drifting from it made a little rainbow in the court-yard.

"All things praise the Lord," he said; "but the voice of our sister the water is clearest. She never ceases from her song through the hot day, and all night she sings, from evening until dawn."

He gazed at it with the serene pleasure of a child. In the shadow of the great curtain-wall his companions walked up and down, gesticulating, suddenly vivacious and then as suddenly mute. A little group separated from the others stood in the arch of the gateway overlooking Rome. Cool, dark cypresses showed here and there among the bell-towers and fortifications; and over all the broken lines of roof and belfry wandered the liquid sunlight, diversifying the colours of the tiles through a myriad gradations from dusky copper to pale gold, and ending now and again in a sudden angle of deep gloom. Yet Francis saw nothing but the water rising into the clear light.

"Beautiful thou art, and humble, and chaste, and very precious to us," he said. "Of all God's creatures thou art the most perfect, delighting in his service, praising him for the light of the sun, and the sweet air, as I praise him for thee, O sister water!"

He dipped his hand into the basin, and cool ripples were woven about his long, thin fingers.

"These also are God's creatures," he said; "the shy fish who come and go mysteriously among the stems of the lilies. They move obscurely through the dim ways, and no man wonders at them; yet none of Arthur's knights were arrayed in such golden mail."

And taking a piece of dry bread, which a beggar had given him, he broke it into small crumbs, and strewed them upon the surface of the water; and the fish came out from between the stems of the lilies, and nibbled at the crumbs as the ripples moved them; but the crust of bread Francis ate himself, and having eaten he drank a little water out of the palm of his hand, and spoke again.

"Little fish," he said, "those knights of Arthur's court, who were mailed in glittering armour, had each one his lady, whom he served in all things; and no one of them meddled with the lady of another, because as yet evil had not entered into their hearts; but they went through the world succouring the afflicted, and the innocent, and the oppressed; and doing all manner of wonderful deeds, being valiant men and strong, for the glory of God, and the great honour of the lady whose livery they wore. And the ladies, whom they served in all honourable ways, were fair and pleasant to look upon, and moreover they were well-clad, having each her golden ornaments, and jewels, and kerchiefs of lawn, and fine cloth of Ypres; yea! having all things desirable about them, soft raiment, and dainty food, and wide houses full of tapestries of Arras, with a gallery for the musicians. But because of the luxury of their lives, and the folly which ever prompts the soul of man to evil, they fell into sin, and no virtue remained in them.

"Little fish, I am a knight of God; and I have chosen for my lady one beyond all mortal women. She hath neither fine raiment, nor gold, nor jewels; neither a covering for her head, nor shoes for her feet; neither land nor castles; nay! not so much as a shelter against the ravening beasts; nor do her serving-men bring her delicate meats in vessels of gold and silver, nor do musicians play to her upon viols or psalteries, nor hath she any treasure hidden in the ground. She goeth from door to door, begging her bread through every city of the populous earth; and the porters drive her from the gate with blows; and the children mock her in the streets for being old, and lean, and ill-favoured; and the dogs snarl at her heels. Yet all these things she endures patiently, nor complains that men revile her, for God hath put much comfort in her heart. I, also, little brother Francis, in my youth reviled her; for it was then my pleasure to live sumptuously, to wear rich apparel, and to pass my days with music and feasting; but when she revealed herself to me I was overcome by her exceeding great beauty, and I lamented that I had not followed after her all my days. Alas! it is the wickedness of men that shows her as a vile and despicable thing; for having nothing she possesses all things. God hath clothed her with virtues more precious than rubies; he hath given her the wide earth and all the pleasant ways thereof to be her home; he hath commanded the beasts that they do her no hurt: nay! they are serviceable to her and fawn about her feet; and God himself ministers to her, feeding her as he feeds the birds of the air and the fish of the sea, and sweetening her food, so that if it be but a dry crust it savours most excellently to her, even as honey and manna in the mouth. Such is the excellence of my Lady Poverty, with whom I shall always keep faith in this life. Little fish, God hath given you the cool water to inhabit; and he hath clad you in golden mail, delightful to the eyes of men; and when all the birds and beasts and creeping things entered into the Ark, he preserved you in a safe refuge beneath the tumult of the waters: yea! of all things, which went not in with Noah, he preserved you in your multitudes though all else perished. Little fish, I praise the Lord for you, because he hath made you beautiful, and shown you infinite mercies."

But the fish, having eaten all the crumbs, swam back among the stems of the lilies, and hung poised there in the shadowy waters, with undulating motions, waving their delicate fins, and opening and shutting their mouths. Francis considered them for a moment.

