CHAPTER XII
THE CONFESSION
The storm had abated, but the sheen of white lightnings to southwardand the menacing growl of distant thunder that seemed to come from thebowels of the earth held out promise of renewed upheavals of disturbednature.
The streets of Rome were comparatively deserted with the swiftlyapproaching dusk, and it occurred to Tristan to seek the Monk of Clunyin his abode on Mount Aventine whither he had doubtlessly betakenhimself after his sermon in the Basilica of St. Peter's. For ever andever the memory of lost Hellayne dominated his thoughts, and, while hepoured out prayers for peace at the shrines of the saints, with theeyes of the soul he saw not the image of the Virgin, but of the womanfor the sake of whom he had come hither and, having come, knew notwhere to find that which he sought.
From a passing friar Tristan learned the direction of Mount Aventine,where, among the ruins near the newly erected Church of Santa Maria ofthe Aventine, Odo of Cluny abode. Tristan could not but marvel at thecourage of the man whose life was in hourly jeopardy and who, in theface of an ever present menace could put his trust so completely inHeaven as to brave the danger without even a guard.--
Taking the road indicated by the friar, Tristan pursued his solitarypath. In seeking the Monk of Cluny his purpose was a twofold one,certainty with regard to his own guilt, in having loved where love wasa crime, and counsel with regard to the woman who, he instinctivelyfelt, would not stop at her first innuendos.
As Tristan proceeded on his way his feelings and motives became moreand more perplexed, and so lost was he in thought that, without heedinghis way or noting the scattered arches and porticoes, he lost himselfin the wilderness of the Mount of Cloisters. The hush was intensifiedrather than broken by the ever louder peals of thunder, whichreverberated through the valleys, and the Stygian darkness, broken atintervals by vivid flashes of lightning, seemed to hem him in, as awall of basalt.
Gradually all traces of a road vanished. On both sides rose woodyacclivities, covered with ruins and melancholy cypresses, whosespectral outlines seemed to stretch into gaunt immensity, in the sheenof the lightnings which grew more and more frequent. The wind rosesobbingly among the trees, and a few scattered rain-drops began to warnTristan that a shelter of any sort would be preferable to exposinghimself to the onslaught of the elements.
Entering the first group of ruins he came to, he penetrated througha series of roofless corridors and chambers into what seemed a darkcylindrical well at the farther extremity of which there gleamed aninfinitesimal light. Even through the clamor of the storm that ragedoutside there came to him the sound of voices from the interior.
Impelled as much by curiosity as by the consideration of his own safetyTristan crept slowly towards the aperture. As he did so, the lightvanished, but a crimson glow, as of smouldering embers, succeeded,and heavy fumes of incense, wafted to his nostrils, informed him thathis fears regarding the character of the abode were but too wellfounded. He cowered motionless in the gloom until the storm had abated,determined to return at some time to discover what mysteries the placeconcealed.
A fresher breeze had sprung up, driving the thunderclouds to northward,and from a clear azure the stars shone in undimmed lustre upon thedreaming world beneath.
For a moment Tristan stood gazing at the immense desolation, thewilderness of arches, shattered columns and ivy-covered porticoes. Thehopelessness of finding among these relics of antiquity the monk'shermitage impressed itself at once upon him. Pausing irresolutely,he would probably have retraced his steps, had he not chanced to seesome one emerge from the adjacent ruins, apparently bound in the samedirection.
Whether it was a presentiment of evil, or whether the fear bred ofthe region and the hour of the night prompted the precaution, Tristanreceded into the shadows and watched the approaching form, in whom herecognized Basil, the Grand Chamberlain. He at once resolved to followhim and the soft ground aided the execution of his design.
The way wound through a veritable labyrinth of ruins, neverthelesshe kept his eyes on the tall dark form, stalking through the nightbefore him. At times an owl or bat whirled over his head. With theseexceptions he encountered no living thing among the ruins to break thehush of the sepulchral desolation.
The distance between them gradually diminished. Tristan saw the otherturn to the right into a wilderness of grottoes, the tortuous corridorsof which were at times almost choked up with weeds and wild flowers,but when he reached the spot, there was no vestige of a human presence.Basil had disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him.
Possessed by a sudden fear that some harm might be intended the monkand remembering certain veiled threats he had overheard against hislife, he proceeded more slowly and cautiously by the dim light of thestars.
Before long he found himself before a flight of grass grown steps thatled up to a series of desolate chambers which, although rooflessand choked with rank vegetation, still bore traces of their ancientsplendor. These corridors led to a clumsy door, standing half ajar,from beyond which shone the faint glimmer of a light.
After having reached the threshold Tristan paused.
High, oval-shaped apertures admitted light and air at once, and thedying embers of a charcoal fire revealed a chamber, singularly void ofall the comforts of existence. Almost in the centre of this chamber,before a massive stone table, upon which was spread a huge tome, satthe Monk of Cluny, shading his eyes with his right hand and readinghalf aloud.
