The Sorceress of Rome

  *CHAPTER VII*

  *THE VISION OF SAN PANCRAZIO*

  Two days had elapsed since Eckhardt's arrival in Rome. At the close ofeach day, he had met Benilo on the Palatine, each time renewing thetopic of their former discourse. Benilo had listened attentively and,with all the eloquence at his command, had tried to dissuade thecommander from taking a step so fateful in its remotest consequences.On the evening of the third day the Chamberlain had displayed a strangedisquietude and replied to Eckhardt's questions with a wandering mind.Then without disclosing the nature of the business which he professed tohave on hand, they parted earlier than had been their wont.

  The shades of evening began to droop with phantom swiftness. Over thecity brooded the great peace of an autumnal twilight. The last rays ofthe sun streaming from between a heavy cloud-bank, lay across thelandscape in broad zones of brilliancy. In the pale green sky, one byone, the evening stars began to appear, but through the distantcloud-bank quivered summer lightning like the waving of fiery whips.

  Feeling that sleep would not come to him in his present wrought up stateof mind, Eckhardt resolved to revisit the spot which held the dearest hehad possessed on earth. Perhaps, that prayer at the grave of Ginevrawould bring peace to his soul and rest to his wearied heart. His feetbore him onward unawares through winding lanes and deserted streetsuntil he reached the gate of San Sebastiano. There, he left the roadfor a turfy hollow, where groups of black cypress trees stretched outtheir branches like spectral arms, uplifted to warn back intruders. Hestood before the churchyard of San Pancrazio.

  Pausing for a moment irresolutely before its gloomy portals Eckhardtseemed to waver before entering the burial ground. Hushing hisfootsteps, as from a sense of awe, he then followed the well-known path.The black foliage drooped heavily over him; it seemed to draw him in andclose him out of sight, and although there was scarcely any breeze, thedying leaves above rustled mysteriously, like voices whispering someawful secret, known to them alone. A strange mystery seemed to pervadethe silence of their sylvan shadows, a mystery, dread, unfathomable, andguessed by none. With a dreary sense of oppression, yet drawn onward bysome mysterious force, Eckhardt followed the path, which here and therewas over-grown with grass and weeds. Uneasily he lifted the overhangingbranches and peered between the dense and luminous foliage. Up and downhe wistfully gazed, now towards the winding path, lined by oldgravestones, leading to the cloister; now into the shadowy depths of theshrubbery. At times he paused to listen. Never surely was there such asilence anywhere as here. The murmur of the distant stream was lost.The leaves seemed to nod drowsily, as out of the depths of a dream andthe impressive stillness of the place seemed a silent protest againstthe solitary intruder, a protest from the dead, whose slumber themuffled echo of his footsteps disturbed.

  For the first time Eckhardt repented of his nocturnal visit to the abodeof the dead. Seized with a strange fear, his presence in the churchyardat this hour seemed to him an intrusion, and after a moment or two ofsilent musing he turned back, finding it impossible to proceed.Absently he gazed at the decaying flowers, which turned their faces upto him in apparent wonderment; the ferns seemed to nod and everyseparate leaf and blade of grass seemed to question him silently on theerrand of his visit. Surely no one, watching Eckhardt at this place andat this hour, if there was such a one near by chance, would haverecognized in him the stern soldier who had twice stormed the walls ofRome.

  Onward he walked as in the memory of a dream, a strange dream, which hadvisited him on the preceding night, and which now suddenly waked in hismemory. It was a vague haunting thing, a vision of a great altar, ofmany candles, of himself in a gown of sack-cloth, striving to light themand failing again and again, yet still seeing their elusive glare in acontinual flicker before his eyes. And as he mused upon his dream hisheart grew heavy in his breast. He had grown cowardly of pity andrenewed grief.

  Following a winding path, so overgrown with moss that his footsteps madeno sound upon it, which he believed would lead him out of thechurchyard, Eckhardt was staggered by the discovery that he had walkedin a circle, for almost directly before him rose the grassy knoll tuftedwith palms, between which shone the granite monument over Ginevra'sgrave. Believing at this moment more than ever in his life in signs andportents, Eckhardt slowly ascended the sloping ground, now obliviousalike to sight and sound, and lost in the depths of his own thoughts.Bitter thoughts they were and dreamily vague, such as fever andnightmare bring to us. Relentlessly all the long-fought misery sweptover him again, burying him beneath waves so vast, that time and spaceseemed alike to vanish. He knelt at the grave and with a fervour suchas is born of a mind completely lost in the depths of mysticism, heprayed that he might once more behold Ginevra, as her image lived in hismemory. The vague deep-rooted misery in his heart was concentrated inthis greatest desire of his life, the desire to look once more upon her,who had gone from him for ever.

