The fortunes of Fifi

by Molly Elliot Seawell

Fifi said nothing, but she did not love the Holy Father less for this simplicity of the old which is so like the simplicity of the young.

“Barnabas and I grew up together in an old villa, all roses and honeysuckles outside, all rats and mice within—but we did not mind the rats and mice. When we grew out of our babyhood into two naughty, troublesome boys, we thought it fine sport to hunt the poor rats and torture them. I was worse in that respect than Barnabas, who was ever a better boy than I. But we had other amusements than that. We loved to climb into the blue hills about Cesena, and when we were old enough to be trusted by ourselves we would sometimes spend days in those far-off hills, with nothing but bread and cheese and wild grapes to live on. We slept at night on the ground, rolled in our blankets. We were hardy youngsters, and I never had sweeter sleep than in those summer nights on the hard ground, with the kind stars keeping watch over us.”

Fifi said no word. The old man was living over again that sweet, young time, and from it was borne the laughter, faint and afar off, the smiles so softly tender, the tears robbed of all their saltness; he was once more, in thought, a little boy with his little playmate on the sunny slopes of the Apennines.

Presently he spoke again, looking into Fifi’s eyes, so like those of the dead and gone comrade of the old Cesena days.

“Barnabas, although of better natural capacity than I, did not love the labor of reading. He chose that I should read, and tell him what I read; and so he knew all that I knew and more besides, being of sharper and more observant mind. We never had a difference except once. It was over a cherry tart—what little gluttons we were! When we quarreled about the tart our mothers divided it, and for punishment condemned us both to eat our share alone. And what do you think was the result? Neither one of us would touch it—and then we cried and made up our quarrel; it was our first and last, and we were but ten years old.”

Fifi listened with glowing eyes. These little stories of his youth, long remembered, made Fifi feel as if the Holy Father were very human, after all.

The old man paused, and his expressive eyes grew dreamy as he gazed at Fifi. She brought back to him, as never before, the dead and gone time: the still, ancient little town, lying as quietly in the sunlight as in the moonlight, the peaceful life that flowed there so placidly and innocently. He seemed to hear again the murmuring of the wind in the fir trees of the old garden and the delicate cooing of the blue and white pigeons in the orchard. Once more he inhaled the aromatic scent of the burning pine cones, as Barnabas and himself, their two boyish heads together, hung over the scanty fire in the great vaulted kitchen of the old villa. All, all, were gone; the villa had fallen to decay; the orchard and the garden were no more; only the solemn fir trees and the dark blue peaks of the Apennines remained unchanged. And here was a girl with the same eyes, dark, yet softly bright, of his playfellow and more than brother of fifty years ago!

Fifi spoke no word. The only sound in the small, vaulted room was the faint crackling of the burning logs, across which a brilliant bar of sunlight had crept stealthily. As the Holy Father paused and looked at Fifi, there was a gentle deprecation in his glance; he seemed to be saying: “Bear with age a while, O glorious and pathetic youth! Let me once more dream your dreams, and lay aside the burden of greatness.” And the old man did not continue until he saw in Fifi’s eyes that she was not wearied with him; then he spoke again.

“When we were ten years old we were taught to serve on the altar. Barnabas served with such recollection, such beautiful precision, that it was like prayer to see him. He was a handsome boy, and in his white surplice and red cassock, his face glowing with the noble innocence and simplicity of a good boyhood, he looked like a young archangel.”