4
When Joseph went from Rome to Vienna to visit the Gonzolas, he was in a state of mental unrest and indecision. The artist in him shrank from activity. He was very sensitive; he couldn’t bear pain, disappointment. The Church would be a shelter from the materialism of the world. It would be ideal to work for the poor. The garb of piety appealed to his imagination—a priest walking among the wretched, the persecuted, the unhappy, giving everything, his material wealth, himself, living a simple contemplative life. The beauty of it all still remained with him, keeping him in a semi-intoxicated emotional state. He thought of the works of immortal art created in the quiet of the cloister. He was sorely tempted, not by the flesh like St. Anthony, but by the spirit and the longing for release from a leaden sense of responsibility.
“If not that, what?” He saw nothing for him in the future. His father had at least the satisfaction of success. He himself had created his capital. It was a game, like racing, roulette, politics—a game, life a game! what else? what else?—It was all so ugly; the yearning for beauty came again, he was sorely tempted....
Mr. Gonzola’s wife and three daughters were models of domesticated womanhood. Their home was very modern, with just enough of the idealism of religion to give it spiritual charm. The girls were well educated, practical women, keenly alive to the responsibility of their wealth, full of enthusiasm and hope for the future of the world. They received Joseph with great cordiality, helped him perfect his German, and were silently sympathetic toward his unsettled spiritual condition of mind.
Mrs. Gonzola was one hundred per cent maternal: she mothered her husband, her daughters, her friends, her poor, and any stray animal who instinctively came to her for shelter. Joseph was her life’s crowning joy, the realization of a hope long dead—a son! She found him too thin, too pale; poor boy, he had never known the cuisine of Israel, the finest in the world. No Cordon-bleu can equal the Jewish mother, who cooks with the subtlety and cleanliness of religious tradition and puts into her cakes the honey of love. This healthy sane atmosphere was a good tonic for Joseph’s over-excited mind.
Mr. Gonzola’s ethics were very simple. He kept the two principles of life wide apart, and gave “to God what was His, to men, what was theirs.” He was an able man of business, and did not consider a good bargain with legitimate profit, ungodly. Sometimes he had an uneasy feeling; the religious ground was slipping like sand from under his feet. He said to Joseph with a sigh:
“I do not live up to ritual laws as strictly as I should. My daughters won’t let me; but I am going to take you to Frankfort to visit the head of the family, Pedro Gonzala, who has preserved the original spelling of our name and the tradition of our ancestors. In his home you will see pure orthodoxy, but—don’t forget the responsibility is on my shoulders. I have given my word to your mother—and I want to keep it—if possible.”
Joseph laughed. Mr. Gonzola was an honest man.