The Home and the Priest. An Italian tale

Front matter

THE HOME AND THE PRIEST. AN ITALIAN TALE. BY GIROLAMO VOLPE, ATTTHOE 0E " MEMOIRS OF AN EX - CAPUCHIN ; OE, " SCENES OF MONASTIC LIFE IN ITALY." " LA TEADITA DEQLI AMIDEI," &C, &C. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. II. LONDON : THOMAS CATJTLEY NEW BY, PUBLISHEE, 30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE. 1860. Bight of Translation is reserved. CONTENTS OF VOL. II. Chap. I. — The Tempest passes over the Garden of Life, leaving Dessolation in its Track Page I Chap. II.— The Nuptial Chamber . . . . 4 Chap. III. — A new Piece of Simplicity in a Bigot 8- Chap. IV. — The cunning Man, the Jealous, and the Tiger, are always wide awake . . . . 13: Chap. V. — A Messenger arrives in haste . . 17 Chap. VI. — The Mind at the Moment of Separation from the Body is gifted with Divination. . 19 Chap. VII. — An Evil Spirit disturbs the Repose of a departing Soul . . . . . . . . 26- Chap. VIII. — Contains a History embracing Volumes .. .. .. .. .. 31 Chap. IX. — First attempt of Sisyphus] to ascend the Mountain . . . . . . . . . . 35 Chap. X.— The Codicil destroyed, the Will remains . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Chap. XI. — Agitations of a pure Conscience and Consolation . . . . . . . . . . 44 Chap. XII. — How diverse are the Opinions of the World ! 47 Chap. XIII. — The Heart of the bold Man trembles, that of the Modest rests secure . . . .

CONTENTS OF VOL. II. IV Chap. XIV. — Pride aud Poverty are two Guests who introduce Misery within the Walls of a House Page 57 Chap. XV. — A Drama from Life's Scenes . . 65 Cuap. XVI.— The Good often find it more difficult to do Good than the Evil to do Evil . . . . 77 Cuap. XVII. — Love and Smoke always betray themselves . . . . . . . . . . 82 Chap. XVIII. — Physiological Lecture .. .. 85 Chap. XIX. — Specimen of diplomatic Art exhibited by two Priests . . . . . . . . 89 Chap. XX. — Theory not generally known relative to Spies 103 C:iap. XXI. — The Life of the great is a Desert through which they wander in Desolation of Spirit 109 Cinr. XXII. — The Torch of Love is extinguished, and the Journey through the Desert is Dark and Toilsome .. .. .. .. .. 113 Cuap. XXIII. — The valiant Warrior adapts his strategetical Plans to the Fortune of War . . 119 Chap. XXIV. — The designing Priest's Mind is ever Tormented .. .. .. . , 124 Chap. XXV. — Even Bigots revel in the Regions of Romance .. .. .. .. .. 127 Chap. XXVI. — History of Saint Alexius . . 132 Chap. XXVII. — Effects of a famous Lecture, and consequent Reaction .. .. .. ..

CONTENTS OF VOL. II. V Chap. XXVIII. — Two Years have elapsed, and the Waves of Opinion roll on unceasingly Page 143 Cuap. XXIX. — Two Years have elapsed. Consequences of a Disease of the Heart . . . . 146 Cuap. XXX. — Two Years have elapsed for the Just as well as the Unjust . . . . . . 153 Chap. XXXI. — Two Years have passed, and not uneventfully, for the secondary Personages of the Drama . . . . . . . . . _,"' . . 157 CnAP. XXXII. — Which furnishes interesting Matter of Thought for the Philosopher, the Poet, and the Satirist . . .. .. .. .. 160 Chap. XXIIL— Model of a Hundred Thousand Ecclesiastical Banquets, and Review of the Guests . . .. .. .. .. .. 166 Chap. XXXIV. — Useful Lesson to Writers of Romance .. .. .. .. .. 177 Chap. XXXV. — Priestly energy manifested in Deeds, not Words .. .. .. .. 184 Chap. XXXVI. — A Story Comic to the Reader, but Tragic to the Narrator . . . . . . 1 86 Chap. XXXVII. — Another short but solemn Story from the same solemn Priest . . . . 193 Chap. XXXVIII. — The Conversation takes anew Turn .. ..196 CnAP.

