Eleanor was delighted with him, and the Contessa, who seemed more difficult to please, also smiled upon him. Teresa, the pious daughter, was with Lucy in the Sa.s.setto. No doubt she was the little priest"s particular friend. He had observed at once that she was not there, and had inquired for her.
"One or two of those lines remind me of Carducci, and that reminds me that I saw Carducci for the first time this spring," said the Contessa, turning to Eleanor. "It was at a meeting of the Accademia in Rome. A great affair--the King and Queen--and a paper on Science and Religion, by Mazzoli. Perhaps you don"t remember his name? He was our Minister of the Interior a few years ago."
Eleanor did not hear. Her attention was diverted by the sudden change in the aspect of the _padre parroco_. It was the dove turned hawk. The fresh face seemed to have lost its youth in a moment, to have grown old, sharp, rancorous.
"Mazzoli!"--he said, as the Contessa paused--"_Eccellenza, e un Ebreo!_"
The Contessa frowned. Yes, Mazzoli was a Jew, but an honest man; and his address had been of great interest, as bearing witness to the revival of religious ideas in circles that had once been wholly outside religion.
The _parroco"s_ lips quivered with scorn. He remembered the affair--a scandalous business! The King and Queen present, and a _Jew_ daring before them, to plead the need of "a new religion"--in Italy, where Catholicism, Apostolic and Roman, was guaranteed as the national religion--by the first article of the _Statuto_. The Contessa replied with some dryness that Mazzoli spoke as a philosopher. Whereupon the _parroco_ insisted with heat that there could be no true philosophy outside the Church. The Contessa laughed and turned upon the young man a flashing and formidable eye.
"Let the Church add a little patriotism to her philosophy, Father,--she will find it better appreciated."
Don Teodoro straightened to the blow. "I am a Roman, _Eccellenza_--you also--_Scusi_!"
"I am an Italian, Father--you also. But you hate your country."
Both speakers had grown a little pale.
"I have nothing to do with the Italy of Venti Settembre," said the priest, twisting and untwisting his long fingers in a nervous pa.s.sion. "That Italy has three marks of distinction before Europe--by which you may know her."
"And those--?" said the Contessa, calm and challenging.
"Debt, _Eccellenza_--hunger!--crimes of blood! _Sono il suo primato--l"unico!_"
He threw at her a look sparkling and venomous. All the grace of his youth had vanished. As he sat there, Eleanor in a flash saw in him the conspirator and the firebrand that a few more years would make of him.
"Ah!" said the Contessa, flushing. "There were none of these things in the old Papal States?--under the Bourbons?--the Austrians? Well--we understand perfectly that you would destroy us if you could!"
"_Eccellenza_, Jesus Christ and his Vicar come before the House of Savoy!"
"Ruin us, and see what you will gain!"
"_Eccellenza_, the Lord rules.
"Well--well. Break the eggs--that"s easy. But whether the omelet will be as the Jesuits please--that"s another affair."
Each combatant smiled, and drew a long breath.
"These are our old battles," said the Contessa, shaking her head. "_Scusi!_ I must go and give an order."
And to Eleanor"s alarm, she rose and left the room.
The young priest showed a momentary embarra.s.sment at being left alone with the strange lady. But it soon pa.s.sed. He sat a moment, quieting down, with his eyes dropped, his finger-tips lightly joined upon his knee. Then he said sweetly:
"You are perhaps not acquainted with the pictures in the Palazzo, Madame.
May I offer you my services? I believe that I know the names of the portraits."
Eleanor was grateful to him, and they wandered through the bare rooms, looking at the very doubtful works of art that they contained.
Presently, as they returned to the _salone_ from which they had started, Eleanor caught sight of a fine old copy of the Raphael St. Cecilia at Bologna. The original has been much injured, and the excellence of the copy struck her. She was seized, too, with a stabbing memory of a day in the Bologna Gallery with Manisty!
She hurried across the room to look at the picture. The priest followed her.
"Ah! that, Madame," he said with enthusiasm--that is a _capolavoro_. It is by Michael Angelo."
Eleanor looked at him in astonishment. "This one? It is a copy, Padre, of Raphael"s St. Cecilia at Bologna--a very interesting and early copy."
Don Teodoro frowned. He went up to look at it doubtfully, pushing out his lower lip.
"Oh! no, Madame," he said, returning to her, and speaking with a soft yet obstinate complacency. "Pardon me--but you are mistaken. That is an original work of the great Michael Angelo."
Eleanor said no more.
When the Contessa returned, Eleanor took up a volume of French translations from the Greek Anthology that the Contessa had lent her the day before. She restored the dainty little book to its mistress, pointing to some of her favourites.
The _parroco"s_ face fell as he listened.
"Ah!--these are from the Greek!" he said, looking down modestly, as the Contessa handed him the book. "I spent five years, _Eccellenza_, in learning Greek, but--!" He shrugged his shoulders gently.
Then glancing from one lady to the other, he said with a deprecating smile:
"I could tell you some things. I could explain what some of the Greek words in Italian come from--"mathematics," for instance."
He gave the Greek word with a proud humility, emphasising each syllable.
""Economy"--"theocracy"--"aristocracy.""
The Greek came out like a child"s lesson. He was not always sure; he corrected himself once or twice; and at the end he threw back his head with a little natural pride.
But the ladies avoided looking either at him or each other.
Eleanor thought of Father Benecke; of the weight of learning on that silver head. Yet Benecke was an outcast, and this youth was already on the ladder of promotion.
When he departed the Contessa threw up her hands.
"And that man is just appointed Advent Preacher at one of the greatest churches in Rome!"
Then she checked herself.
"At the same time, Madame," she said, looking a little stiffly at Eleanor, "we have learned priests--many of them."
Eleanor hastened to a.s.sent. With what heat had Manisty schooled her during the winter to the recognition of Catholic learning, within its own self-chosen limits!
"It is this deplorable Seminary education!" sighed the Contessa. "How is one half of the nation ever to understand the other? They speak a different language. Imagine all our scientific education on the one side, and this--this dangerous innocent on the other! And yet we all want religion--we all want some hope beyond this life."
Her strong voice broke. She turned away, and Eleanor could only see the ma.s.sive outline of head and bust, and the coils of grey hair.
Mrs. Burgoyne drew her chair nearer to the Contessa. Silently and timidly she laid a hand upon her knee.