CHAPTER III. THE CLOISTER BROTHERS OF SAN GIOVANNI E PAOLO.
The Prior of San Giovanni e Paolo had just returned from the second mass celebrated in the beautiful church of his cloister, the burial-place of the great Titiano Vicelli. With his arms folded across his back, he walked slowly and thoughtfully backward and forward, then stood before a large table at which a monk was occupied in unfolding letters and maps.
“This, your worship,” said the monk, opening a new paper, “is an exact plan of the region around Mayen; we have just received it, and the positions of the two armies are plainly marked down. If agreeable to your worship, I will read the bulletins aloud, and you can follow the movements of the troops upon the map.”
The prior shook his head softly. “No, Brother Anselmo, do not read again the triumphant bulletins of the Austrians and Russians; they pain my ears and my heart. Let us rather look at the map to see if the present position of the army offers any ground of hope.”
“I have marked it all out with pins,” said Father Anselmo; “the black pins signify the army of the allies, the white pins the army of the King of Prussia.”
The prior bowed over the map, and his eye followed thoughtfully the lines which Father Anselmo marked out. “Your pins are a sad omen,” he said, shaking his head. “The black ones surround like a churchyard wall the white ones, which stand like crosses upon the solitary graves in the midst of their black enclosures.”
“But the white pins will break through the enclosure,” said Father Anselmo, confidently. “The great king—“Father Anselmo stopped speaking; suddenly the door opened, and the father guardian asked if he might enter.
The prior blushed slightly, and stepped back from the table as the sharp eyes of the father guardian wandered around the room and fell at last with a sarcastic expression upon the table covered with maps and plans.
“Welcome, Brother Theodore,” said the prior, with a slight nod of the head.
“I fear that I disturb your worship in your favorite occupation,” said the father guardian, pointing to the maps. “Your worship is considering the unfortunate condition of the heretical king whom God, as it appears, will soon cast down in the dust, and crush at the feet of the triumphant Church.”
“We must leave results, at all events, to God,” said the prior, softly; “He has so often evidently lent his aid to the King of Prussia, that I think no one can count confidently upon Frederick’s destruction now.”
“The Holy Father at Rome has blessed the weapons of his adversaries, consequently they must triumph,” cried Father Theodore, unctuously. “But pardon, your worship, I forgot my errand. A stranger wishes to see the prior of the cloister; he has rare and beautiful relics to sell, which he will only show to your worship.”
“Our church is rich enough in relics,” said the prior.
“Your worship does not attach any especial value to such things,” said the father guardian with a derisive smile; “but I must allow myself to recall to you that the Holy Father in Rome has only lately addressed a circular to all the cloisters, recommending the purchase of rare relics to the awakening and advancing of the true faith.”
“You, father guardian, must understand that matter best,” said Brother Anselmo, sticking four new pins into his map. “I think you brought back this circular about six months since, when you returned to take the place of guardian.”
The father was in the act of giving an angry answer, but the prior came forward, and pointing to the door, said, “Introduce the stranger with the relics.”
A few moments later the traveller from the hotel of Signor Montardo entered the prior’s room. He received a kindly welcome, and was asked to show his treasures.
The stranger hesitated, and looked significantly at the two monks. “I begged to be allowed to show them to your worship alone,” said he.
“These two fathers are consecrated priests, and may therefore dare to look upon the holy treasures,” said the prior, with a scarcely perceptible smile.
“I solemnly swore to the man from whom I bought these relics that I would only show them to the most worthy member of your order; he was a very pious man, and bitter necessity alone forced him to sell his precious treasures; he prayed to God to grant them a worthy place, and never to allow them to be desecrated by unholy eyes or hands. As the most holy and worthy brother is ever chosen to be the prior, I swore to show the relics only to the prior. Your worship will surely not ask me to break my oath?”
The prior made no answer, but nodded to the two monks, who silently left the room.
“And now, sir, show your treasures,” said the prior, as the door closed behind them.
“Your worship,” said the stranger, rapidly, “I have nothing but a letter from the Abbe Bastiani, which I was to give to your own hands.” He drew a letter from his bosom, which he handed to the prior, who received it with anxious haste and hid it in his robe; then, with quick but noiseless steps he passed hastily through the room, and with a rapid movement dashed open the door; a low cry was heard, and a black figure tumbled back upon the floor.
“Ah! is that you, father guardian?” said the prior, in a tone of sympathy. “I fear that I hurt you.”