Chapter I. The Tempest Passes Over The Garden Of Life, Leaving Desolation

IN ITS TRACK. The beautiful dreams of love had vanished, the joys which the noble fancies of youth had pic tured to itself had fled for ever. The smile which had promised to gladden the blessed communion of two hearts, and embellish the future life of the noble youth and loving maiden, was exchanged for the smile of desperation. No longer did flowers spring up in Francesco's path way. No more did he respire the blessed air of pure felicity in the delights of a love equally VOL. II. B fervent and innocent. His path in life was strewed with thorns and briars, and sharp edged stones, and was rough and difficult, traversing a region of desolation and sadness, whence hope was for ever banished. Henceforward life is a desert for him. His eye so bright with courage, and sparkling with intelligence, is now dull and rayless.

His bold and open forehead, denoting self confidence, is clouded with melancholy. Grief sits there, darkening it with heavy shadows ; not one ray of consoling light beams upon it. The lines of his face are severe and rigid with the compressed agony of his soul. His rare smile is still benevolent, but so replete with grief that it expresses infinite, irrevocable desolation of spirit. His words are few, tardy, brief — no longer characterized by the accents of manly eloquence which formerly rejoiced and ennobled those who were privileged to listen to them. His long hair falling below his ears shows in attention to personal appearance, almost amount ing to neglect. His dress is strangely careless, and like a troubled spirit, he retires to the most solitary and desolate spots, to indulge in his sad self-communings.

Among living beings he seems an immaterial form, destined to wander in the solitude of death, wearing a sepulchral ex pression of desolate sadness. He is not the Francesco of a few days previously, but the anguish of his soul is contracted without any external show. True grief is not seen in the face, does not waste the corporeal frame, exhales not itself in querulous com plainings. True grief sits in the soul, as in isolation and solitude — solemn, equable and con stant, and preys on the spirit only, not on the body. Grief is not passion : it is the sister of death, and death is unimpassioned. In the reality of grief images fade, and affections, and hopes. The man in his spirit is dead, he lives only in his material form, though the body as sumes no apparent signs of change. He remained alone in the desolation of his heart, leading a miserable and inert life, lacking a purpose to urge him to cheerfulness and activity. b2

Chapter II. The Nuptial Chamber

In a bedroom of the house of Count Alfredini is a man of tranquil mien, smiling countenance, and serene eye. He is pallid, though not with the pallor of suffering, but with the delicacy in dicating want of vital energy. The patient gives no sign of pain, for he does not suffer. He shows no symptoms of melancholy, for he feels no depression of spirits. He manifests no im patience, for, in his slow and perhaps consuming malady, he does not experience any morbid in quietudes. His complaint bears no resemblance to the excitement of fever and its attendant irri tability. If he sometimes feels wearied with his condition, an angel is by to mitigate the tedium, and to render the sick-chamber not only bearable, but enjoyable. This angel stands near him now, wearing the form of a lovely girl, of graceful and ethereal figure, and face of celestial beauty.

Her beauty a few months since was laughing and vivacious, her face suffused with the tints of gladness, and marked by the total absence of care and trouble. Now it is a saddened and subdued beauty. Paleness is habitual, and me lancholy is ever visible on the lovely lip, notwithstanding that it wears a sweet smile. Hers is now the beauty of suffering marked by resignation. Her forehead is calm and serene — but stamped there are the traces of suppressed grief, greatly enhancing its loveliness. The eye is calm and grave ; it indicates no internal strife, but complete solitude of soul. The words of this most beautiful woman are few, and never uttered unnecessarily ; but they fall in soft tones, which tell of Christian affection and of inexhaustible patience' — not of love. But the patient is satisfied.

