“I heard this morning, Signora, what made me understand your admiration
for the Italian language,” Mr. Vane said. “While you three were in the church I went outside the door, and presently, as I stood there, I heard two men talking behind me. Of course I did not understand a word they said, but I listened attentively. I never heard such exquisite spoken sounds in my life. The questions and replies made me think of the beautiful incised wreaths and sprigs on your candelabra. There wasn’t a syllable blurred, as we constantly hear in our own language; but I am sure every word was pronounced perfectly. When the two seemed to be going, I looked round and saw two Capuchin monks with bare ankles, and robes faded out to a dull brick-color.”
“Those same faded robes may cover very accomplished men,” the Signora said. “Some of them are fine preachers. I wish we had more preaching in Rome. One very seldom hears a sermon. The first one I heard made the same impression on me, as to the language, that the talk of these monks has made on you. I did not understand, but I was charmed. It reminded me of—Landor, wasn’t it? writing of Porson:
“‘So voluble, so eloquent,
You little heeded what he meant.’
That was in St. Philip Neri’s Church.”
“Dulness is inexcusable in a Catholic preacher in any language,” Mr. Vane said. “If they should not have much talent of their own, they have such a wealth to draw from—all the beautiful legends and customs, and the grand old authors, and the lives of the saints. A dull Protestant preacher has the Bible, it is true; but, as a rule, I find that only the eloquent ones use that source of wealth freely, or know
how to use it. One of the most eloquent Catholic preachers I ever heard used to make his strongest hits by simply refraining from speech. I recollect one sermon of his where he spoke of St. Augustine, whom I thought he was going to describe, but whom he made appear more brilliant by not describing. ‘His genius,’ he began, then stopped, seemed to search for words, at last threw his head back and clasped his hands. ‘Oh! the genius of St. Augustine,’ he exclaimed. Of course the tribute was more splendid than the most rolling period could have been. Nearly all his effective climaxes were like that—noble words breaking up into silence, like a Roman arch into a Gothic.”
“You will have to renounce your Gothic, Bianca,” the Signora said; “at least, while you are in Rome. You won’t even want to see it here, and you may lose your taste for it as church architecture. I sometimes think I have, though I was once enthusiastic about it. Now the single column or the massive pier, with the round arch above, seems to me the perfect expression of a perfect and serene faith. It is a following of the sky-shape. The complications and subtilty of the Gothic are more like the searching for truth of an aspiring and dissatisfied soul. When I go from under the noble arches and cupolas of Santa Maria Maggiore to the church of St. Alphonsus Liguori, just beyond it, I receive an impression of fretfulness and unrest.”
“I should be sorry to give up Notre Dame de Paris and the two churches at Rouen,” Bianca murmured half absently, her soft, bright eyes gathering in all the beauty within their ken.