“Not so, your worship; I only returned to say to you that it is the hour for dinner, and the pious brothers are already assembled in the hall.”
“And I opened the door to call after you, father, and entreat you to take my place at the table. As I am in the act of looking at these holy relics, and touching them, I dare not soil my hands so soon afterward with earthly food. You will, therefore, kindly take my place, and I will not appear till the evening meal. Go, then, worthy brother, and may God bless you richly.” He bowed and raising his right hand, made the sign of the cross, while the father guardian slowly, and with a frowning brow, passed through the room. Having reached the opposite door, he paused and looked back; but seeing the prior still standing upon the threshold of his room, and gazing after him, he dashed open the door and disappeared. “Now, sir,” said the prior, entering and closing the door carefully, “we are alone, and I am ready to listen to you.”
“I pray your worship to read first the letter of your brother, the Abbe Bastiani.”
“Ah! he has told you that I am his brother?” said the prior, eagerly. “He trusts you then, fully? Well, I will read the letter.” He opened and read it impatiently. “This is a very laconic and enigmatical letter,” said he. “My brother refers me wholly to you; he assures me I can confide entirely in your silence and discretion, and entreats me to assist you in the attainment of your object. Make known to me then, signor, in what way I can serve you, and what aim you have in view.”
“First, I will give your worship a proof that I trust you fully and unconditionally. I will tell you who I am, and then make known my purpose; you will then be able to decide how far you can give me counsel and aid.”
“Let us step into this window-niche,” said the prior; “we will be more secure from eavesdroppers. Now, signor, I am ready to listen.”
The stranger bowed. “First, I must pray your worship’s forgiveness, for having dared to deceive you. I am no merchant, and have nothing to do with relics; I am a soldier! my name is Cocceji, and I have the honor to be an adjutant of the King of Prussia. My royal master has intrusted me with a most important and secret mission, and I am commissioned by your brother, the Abbe Bastiani, to ask in his name for your assistance in this great matter.”
“In what does your mission consist?” said the prior, calmly.
The Baron Cocceji smiled. “It is difficult—yes, impossible to tell you in a few words. Your worship must allow me a wider scope, in order to explain myself fully.”
“Speak on!” said the prior.
“I see, by the maps and the arrangements of the pins, that your worship knows exactly the position and circumstances of my royal master, whom all Europe admires and wonders at, and whom his enemies fear most when they have just defeated him. They know that my king is never so great, never so energetic and bold in action, as when he is seemingly at a disadvantage, and overwhelmed by misfortunes. The bold glance of the great Frederick discovers ever-new fountains of help; he creates in himself both power and strength, and when his enemies think they have caught the royal lion in their nets, his bold eye has already discovered the weak spot; he tears it apart, and makes his foes, bewildered with terror and astonishment, fly before him. It is true, the king has just lost three battles! The Austrians and Russians defeated him at Hochkirch, at Kunersdorf, and at Mayen. But what have they gained? They have, in these three battles, lost more than the king; they have exhausted their resources—their own, and those of their allies; but Frederick stands still opposed to them, full of strength and power. His army is enlarged; from every side, from every province, shouting crowds stream onward to join the colors of their king. Enthusiasm makes a youth of the graybeard, and changes boys to men. Each one of them will have his part in the experience and fame of the great Frederick, and demands this of him as a holy right. The king’s treasury is not exhausted; the people, with joy and gladness, have offered up upon the altar of the fatherland, their possessions, their jewels, and their precious things, and submit with enthusiasm to all the restrictions and self-denials which the war imposes upon them. They desire nothing but to see their king victorious; to help him to this, they will give property, blood—yes, life itself. It is this warm, enthusiastic love of his people which makes the king so fearful to his enemies; it protects him like a diamond shield, steels him against the balls of his adversaries, and fills his proud, heroic soul with assurances of triumph. All Europe shares this enthusiasm and these convictions of ultimate success with the Prussians and their dear-loved king. All Europe greets the hero with loud hosannas, who alone defies so many and such mighty foes, who has often overcome them, and from whom they have not yet wrung one single strip of the land they have watered with their blood, and in whose bosom their fallen hosts lie buried in giant graves. This has won for him the sympathy of all Europe, and the love and admiration of even the subjects of his great and powerful foes. In France—that France, whose warriors suffered so shameful a defeat at Rossbach, and whose government is filled with rage and thirsty for revenge against this heroic king—even in France is Frederick admired and worshipped. Even in the palace of the king, they no longer refuse to acknowledge his worth and glory. But lately, the young Duke de Belleisle exhorted the Marquise de Pompadour to implore King Louis to prosecute the war with earnestness and ardor, otherwise King Frederick might soon be expected in Paris with his army. The Marquise de Pompadour cried out warmly, ‘Good! then I shall at last see a king!’ In Germany, his enemies seek in vain to arouse the fanaticism of the people against the heretical king. Catholic Bavaria—the Palatinate-Main—enter murmuringly and reluctantly into this war against this Protestant king, although they wear the beads in their pockets, and the scapular over their shoulders. Even if Frederick the Second is now overcome by his enemies, in the public opinion he is the conqueror, and the whole world sympathizes with him. But public opinion is his only ally, and the sympathy of the people is his only source of revenue, outside of the subsidy from England, which will soon be exhausted. Frederick, therefore, must look after other allies, other friends, who will render him assistance, in so far as not to unsheathe the sword against him, and to prepare some difficulties for his adversaries, and occupy a portion of their attention. Such friends the king hopes to find in Italy; and to attain this object, I would ask counsel and help of your worship.”