For a few moments Tristan regarded the recluse breathlessly, as if hedreaded disturbing his meditations, when Odo suddenly raised his eyesand saw the dark form standing in the frame of the door.
The look which he bestowed upon Tristan convinced the latterimmediately of the doubt which the monk harbored regarding the qualityof his belated caller, a doubt which he deemed well to disperse beforeventuring into the monk's retreat.
Therefore, without abandoning his position, he addressed the inmate ofthe chamber and, as he spoke, the tone of his voice seemed to carryconviction, that the speaker was sincere.
"Your pardon, father," Tristan stammered, "for one who is seeking youin an hour of grave doubt and misgiving."
The monk's ear had caught the accent of a foreign tongue. He beckonedto Tristan to enter, rising from the bench on which he had been seated.
"You come at a strange hour," he said, not without a note of suspicion,which did not escape Tristan. "Your business must be weighty indeedto embolden one, a stranger on Roman soil, to penetrate the desolateAventine when the world sleeps and murder stalks abroad."
"I am here for a singular purpose, father,--having obeyed the impulseof the moment, after listening to your sermon at St. Peter's."
"But that was hours ago," interposed the monk, resting his hand on thestone table, as he faced his visitor.
"I lost my way--nor did I meet any one to point it," Tristan replied,as he advanced and kissed the monk's hand reverently.
"What is your business, my son?" asked the monk.
Tristan hesitated a moment. At last he spoke.
"I came to Rome not of my own desire,--but obeying the will of anotherthat imposed the pilgrimage. I have sinned, father--and yet there aremoments, when I would almost glory in that which I have done. It wasmy purpose, while at St. Peter's to confess to the Grand Penitentiary.But--I know not why--I chose you instead, knowing that you would givetruth for truth."
The monk regarded his visitor, wondering what one so young andpossessed of so frank a countenance might have done amiss.
"You are a pilgrim?" he queried at last.
"For my sins--"
"Of French descent, yet not a Frenchman--"
Tristan started at the monk's penetration.
"From Provence, father," he stammered, "the land of songs and flowers--"
"And women--" the monk interposed gravely.
"There are women everywhere, father."
"There are women and women. Perchance I should say 'Woman.'"
Tristan bowed his head
in silence.
The monk cast a penetrating glance at his visitor. He understood thegesture and the silence with that quick comprehension that came to himwho was to reform Holy Catholic Church from the abuse of decades--as anintuition.
"But now, my son, speak of yourself," said the monk after a pause.
"I lived at the court of Avalon, the home of Love and Troubadours."
"Of Troubadours?" the monk interposed dreamily. "A worldly lot--givento extolling free love and what not--"
"They may sing of love and passion, father, but their lives are pureand chaste," Tristan ventured to remonstrate.
"You are a Troubadour?" came the swift query.
"In my humble way." Tristan replied with bowed head.
The monk nodded.
"Go on--go on!"
"At the court of Avalon I met the consort of Count Roger de Laval. Hewas much absent, on one business or another,--the chase--feuds withneighboring barons.--He chose me to help the Lady Hellayne to whileaway the long hours during his absence--"
"His wife! What folly!"
"The Count de Laval is one of those men who would tempt the heavensthemselves to fall upon him rather than to air himself beneath them.That his fair young wife, doing his will among men given to the chaseand drinking bouts, and the society of tainted damsels, should long forsomething higher, she, whom he regarded with the high air of the lordof creation--that she should dare dream of some intangible something,for which she hungered, and craved and starved--"
"If you are about to confess, as I conceive, to a wrong you have doneto this same lord," interposed the monk, "your sin is not less black ifyou paint him you have wronged in odious tints."
"Nevertheless I am most sorry to do so, father," Tristan interposed,"else could I not make you understand to its full extent his folly andconceit by placing me, a creature of emotion, day by day beside sofair a being as his young wife. Therefore I would explain."
"It needs some explanation truly!" the monk said sternly.
"The Count de Laval is a man whose conceit is so colossal, father, thathe would never think it possible that any one could fail in love andadmiration at the shrine which he built for himself. A man of supremearrogance and self-righteousness."
"Sad, indeed--" mused the monk.
"Our thoughts were pagan, drifting back to the days when the world waspeopled with sylvan creatures--with the deities of field and stream--"
"Mere heathen dreams," interposed the monk. "Go on! Go on!"
"I then felt within myself the impulse to throw forth a minstrelsyprophetic of a new world resembling that old which had vanished. It wasnot to be a mere chant of wrath or exultation--it was to sound the joyof the earth, of the air, of the sun, of the moon and the stars,--thesong of the birds, the perfume of the flowers--"
"Words that have but little meaning left in this stern world wherein wedwell--"
"They had meaning for me, father. Also for her. They were to both ofus a bright and mystical ideal, in the fumes of which we steeped oursouls,--our very selves, till our natures seemed to know no hurt,seemed incapable of evil--"
"Alas--the greater the pity!"
