6
Father Cabello had reached the zenith of his earthly ambition, the Cardinalate. He had easily won in the race for advancement—a man of wealth and winning personality. The magic word “America” gave him prestige; it was a sign of goodwill to the church in the United States. The priest was generally beloved, his doors were always open to the poor, to whom he gave liberal hands; they crowded the steps of his house, penetrated into his apartments. All efforts of his attendants to keep them away was futile.
“Let them in,” said the Father, “they will be my future associates, ‘for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.’”
His secretary, a member of an old patrician family, shrugged his shoulders; his unspoken thought was, “if I have to live with them in Heaven, I hope I’ll never die.”
The Cardinal had been confined to his room for some days with an attack of weakness, the result of an overtaxed heart. The doctor said to him, “Your Eminence, you must shun all excitement—no more receptions, no more arduous night work, no activity of any kind.”
The Cardinal smiled, “That would be premature death; I must take my chances. But at present I cannot work; I have no strength.”
His new honors had not changed his mode of living. His palazzo, a relic of past grandeur, was simply furnished with only the necessary chairs and tables, and completely bare of drapery or superfluous decorations. The Roman sun flooded his rooms through the high-arched windows. The garden of boxwood hedges and old trees was beautiful and fragrant; he could stand on his terrace and see the cupolas and innumerable spires of the city of churches, and listen to the bells pealing—now soft, caressing, pleading—now loud, harsh, commanding—those eternal bells that have welcomed into the world, and followed out of it, millions of souls.
The Cardinal sat in his private apartment. His fingers tapped nervously on the polished wood of the table upon which was a dish of fruits—figs, honey, and a silver jug of iced water—a habit he had brought from the land of his adoption. He was waiting for Joseph. In the excitement of his new honors, weeks had passed with only now and then the accustomed epistolary greetings, but the time was approaching to speak of the future. If he could realize his plan, thought out in every detail, this boy would inherit his wealth, would carry on his work among the poor.
A spasm of agony turned his lips blue, his face livid. He quickly dropped a tablet into a glass of water and swallowed it. The unbearable pain slowly subsided; the brain moved again.
“If God would be merciful and let him live to see the boy ordained.”
A flash of determination, of invincible Will. Yes, it would be! It must be! He forgot the dark-cornered room; he saw the cathedral, the procession of priests, the young divine. Why didn’t the boy come? He was eager to stamp his plan with the seal of realization. A shaft of sunlight shooting through the window struck the chair opposite him. His sick heart bounded. Seated there he saw his old friend and enemy, Joseph Abravanel. He slowly made his way to the chair, passing his hand over it; it was empty. His thought had conjured up a momentary vision. How often had they sat like that, opposite each other at a table set with fruit and wine, the long evening passing like a flash over the chess board which became symbolical of the spiritual struggle between them. The tenacity of that old man, who would not give up hope, even after the conversion of his daughter!
“You have won this time, but there is the next generation.”
When Julie was born, he was cheated again in this game for souls; but he would not give in, “God’s chosen people cannot die; they may lose the path, but they will find it again; they will come back in the third generation.”
A spasm of fear convulsed the priest. Joseph Abravanel had the prophetic clairvoyance of his race. No! No! The boy was a good, faithful child of the Church, a believer in the true Faith.
He glanced again at the chair opposite; again he met those eyes long extinct—spirit eyes.
The servant announced, “Joseph Abravanel Gonzola Garrison.”...
Joseph threw himself with a gush of irresistible love into the old man’s arms; then, remembering, he dropped on his knees and kissed the ring of His Eminence. The Cardinal raised him, looking long into that mobile face aglow with the joy of life.
“Sit down, Joseph, we have much to talk over. No! no! not there, here.”
He pointed to a chair close beside him; there were three now at the table—indomitable spirits; one, invisible.
The Cardinal felt his way, asked about the family; he had not heard from Julie for some time.