“And in how far is it thought that I can be useful in this matter?” said the prior, thoughtfully.
“Your worship has a second brother, who is minister of the King of Sardinia, and it is well known he is the king’s especial confidant and favorite.”
“And my noble brother, Giovanni, merits fully the favor of his king!” said the prior, heartily. “He is the most faithful, the most exalted servant of his master!”
“In all his great and good characteristics, he resembles his brother, the Prior of San Giovanni, and I hope, in this also, that he is the friend of the King of Prussia!” said the stranger.
“But I fear neither the friendship of my brother Giovanni nor my own can be useful to the King of Prussia. I am a poor and powerless monk, suspected and watched. My offence is, that I have not, like the fanatical priests of the Church, wished for the destruction and death of the great Frederick. My brother is the minister of a king, whose land is neither rich enough in gold to pay subsidies, nor in men to place an army in the field.”
“Well, then, we must take occasion to increase the territory of the King of Sardinia!” said Baron Cocceji. “We must give him so large a realm, that he will be a dangerous neighbor to France and Austria. This is the plan and the intention of my king. Upon these points turn the proposals I will make in Turin, for the furtherance of which, I pray your assistance. The King of Sardinia has well-grounded claim to Milan, to Mantua, and to Bologna, by the treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle; why not make himself King of Lombardy? Unhappy Italy is like unhappy Germany—torn to pieces. In place of obeying one master, they must submit to the yoke of many. The dwellers in Italy, instead of being Italians, call themselves Milanese, Venetians, Sardinians, Tuscans, Romans, Neapolitans, and I know not what. All this weakens the national pride, and takes from the people the joyful consciousness of their greatness. Italy must be one in herself, in order to be once more great and powerful. Let the King of Sardinia take possession of Upper Italy, and he will, with his rightful inheritance, and as King of Lombardy, be a powerful prince—feared by his enemies, and welcomed by his allies.”
“And do you think that Naples would look quietly on and witness this rapid growth of Sardinia?” said the prior, laughing.
“We will give to Naples an opportunity at the same time to enlarge her borders the young King of Naples has energy; he has proved it. When his father, Don Carlos, was called by right of succession to the Spanish throne, he had himself declared King of Naples, not regarding the right of the Duke of Parma, to whom, according to the treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle, the Neapolitan throne rightly belonged. King Ferdinand is already a usurper! Let him go on, even as successfully in the same path—he has taken Naples—let him take Tuscany and the States of the Church, and, as King of Lower Italy, he will be as powerful as the King of Sardinia. In order that both may obtain possession of these lands uninterrupted and uninjured, will the King of Prussia so completely occupy the attention of Austria and France in Germany and Flanders as to make it impossible for them to interfere with Naples and Sardinia?” [Footnote: Preuss, “History of Frederick the Great.”]
“By Heaven! a great and bold idea; altogether in harmony with the energetic spirit of Frederick,” cried the prior. “If the two Italian kings resemble the great Frederick, they will adopt this plan with enthusiasm.”
He had risen, and stepped hastily backward and forward, now and then murmuring a few disconnected words; he then drew near the table and stood earnestly regarding the maps.
