Chapter III (3)

"I thought as much," said I. "All those whom he could not induce to believe were cured, he sent away as not having sufficient faith--the wily rascal! Now, my good woman, I really _do_ wonder at your placing faith in such trash. If you knew as much about Peppe's character as I do, you would very soon cease to look upon him as a saint. Besides, what are the diseases you tell me he has cured? Headaches, jumps, nervousness, low spirits, want of appetite, etc.--trifles all of them.

"He was supposed by all to have been miraculously raised from the dead, and they therefore concluded that he must have been a holy man, for such a miracle ever to have been wrought upon him, and being so esteemed, they at once jumped at the conclusion that he was gifted with power to work miracles. Accordingly, all the scum of the village turns out and follows him, placing implicit faith in his power to cure them of their half imaginary complaints. They receive his touch, pay their money, and their imagination worked upon, they fancy themselves healed. This is the secret of all his boasted success, for you say yourself that in all those cases that were worth healing he signally failed."

"Be that as it may, Signor," replied the woman, "you will hardly pretend to account for the miracle wrought upon Peppe himself in that manner. How could a man be raised from the dead by imagination? I don't see how."

"You don't? Then I will tell you; listen."

I here proceeded to retail the account of Peppe's feigned decease in order to escape paying his debt of three pauls; the entrance of the brigands into the church with the spoil, since proved to have been robbed from six English travellers and others who were making their way towards Rome on that very night; the dividing of the spoil upon the altar, and the diamond ring that remained over, with which one of the brigands dexterously succeeded in startling Peppe out of the sleep into which he had fallen, by hitting him on the nose, and finally, the confusion of the brigands at the sight of what they supposed to be a resuscitated corpse.

I also related how they had abandoned the treasure in their flight, and how Peppe, taking advantage of his position, proceeded to gather together the said treasure, intending to keep it all for himself. How Antonio at this moment burst from his hiding place in the confessional, whither he had resorted in order to satisfy himself whether his friend's death were genuine or spurious. How both of them disputed the treasure, how they agreed to divide it equally, and how the diamond ring became a bone of contention. How they were surprised by the sacristan early the next morning. The sacristan's avarice, revenge, and hypocrisy. I dilated on the story, not omitting the minutest particular, and winding up with the subsequent conversion of the brigands, and letting her know upon what authority I had come to the knowledge of these facts.

The discomfiture of my hostess at hearing her darling miracle explained away by natural causes, and those, too, of so ridiculous a nature, was truly pitiable. I believe, in her heart, she wished that I had never put up at her inn, so that I might not have dispelled the sweet illusion.

Not many days after my hostess had become convinced of the spuriousness of her once cherished miracle, the brigand-catchers returned after their fruitless search, but being put upon the right scent immediately on their return, they set off at once to the convent, where they commanded the monks, in the name of the law, to deliver up the prisoners. It was, however, too late. The brigands in the meantime had written a full confession of their crime to the Pope, with an account of the miracle and of their sudden determination, in consequence, of leading holy lives for the future, and had received from His Holiness pardon and absolution, on condition that they should follow out their virtuous intentions.

The document, with the pontifical seal affixed to it, was placed into the hands of these emissaries of the law, who had now nothing to do but to retire. The brigands had been transformed into monks; so far no one had anything to say but the six English travellers, the victims in the late robbery, and who had lost no time on their arrival in Rome in informing the government of their loss, and urging the immediate capture of the brigands; having heard of the extraordinary turn the affair had taken, now impatiently demanded their money back.

Believers in the late miracle now grew scarcer and scarcer every day, the eyes of the most obstinate being now open to conviction by overwhelming evidence. Peppe had lost his prestige as a saint, and the headaches, jumps, fits of melancholy, loss of appetite, and other small evils of which his patients had thought themselves miraculously cured, came back again as before to the indignant faithful, who, armed, in a body laid siege to the house of the "soi-disant" saint, vowing to burn his dwelling over his head, if he refused to give back to each the money that under false pretences he had extorted.

