*CHAPTER XI*
*NILUS OF GAETA*
A grand high mass in honour of the pilgrims was on the following eve tobe celebrated in the ancient Basilica of St. Peter's. But vast as wasits extent, only a part of the pilgrims could be contained and thebronze gates were thrown open to allow the great multitude which filledthe square to share the benefits and some of the glories of theceremony.
The Vatican Basilica of the tenth century, far from possessing itspresent splendour, was as yet but the old consecrated palace, hallowedby memories of the olden time, in which Charlemagne enjoyed thehospitality of Leo III, when at his hands he received the imperial crownof the West. Similar to the restored church of St. Paul fuori le Mure,as we now see it, it was some twenty feet longer and considerably wider,having five naves divided off by four rows of vast monolith columns.There were ninety-six columns in all, of various marbles, differing insize and style, for they had been the first hasty spoils of antiquepalaces and temples. The walls above the order of columns weredecorated with mosaics such as no Roman hand could then produce or evenrestore. A grand arch, such as we see at the older Basilicas to-day,inlaid with silver and adorned with mosaic, separated the nave from thechancel, below which was the tribune, an inheritance from the praetor'scourt of old. It now contained the high altar and the sedile of theVicar of Christ. Before the altar stood the Confession, the vaultwherein lay the bones of St. Peter, with a screen of silver crowned withimages of saints and virgins. And the whole was illumined by a giganticcandelabrum holding more than a thousand lighted tapers.
The chief attraction, however, was yet wanting, for the pontiff and hiscourt still tarried in the Vatican receiving the homage of the foreignpilgrims. While listlessly noting the preparations from his chosenpoint of vantage, Eckhardt discovered himself the object of scrutiny onthe part of a monk, who had been listlessly wandering about and whodisappeared no sooner than he had caught the eye of the great leader.
Unwilling to continue the target of observation on the part of those whorecognized him despite his closed visor, Eckhardt entered the Basilicaand took up his station near a remote shrine, whence he could witnessthe entrance of the pontifical procession, without attracting undueattention to his person. When the pontifical train did appear, it seemedone mass of glitter and sumptuous colour, as it filed down the aisles ofthe Basilica. The rich copes of the ecclesiastics, stiff with gold andgorgeous brocade, the jewelled mantles of the nobles, the polishedbreast plates and tasselled spears of the guards passed before his eyesin a bewildering confusion of splendour. In his gilded chair, under asuperb canopy, Gregory, the youthful pontiff, was borne along,surrounded by a crowd of bishops, extending his hands in benediction ashe passed the kneeling worshippers.
An infinite array of officials followed. Then came pilgrims of thehighest rank, each order marching in separate divisions, in thefantastic costumes of their respective countries. In their wake marcheddifferent orders of monks and nuns, the former carrying torches, thelatter lighted tapers, although the westering sun still flamed down theaisles in cataracts of light. After these fraternities and sisterhoods,Crescentius, the Senator, was seen to enter with his suite, conspicuousfor the pomp of their attire, the taste of Crescentius being to sombrecolours.
Descending from his elevated station, Gregory proceeded to officiate asHigh Priest in the august solemnity. Come with what prejudices onemight, it was not in humanity to resist the impressions of overwhelmingawe, produced by the magnificence of the spectacle and the sublimerecollections with which the solemnity itself in every stage isassociated. Despite his extreme youth, Gregory supported all thevenerableness and dignity of the High Priest of Christendom and when atthe conclusion of the high mass he bestowed his benediction on allChristendom, Eckhardt was kneeling with the immense multitude, perhapsmore convinced than the most enthusiastic pilgrim, that he was receivingbenediction direct from heaven.