Cocceji did not dare to interrupt him by word or sound; he watched him, however, closely. At last, however, the inward struggle seemed to be over, he stood quietly before the baron, and, fixing his dark, earnest eyes with a thoughtful expression upon him, he said, softly: “You have confided to me a great and dangerous enterprise. If I did my duty as the unconditional subject of the Pope, and as a priest of the holy Church, of which Frederick is the bitter antagonist, I should arrest you here, as a dangerous negotiator and enemy, and above all, I should give speedy notice of this conspiracy, which not only threatens Clement as head of the Church, but as sovereign of the States of the Church. But—what would you have?—I was not born a priest, and my heart and my spirit have never been able to accommodate themselves fully to the discipline of my order. I have always remained, I fear,” said he, with a graceful smile, “the true brother of the free-thinking Abbe Bastiani; and it appears to me, it lies in our blood to love and pay homage to the great and intellectual King of Prussia. I will, therefore, listen to and follow the voice of my blood and of my heart, and forget a little that I am a priest of the only church in which salvation can be found. As far as it lies in my power, I will promote your object. I will give you letters to Turin, not only to my brother Giovanni, but to Father Tomaseo, the king’s confessor. He is my most faithful friend, and sympathizes fully with me. If you can win him and my brother Giovanni, you have won the king, and he will lend a willing ear to your proposals. Your plans are bold, but my brother and Father Tomaseo are daring, undaunted men; the progress of Italy and the greatness of their king lies nearest their hearts. They are both influenced by my judgment, and when you hand them my letters, you will at least be a most welcome guest.”
He gave the baron his hand, and listened with a kindly smile to the enthusiastic thanks of the over-happy soldier, whose first diplomatic mission seemed to promise so favorably.
“Be, however, always prudent and discreet, signor,” said the prior, laughing. “Play your role as merchant; do not lay it aside for one moment while in Turin. Leave Venice as quickly as possible; no doubt the brother guardian, who was sent from Rome as a spy, who watches not only all my actions, but my words and thoughts, has remarked our long interview, and is already suspicious. As he has a fine nose, he may soon discover a part of your secret! Do not return to the cloister. During the day I will send you the promised letters by a faithful brother. As soon as you receive them, be off! My best wishes and my prayers accompany you. Without doubt, you are, like your great king, a heretic. I cannot, therefore commend you to Mary Mother, and the saints, but I will pray to God to watch over you.”
The prior stopped suddenly and listened! Loud cries of wild alarm forced themselves upon his ear; the sounds appeared to come from directly under his feet, and waxed louder and fiercer every moment.
“It is in the dining-room,” said the prior, “follow me, sir, I beg you, we may need your help—some one is murdering my monks!” They hastened from the room with flying feet; they passed through the long corridors and down the steps; the cries and roars and howls and curses became ever clearer.
“I was not mistaken,” said the prior, “this comes from the refectory.” He rushed to the door and threw it hastily open, then stood, as if chained to the threshold, and stared with horror at the mad spectacle before him.
There were no murderous strangers there playing wild havoc amongst his monks: but the worthy fathers themselves were making the fierce tumult which filled the prior with alarm. The saloon no longer resembled the ascetic, peaceful refectory of cloister brothers. It was changed into a battle-field, upon which the two hosts thirsting for blood stood opposed.
The table upon which the glasses, plates, and dishes seemed to have been thrown together in wild disorder, was shoved to one side, and in the open space the monks stood with flashing eyes, uttering curses and imprecations; not one of them remarked that the prior and Cocceji stood at the door, astonished spectators of this unheard-of combat.
“Silence!” said the father guardian, making frantic gesticulations toward the monks who stood opposed to him and his adherents—“silence! no one shall dare within these sacred walls to speak of the Prussian heretical king in any other way than with imprecations. Whoever wishes success to his arms is an apostate, a traitor, and heretic. God has raised the sword of His wrath against him, and He will crush him utterly; He has blessed the weapons of his adversaries as Clement has also done. Long live Maria Theresa, her apostolic majesty!”
The monks by his side roared out, “Long live Maria Theresa, her apostolic majesty!”
“She will not be victorious over Frederick of Prussia,” cried Father Anselmo, the leader of the opposite party. “The Pope has blessed the arms of Daun, but God himself has blessed the weapons of Frederick. Long live the King of Prussia! Long live the great Frederick!”
“Long live the great Frederick!” cried the monks by the side of Father Anselmo.
