Slowly, but continuously, the church filled from top to bottom, in its great central nave and two side aisles, which are really two long and straight corridors, with a taciturn, cautious, and respectful congregation of the faithful. They were the Engadine villagers and woodmen, men and women in their Sunday clothes, all of which were dark, in heavy grey cloth, maroon, and deep blue: the women with head hidden in a dark kerchief, faces with an opaque colouring, warmed with red, crowned with chestnut hair with streaks of lightish red, eyes of a milky blue, very pale and without gleam. There were labourers from all the railway, street, and house works which they were constructing in the neighbourhood, in the near and far distance. There were people of other districts and climes, who every Sunday, even in winter, over snow and ice, walked mile upon mile to come and hear Mass, and who even now, in summer, had put up with great inconvenience to reach St. Moritz Bad at six in the morning, afterwards to depart again immediately. There were Lombards, Venetians, Romagnians, and Calabrians; workmen in their clean clothes and large boots who bowed to the altar with the usual act of homage of their own districts and far-off villages, and who went to seat themselves by the villagers in profound silence, neither greeting nor speaking, and like the countrymen and woodmen on the benches in front, bending their heads at once to pray.
There were men and women of the bourgeoisie, assistants at the bazaars, who had not yet opened their shops, saleswomen at the curiosity shops, chambermaids from the hotels, little players in the orchestra, washerwomen, starchers, seamstresses, domestic servants of employers who would still sleep deeply for two or three hours; all workers, in fact, who had risen so early to be able to assist at the Mass, since later, at the second Mass at eight, the work would already have begun in its briskness and intensity; while at eleven, the hour of High Mass, none of them would have an instant more of liberty. Even all these toilers of the luxury, pleasure, and intoxication of life, these humble, unknown workers were there in cast-off clothes, with faces still pale from interrupted sleep, with the tired air of those who are deprived of rest; but each of them stood at his place in church, without troubling about his neighbour, seized by the intimate need of that moment of recollection and liberty of spirit.
The Mass of the country people, workers, and servants proceeded in perfect simplicity and great rapidity. It was said by one of the three priests who compose the summer Mission of St. Moritz Bad, which comes from Coire, sent by the Bishop every year in the month of May to remain there till the end of September. He was the least known of the three priests, since the chief one reserved for himself the eleven o'clock Mass, in which he could speak to the varied cosmopolitan society. Before the Gospel the organ played ponderously, but only for a brief space, and there was no singing. Interrupting the Mass as usual, the celebrant climbed the pulpit very hurriedly, and after an instant of silent prayer, he explained that Sunday's Gospel, in which he spoke of the parable of the good servant, that is of time that one must place to good use for the welfare of the Christian soul, and of which the Lord later would demand strict account.
In truth, villagers, workmen, servants, and workers of every class listened with immense attention, without almost moving an eyebrow, to the severe words, too severely commented upon, about the use of time; and here and there on many faces there were traces of old and daily fatigues, traces of old and daily privations, there seemed to be an anxiety and a fear of not having worked enough, of not having suffered enough. Here and there some faces appeared to be inundated with sadness, so that when the priest finished the commentary on the day's Gospel with a hasty benediction, they were bowed full of compunction on the benches. Lower down some women, in the shade, hid their faces in their hands to pray, and showed only their bent shoulders in their modest black wove dresses. When the first tinkling of the bell announced that the moving mystery of the Host was beginning, there was a great movement in the church. The seats and benches were moved, for there was not a single one of these villagers, work people, and servants who did not bow the knee before the mystic majesty of that which was about to happen. And when the triple tinkling of the bell and the sound of the organ announced that the mystery was at its culmination of beatitude, there were nothing but prostrate bodies and prone heads in the Catholic church of St. Moritz Bad.
