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BOOK II - THE NEW LIGHT: CHAPTER 13
Spite of the Mountain Madonna's much-vaunted powers, the first effect of
the pilgrimage was to provoke a serious indisposition in the Duke.
Exhausted by fasting and emotion, he withdrew to his apartments and for
several days denied himself to all but Heiligenstern, who was suspected
by some of suffering his patient's disorder to run its course with a
view to proving the futility of such remedies. This break in his
intercourse with his kinsman left Odo free to take the measure of his
new surroundings. The company most naturally engaging him was that which
surrounded the Duchess; but he soon wearied of the trivial diversions it
offered. It had ever been necessary to him that his pleasures should
touch the imagination as well as the senses; and with such refinement of
enjoyment the gallants of Pianura were unacquainted. Odo indeed
perceived with a touch of amusement that, in a society where Don
Serafino set the pace, he must needs lag behind his own lacquey.
Cantapresto had, in fact, been hailed by the Bishop's nephew with a
cordiality that proclaimed them old associates in folly; and the
soprano's manner seemed to declare that, if ever he had held the candle
for Don Serafino, he did not grudge the grease that might have dropped
on his cassock. He was soon prime favourite and court buffoon in the
Duchess's circle, organising pleasure-parties, composing scenarios for
her Highness's private theatre, and producing at court any comedian or
juggler the report of whose ability reached him from the market-place.
Indefatigable in the contriving of such diversions, he soon virtually
passed out of Odo's service into that of her Highness: a circumstance
which the young man the less regretted as it left him freer to cultivate
the acquaintance of Gamba and his friends without exposing them to
Cantapresto's espionage.
Odo had felt himself specially drawn toward the abate Crescenti; and the
afternoon after their first meeting he had repaired to the librarian's
dwelling. Crescenti was the priest of an ancient parish lying near the
fortress; and his tiny house was wedged in an angle of the city walls,
like a bird's nest in the mouth of a disused canon. A long flight of
steps led up to his study, which on the farther side opened level with a
vine-shaded patch of herbs and damask roses in the projection of a
ruined bastion. This interior, the home of studious peace, was as
cheerful and well-ordered as its inmate's mind; and Odo, seated under
the vine pergola in the late summer light, and tasting the abate's Val
Pulicella while he turned over the warped pages of old codes and
chronicles, felt the stealing charm of a sequestered life.
He had learned from Gamba that Crescenti was a faithful parish priest as
well as an assiduous scholar, but he saw that the librarian's
beneficence took that purely personal form which may coexist with a
serene acceptance of the general evils underlying particular hardships.
His charities were performed in the old unquestioning spirit of the
Roman distribution of corn; and doubtless the good man who carries his
loaf of bread and his word of hope into his neighbour's hovel reaps a
more tangible return than the lonely thinker who schemes to undermine
the strongholds of injustice. Still there was a perplexing contrast
between the superficiality of Crescenti's moral judgments and the
breadth and penetration of his historic conceptions. Odo was too
inexperienced to reflect that a man's sense of the urgency of
improvement lies mainly in the line of his talent: as the merchant is
persuaded that the roads most in need of mending are those on which his
business makes him travel. Odo himself was already conscious of living
in a many-windowed house, with outlooks diverse enough to justify more
than one view of the universe; but he had no conception of that
concentration of purpose that may make the mind's flight to its goal as
direct and unvarying as the course of a homing bird. The talk turning on
Gamba, Crescenti spoke of the help which the hunchback gave him in his
work among the poor.
"His early hardships," said he, "have given him an insight into
character that my happier circumstances have denied me; and he has more
than once been the means of reclaiming some wretch that I despaired of.
Unhappily, his parts and learning are beyond his station, and will not
let him rest in the performance of his duties. His mind, I often tell
him, is like one of those inn parlours hung with elaborate maps of the
three Heretical Cities; whereas the only topography with which the
virtuous traveller need be acquainted is that of the Heavenly City to
which all our journeyings should tend. The soundness of his heart
reassures me as to this distemper of the reason; but others are less
familiar with his good qualities and I tremble for the risks to which
his rashness may expose him."