  After having exhausted all the pent-up fervour of his soul Eckhardt wasabout to rise, little strengthened and less convinced of the efficacy ofhis prayer, when his eyes were fixed upon the tall apparition of awoman, who stood in the shadow of the cypress trees and seemed to regardhim with a strange mixture of awe and mournfulness. With parted lipsand rigid features, the life's blood frozen in his veins, Eckhardtstared at the apparition, his face covered with a pallor more deadlythan that of the phantom, if phantom indeed it was. A long white shroudfell in straight folds from her head to her feet, but the face wasexposed, and as he gazed upon it, at once so calm and so passionate, socold and yet so replete with life,--he knew it was Ginevra who stoodbefore him. Her eyes, strangely undimmed by death, burnt into his verysoul, and his heart began to palpitate with a mad longing. Spreadingout his arms in voiceless entreaty, the half-choken outcry: "Ginevra!Ginevra!" came from his lips, a cry in which was mingled at once themost supreme anguish and the most supreme love.

  But as the sound of his voice died away, the apparition had vanished,and seemed to have melted into air. Only a lizard sped over the stonein the moonlight and in the branches of the cypress trees aboveresounded the scream of some startled night-bird. Then everything fadedin vague unconsciousness, across which flitted lurid lights and a facethat suddenly grew dim in the strange and tumultuous upheaval of hissenses. The single moment had seemed an hour, so fraught with strangeand weird impressions.

  Dazed, half-mad, his brow bathed in cold dew, Eckhardt staggered to hisfeet and glanced round like one waking from a dream. The churchyard ofSan Pancrazio was deserted. Not another human being was to be seen.Surely his senses, strangely overwrought though they were, had notdeceived him. Here,--close beside him,--the apparition had stood but amoment ago; with his own eyes he had seen her, yet no human foot hadtrampled the fantastic tangle of creepers, that lay in straggling lengthupon the emerald turf. He lingered no longer to reason. His brain wasin a fiery whirl. Like one demented, Eckhardt rushed from thechurch-yard. There was at this moment in his heart such a pitifultumult of broken passions, hopelessness and despair, that the acute,unendurable pain came later.

  As yet, half of him refused to accept the revelation. The very thoughtcrushed him with a weight of rocks. Amid the deceitful shadows of nighthe had fallen prey to that fear from which the bravest are not exempt insuch surroundings. The distinctness of his perception forbade him todoubt the testimony of his senses. Yet, what he had seen, wasaltogether contrary to reason. A thousand thoughts and surmises, onewilder than the other, whirled confusedly through his brain. A greatbenumbing agony gnawed at his heart. That, which he in reason shouldhave regarded as a great boon began to affect him like a mortal injury.By fate or some mysterious agency he had been permitted to see her oncemore, but the yearning had increased, for not a word had the apparitionvouchsafed him, and from his arms, extended in passionate entreaty, ithad fled into the night, whence it had arisen.

  Accustomed to the windings of the churchyard, Eckhardt experie
ncedlittle difficulty in finding his way out. He paced through the wastesof Campo Marzio at a reckless speed, like a madman escaped from hisguards. His brain was aflame; his cheeks, though deadly pale, burned asfrom the hidden fires of a fever. The phenomenon had dazzled his eyeslike the keen zigzag of a lightning flash. Even now he saw her floatingbefore him, as in a luminous whirlwind, and he felt, that never to hislife's end could he banish her image from his heart. His love for thedead had grown to vastness like those plants, which open their blossomswith a thunder clap. He felt no longer master of himself, but like onewhose chariot is carried by terrified and uncontrollable steeds towardssome steep rock bristling precipice.

  Gradually, thanks to the freshness of the night-air, Eckhardt became alittle more calm. Feeling now but half convinced of the reality of thevision, he sought by the authentication of minor details to convincehimself that he was not the victim of some strange hallucination. Buthe felt, to his dismay, that every natural explanation tell short of thetruth, and his own argumentation was anything but convincing.

  In the climax of wonderment Eckhardt had questioned himself, whether hemight not actually be walking in a dream; he even seriously askedhimself whether madness was not parading its phantoms before his eyes.But he soon felt constrained to admit, that he was neither asleep normad. Thus he began gradually to accept the fact of Ginevra's presence,as in a dream we never question the intervention of persons actuallylong dead, but who nevertheless seem to act like living people.