"Little fish," he said, "perchance it is the way that you praise the Lord, being dumb and without reason; but men, to whom God hath given such excellent gifts as speech and reason, have turned from him. I would that they also might learn to praise him with great simplicity and joy in their hearts."

He looked toward the gateway through which he saw the roofs and towers of Rome, the city which had not accepted him, inhospitable, gay, given over to the lusts of the flesh, the desire of the eyes, hungering passionately after the tangible but transient pleasures of this delightful world; a new Jerusalem, as stubborn and hard-hearted as the old, but, like that, too, a chosen city of God, in which he had elected to dwell and have his abiding place. Tears suffused his face as he looked at it lying there calm and golden in the sunlight.

"I have not known how to draw them to me," he said. "Surely they would have followed after me if I had spoken to them more joyfully. A little thing delights them, and they will flock to see a dancer, a juggler, a jester! We must become the jesters of God, amusing the hearts of men and leading them toward spiritual joys."

A bell struck, and was answered from all the towers of Rome, until the air pulsed with vibrations as if with a multitude of beating wings. Francis moved slowly away toward the new buildings of the Lateran. Those of his companions who were pacing up and down in the cool shadow of the wall suddenly stopped and pointed to him.

"Look! Look!" they cried.

Some play of the wind carrying the fine drifting mist over the isolated figure had clothed him for a moment in a glory of radiant colours. The sound of the bell still trembling in the air, and the sudden iridescence of spray in the sunlight, was to them a revelation. Hearing their voices raised Francis went toward them.

"What is it, my brothers?" he asked of them.

They received him almost with adoration.

"We saw you troubled, and in thought," answered Brother Egidio; "and then, suddenly, as the bells ceased, we saw a glory shine about you, and heard a great beating of wings."

But Francis remembering the doubts which had afflicted him a moment before, cast himself at the feet of Brother Egidio.

"I command you, in the name of holy obedience, that when I return you say to me: Francis, son of Pietro Bernardone, because of your doubt you are contemptible, and in no wise deserving of God's mercy."

Then, rising, he went toward the palace with a serene countenance.

Having watched Francis enter into the palace, the eleven companions continued to pace up and down in the cool shadow of the wall, and to discourse to each other upon grave matters.

"How is it, Brother Bernard," said Egidio, "that astrologers are able to foretell all things that will happen to a man in his journey through life?"

"It is in this wise," said Brother Bernard, who had all the wisdom of the schools, "the earth is the centre of the universe, which consists of a number of concentric spheres, all turning, as it were, upon the axle of the earth; the first is the sphere of the elements, which is enclosed by the sphere of the moon; beyond these, in order, circle the six spheres of Mercury, Venus, the Sun, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn, all turning about the earth; the next sphere is that wherein the fixed stars are set like jewels, and beyond that is the _Primum Mobile_, whence motion is born and governed. Last of all is the Empyrean, and there in a blaze of light God sits enthroned, and all the spheres make a celestial music about his feet.

"Now it is from the order and motion of these spheres that astrologers get that devilish wisdom whereby they are enabled to foretell the future. For each one of the spheres is governed by a distinct angelical company, who influence all things under their control; so that, having ascertained the nature of such angels as control the sphere of any particular planet, we are enabled to judge of the nature and disposition of any mortal born under their influence; thus it happens that those who are been under Mercury are of an alert and capricious disposition, and may be given to thieving; while those who are born under Venus are lewd and wanton in their motions, given over to the lusts of the flesh; and those influenced by Mars will be great warriors, men of mettle, hot-tempered, and quick to shed blood. Moreover, by the conjunctions and opposition of planets, by comets and portents in the sky, those skilled in the signs are even able to foretell whether a man shall die in his youth with all his sins heavy upon him, or in old age when his flagging pulses have made him less prone to sin and warned him to repentance; and we may see men, to whom astrologers have predicted a long life, pursuing a course of infamy well on into their old age, for they know that there is time left for repentance, whereby they may yet save their souls. Such is the lamentable wisdom, which came to us through the transgression of Adam."

They continued in silence a little way, pondering these things; and then Bernard spoke again.

"In all things," he said, "we may read the infinite mercies and wisdom of God. For even as he has made the earth the centre of the universe, so he has made man the centre of all created things. Round the throne of God are the Seraphim and Cherubim singing His eternal praise, and next to them are the Thrones, who carry the orders of God unto the Dominations. These last are the mighty powers who held back the sun and moon in their courses, at the prayer of Joshua; and they inhabit the _Primum Mobile_, whence all the planets are moved from east to west. Beneath these, are the Virtues and Powers, ruling the planetary spheres; and finally come the three orders of Princedoms, Archangels, and Angels; and to each Angel is given the guidance of one soul. Now in this order I have followed the teaching of Dionysius rather than of Gregory, since the former was the pupil of St Paul, and therefore of greater authority.