"I was sure of myself. She was sure of me. I loved her. Her presencewas to me as some intoxication of the soul--some rare perfume thatcaptivates the senses, raising the spirit to heights too rarefied forbreath--"
"And you fell?"
The words came from the monk's lips, slowly, inexorably, as the knellof fate.
"I--all, but fell!" stammered Tristan. "One day in a chamber farremoved from the inhabited part of the castle we sat and read. Andsuddenly she laid her face close to mine and with eyes in whose mysticdepths lurked something more than I had ever seen in them before askedwhy, through Fate's high necessity, two should forever wander side byside, longing for each other--their longing unsatisfied--when the hourwas theirs--"
Again Tristan paused.
The monk regarded him in silence.
"You fell?" the question came again.
"In that moment, father, I was no more myself, no more the one whoseart is sacred and alone upon the mountain summit of his soul. Itsfreedom and aspirations were no more. I was undone, a tumbled, winglessthing. My pride had fled. Long, long I looked into her eyes, and whenshe put her wonderful white arms about me, I, in a dizzy moment ofdesire, dropped my face to hers. Then was love all uttered. StraightwayI arose. I clasped her in my arms. I kissed--I kissed her--"
The monk regarded him sternly, yet not unkindly.
"It was a sin. Yet--there is more?"
Tristan's hands were clasped.
"One evening in the rose garden--at dusk--the evening on which she sentme from her--bade me go to Rome to obtain forgiveness for a sin ofwhich I could not repent."
The monk nodded. "Go on! Go on!"
"The world had fallen away from us. We stood in a grove, our arms abouteach other. Suddenly I saw a face. I withdrew my arm, overwhelmed byall the shame of guilt. The face vanished and, passion overmasteringonce more, we touched our lips anew. It was the last time we were tosee each other. I left behind the wondrous silken hair my hands hadtouched in our last mad caress. I left behind that tender face andform. She made no attempt to follow, or to call me back. I hastenedto my chamber, and there I fought anew with all that evil impulse ofmy youth, to face the shame, as long as joy endured. If I had sinnedin mind against my high ideal might I not some day recover it and bepurified?"
"What of God and Holy Church?" queried the monk.
"To them I gave no heed, but to my honor. This upheld me."
The monk gave a nod.
"I left Avalon. It seemed as if without her my life were ebbing away. Ijoined a pilgrim party, and now my pilgrimage is ended. What must I doto still this inward craving that will not leave my soul at peace?"
He ended in a sob.
The monk had relapsed into deep thought, and Tristan's eyes wereriveted on the ascetic form in silent dread, as to what would be theverdict.
At last Odo broke the heavy silence.
"You have committed a grievous sin--adultery--nay, speak not!" he said,as Tristan attempted to remonstrate against the dire accusation. "Theseed of every act slumbers in the mind ere its pernicious shoots aremanifest in deeds. He who looks upon a woman with the desire to possessher has already committed adultery with her. Yet--not one in a thousandwould have done so nobly under such temptation!"
The monk's voice betrayed some feeling as he placed his hand onTristan's bowed head.
"I shall consider what penances are most fit for one who hastransgressed as you have, my son. It is for your future life--perchanceHoly Orders--"
Tristan raised his head imploringly.
"Not that, father,--not that! I am not fit!"
The monk regarded him quizzically.
"The lust of the eye is mighty and the fever of the world still burnsin your veins, my son, rebelling against the passion that chastens andpurifies. Nevertheless, the Church desires no enforced service. Shewishes to be served through love, not with aversion and fear. Continueto do penance, implore His forgiveness, and that He may take from youthis worldly desire."
Kissing anew the hand which the monk extended, Tristan arose, after Odohad made upon him the holy sign.
"I shall obey your behest," he said in a low, broken voice, thenwithdrew, while the Monk of Cluny returned to his former pursuit,unconscious that another had witnessed and overheard the strangeconfession from a recess in the wall.
As one in a trance Tristan left the Monk of Cluny, his heart filledwith gratitude for the man who, in the midst of a world of strife andunrest, had listened to his tale and had not dealt harshly with him,but had received him sympathetically, even while rebuking the offence.While the penances imposed upon him were not severe, Tristan chafednevertheless under the restraint they laid upon his soul.
What was his future life to be? What new vistas would open before him?What new impressions would superimpose themselves upon the memories ofthe past--the memory of Hellayne
?
As he passed the church of Santa Maria of the Aventine, Tristan sawthe portals open. Puzzled over the problems he was face in the days tocome, he entered the dim shadows of the sanctuary.
All that night Tristan knelt in solitary prayer.
The great church was empty and silent, unlit save for the lamp upon thealtar. There Tristan kept his vigil, his tired, tearful eyes upon thecrucifixion, searching his own heart.
The night of silence brought him no vision and shed no light upon hispath. The pale dawn found him still upon his knees before the altar,his eyes upon the drooping form of the crucified Christ.
Thus the monks found him when they entered for early Matins. At last hearose, in his sombre eyes a touching resignation and infinite regret.
END OF BOOK THE FIRST
BOOK THE SECOND