The paroxysm only subsided, when raising his head, he beheld a gauntmonk in the funereal garb of the brotherhood of Penitent Friars ascendthe chancel. He was tall, lean as a skeleton and from his shrivelledface two eyes, sunken deep in their sockets, burnt with the fire of thefanatic. This was the celebrated hermit, Nilus of Gaeta, of whose lifeand manners the most wonderful tales were current. He was believed tobe of Greek extraction, perhaps owing to his lengthy residence inSouthern Italy, near the shrines of Monte Gargano in Apulia. In thepursuit of recondite mysteries of the Moorish and Cabalistical schools,he had attained such proficiency, that he was seized with a profounddisgust for the world and became a monk. Several years he spent inremote and pagan lands, spreading the tidings of salvation, until, as itwas whispered, he received an extraordinary call to the effect, as wasmore mysteriously hinted, to turn the church from diverse great errors,into which she had fallen, and which threatened her downfall. Last, notleast, he was to prepare the minds of mortal men for the greatcatastrophe of the Millennium,--the End of Time, the end of all earthlyvanity. Special visions had been vouchsafed him, and there was that inhis age, in his appearance and his speech which at once precluded theimposter. Nilus of Gaeta himself believed what he preached.
There was a brief silence, during which the Romans acquainted theirforeign guests in hurried whispers with the name and renown of thereputed hermit. The latter stood motionless in the chancel and seemedto offer up a silent prayer, ere he pronounced his harangue.
His sermon was delivered in Latin, still the common language of Italy,even in its corrupt state, and its quality was such as to impress atonce the most skeptical with the extraordinary gifts of the preacher.
The monk began with a truly terrific picture of the state of society andreligion throughout the Christian world, which he delineated with suchgloom and horror, that but for his arabesque entanglement and hisgorgeousness of imagery one might have believed him a spirit of hell,returned to paint the orb of the living with colours borrowed from itsmurkiest depths. But with all the fantastic convolutions of hisreasoning the fervour of a real eloquence soon began to overflow thetwisted fountains, in which the scholastic rhetoric of the time usuallyconfined its displays. These qualities Nilus especially exhibited whendescribing the pure dawn of Christianity, in which the pagan gods hadvanished like phantoms of night. He declared that they were once moredeified upon earth and the clear light all but extinguished. Andtreating the antique divinities as impersonations of human passions andlusts, the monk's eloquence suddenly took the most terrible tints, andconsidering the nature of some of the crimes which he thus delineatedand anathematized, his audience began to suspect personal allusions ofthe most hideous nature.
After this singular exordium, the monk proceeded in his harangue and itseemed as if his words, like the lava overflow from a volcano, witheredall that was green and flowery in their path. The Universe in hisdesponding eloquence seemed but a vast desolation. All the beautifulillusions which the magic of passion conjures into the human soul diedbeneath his touch, changing into the phantoms, which perhaps they are.The vanity of hope, the shallowness of success, the bitterness whichmingles with the greatest glory, the ecstasy of love,--all these themonk painted in the most powerful colours, to contrast them with themarble calm of that drooping form crucified upon the hill of Calvary.
Spellbound, the immense multitude listened to the almost superhumaneloquence of the friar. As yet his attacks had dealt only ingeneralities. The Senator of Rome seemed to listen to his words with adegree of satisfaction. A singularity remarked in his character by allhis historians, which, by some, has been considered as proof of a naturenot originally evil, was his love of virtue in the abstract. Frequentresolutions and recommendations to reform were perhaps only overcome byhis violent passions, his ambition and the exigencies of his ambiguousstate between church and empire. But as the monk detailed the crimesand monstrosities of the age, the calm on the Senator's face changed toa livid, satirical smile, and occasionally he pointed the invectives ofthe
friar by nodding to those of his followers who were supposed to beguilty of the crimes alleged, as if to call upon them to notice thatthey were assailed, and many a noble shrank behind his neighbour whoseconscience smote him of one or all the crimes enumerated by Nilus.
In one of his most daring flights the monk suddenly checked himself andannouncing his vision of impending judgment, he bid his listenersprepare their souls in a prophetic and oracular tone, which wasdistinctly audible, amid all the muttering which pervaded the Basilica.