There is no knowing what an infuriated Italian mob may not be guilty of perpetrating in the height of its fury; but let its rage be once drawn aside by some novel excitement or emotion, its fury will evaporate, expending its force through another channel. It might have gone hard with Peppe, if a trifling incident had not served to avert the fury of the mob when at its climax. This was the arrival of the diligence with the six Englishmen, whose pecuniary losses we have before alluded to, and who have arrived to claim their money from the arch-priest.

Trifling as this incident was, it proved sufficient to induce the inhabitants of this sequestered village to abandon their purpose, and their curiosity now being raised to its height, they relinquished their victim for a time, in order to have a good stare at the six illustrious strangers who had fallen a prey to the brigands, while Peppe, taking advantage of the general confusion, made his escape from the back door of his hut, and was soon lost to view in the thick grove of olive trees that flanked the slopes of the hill.

My story now draws towards a close. The money was returned to the owners, who were received with courtesy by the arch-priest, from whose very lips they heard a detailed account of the late miracle, and so delighted were they with the simplicity and urbanity of their new acquaintance, that they each made him a handsome present out of the money restored to them, for the benefit of his church, and perhaps as a slight compensation for the dissatisfaction he must have felt at the miracle not proving genuine.

The diamond ring likewise fell to the lot of the arch-priest, with the full permission from the donor to dispose of it as he might think fit, and after an exchange of compliments and civilities, the Englishmen took their departure.

The duplicity and avarice of the sacristan having now fairly come to light, he was dismissed, and another chosen to supply his place. Meanwhile the trial of Antonio was going on in the township of Gennazzano. Being summoned to appear as a witness, I was forced to go, and had the satisfaction of being mainly instrumental in the acquittal of my friend, who returned to his native village, where on his arrival he was carried in triumph over the heads of the cheering populace.

The sum presented to the arch-priest, together with the diamond ring, which had been taken to Rome to be estimated and converted into money, was expended by our pastor in alleviating the sufferings of the poor amongst his flock, after which there remained a surplus sufficient to purchase two silver candlesticks for the altar of San Rocco, the protecting saint of the village.

Peppe had judiciously hidden himself in the mountains until the fury of his patients had considerably abated, but Antonio discovering him one day, renewed his claim to the three pauls. I forget the excuse he made on this occasion, but I know for a certainty that the debt was never repaid during the whole of my stay in that part of the country.

Some months passed over without anything worthy of record, but the sequel of this narrative is to come. A friar, unknown to the inhabitants of our village, appeared one Sunday morning to perform mass in the Church of San Rocco. His shaven crown, bronzed skin, and high aquiline features made him an object of intense veneration among the devout congregation, as being unmistakable signs of a pure and austere life. He was a man of middle age, tall, and well knit, his beard on the verge of turning grey. The features were worn, but energetic, yet a physiognomist might have observed that the eyes were somewhat small in comparison with the rest of the face and moved rather too rapidly and furtively from left to right than was strictly necessary to complete the physiognomy of one whose life had been completely devoted to religious contemplation. His arrival had created a sensation in the village, and many who had never confessed from one year's end to the other, impelled by curiosity, flocked to the church that day to confess to the stranger monk, imagining, no doubt, that the absolution of one from afar and unknown in the villages was more valid than that of the arch-priest or any more familiar prelate.

Familiarity breeds contempt, as we all know, therefore we so often find that Roman Catholics prefer confessing to some priest or friar that they meet for the first time, and are not likely to meet again, rather than to their parish priest, to whom the most secret thought of their inner lives is already known.

Among those who flocked to confess to the stranger monk, whose majestic bearing had impressed everyone with his sanctity, were our two friends Antonio and Peppe, who, having neither of them confessed for a very long time, sought this opportunity of disburdening their souls of those sins they were ashamed of confessing to a priest of their own native village.

Antonio, to whom I am indebted for the sequel of this tale, declared to me that he experienced a thrill he was unable to account for as the friar entered the confessional; but setting this down to nervousness at not having confessed for so long, he endeavoured to concentrate his thoughts, and began what is called a "general confession," commencing with the sins of his earliest childhood down to those of recent date.