Her solicitude to anticipate his wishes and apply remedies is unwearied. With the vigilant and delicate assistance of such an attendant, the illness of years is enviable. The invalid is Count Alfredini, his watchful nurse the Countess Alfredini, who has been his bride for some weeks. The excitement and emotion produced upon that weak mind, so unequal to all exertion, re acted upon his feeble constitution, and he was taken ill on the day of his marriage. His disease was slow, not violent, but he kept his bed, un able to overcome the attack. His progress was so slow that it seemed doubtful if he would ever be strong again. Our simple picture is completed by the addition of a third figure. The features of that face are strongly defined. The eye is powerful in its intense and expressive glance.

The mas culine decision of the lineaments, and the ma jestic bearing of the person, with the vigour of limb and muscle, apparent even beneath the long black priestly cassock, form a fine contrast to the insignificant expression of the invalid's face, and the delicacy and grace of -the Countess's aspect. It was the handsome and severe coun tenance of Don Giuseppe. He appeared per fectly composed to the eye of the other two occupants of the room, but he was far from feeling so. Though his internal agitation was well concealed, it might perchance have been divined by any one who watched him closely. His eye followed the movements of the Count ess, as if fascinated, while she glided around her husband. The Count paid no heed to Don Giuseppe, but watched Amalia with almost childish ecstasy. His glance spoke not of love, for he was not capable of the sentiment, or did not dare to entertain it ; but his eye expressed ad miration.

His affection was a mixture of bro therly confidence, placid attachment, and timidity. She seemed to him an angelic being, and he looked at her as a child regards an object which he considers supernatural. But a profane look of tremendous and indom itable passion was cast upon her by the priest. It was a look that seemed to envelope her angelic form in the flames pouring from the burning centre of his dark contracted pupil. His glance was unobserved by either the Count or Countess.

Chapter III

A NEW PIECE OF SIMPLICITY IN A BIGOT. The sick man was the first to break the silence. With perfect simplicity and ingenuousness, he said, " Don Giuseppe, do you believe in dreams ?" These words occasioned the Countess an acute sensation of pain, and a shudder ran through her veins. She believed in them too surely ! She was herself a living witness of their effects. She believed, and must for ever believe, in them. Don Giuseppe involuntarily glanced at her. Her hand trembled as she offered to the Count the tonic potion intended to renovate his wasted strength. The pallor of her cheek increased to perfect discoloration, and the priest's heart exulted. He scarcely knew how to reply to the Count's question. He was unwilling to give a direct answer, fearful of saying anything inop portunely, he therefore simply answered, " That depends on circumstances.

Why ?" " Because," answered the Count, " I had a dream last night that troubled me very much, and I want to consult you about it." Don Giuseppe replied, " Dreams may be either the hallucinations of an agitated mind, or warnings from heaven, or the promptings of the adversary." " Well, I believe," said the simple dreame^ " that mine was a warning from heaven. I will just tell you my dream, and you shall judge ; and my dear Countess too shall give us her opinion." " Oh, I cannot say anything about it," an swered she, in a voice betraying her agitation. " Let the chaplain again perform his office — he will perhaps be able to turn it to as good ac count as the last." " I thought," said the Count, " that I was dead." " Oh, do not say so, my dear," exclaimed his wife, prompted by the impulse of her affectionate heart ; "do not say so, my dear," repeated she, as if she were threatened with the loss of her only earthly protector.

The Count took her hand affectionately, as though he would re-assure her, and continued, "I thought that I was dead, but my soul was alive. I seemed to be before the judgment seat of God, and I saw the tremendous judge in the midst of an immense concourse of the blessed ; but it was not paradise, it was a solemn, mysterious place which filled my soul with holy terror. Among all the saints I do not recollect that 1 recognized any except Saint Peter, with the keys, and Saint Thomas." — The latter was the patron saint of the house of Alfredini. For several centuries some of the family had borne the name of Thomas. — " Saint Peter said that, for the present, the gates of paradise could not be opened for me, for I had not sufficient masses said in my life to cleanse my soul from venial sins, and that it must go to be purified in the fire of purgatory for many years.