"Many rebellious angels, driven out with Lucifer, and the host who writhe in Hell beneath our feet, making the earth tremble, inhabit the sphere of the elements, and ride upon all storms, ruling the thunder and lightning, and opening the flood-gates, and loosening the tempests of hail; and God hath given them power over the wicked to lead them to destruction, but, before the prayers of the holy, their power is only an empty noise. How little is the worth of man! Yet all these immortal spirits are concerned in his salvation. And God hath set Jerusalem in the centre of earth's habitable hemisphere, so that from there the means of salvation might radiate into all countries, and gather up all peoples. And yet again is man the centre of created things, for God hath made him lord and master of the earth, and of all the birds and beasts therein; though, indeed, when he fell from Paradise in the person of Adam, he decreased in excellence and became subject to sin and death."

"And for how long a time," enquired one of the younger brethren, "was Adam in Paradise?"

"For little more than six hours," answered Bernard, with assurance.

"It was a very short time," said the brother simply.

But Egidio was troubled; he touched Bernard upon the arm.

"Beware, little sheep of the Lord," he said gently, "lest thy great learning make thee mad, and turn to pride in thy heart."

II

As the Cardinal Giovanni di San Paolo entered the audience, the Pope was dictating a letter to his secretary. He spoke in a low, clear voice, so clear that it was audible at the end of the long room.

"Among all the princes of the earth," said Innocent, "we have always cherished with a particular affection your own person; and the more so since the kingdom which you have inherited is, by the will of your predecessors, subject and tributary to the Roman Church. Therefore redeem the promise of your father liberally and without delay. Your eternal salvation will be the better assured, and there will be added to it even such temporal benefits as the apostolic protection is able to secure. In acting otherwise you would offend the Creator. He chastiseth those who do evil unto his Church, but more particularly those who detain unjustly the wealth of St Peter."

He motioned the Cardinal toward him, and taking half a lemon squeezed it into a cup and drank it. He had a youthful but rather fleshy face, at once legal and military in its character. The features were fine, with a distinctly Roman nobility: a long narrow nose, almost straight except where it jutted slightly from the brows; fine lustrous eyes, set a little too close together; a small mouth, with thin, rather drooping lips, and a double chin. The well-chiselled nostrils dilated sensitively from time to time, otherwise the whole face was calm, impassive, hieratic. He began, without any prelude, to speak to the Cardinal of their business.

"I have spoken to many of the cardinals about these penitents of Assisi. Their opinion is that the rule is too severe, and such an ideal beyond all human strength."

"Your Holiness, I have also urged this view upon Francis, but, in the simplicity of his heart, he replies that his rule is taken from the Gospels: 'If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and follow me. Take nothing for your journey, neither staff, nor scrip, nor shoes, nor money. If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me.' They have vowed to follow this ideal of evangelical perfection. How can we withstand them before the world?"

"My heart has been moved towards them," answered Innocent. "I do not mistrust their piety, nor doubt the grace by which God has confirmed them in their design. They may be steadfast until their death; whereas others coming after may relax the rule, and their weakness become a fable in the world."

"I doubt not that the rule will be relaxed," answered the Cardinal; "their aim is too vague, too ideal in many ways: complete poverty, complete obedience, and the preaching of these virtues. And yet, Holy Father, I have been drawn to these men. By them I feel that many souls shall be led to God."

"You believe that the rule will be relaxed; and yet you say that we cannot modify this rule because it consists of definite precepts taken from the Gospels?"

"Your Holiness," replied the Cardinal, "if we say that it is impossible for a man to follow the precepts of Christ, we blaspheme. Time modifies all things; and in the meanwhile these men will draw unto themselves a great deal of popular sentiment. They are willing to give us the most absolute obedience, to be our servants in all things, provided we approve their desire to live according to the standard of evangelical perfection. Surely we should approve their piety."

"Similar efforts have failed," answered Innocent. "It is two years since I approved the mission of Durando d'Huesca, and for those two years the bishops have not ceased to complain of his followers. This fraternity has a similar constitution. Both confess the Catholic faith; both desire to give all they have to the poor, to live themselves in poverty without care for the morrow, having nothing but their daily bread and a cloak; both are open to receive lay members among them."