The librarian went on to say that Gamba had a pretty poetical gift which
he was suspected of employing in the composition of anonymous satires on
the court, the government and the Church. At that period every Italian
town was as full of lampoons as a marsh of mosquitoes, and it was as
difficult in the one case as the other for the sufferer to detect the
specific cause of his sting. The moment in Italy was a strange one. The
tide of reform had been turned back by the very act devised to hasten
it: the suppression of the Society of Jesus. The shout of liberation
that rose over the downfall of the order had sunk to a guarded whisper.
The dark legend already forming around Ganganelli's death, the hint of
that secret liquor distilled for the order's use in a certain convent of
Perugia, hung like a menace on the political horizon; and the disbanded
Society seemed to have tightened its hold on the public conscience as a
dying man's clutch closes on his victorious enemy.
So profoundly had the Jesuits impressed the world with the sense of
their mysterious power that they were felt to be like one of those
animal organisms which, when torn apart, carry on a separate existence
in every fragment. Ganganelli's bull had provided against their exerting
any political influence, or controlling opinion as confessors or as
public educators; but they were known to be everywhere in Italy, either
hidden in other orders, or acting as lay agents of foreign powers, as
tutors in private families, or simply as secular priests. Even the
confiscation of their wealth did not seem to diminish the popular sense
of their strength. Perhaps because that strength had never been
completely explained, even by their immense temporal advantages, it was
felt to be latent in themselves, and somehow capable of withstanding
every kind of external assault. They had moreover benefited by the
reaction which always follows on the breaking up of any great
organisation. Their detractors were already beginning to forget their
faults and remember their merits. The people had been taught to hate the
Society as the possessor of wealth and privileges which should have been
theirs; but when the Society fell its possessions were absorbed by the
other powers, and in many cases the people suffered from abuses and
maladministration which they had not known under their Jesuit landlords.
The aristocracy had always been in sympathy with the order, and in many
states the Jesuits had been banished simply as a measure of political
expediency, a sop to the restless masses. In these cases the latent
power of the order was concealed rather than diminished by the pretence
of a more liberal government, and everywhere, in one form or another,
the unseen influence was felt to be on the watch for those who dared to
triumph over it too soon.
Such conditions fostered the growth of social satire. Constructive
ambition was forced back into its old disguises, and ridicule of
individual weaknesses replaced the general attack on beliefs and
institutions. Satirical poems in manuscript passed from hand to hand in
coffee-houses, casinos and drawing-rooms, and every conspicuous incident
in social or political life was borne on a biting quatrain to the
confines of the state. The Duke's gift of Boscofolto to the Countess
Belverde had stirred up a swarm of epigrams, and the most malignant
among them, Crescenti averred, were openly ascribed to Gamba.
"A few more imprudences," he added, "must cost him his post; and if your
excellency has any influence with him I would urge its being used to
restrain him from such excesses."
Odo, on taking his leave of the librarian, ran across Gamba at the first
street-corner; and they had not proceeded a dozen yards together when
the eye of the Duke's kinsman fell on a snatch of doggerel scrawled in
chalk on an adjacent wall.
"Beware (the quatrain ran) O virtuous wife or maid,
Our ruler's fondness for the shade,
Lest first he woo thee to the leafy glade
And then into the deeper wood persuade."
This crude play on the Belverde's former title and the one she had
recently acquired was signed "Carlo Gamba."
Odo glanced curiously at the hunchback, who met the look with a composed
smile. "My enemies don't do me justice," said he; "I could do better
than that if I tried;" and he effaced the words with a sweep of his
shabby sleeve.
Other lampoons of the same quality were continually cropping up on the
walls of Pianura, and the ducal police were kept as busy rubbing them
out as a band of weeders digging docks out of a garden. The Duchess's
debts, the Duke's devotions, the Belverde's extortions, Heiligenstern's
mummery, and the political rivalry between Trescorre and the Dominican,
were sauce to the citizen's daily bread; but there was nothing in these
popular satires to suggest the hunchback's trenchant irony.
It was in the Bishop's palace that Odo read the first lampoon in which
he recognised his friend's touch. In this society of polished dilettanti
such documents were valued rather for their literary merits than for
their political significance; and the pungent lines in which the Duke's
panaceas were hit off (the Belverde figuring among them as a Lenten
diet, a dinner of herbs, and a wonder-working bone) caused a flutter of
professional envy in the episcopal circle.