Near the throne of God was the holy Mother, who did not seem disposed to intercede for me and supplicate for the remission of my sentence. But Saint Filo mena stood near her, seemingly as her favourite attendant, and I thought she looked at me with interest and affection. Her face and appearance were like yours, my Amalia, and I thought that it was really yourself interceding for me. Saint Filomena approached the Mother of God, and said, ' O, most holy Virgin ! Queen of heaven, intercede with thy Son, for this thy faithful ser vant. He erected altars to me, and established services, and to the disgust of many of the wicked, he was one of those who caused my memory to be revived among men, when it had been lost for many centuries, and was one of the warmest and most zealous of my devotees.' Then I thought that the Mother of God smiled on her complacently, and ap proached her divine Son, and warmly recom mended my cause, though I could not hear what she said.

I thought that the Eternal Judge said at last, ' Well, I cannot deny thee anything, my Mother. Let him return again to the living world,' and then I seemed no longer dead, but alive. ' Let him go and have masses said for himself while living, and for his soul when he shall be dead, and the gates of paradise shall be opened for him.' Those were the words I heard, and then I awoke. This dream has disturbed me all day. What do you think of it, Don Giuseppe ?" Don Giuseppe immediately saw the advantage that he could take of the dream, but he was un willing to commit himself by any indiscretion, and therefore replied, " I scarcely know what to think. It does not seem to have the character of a vision." " Why not ?" asked the Count. " Because you are not at all likely to die," said Don Giuseppe, though he did not think so.

" The life of men," replied the other, " is in the hand of God, and no one can aswer for the morrow. I am not at all strong, and one daily sees even the most robust carried off in the very flower of life. Moreover, might not God him self have allowed this dream to come, in order that it might give testimony to that holy virgin, (since there are so many who oppose her wor ship, who indeed deride it), by showing how advanced she is in His favour, if her intercession can so prevail with the heavenly Mother."

Chapter IV. The Cunning Man, The Jealous, And The Tiger, Are Always

WIDE' AWAKE. Oh ! the Count is a famous logician ! He had discovered the exact point. Don Giuseppe did not verbally express approbation, he felt ashamed to do so, but he manifested it by signs. He was truly edified by the subtlety of reasoning of the saint-like man ! To the Countess the argument appeared rather tremendous, and altogether two-edged, cutting both ways. She looked at her weak-minded husband with charity and gentle indulgence, as a sage smiles with benevolent air on the sim plicity of a child. " At all events," continued the Count, " whether the dream be a true vision or not, there is no harm in considering it as such, and profitting by it for my soul's good." Don Giuseppe still kept silence, and allowed the Count to run on, and he thus continued : " Could I not establish an annual number of Masses to be said during my life, and leave directions to have them continued after my death?

I would then leave a small benefice to pay a chaplain in part, who could reside in the family with a double advantage." The idea of establishing in his house a benefice for his domestic chaplain much pleased the Count, and still more so Don Giuseppe, but did not at all please the Countess. A hidden instinct, and her own experience, although she would not have confessed it, — still against her will, manifested to her the peril, rather than the advantage which a family might experience from an established chaplain. However, she merely remarked, '9 " The family may not always desire to have a chaplain: Perhaps it might be better for the spiritual interests both of the family and of the chaplain if he were to absent himself sometimes, or live out of the house altogether, and allow an interval between the Masses to be said in the private chapel.

So that I should make the con dition that Mass should be said as often as possible in the Alfredini House Chapel, which should have its own chaplain ; but that if ob stacles arose, the family would be at liberty to have a chaplain or not, and the Masses might be said by other priests, or elsewhere." The Count, who would never oppose his wife, answered, " You are quite right, my dear, and so it shall be. What do you think of it, Don Giuseppe?" Don Giuseppe very well knew that opposition would be dangerous for his authority, and might risk the unlimited faith that the Count now re posed in him. Besides, it appeared to him that to enjoy the benefice without the absolute obligation of residence would be preferable, and that if a chapel were established in the house, it would afford him the opportunity of living under the same roof with Amalia even if she became a widow, which would certainly be the case before long.