"The difference is in the spirit of their founders. Francis is a poet," answered the Cardinal. "He is a troubadour, a vagrant minstrel, whose lady is Poverty. His speech is serene, gay, charming. He knows how to seize upon simple incidents of daily life, and use them as parables, so that the poor and humble can understand; and all his teaching is full of a lyrical emotion that is penetrated with the love of all things. He burns with the love of God, and this divine flame is so strong in him that it enlightens all the world. There is nothing about him, no bird, beast, fish, or tree, which does not seem to him a part of the choir of God, praising the Lord, and existing entirely for that praise. Beyond these things he is a true son of the Church. These penitents, Holy Father, are so simple: they have faith in some spark of divinity hidden in the soul of man which may be awakened by a breath; they believe that man can be made to see the beauty of holiness, and that once he has grasped and recognised this beauty, as a thing existing in the world about him, he will follow no more after the beauties of fleshly desires. He bears the mockery of those who think him mad with so much patience that they become ashamed. His simplicity draws folk to him."

"All these things are indeed admirable," said Innocent in his clear, low speech; "but alas! how often have the most beautiful ideals led men into abominable heresies and destroyed the peace of the Church. Would that his dream might be realised, and that all men might seek their salvation through poverty and obedience. But to us, most Reverend Father, in our character as Supreme Pontiff, there are many responsibilities. We also, if we might choose, would choose the one thing necessary; Mary's unbounded loving adoration, in preference to Martha's many cares. Yet we are content. The divine wisdom hath shown us that here also salvation may be gained. We accept our office with humility, content to be the servant of the servants of God. Our function is an ungrateful one, to watch over the welfare of our flock, and guard them not only from their enemies but from themselves. Saintly men have been the cause of mischief in others, and even the greatest heretics have been men of holy lives. It behoves us, therefore, to keep a strict and unceasing watch upon all doctrines taught to the faithful. We cannot tolerate the teaching and exposition of the Gospels by a preaching fraternity partly composed of lay members. We cannot tolerate any action independent of the bishops. We must insist that each brother receive the tonsure, and that they choose one from among themselves who will be responsible to us; and also, that none shall preach or direct any mission without the consent of the bishop. Yet even now I am doubtful. Perchance this man may be discouraged. It would be better if they entered some existing Order."

He paused, drank a little more lemon, and looked keenly at the Cardinal.

"Bring him to me," he said.

The Cardinal, having led Francis into the room, stood apart in the embrasure of a window overlooking the courtyard. Innocent fixed his eyes steadily upon the little poor man of Assisi. Even at their first meeting he had been struck by the youthful, almost childish figure, the small, round head, and the pallor of the lean face, illuminated with its large patient eyes. It was like watching a timid wild thing approaching him. Francis walked with slow, hesitating steps. His knees and fingers were trembling, his eyes shone with tears, his face was paler than usual, but a smile wavered upon it. He did not come in fear, but shaken with an emotion that was partly hope and partly doubt. He looked toward the seated figure in the chair, wearing a high tiara of damascened white cloth rising above a simple pointed crown, and a white pallium with red crosses. He hoped for some sign, but the Pope remained inflexible, his hands laid upon his knees, his eyes motionless, a figure of impenetrable reserve; and Francis could find no word to say. At last he knelt, still trembling, with the tears streaming from his eyes. The Cardinal moved in the window; and the slight noise seemed for a moment to give Francis confidence.

"Father Pope," he began simply; but he could say no more.

"My son," said Innocent at last, moved by the suffering eyes, "why have you come to us again?"

"Father Pope," answered Francis in a sweet, almost shrill voice, "when you sent me from you, you did not bid me not to come again."

He smiled as he spoke, very simply, winningly, a smile that was almost a caress. Some hint of softening in the eyes of the Pope gave him more confidence.

"Most Holy Father," he began again, "I have come to you once more, because you have not yet granted my request. You are a great person, whom God has exalted above all men, and I think that perhaps you had not time to listen to me, who am the meanest of God's creatures; so that you did not understand the excellence of that life which the Lord hath commanded us to follow. Or perchance it was that the Lord wished to try my faith, and, lest I was over-confident in myself, to show me that without his will I am capable of nothing, and to humiliate my pride. Father Pope, I think this last is the true reason: for how could you not see the excellence of the way God hath chosen for us, which is a pattern of the way the disciples themselves followed?"

And the Pope, having no answer to this candour, sat immobile.

"It is a little thing that we ask of you," continued Francis; "only that you should approve of our vow to follow a life like that which the disciples led on the shores of the Lake of Galilee."

"My son," said Innocent, "search well your heart. Is it not pride which makes you think that God hath chosen you for this work?"

And Francis lowered his head until it touched the floor.

"Why," continued Innocent, "should God have chosen you among the multitudes of men?"

And Francis raised his head again.