The Bishop received company every evening; and Odo soon found that, as
Gamba had said, it was the best company in Pianura. His lordship lived
in great state in the Gothic palace adjoining the Cathedral. The gloomy
vaulted rooms of the original structure had been abandoned to the small
fry of the episcopal retinue. In the chambers around the courtyard his
lordship drove a thriving trade in wines from his vineyards, while his
clients awaited his pleasure in the armoury, where the panoplies of his
fighting predecessors still rusted on the walls. Behind this facade a
later prelate had built a vast wing overlooking a garden which descended
by easy terraces to the Piana. In the high-studded apartments of this
wing the Bishop held his court and lived the life of a wealthy secular
nobleman. His days were agreeably divided between hunting, inspecting
his estates, receiving the visits of antiquarians, artists and literati,
and superintending the embellishments of his gardens, then the most
famous in North Italy; while his evenings were given to the more private
diversions which his age and looks still justified. In religious
ceremonies or in formal intercourse with his clergy he was the most
imposing and sacerdotal of bishops; but in private life none knew better
how to disguise his cloth. He was moreover a man of parts, and from the
construction of a Latin hexameter to the growing of a Holland bulb, had
a word worth hearing on all subjects likely to engage the dilettante. A
liking soon sprang up between Odo and this versatile prelate; and in the
retirement of his lordship's cabinet, or pacing with him the
garden-alleys set with ancient marbles, the young man gathered many
precepts of that philosophy of pleasure which the great churchmen of the
eighteenth century practised with such rare completeness.
The Bishop had not, indeed, given much thought to the problems which
most deeply engaged his companion. His theory of life took no account of
the future and concerned itself little with social conditions outside
his own class; but he was acquainted with the classical schools of
thought, and, having once acted as the late Duke's envoy to the French
court, had frequented the Baron d'Holbach's drawing-room and
familiarised himself with the views of the Encyclopaedists; though it
was clear that he valued their teachings chiefly as an argument against
asceticism.
"Life," said he to Odo, as they sat one afternoon in a garden-pavilion
above the river, a marble Mercury confronting them at the end of a vista
of clipped myrtle, "life, cavaliere, is a stock on which we may graft
what fruit or flower we choose. See the orange-tree in that Capo di
Monte jar: in a week or two it will be covered with red roses. Here
again is a citron set with carnations; and but yesterday my gardener
sent me word that he had at last succeeded in flowering a pomegranate
with jasmine. In such cases the gardener chooses as his graft the flower
which, by its colour and fragrance, shall most agreeably contrast with
the original stock; and he who orders his life on the same principle,
grafting it with pleasures that form a refreshing off-set to the
obligations of his rank and calling, may regard himself as justified by
Nature, who, as you see, smiles on such abnormal unions among her
children.--Not long ago," he went on, with a reminiscent smile, "I had
here under my roof a young person who practised to perfection this art
of engrafting life with the unexpected. Though she was only a player in
a strolling company--a sweetheart of my wild nephew's, as you may
guess--I have met few of her sex whose conversation was so instructive
or who so completely justified the Scriptural adage, "the sweetness of
the lips increaseth learning..." He broke off to sip his chocolate. "But
why," he continued, "do I talk thus to a young man whose path is lined
with such opportunities? The secret of happiness is to say with the
great Emperor, 'Everything is fruit to me which thy seasons bring, O
Nature.'"
"Such a creed, monsignore," Odo ventured to return, "is as flattering to
the intelligence as to the senses; for surely it better becomes a
reasoning being to face fate as an equal than to cower before it like a
slave; but, since you have opened yourself so freely on the subject, may
I carry your argument a point farther and ask how you reconcile your
conception of man's destiny with the authorised teachings of the
Church?"
The Bishop raised his head with a guarded glance.
"Cavaliere," said he, "the ancients did not admit the rabble to their
sacred mysteries; nor dare we permit the unlettered to enter the
hollowed precincts of the temple of Reason."