Fancying that he might have been guilty of avarice in pressing too hardly on his friend for the debt of the three pauls and of sacrilege in having hidden all night in the confessional, and afterwards quarrelling with his friend over the treasure within the very church itself, it occurred to him to relate the whole circumstance to the father confessor, not omitting the entry of the brigands and their subsequent fright at what they supposed to be the sudden resurrection of one from the dead.

Now, Antonio during the whole of this confession had his eyes fixed upon the countenance of his confessor, which he could see distinctly through the grating. It struck him from the first that the features of the monk were familiar to him, yet he could not call to mind where or under what circumstances he had seen them before. He had been racking his brain for some time past in order to recollect where he had ever met him, but to no purpose.

He observed that when he began enumerating all the peccadilloes of his early years the confessor evinced the utmost indifference, yawning every now and then, and not deigning a reply; but as soon as he began to talk about the miracle and the treasure abandoned by the brigands in their fright, he immediately pricked up his ears and changed colour.

"Eh, what?" he cried, suddenly waking out of a doze. "Just oblige me by beginning that again, will you?"

Antonio, though somewhat surprised at the monk's abrupt change of manner, nevertheless set it down to the natural interest that so extraordinary a tale inspired, and recommenced his story, detailing nicely every circumstance, especially the feigned death of Peppe; with an exact description of his own feelings at the time.

Now it happened that Peppe, being in church, and seeing his friend on his knees at the confessional, thought he could do no less than confess likewise, so, falling on his knees on the opposite side to his friend, he prepared to pour out his soul through the opposite grating, into the left ear of the father confessor, as soon as his friend should have risen from his knees.

Antonio at length having finished, and received absolution, remained a moment or two in prayer, whilst Peppe took his turn. Whatever the subject of Peppe's confession might have been, it had an extraordinary effect upon the monk. He became visibly agitated, and the muscles of his face twitched nervously.

"Then it wasn't a miracle, after all," he gasped, throwing himself back, while something strongly resembling an oath rose to his lips, but was instantly stifled. His bronzed features had become livid, and hastily giving his absolution, he hurried from the confessional.

Our two friends had remained behind the rest of the congregation, and on rising from their knees and finding themselves alone in the church, each advanced towards the other in a spirit of Christian forgiveness, and shook his friend warmly by the hand, the subject of the three pauls being dropped on this occasion.

"By the way, Peppe," said Antonio, after a short interchange of genial conversation, "did you ever set eyes on that confessor before, think you?"

"Well, now you mention it, friend Antonio, his features _do_ seem familiar to me, yet I can't call to mind where I have seen him," answered Peppe.

"Ah!" suddenly ejaculated Antonio, "I have it. If that monk is not the head brigand whom you so miraculously scared away by rising from the dead, may I be--shot."

"_Per Baccounaccio!_ friend Antonio, you're right," exclaimed his friend; "it _is_ the very same. I thought I knew him all the while. Well this is strange; and we have been confessing to a brigand chief!"

"True," said Antonio; "but of course you have heard that in consequence of the supposed miracle, he and the rest of his band became converted and took holy vows, having received a full pardon from the Pope for their past misdeeds. He now performs mass, and therefore his absolution is worth just as much as that of any other ecclesiastic."

"Yes, yes; I've no doubt," replied Peppe; "but, I say, Anthony, if you had but noticed how uncommonly interested he became in the middle of my confession! That was because I confessed to him the trick I played upon you, old friend, that night. You remember, eh? Ha! ha! Well, as soon as I began to talk about jumping up from the dead, and how the brigands scampered away helter-skelter, leaving their treasure behind them in their flight, I noticed him change colour, and he grew impatient to know more. I thought it strange that he should appear to take such interest in the matter. Now I can account for his look of remorse that puzzled me so before. He is angry with himself at being frightened into turning monk by a sham miracle."

"I, too, noticed the very same thing, friend Peppe," said Antonio, "when I likewise confessed the same story. I'll lay my life that he now repents him of having turned monk. Perhaps he suspected that we recognised him, and that was the reason he hastened away so after confession. I wonder where he is now?"

The mysterious monk had disappeared; so had the two silver candlesticks on the altar. Extraordinary coincidence! Had they also vanished by a miracle?