"God looked down upon this earth," he answered humbly, "and he explored all the ways thereof, and searched into all the souls of men. And in the whole earth he found no man so poor in mind, so mean of stature, so foul with sins, so weak and utterly worthless, as Francis, the son of Pietro Bernardone; and for that reason he hath chosen me. For if folk see that one so miserable as I am can be uplifted by the grace of God, they will hope again for themselves; and many who are caught in the snares of Satan and despair of their salvation will be freed by this means."

"Is it not pride, my son," the Pope asked of him after a pause, "that hinders you from accepting the modifications which I suggest in your rule?"

"I shall reason with you," answered Francis; "tell me one."

"That you should not be entirely without possessions, without a little money."

"Father Pope," answered Francis sweetly, "if we were possessed of even the meanest things, we should have to protect them; and if we had but a few pence in our scrips there are those so poor that they would covet them and desire to steal them; and if a man come with arms to rob us, should we oppose violence with violence? Yea, and having a little we shall not have enough, but each one will seek to have more than his brother, and so shall discord and dissension grow among us. And how, having sufficient, shall we go among those who have nothing and say to them: 'Brothers, be not cast down, for the wealth of this world is but dust and ashes. Seek not after it, but praise God for what he hath given you; life, and this pleasant earth, the song of birds, freedom from care, death, and a treasure in the skies'? Will they not mock at us? Or how shall we go among thieves, hiding our gold in our bosoms, and saying to them: 'Brothers, do not so wickedly, that which ye steal is but dross, earth digged out of earth; but holiness is fine gold.' Will they not mock at us, saying, 'Holiness is possible with a full belly'? Father Pope, having no treasure to guard, we shall have no care; and those among whom we shall go will not lay violent hands upon us, as thieves and impostors."

The Pope hesitated.

"Will ye live by mendicancy alone? Will no idlers come in with you?"

"Nay," said Francis, "no man shall be idle. Each one shall work, and their wage will be their daily bread."

He spoke no more, but knelt, waiting. Innocent had moved. He leant forward a little, with bent head and knitted brows, looking fixedly at the curious figure, with the head of a young faun, kneeling before him in a coarse stuff cloak, girt with a rope like a halter. He could not fathom that serene soul. At last he leaned back in his chair.

"My son," he said, in a gentler voice, "our task is hard. We have the care and oversight of the whole Church, and all our vigilance is directed to keeping the holy faith, as it has been handed down to us, one, pure, and universal. My son, God hath poured his grace upon you, and distinguished you with gifts of holiness. I am not worthy, there is none less worthy than I, of the charge God has confided to me. Pray for me, that I may be enlightened. On every side the Church is being menaced: by subtle and dangerous enemies without, and by schisms and heresies within. Therefore it is necessary for me to avoid the multiplication of new fraternities, however sacred and inspired with true zeal they may be; for each, through the peculiarity of their nature, and their particular devotion to one aspect of the religious life, is liable to be cut off from the main body of Holy Church; nay, even to become an hindrance, an annoyance, a little sect separated from the communion of the faithful. For all these reasons I can only advise you, as I have before, to join some existing Order."

Francis rose from his knees. He had a sense of being crushed by a cruel and superior force. His eyes were dry; but he saw nothing. He turned and moved slowly toward the door. Innocent made a sudden gesture of disappointment. Francis took a few more steps, hesitated, and then turned.

"Father Pope," he said, "there was once in the desert a woman, very poor but beautiful. A great king seeing her beauty desired to take her to wife, that by her he might have beautiful children. So it was done; and many children were born to him. And when the children were grown up, their mother spoke to them, saying: 'My children, you have no reason to be ashamed, for you are the sons of the king; go, therefore, to his court, and he will give you all things that are necessary to you.' And when they had arrived, the king admired their beauty, and finding in them his own likeness, he spoke to them, saying: 'Whose sons are ye?' And when they had answered that they were the sons of a poor woman dwelling in the desert, the king embraced them with great joy, crying: 'Fear not, because you are mine own sons. If strangers eat at my table, shall I turn away those who are my lawful children?' And the king commanded the woman that she should send him all the sons whom she had borne, in order that he might care for them."

He paused for a moment, and then continued:

"I am, Holy Father, that poor woman, whom God in his love has deigned to make beautiful, and by whom it has pleased him to have lawful children. The King of kings has told me that he will nourish all the children he has by me, for if he nourishes bastards, how much more should he nourish his lawful children?"

He spoke the last words vehemently, standing rigid before Innocent, with blazing eyes; and the Pope sat immobile, watching him with inscrutable calm.

"My son, come here," said Innocent at last.