A few moments of devout silence followed. The monk was expected tokneel, to offer up a prayer for divine mercy. But he stood motionlessin the chancel, and after waiting a short time, Gregory turned to anattendant:
"Go and see what ails the disciple of Benedict,--we will ourselves saythe Gratias."
After rising, he stepped to the altar with the accustomed retinue ofcardinals and prelates and chanted the benediction. At the conclusionCrescentius approached the altar alone, demanded permission to make aduteous offering and emptied a purse of gold on the salver.
"A most princely and regal benefaction," muttered the PontificalDatary--"a most illustrious example."
"Charlemagne gave more, but so will I, when like him I come to receivethe crown of the West," muttered the Senator of Rome. His example wasimmediately followed, and in a few moments the altar was heaped roundwith presents of extraordinary magnificence and bounty. Sacks of goldand silver were emptied out, jewels, crucifixes, relics, amber,gold-dust, ivories, pearls and rare spices were heaped up in promiscuousprofusion, and in return each donor received a branch of consecratedpalm from the hand of the Datary, whose keen eyes reflected thebrightness of the treasures whose receipts he thus acknowledged.
The chant from various chapels now poured down the aisles its torrentsof melody, the vast multitudes joining in the Gloria in Excelsis.Eckhardt's remote station had not permitted him to witness all that hadhappened. His gaze was still riveted on the friar, who was nowstaggering from the pulpit, when a terrific event turned and absorbedhis attention.
The great bell of the Basilica was tolling and the vibration produced byso many sounds shook the vast and ancient pile so violently that aprodigious mass of iron, which formed one of the clappers of the bell,fell from the belfry in the airy spire and dashing with irresistibleforce through every obstruction, reached the floor at the very feet ofthe Pontiff, crushing a deep hole in the pavement and throwing a millionpieces of shattered marble over him and his retinue.
The vast assembly was for a moment motionless with terror and surprise,expecting little less than universal destruction in the downfall of thewhole edifice on their heads, with all its ponderous mass of iron andstone. A cry arose that the Pontiff had been killed, which was echoedin a thousand varying voices, according as men's fears or hopesprevailed. But in the first moment of panic, when it was doubtfulwhether or not the entire center of the Basilica would crumble upon theassembly, Eckhardt had rushed from the comparative safety of his ownstation to the side of the Pontiff as if to shield him, when with themajesty of a prophet interposing between offended heaven and the objectof its wrath, Gerbert of Aurillac uttered with deep fervour and amidprofound silence a De Profundis. The multitudes were stilled from theirpanic, which might have been attended with far more serious consequencesthan the accident itself. There was a solemn pause, broken only by asea-like response of "Amen"--and a universal sigh of relief, whichsounded like the soughing of the wind in a great forest.
All distinctions of rank seemed blotted out in that supreme moment.Then the voice of Nilus was heard thundering above the breathless calm,while he held aloft an ebony crucifix, in which he always carried thehost:
"The summits of St. Peter still stand! When they too fall, pilgrims ofthe world--even so shall Christendom fall with them."
At a sign from the Pontiff his attendants raised aloft the canopy, underwhich he had entered. But he refused to mount the chair and heading thebishops and cardinals, he left the church on foot. The Datary gave onelook of hopeless despair, as the masses crowded out of the Basilica, andabandoned all hope of restoring order. In an incredibly short time thevast area was emptied, Crescentius being one of the last to remain inits deepening shadows. With a degree of vacancy he gazed after thevanishing crowds, more gorgeous in their broken and mingled pomp, asthey passed out of the high portals, than when marshalled in due rankand order.
He too was about to leave, when he discerned a monk who stood gazing, asit were, incredulously at the shattered altar-pavement and the mass ofiron deeply embedded in it. Hastily he advanced towards him, but as heapproached he was struck by observing the monk raise his eyes, sparklingwith mad fury, to the lighted dome above and clench his hands as if indefiance of its glory.
"Thou seemest to hold thy life rather as a burden than a blessing, monk,since thus thou repayest thy salvation," Crescentius addressed thefriar, somewhat staggered by his attitude.