They were on the altar when our two friends went to confess, as both of them declared. Perhaps the new sacristan had taken them away to clean after the departure of the congregation.

No; the sacristan was questioned, he knew naught but that they were still on the altar. The affair caused much gossip and surmise, and much time was lost in loud talking and angry gesticulations. The arch-priest at length appeared on the spot, and our two friends Antonio and Peppe communicated to him their suspicions--viz., that the unknown friar, whom both of them recognised to be no other than the brigand chief himself, had purloined the silver candlesticks immediately after confession, and made his escape into the mountains. Search was now made for the thief, but the day was already far spent and the monk had had ample time to reach the convent before his pursuers thought of going in search of him.

On the following day the arch-priest called at the convent in person, acquainted the monks there with his loss, and stated his suspicions. He was informed by them that the band of brigands who had only lately become converted and had entered their order, and who, up to the present time, had shown themselves most exemplary in conduct, to the great surprise of their brother monks, had suddenly decamped in the dead of night, no one knew how. They had evidently resumed their former profession, as they had left their cassocks behind them, and their arms, which had been hung up in the chapel as trophies of their conversion, had been removed.

The affair of the silver candlesticks was unknown to the rest of the order, but shortly afterwards a silversmith in Rome, to whose shop a handsome pair of silver candlesticks was brought for sale, having some scruples at receiving stolen goods, and distrusting much the appearance of the person who brought them, sent secretly to the police, who took in charge the suspected party. Now it happened about that time in the vicinity of Rome, that a certain band of brigands had been guilty of the most fearful outrages. The police were already on their track, and the capture of the suspected vendor of stolen goods subsequently led to the discovery of the whole band, which was soon identified as the same which had once received the Pope's pardon and had entered into holy orders. They were accordingly tried, condemned, and executed on the summit of the fort of St. Angelo, which is built on the ruins of the ancient tomb of Hadrian, on the banks of the Tiber.

* * * * *

By the time our artist had finished his story, and received Helen's warm eulogium on the same, the sitting had already come to an end. Dame Hearty now knocked at the door to ask if her daughter could be spared, as she found that she really could not go through her household duties without her.

"Just one moment," said McGuilp; "there, Helen, just place yourself once more as you were, and I shall have finished with you for the day. Just one more touch."

The artist then began working rapidly for some ten minutes, as if his life were at stake, when suddenly throwing himself back in his chair, as if exhausted after some stupendous effort, he exclaimed: "There now!"

These magical words were the signal for Helen's liberation, and now both mother and daughter placed themselves behind the artist's chair and proceeded to criticise his work.

"Oh my! what a love of a pictur'!" exclaimed Dame Hearty; "and how exactly like our Helen. Oh, if ever! Well I never! I do declare," etc.

"And how you have improved it this sitting! Why, last time I thought there was no more to do to it, but now it is life itself."

"You flatter me, Helen," said McGuilp; "for I assure you that the portrait is still in a most crude and unfinished state."

"How say you?--still unfinished?" cried Helen. "Well, if you go on at that rate, by next sitting I shall expect to hear it speak."

"Come, Helen," said her mother, "we must be off, for we have no time to lose. Another time, when we have less to do, I shall be most happy to let you assist the gentleman to finish his pictur'," and curtseying to McGuilp, she led her daughter out of the room, while the painter was left to the uninspired operations of cleaning his palette and brushes, and putting his studio in order previous to joining the other members of the club.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] A paul is half a franc.

[8] A corruption of the word _compare_ (godfather) which is used as a familiar appellation among the peasantry, even when no such relations exists between them.

[9] Paini, the grade between a peasant and a gentleman.

[10] A sort of pudding made of chestnut flour.

[11] A species of cake made of Indian corn, used much among the Italian peasantry, being cheaper than bread.

[12] A paul is half a franc, and equal to five pence.

[13] Padrone, master.

[14] Oh, my holy souls of Purgatory!

[15] Body of St. Anthony of Padua!

[16] A corruption of per Cristo.

[17] It is the custom in Roman Catholic countries for the dead to be exposed in the centre of the church for twenty-four hours upon a bier, with a candle burning.

[18] To your Lordship.

[19] A halfpenny.