  The moon was sinking through the azure when Eckhardt passed the Churchof the Hermits on Mount Aventine. The portals were open; the ulteriordimly lighted. The spirit of repentance burned at fever heat in thesouls of the Romans. From day-break till midnight, and from midnighttill day-break, there rose under the high vaulted arches an incessanthum of prayer. The penitential cells, the vaults underneath thechapels, were never empty. The crowds which poured into the city fromall the world were ever increasing, and the myriad churches, chapels andchantries rang night and day with Kyrie Eleison litanies and sermons,purporting to portray the catastrophe, the hail of brimstone and fire,until the terrified listeners dashed away amid shrieks and yells, shakento the inmost depths of their hearts with the fear that was upon them.

  There were still some belated worshippers within, and as Eckhardtascended the stone steps, he was seized with an incontrollable desire tohave speech with Nilus, the hermit of Gaeta, who, he had been told, washolding forth in the Church of the Hermits. To him he would confessall, that sorely troubled his mind, seeking his counsel and advice. Theimmense blackness within the Basilica stretched vastly upward into itsgreat arching roof, giving to him who stood pigmy-like within it, anoppression of enormity. Black was the centre of the Nave andunutterably still. A few torches in remote shrines threw theirlugubrious light down the aisles. The pale faces of kneeling monks camenow and then into full relief, when the scant illumination shifted,stirred by ever so faint a breath of air, heavy with the scent offlowers and incense.

  Almost succumbing under the strain of superstitious awe, exhausted inbody and mind by the strange malady, which had seized his soul, hissenses reeling under the fumes of incense and the funereal chant of themonks, his eyes burning with the fires of unshed tears, Eckhardt sankdown before the image of the Mother of God, striving in vain to form acoherent prayer.

  How long he had thus remained he knew not. The sound of footsteps inthe direction of the North transept roused him after a time to thepurpose of his presence. Following the direction indicated to him byone of the sacristans, Eckhardt groped his way through the dismal gloomtowards the enclosure where Nilus of Gaeta was supposed to hold his darksessions. By the dim light of a lamp he perceived in the confessionalthe shadowy form of a monk, and approaching the wicket, he greeted theoccupant with a humble bend of the head. But, what was visible of themonk's countenance was little calculated to relieve the oppression whichburdened Eckhardt's soul.

  From the mask of the converted cynic peered the eyes of a fanatic. Theface was one, which might have suggested to Luca Signorelli the traitsof his Anti-Christ in the Capella Nuova at Orvieto. In the deeppenetrating eyes was reflected the final remorse of the wisdom, whichhad renounced its maker. The face was evil. Yet it was a face ofinfinite grief, as if mourning the eternal fall of man.

  Despite the advanced hour of night the monk was still in his seat ofconfession, and the mighty leader of the German host, wrapt in his longmilitary cloak, knelt before the emaciated anchorite, his face, mannerand voice all betraying a great weariness of mind. A look of almostbodily pain appeared in Eckhardt's stern countenance as, at the requestof the monk, who had receded within the gloom of the confessional, herecounted the phenomena of the night, after having previously acquaintedhim with the burden of his grief.

  The monk listened attentively to the weird tale and shook his head.

  "I am most strangely in my senses," Eckhardt urged, noting the monk'sgesture. "I have seen her,--whether in the body, or the spirit, I knownot,--but I have seen her."

  "I have listened, my son," said the monk after a pause, in his lowsepulchral voice.--"Ginevra loved you,--so you say. What could havewrought a change in her, such as you hint? For if she loved you inlife, she loves you in death. Why should she--supposing herpresent--flee from your outstretched arms? If your love could compelher to return from the beyond,--why should it lack the power to make thephantom give response?"

  "Could I but fathom that mystery,--could I but fathom it!"

  "Did you not speak to her?"

  "My lips but uttered her name!"

  "I am little versed in matters of this kind," the monk replied in astrange tone. "'Tis but the natural law, which may not be transgressedwith impunity. Is your faith so small, that you would rather uproot theholiest ties, than deem yourself the victim of some hallucination,mayhap some jeer of the fiend? Dare you raise yourself on a pedestal,which takes from her her defenceless virtue, cold and silent as her lipsare in death?"

  Every word of the monk struck Eckhardt's heart with a thousand pangs. Adeep groan broke from his lips.

  "Madman that I was," he muttered at last, "to think that such a tale wasfit for mortal ears."

  Then he turned to the monk.

  "Have you no solace to give to me, no light upon the dark path, I amabout to enter upon,--the life of the cloister, where I shall end mydays?"

  There was a long pause. Surprise seemed to have struck the monk dumb.Eckhardt's heart beat stormily in anticipation of the anchorite's reply.

  "But," a voice sounded from the gloom, "have you the patience, thehumility, which it behooves the recluse to possess, and without whichall prayers and penances are in vain?"