He agreed with the Count that the benefice should be handsome. Two hundred dollars were assigned to the chaplain for two hundred Masses a year, with some prayers, orations, and other devotions, to be performed in the house. If the Masses were said out of the house, or the chaplain did not reside in the family, there were two hundred dollars, and no more. For Italy, this provision was most generous, indeed almost prelatic. The priest endeavoured then artfully to delay matters, being commissioned by the Count to make the necessary arrangements, until the death of the Marchioness. From an idle, stupid dream, the offspring of mere superstition, did Don Giuseppe succeed in securing a good income, and in colouring his residence under the Count's roof, so as to avoid scandal in case of the death of the Count. If cabinets would avail themselves of priests, would not ministerial artifices — already so mys tified — become vastly more mysterious?

Chapter V

A MESSENGER ARRIVES IN HASTE. Matters having been thus arranged, and the Countess having kissed her husband, she was just leaving the room, when the sound was heard of a horse galloping up to the house. A succession of furious and impatient knocks at the door followed. The heart of the Countess beat violently. A hasty step was heard ascending the stairs. Don Giuseppe opened the bed-room door, and saw a servant of the house, preceding one of the Fossombroni household, who, breath less, rushed forward and exclaimed, without noticing the Countess, who was also close to the door, " Oh, Don Giuseppe, pray come directly, the Marchioness is dying !" " Hush !" said Don Giuseppe with a tone VOL. II. c betraying deep anxiety ; but it was too late : the tidings had reached the ear of the Countess. " Holy Virgin !" she cried, rushing from the room.

" What is the matter ?" asked the Count, in a state of perfect bewilderment. Don Giuseppe went to him and said, •" Pray for the Marchioness, she is dying. Take care of the Count," said he to the servant, and hastened away. In a few minutes the horses were harnessed. Don Giuseppe and Amalia entered the carriage. He seated himself by the Countess, in the un avoidable confidence of offering her consolation ; and holding her hand in his, and leaning towards her, he spoke to her affectionately and pas sionately. He could address her then as her angel of consolation ! They quickly arrived, and Don Giuseppe, cursing the shortness of the distance, alighted, and precipitately ascended the stairs. The Countess followed him, and both were soon beside the death-bed.

Chapter VI. The Mind At The Moment Of Separation From The Body

IS GIFTED WITH DIVINATION. The Marchioness had been for some days con fined to her bed. She was now suddenly at tacked with a fit. Her eyes were fixed, her body rigid and motionless, and, save that her breast heaved, she gave scarcely any signs of life. One of the women who attended upon her was with her at the time, for she was never left alone. The attendant rushed to her assistance, and rung the bell violently ; but when others entered the room, the Marchioness seemed to be breathing her last. " Fetch the Parish Priest," exclaimed the frightened attendant, " the Mar chioness is dying." A man was despatched for him in haste. " Run for the Countess Amalia c and Don Giuseppe, who is at her house." This order was obeyed, and a third messenger was ordered to summon a medical attendant. The first to arrive was the Priest of Rivalta.

He came immediately, for he happened, most op portunely, to be walking alone near the house. He entered. The remedies administered in haste, recalled the dormant faculties of the patient, though only for a few minutes. The change seemed miraculous. In these last moments of her life, the light of reason shone more brilliantly than even in the energy of youth, and with a brilliancy not only seemingly incompatible with her age and present position, but superior even to the natural powers of her mind in the fulness of her strength and vigour. Those who have attended the sick and dying must have been struck with this singular phe nomenon, which, once or twice in their lives, or even oftener, they will have had occasion to remark. She perhaps did not see things now in a new light, but they were presented to her eyes in a more striking manner than they had ever been before.