The party of the father guardian rushed upon them with doubled fists; the adversaries followed their example. “Long live Theresa!” cried the one. “Long live Frederick!” cried the other—and the blows and kicks fell thickly right and left, with the most lavish prodigality.
It was in vain that the prior advanced among them and commanded peace—no one regarded him. In their wild and indiscriminate rage they pressed him and shoved him from side to side, and in the heat of the battle several powerful blows fell upon his breast; so the poor prior took refuge again at the door near Cocceji, who was laughing merrily at the wild disorder.
The cries of “Long live Theresa!”
“Long live Frederick!” were mingling lustily in the bloody strife.
The father guardian was enraged beyond bearing, and his flashing eye looked around for some sharp weapon with which to demolish Father Anselmo, who had just exclaimed, “Long live Frederick, the victor of Leuthen and Zorndorf!” He seized a large tin cup, which was near him upon the table, and with a fierce curse he dashed it in the face of Father Anselmo, and the blood burst from his nose. This was the signal for a new order of attack. Both parties rushed to the table to arm themselves; the cups whizzed through the air and wounded severely the heads against which they were well aimed. Here and there might be heard whimperings and piteous complaints, mixed with curses and frantic battle-cries—“Long live Theresa!”
“Long live Frederick!” Some of the warriors crept from the contest into the corners to wipe the blood from their wounds and return with renewed courage to the contest. A few cowards had crept under the table to escape the cups and kicks which were falling in every direction.
Father Anselmo remarked them, and with loud, derisive laughter he pointed them out.
“The Teresiani live under the table, no Prussiano has crept there. All the Teresiani would gladly hide as they have often done before.”
The Prussiani accompanied these words of their leader with joyous shouts.
The father guardian trembled with rage; he seized a large dish from the table and dashed it at Anselmo, who dodged in time, and then with a powerful arm returned the compliment. It was a well-directed javelin. The tin dish struck the father guardian exactly in the back—he lost his balance, and fell to the earth. The Prussiani greeted this heroic deed of their chief with shouts of triumph. “So shall all the Teresiani perish!”
The battle waxed hotter and fiercer, the air was thick with missiles.
“They will murder each other!” cried the prior, turning to the Baron Cocceji. “Not so, your worship; there will only be a few blue swellings and bleeding noses—nothing more,” said Cocceji, laughing.
“Ah, you laugh young man; you laugh at this sad spectacle!”
“Forgive me, your worship; but I swear to you, I have never seen warriors more eager in the fray, and I have never been more curious to witness the result of any battle.”
“But you shall not witness it,” said the prior, resolutely. “You shall no longer be a spectator of the unworthy and shameful conduct of my monks. I pray you to withdraw instantly; in a few hours I will send you the letters, and if you believe that I have rendered you the least service, I ask in return that you will tell no one what you have seen.”
“I promise, your worship,” said Cocceji, with forced gravity. “If the people without shall ask me what all this tumult means, I will say that the pious fathers in the cloister are singing their ‘floras.’” [Footnote: Baron Cocceji did not keep his word, as this whole scene is historic.]
Baron Cocceji bowed to the prior, and returned with gay and hopeful thoughts to the hotel of the “White Lion.”
A few hours later, a monk appeared and desired to speak with the stranger about the holy relics.
Cocceji recognized in him the worthy Father Anselmo, the victor over the father guardian.
“Will you do me a great pleasure, worthy father?” said he. “Tell me which party remained in possession of the field after your great battle.”
An expression of triumphant joy flashed in Father Anselmo’s eyes.
“The Prussiani were victorious, and I think the Teresiani will never dare to recommence the strife; four of their monks lie in their cells with broken noses, and it will be some weeks before the father guardian will be capable of performing his duties as spy; he is sore and stiff, and his mouth is poorer by a few teeth. May all the enemies of the great Frederick share his fate! May God bless the King of Prussia and be gracious to his friends!”
He greeted the baron with the sign of the cross, and withdrew.
The baron remembered the warning of the prior, and hastened quietly from Venice. Already the next morning he was on the highway to Turin. [Footnote: This diplomatic mission failed, because of the faint heart of the King of Sardinia. He rejected the bold propositions of Frederick entirely, and said, in justification of himself, that since the alliance between the powers of France and Austria, he had his head between a pair of tongs, which were ever threatening to close and crush him. Baron Cocceji was not more fortunate in Naples, and after many vain efforts he was forced to return home, having accomplished nothing.—Duten’s “Memoirs of a Traveller.”]