But at the end of the Gospel, explained from the pulpit, the celebrant had added a few words that they should give alms to the church. The faithful were reminded that many years ago there was not a shadow of a Catholic church in the valley, and that to get a Mass they had been forced to make an even more fatiguing and severe walk in winter and summer; that the Catholic church had been built, that it had so many debts that the good children ought to give something to alleviate these obligations. During the second Gospel, a workman rose from his place, crossed himself before approaching the altar, and taking a bronze plate, began to make the collection, person by person. Before offering the plate he searched in his pocket and gave his offering, an Italian coin of twenty centesimi—a nickel. With lowered eyes he quietly offered the plate to the other workers, peasants, servants, chambermaids, and domestics. Each gave with lowered eyes five or ten centimes in Italian, French, or Swiss money. Each gave not more than a soldo or two, but soon the plate was full of this heavy money, come from all those poor pockets of poor men and women who felt the benefit of having a church every Sunday, to pray and tell God how great was their sorrow; so they wished to give their obol to their church.
The workman who was collecting, a Calabrian with a huge silver watch-chain, and a waistcoat of maroon velvet, explored even the two side corridors, in the most obscure corners, and tenaciously asked of each. Then after a profound genuflexion to the altar he went to the sacristy to deposit the collection of all the poor people. The Mass ended without other music than the two pieces which had accompanied the first Gospel and the Elevation. After a moment of hesitation, crossing themselves broadly towards the altar, the people began to leave the church, still in silence, and some before leaving genuflected again. They formed no groups and clusters to chatter in front of the church, by the swift river which gaily runs to precipitate itself into the lake. Everybody left by the central path along the Inn, the peasants and work people with slow, equal, heavy step; the servants, chambermaids, toilers of the hotels, cafés, and restaurants with a lighter and more rapid step. The white, dense Engadine mist had in the meantime become less dense and was brightened by a light of interior gold. The sun gradually appeared behind Piz Languard, and all the atmosphere grew lighter and still more soft. The air was keenly cold, the soft meadows covered with flowers which led to the Bad were deserted, the shops and the windows and balconies of the hotels were closed; and once more the roads were deserted when the peasants and workers and servants from every part had vanished.
The bell for High Mass, the eleven o'clock Mass, in the Catholic church at St. Moritz Bad rings three times to warn the faithful, at half-past ten, at a quarter to eleven, and at eleven. It is a proud and resounding peal that fills the fine Engadine air with its harmonies, now heavy, now sharp. The sonorous summons spreads itself afar in every part, to the highest villas, and to the most remote and solitary houses where anyone may be, so that he may turn his steps and hurry to church. At the first peal as yet no one appears along the level white paths amidst the vast green meadows, where the church rises which, all rude with its unpainted walls, still has a deserted and empty appearance, and which is situated in such a way that its foundations seem to be immersed in the still waters of the lake, where the swift and blue little Inn beats on one side as it rushes to precipitate itself into the lake. The belfry, so imposing that it almost overwhelms the church, trembles in vain from a peal that invokes the presence of the faithful. But at the second call slowly from every part, beneath a sun that makes the whole countryside irresistibly bright and gay, pass men, women, and children who are descending towards the church which, through an optical illusion, almost appears to be suspended above the clear waters of the lake. Continually from every part people arrive, now following the noisy course of the merry little Inn, now crossing it by the bridge, now arriving by the broad white ribbon, the road from the station and from St. Moritz Dorf to St. Moritz Bad. Now from the narrow white byways which descend abruptly amidst the verdure from the Dorf to the Bad, people keep arriving and group themselves in the small square before the church, and beneath the narrow portico with its slender little pillars, which seem to have been squashed out of the roof, waiting, chatting, and laughing—men, women, and children. All the women's dresses are for the most part brightly coloured or white, in cambric or fine cloth; also the children are dressed in white, and beneath their large hats their long hair appears on their shoulders in ringlets or waves. Some of the men are dressed fashionably, others with great simplicity. The crowd that is gradually formed outside and within the church, exquisitely dressed and adorned as if for the smartest society gathering, meets and greets, chatters and smiles, while but a single word circulates above the conversation, sometimes softly, sometimes aloud—respectfully, discreetly, curiously.
The Archduchess! The Archduchess! The Archduchess!