“Oh, Mother is a bad correspondent, but if I miss a mail she cables.” His laughter rang through the high-vaulted room. “Father wants me to go into the banking business; the Gonzolas think I have talent for it.”
He was peeling an apple, careful not to break the ring; the Cardinal noticed his long tapering fingers, his white hands.
“Well, what do you think about it?”
The boy’s eyes shot a mischievous gleam.
“Our great ancestor on my father’s side was a baker, on my mother’s side they added a letter to it, and it became banker. Now if it is true that the third generation goes back, I think I’d rather make cakes than money.”
The Cardinal laughed; the boy’s merriment was contagious. Then he grew grave again.
“My son, there is something in each generation which belongs neither to the Past nor the Present, but to the Future; it is God’s will working in us. The time has come to tell you of my wishes for you. I want you to continue my work, to take up the staff of Divine Duty, to lay upon the altar of renunciation the great gifts bestowed upon you by an All-Seeing God; you will give your youth, your manhood, your old age, to save those helpless souls who need your intercession, your spiritual support. You will one day succeed me in Rome; it has been my only earthly dream, ever since I held you as an infant in my arms. My time is short; I want to see you enter upon the path before I die.”
The boy was on his feet, his face quivering with grief, the tears streaming from his eyes.
“No, no; you must not die! I love you! I love you! If I could prolong your life for one hour I would give my right hand.”
He held it up, firm, strong, beautiful. The Cardinal’s imagination played him a trick again. He saw another white hand held up, old, feeble, trembling; the light shone through it.
The boy’s heart was heavy—that beloved face before him, with the pallor of death on it. How could he say what he must?...
“I have thought long and deeply of your wishes for me. I cannot! I cannot! There is something in me that rebels against the chastisement of the flesh. I don’t want to think always of death, to pray always; I want to work, I want to live. No one can intercede for me; I can intercede for no one. Each must work out his own salvation. The old world is spiritually decaying; the young must be the pioneers of a new world. We must tear down and dig and set the stones of a new foundation, and those who come after us will build. The Future will see miracles; the human being will awaken to the truth, that he himself is God.”
“Stop! Blasphemer!” The old man broke into choking sobs. “Joseph! Joseph! I am responsible for your soul’s salvation; this is all madness! You will repent when it is too late.”
“Father! it hurts me to give you pain, but it is impossible. I cannot! I cannot!”
The Cardinal was cold to the soul—his boy, his heart’s idol, a heretic, an infidel; the stripling was strange to him, standing there with a look in his face of iron determination. He would break that will; he must!
“You do not know what you are doing. You are too young. You have been influenced by that old sophisticated fox, Pedro Gonzala. I fought a greater man than he and won; I will fight again—I will save you, as I saved your mother.”
“No! No! They have not influenced me. I have given up dogma, I will not be chained again by ritual, I will not be a mummy wrapped in the superstition of past ages. I am a living, thinking being. I am free! free!”
The priest’s eyes went past him to that shadowy figure, looking down now, as it had so often done in life, at a chess board on the table, fingering the pieces, moving, removing, trying new combinations. Neither had won; it was a drawn game;—stalemate. With a low moan he sank back in his chair.
The boy gave a cry of terror.
“Father, speak to me! Speak to me!”
The priest heard him not. He had renounced this world for the glory of the next. He was going to his reward, where there would be no dogma, no ritual, no religion.
A terrible fear clutched the boy. He looked about despairingly. He was forsaking the shelter of those old walls. He had stripped himself bare. He must go out naked to meet the stones of the Philistines. He threw himself down before the beloved guide of his childhood, sobbing out his love, his loneliness.
“Come back! Come back! Don’t leave me! I am afraid, afraid!”
He called in vain; those wonderful dreams—the hope of immortality, the joy of Heaven—would never come back; they had gone into the past, like that still form, deaf to his entreaties, to his cries—gone forever!