"True," Odo acquiesced; "but if the teachings of Christianity are the
best safeguard of the people, should not those teachings at least be
stripped of the grotesque excrescences with which the superstitions of
the people and--perhaps--the greed and craft of the priesthood have
smothered the simple precepts of Jesus?"
The Bishop shrugged his shoulders. "As long," said he, "as the people
need the restraint of a dogmatic religion so long must we do our utmost
to maintain its outward forms. In our market-place on feast-days there
appears the strange figure of a man who carries a banner painted with an
image of Saint Paul surrounded by a mass of writhing serpents. This man
calls himself a descendant of the apostle and sells to our peasants the
miraculous powder with which he killed the great serpent at Malta. If it
were not for the banner, the legend, the descent from Saint Paul, how
much efficacy do you think those powders would have? And how long do you
think the precepts of an invisible divinity would restrain the evil
passions of an ignorant peasant? It is because he is afraid of the
plaster God in his parish church, and of the priest who represents that
God, that he still pays his tithes and forfeitures and keeps his hands
from our throats. By Diana," cried the Bishop, taking snuff, "I have no
patience with those of my calling who go about whining for apostolic
simplicity, and would rob the churches of their ornaments and the
faithful of their ceremonies.
"For my part," he added, glancing with a smile about the
delicately-stuccoed walls of the pavilion, through the windows of which
climbing roses shed their petals on the rich mosaics transferred from a
Roman bath, "for my part, when I remember that 'tis to Jesus of Nazareth
I owe the good roof over my head and the good nags in my stable; nay,
the very venison and pheasants from my preserves, with the gold plate I
eat them off, and above all the leisure to enjoy as they deserve these
excellent gifts of the Creator--when I consider this, I say, I stand
amazed at those who would rob so beneficent a deity of the least of his
privileges.--But why," he continued again after a moment, as Odo
remained silent, "should we vex ourselves with such questions, when
Providence has given us so fair a world to enjoy and such varied
faculties with which to apprehend its beauties? I think you have not
seen the Venus Callipyge in bronze that I have lately received from
Rome?" And he rose and led the way to the house.
This conversation revealed to Odo a third conception of the religious
idea. In Piedmont religion imposed itself as a military discipline, the
enforced duty of the Christian citizen to the heavenly state; to the
Duke it was a means of purchasing spiritual immunity from the
consequences of bodily weakness; to the Bishop, it replaced the panem et
circenses of ancient Rome. Where, in all this, was the share of those
whom Christ had come to save? Where was Saint Francis's devotion to his
heavenly bride, the Lady Poverty? Though here and there a good parish
priest like Crescenti ministered to the temporal wants of the peasantry,
it was only the free-thinker and the atheist who, at the risk of life
and fortune, laboured for their moral liberation. Odo listened with a
saddened heart, thinking, as he followed his host through the perfumed
shade of the gardens, and down the long saloon at the end of which the
Venus stood, of those who for the love of man had denied themselves such
delicate emotions and gone forth cheerfully to exile or imprisonment.
These were the true lovers of the Lady Poverty, the band in which he
longed to be enrolled; yet how restrain a thrill of delight as the
slender dusky goddess detached herself against the cool marble of her
niche, looking, in the sun-rippled green penumbra of the saloon, with a
sound of water falling somewhere out of sight, as though she had just
stepped dripping from the wave?
In the Duchess's company life struck another gait. Here was no waiting
on subtle pleasures, but a headlong gallop after the cruder sort.
Hunting, gaming and masquerading filled her Highness's days; and Odo had
felt small inclination to keep pace with the cavalcade, but for the
flying huntress at its head. To the Duchess's "view halloo" every drop
of blood in him responded; but a vigilant image kept his bosom barred.
So they rode, danced, diced together, but like strangers who cross hands
at a veglione. Once or twice he fancied the Duchess was for unmasking;
but her impulses came and went like fireflies in the dusk, and it suited
his humour to remain a looker-on.
So life piped to him during his first days at Pianura: a merry tune in
the Bishop's company, a mad one in the Duchess's; but always with the
same sad undertone, like the cry of the wind on a warm threshold.
Content of BOOK II - THE NEW LIGHT: CHAPTER 13 [Edith Wharton's novel: The Valley Of Decision]
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