"Ay! If I have done Heaven a temporal injury,--be comforted, yesaints--for ye have wrought me an eternal one!" growled the monk betweenclenched teeth.
"Heaven?" questioned Crescentius, almost tempted to the conclusion thatthe monk, whoever he was, was out of his senses.
"Even Heaven," replied the monk. "One cubit nearer the altar,--Ithought the struggle over in my soul between the dark angel and thebright--I had strung my soul to its mighty task,--yet I shrank from it,a second, and more cowardly Judas."
Crescentius gazed at the friar without grasping his meaning.
"Take thy superior out of the church, he is mad and blasphemes," heturned to the monk's companion who listened stolidly to his raving.
"Ay!" spoke the strange monk, gnashing his teeth and shaking his fisttowards heaven, "even the church shall anon be rent in twain and form achasm, down which countless generations shall tumble into theabyss--'twere just retribution!"
"Tell me but this, monk, how could Heaven itself throw obstacles in theway of thine intent?" questioned Crescentius, perceiving that the monkhad turned to depart and more convinced than ever that he was speakingto a madman.
"How? How? Oh, thou slow of understanding,--how?"
And the monk pointed downward, to the crushed and shattered marble ofthe pavement, in which the iron clapper of the bell lay embedded.
Crescentius receded involuntarily before the fierce, insane gleam in themonk's eyes, while the terrible import of his speech suddenly flashedupon his understanding. Crossing himself, he left the strange friar tohimself and passed swiftly through the motley crowds which were waitingtheir turn of admission to the subterranean chapel of the GrandPenitentiarius.
Another had remained in the dense gloom of the Basilica, though he hadnot witnessed the scene which had just come to a close. After thePontiff's departure, Eckhardt had retired to the shrine of SaintMichael, where he knelt in silent prayer. His mind was filled withfantastic imaginings, inspired chiefly by his recent pilgrimage to theshrines of Monte Gargano. The deep void within him made itself doublyfelt in this hour and more than ever he felt the need of divineinterposition in order to retain that consciousness of purpose which wasto guide his future course.
At last he arose. A remote chant fell upon his ears, and he saw aprocession moving slowly from the refectory into the nave of theBasilica. By the dusky glare of the torches, which they carried,Eckhardt distinguished a number of penitent friars, bearing aloft thebanner, destined in after-generations to become the standard of the HolyInquisition, a Red Cross in a black field with the motto: "In Hoc SignoVinces." Among them and seemingly the chief personage, strode thestrange friar. With down-cast head and eyes he walked, eyes which,while they seemed fixed on the ground in self-abasement, stealthilyscanned the features of those he passed.
"I marvel the holy saints think it worth while to trouble themselvesabout the soul of every putrid, garlic-chewing knave," said an oldbeggar on the steps of the Cathedral to an individual with whose briefreview Eckhardt was much struck. He was a man past the middle-age, withthe sa
llow complexion peculiar to the peasants of the marshes. Hisbroad hat, garnished with many coloured ribbons, was drawn over hisvisage, though not sufficiently so, to conceal the ghastly scars, withwhich it was disfigured. His lurking, suspicious eye and the peculiarmanner with which, from habit, he carried his short cloak drawn over hisbreast, as if to conceal the naked stiletto, convinced Eckhardt that,whatsoever that worthy might assume to be, he was one of those blackestof the scourges of Italy, which the license of the times had renderedfearfully numerous, the banditti and bravi.
"Whether the saints care or no," that individual returned, "the monk iscompetent to convert the fiend himself. What an honour for thebrotherhood to have produced such a saint."
Scarcely bestowing more than a thought upon so usual an evidence ofsocial disorder, which neither pontifical nor imperial edicts had beenable to correct, Eckhardt passed out, without noticing that he hadhimself attracted at least equal attention from the worthy described,who after having satisfied his curiosity, slunk back among the crowdsand was lost to sight.