  "Show me how I can humble myself more, than at this hour, when Irenounce a life of glory, ambition and command. All I want ispeace,--that peace which has forsaken me since her death!"

  His last words died in a groan.

  "Peace," repeated the monk. "You seek peace in the seclusion of thecloister, in holy devotions. I thought Eckhardt of too stern a mould,to be goaded and turned from his duty by a mere whim, a pale phantom."

  A long silence ensued.

  "Father," said the Margrave at last, speaking in a low and broken voice,"I have done no act of wrong. I will do no act of wrong, while I havecontrol over myself. But the thought of the dead haunts me night andday. Otto has no further need of me. Rome is pacified. The life atcourt is irksome to me. The king loves to surround himself withperfumed popinjays, discarding the time-honoured customs of ourNorthland for the intricate polity of the East.--There is no place forEckhardt in that sphere of mummery."

  For a few moments the monk meditated in silence.

  "It grieves me to the heart," he spoke at last, "to hear a soldierconfess to being tempted into a life of eternal abnegation. I judge itto be a passing madness, which distance and work alone can cure. Youare not fitted in the sight of God and His Mother for the spirituallife, for in Mezentian thraldom you have fettere
d your soul to a corpsein its grave, a sin as black as if you had been taken in adultery withthe dead. Remain in Rome no longer! Return to your post on theboundaries of the realm. There,--in your lonely tent, pray nightly tothe Immaculate One for her blessing and pass the day in the saddle amongthe scattered outposts of your command! The monks of Rome shall not befestered by the presence among them of your fevered soul, and you aresorely needed by God and His Son for martial life."

  "Father, you know not all!" Eckhardt replied after a brief pause, duringwhich he lay prostrate, writhing in agony and despair. "From youth uphave I lived as a man of war.--To this I was bred by my sire andgrandsire of sainted memory. I have always hoped to die on some gloriousfield. But it is all changed. I, who never feared mortal man, amtrembling before a shadow. My love for her, who is no more, has made mea coward. I tremble to think that I may not find her in the darkness,whither soon I may be going. To this end alone I would purchase thepeace, which has departed. The thought of her has haunted me night andday, ever since her death! How often in the watches of the night, onthe tented field, have I lain awake in silent prayer, once more tobehold her face, that I can never more forget!"

  There was another long pause, during which the monk cast a piercingglance at the prostrate soldier. Slowly at last the voice came from theshadows.

  "Then you still believe yourself thus favoured?"

  "So firmly do I believe in the reality of the vision, that I am here toask your blessing and your good offices with the Prior of St. Cosmas inthe matter closest to my heart."

  "Nay," the monk replied as if speaking to himself, "if you have indeedbeen favoured with a vision, then were it indeed presumptuous in one,the mere interpreter of the will divine, to oppose your request! Youhave chosen a strict brotherhood, though, for when your novitiate isended, you will not be permitted to ever again leave the walls of thecloister."

  "Such is my choice," replied Eckhardt. "And now your blessing andintercession, father. Let the time of my novitiate be brief!"

  "I will do what I can," replied the monk, then he added slowly andsolemnly:

  "Christ accepts your obedience and service! I purge you of your sins inthe name of the Trinity and the Mother of God, into whose holy keeping Inow commit you! Go in peace!"

  "I go!" muttered the Margrave, rising exhausted from his long agony andstaggering down the dark aisles of the church.

  Eckhardt's footsteps had no sooner died away in the gloom of thehigh-vaulted arches, than two shadows emerged from behind a pillar andmoved noiselessly down towards the refectory.

  In the dim circle of light emanating from the tapers round the altar,they faced each other a moment.

  "What ails the Teuton?" muttered the Grand Chamberlain, peering into themuffled countenance of the pseudo-confessor.

  "He upbraids the fiend for cheating him of the smile of a corpse," themonk Cyprianus replied with strangely jarring voice.

  "And yet you fear I will lose my wager?" sneered the Chamberlain.

  The monk shrugged his shoulders.

  "They have a proverb in Ferrara: 'He who may not eat a peach, may notsmell at it.'"

  "And you were not revealed to him, you, for whom he has scoured the veryslime of the Tiber?" Benilo queried, ignoring the monk's facetiousness.

  "'Tis sad to think, what changes time has wrought," replied the latterwith downcast eyes. "Truly it behooves us to think of the end,--the endof time!"

  And without another word the monk passed down the aisles and his tallform was swallowed in the gloom of the Church of the Hermits.

  "The end!" Benilo muttered to himself as he thoughtfully gazed after themonk. "Croak thou thine own doom, Cyprianus! One soul weighs as much asanother in the devil's balance!"

  With these words Benilo passed through the portals of the church and wassoon lost to sight among the ruins of the Aventine.