She opened her eyes and noticed the priest He took her hand, and she tasked for Amalia. " They are gone to fetch her," replied he ; " in the meantime, reflect upon your state, madam, and think about God." " Yes, my time is at hand. I would confess once more. I have something to communicate which I feel deeply at this solemn moment, and which weighs upon my conscience, that will so soon be bared to God's eye." " Your ladyship will confess, then ? — I am ready to hear." She composed her thoughts for a moment, and then, with a feeble voice which grew gra dually fainter and fainter, she said — " Don Giuseppe has conducted my family affairs for the last two years, and I have re •posed unlimited confidence in him." " No doubt he has counselled you for the best," said the priest, but rather interrogatively than as if persuaded of the truth of his observation.

" I always believed so," replied she, " but at this moment it seems to me that an internal voice tells me to the contrary." The priest was silent, though in his conscience, perhaps, he assented. " Don Giuseppe contrived the marriage of Amalia with the Count in order to divert her from an affection which she had con ceived for a young man that was not well suited to her. My mind is confused — I do not remember — oh, yes, for Francesco Fantoni. I let him do as he pleased, and now I feel that I was wrong, and Amalia is miserable, and it is my fault. I tremble, too, at another idea that can only be the suggestion of Satan himself. I feel a glimmering consciousness that Don Giu seppe acted towards Amalia as if he were jealous, and nourished a secret passion towards her him self. I am afraid it is wicked, even, to think such a thing.

What do you think, Father?" " You have no authority to think evil of him, for you have no proof that he had any wrong intention in bringing about this marriage. That he imposed the union upon her tyrannically may be true, but there is no help for it now." The priest would not speak more plainly, though he saw exactly how it was. He already knew of the attachment of Francesco and Ama lia ; for the Countess Belfiore, hearing of the match that was to take place with the Count hastened to the Priest of Rivalta to tell him of the scene that had passed at her house between the two young people at Easter. But the priest was too prudent to interfere, and seeing no re medy, he advised the Countess to let the affair take its -course. He, too, feared the want of religion on the part of Francesco, because he did not see him at church ; and though disposed to tolerance, yet, as a conscientious man, he did not feel justified in interfering.

Now, while listening to the Marchioness, he regretted not having done so ; for he suspected the true state of the case, and the treacherous love of Don Giuseppe. Still he was unwilling now to aggravate the disquiet of the Marchioness, and merely remarked that if she had done wrong, she would now do no more to redeem it than to repent. After an admonition suited to pre pare her for her long journey, he gave her absolution. She then summoned all her strength for a final effort, and said — " Father, I beg you to open the box that stands upon the drawers. You will find the key in the little drawer of my work-table, be tween the windows." He obeyed her directions. "Take out the paper, if you please, which is at the bottom of the box, and give it to me." He gave it to her. She took the paper in both hands, and with the last remaining strength us her trembling fingers, tore it in halves, saying, " Here, I had provided for Don Giuseppe, but I shall leave him nothing now."

The priest offered some opposition, and begged her to leave him at least a slight remuneration, as she only suspected him, and consequently it was not just to deprive him of all. He would have added other arguments suggested by pru dence and his sense of rectitude, but it was too late. The prostration of the Marchioness returned ; she was again insensible, and seemed to be going off. Whether just or unjust, there fore, the priest had no means of remedying her hasty act, nor did he in reality feel greatly dis posed to regret it. The effort she had made no doubt accelerated her death. As if she had accomplished an im portant duty and nothing more was required of her, every appearance of vitality forsook her, and she lay motionless. Her face suddenly resumed its death-like pallor, and her features rapidly changed.

The death-struggles com menced, and the priest proceeded to perform extreme unction, for she was too far gone to receive the communion, though a slight ex pression of intelligence still remained, as if she knew what was passing around her. The priest pronounced the mystic words, anointing the lips, eyes, nostrils, hands, and feet of the patient, that every part of the human body denied by sin might be purified. Having washed his hands and given orders that the water and everything else which had come in contact with the oil should be thrown on the fire, he returned to the bed to pray for her soul.