 | THE FOURTH PICTURE. Adrian, the neophyte |  |
4. THE FOURTH PICTURE.
A solitary figure, in a lonely cathedral aisle. The blaze
of sunbeams is around him, and his brow is calm with—
Religion? Love? I trow not. The light upon his brow
is the enthusiasm of Death.
THE JOY OF THE SUNSHINE.
“'Tis the sweet hour of morning
cathedral, yet 'tis all alive with life and joy!
“The light of the sunbeams streaming through
the stained panes of the lofty windows, and flinging
images of garish splendor along the aisles, and over
the altars of this solemn temple—the joy of the
sunshine dancing amid the sculptured flowers of
the lofty columns, and gleaming gaily and merrily
from the Mosaic pavement to the fretted roof, while
the massive shadows of altar and column, flung
heavily along the tessellated stone, served only to
render the glow of the morning sun more bright
and glaring.
“Silence rests upon the place and hour—yet
how soon will the place and hour be noisy with
the hum of human voices! 'Tis the last day of the
carnival, and while mirth and riot mingle their
voices in the streets without, a solemn scene shall
render even yet more holy the hallowed silence of
God's own temple.
“One month since, by yonder postern door, I
gave my son Adrian his first view of the world—
he went forth on his strange pilgrimage. Last
night he returned from his scene of trial. No word,
save the word of blessing, passed from me ere he
sought his cell, yet methought trouble was written
upon his young brow. May the Holy One nerve
him for his hour of trial!”
And devoutly crossing himself, the aged Abbot
glanced around the silent aisles of the cathedral.
He stood in the centre of the chapel, with the light
from the dome far above gilding his grey hairs, and
brightening the glow of the cross reposing amid
the folds of his sacerdotal robes.
In the full blaze of the morning sun, in the eastern
nave of the cathedral, in front of the high altar
of the temple, arose a stage, covered with folds of
snow-white velvet, gay with flowers of gold, and
drooping in sweeping circles down to the marble
floor. From the centre of this stage arose an altar
of silver, gaudy with mouldings and ornaments,
bearing a cross of gold on its surface, intermingled
with a simple wreath of flowers—the rose entwined
with the laurel. The flower of Ellarini mingling
its perfume with the unfading glory of Capello.
At the farther end of the cathedral, in the centre
of its western nave, in front of a high altar surmounted
by a grisly skeleton, side by side with a
massive cross, arose another stage, covered with
folds of solemn black. An altar of iron arose from
the darkness of this stage, with a death's-head grinning
beside a rugged cross, formed of like metal
with the altar.
It arose like a shadow of gloom, that altar of
black, confronting the altar of white, at the farther
end of the church, with its solid and massive form
of dread, like death frowning in the face of life,
and the altar of white, with its flowers of gold,
seemed laughing to scorn the face of death.
A merry chime of bells came floating along the
silent air.
“The merry marriage bells!” exclaimed the
Abbot. “They hail the union of the laurel of Capello
with the rose of Ellarini!”
The solemn toll of the death-bell burst like a
thunder-clap over the cathedral.
“Toll—toll—toll! 'Tis the knell which consigns
the youth Adrian to the solitude of the living-death!”
LIFE AND DEATH.
And as the chime of life and the knell of death
mingled their strange and contrasted sounds, the
wide doors of the northern part of the cathedral
were flung suddenly open, and a band of rosy-cheeked
children came thronging into the temple, walking
two by two, and scattering rose-buds and leaves
of laurel by the way.
And then came a fair maiden, clad in robes of
snow-white, side by side with a gallant cavalier, all
gorgeous in the blaze of golden attire, with a sword
by his side, and a snow-white plume drooping over
his youthful brow.
As the eye of the Abbot rested upon the youthful
pair slowly approaching the centre of the temple,
where he stood, he also beheld, winding through
the opened door, the gay throng of beauteous maidens
and gallant cavaliers, each lip with its smile,
and each eye with its flash of joy, while the air
echoed with the music of the marriage lay.
As the merry strain came pealing gaily along the
cathedral, the massive doors opening to the south,
were opened wide, and a hymn for the dead, chaunted
by manly voices, rose solemnly upon the air,
and mingled with the marriage song.
Winding from the shadow of the southern door,
and walking two by two, a band of dark-robed
monks raised the death song, and as they sung,
they slowly approached the centre of the cathedral,
where the Abbot stood gazing at this singular scene
of life and death.
Amid the band of monks, attired in a tunic of
white, over which, sweeping to the floor, descended
the folds of a robe of black velvet, there walked,
with slow and measured step, a youth in the flush
of early manhood, yet with a face pale as death,
shaded by long locks of rich brown hair, that fell
along his shoulders in massive curls. His hands
were folded fixedly upon his breast, and his dark
grey eyes gleamed forward in one unvarying, unchanging
glance. No smile was on his lip, no
frown was on his brow. All calm, all composed,
all silent and still.
“How calm, and yet how pale he looks!” murmured
the Abbot, as the two processions, with their
songs of life and death intermingling, approached
the column. “Onward he stalks, slow and solemn
in pace. His face is calm—his eye is clear and
steady in its glance, and yet there is something o
omen in that even gait, that unalterable look, that
freezing eye!”
As he spoke, the procession of life and the procession
of death, on the point of turning toward
magnificent dome, and the eye of the Abbot rested
upon the forms of beauteous maidens, brilliant with
jewels, and gallant cavaliers, with their plumes of
white waving in the air with each motion of the
figure, or floating aside with each bend of the head.
And in their midst, side by side with his bride,
Lord Urban Di Capello tripped gaily onward, the
smile on his passionless lip, the vacant glance in
his eye, and the ready compliment, or skilfully-prepared
flattery, ever on his tongue.
The Lady Rose of Ellarini!
How queenly was her air, how magnificent her
step, how proud the inclination of her swan-like
neck, as, moving onward in her robes of white, she
glanced around with a flashing eye and a peerless
look, while she surveyed the scene, where every
eye, and glance, and tone, and voice, had but one
object of attention, and that object her own fair faee
and lovely form.
Adrian the Neophyte stood in the full light of the
dome; and as the sunbeams fell brightly over his
erect form, his folded arms, his mingled robes of
white and black, the gallants and damozels of the
marriage procession started back with a sudden
thrill of fear, and each gazer noted, that there was
a strange expression resting upon his massive brow,
a strange compression of his lips, and a strange and
unknown steadiness in the glance of his eye.
The fair bride looked upon him, but his glance
met not the glance of her eye, and for a moment
the proud and peerless Lady Rose, the Flower of
Ellarini, with all her fame and beauty, with her
bridal robes, and her future of hope, envied the
poor and nameless monk with his robes of sacrifice
and his doom of eternal solitude.
Why should she envy him—the nameless Neophyte?
She knew not; Yet a thought flashed over her
proud heart that she might have acted a nobler
part, than by toying and trifling with the soul of
the Enthusiast as though it were a thing of no
value.
Yet she was a gay thing and a fair, and her heart
was the heart of a woman of the world.
“Urban Di Capello—Rose of Ellarini!” the voice
of the Abbot was heard above the song of life and
the hymn of death. “The blessing of heaven be
upon ye, as ye pass onward through the gates of
Youth into the future of Happiness and Hope!”
And as he spoke the bridal procession wound on
its way to the altar of white.
“Adrian, my son and brother! God be with thee
in thy solitude, and thy soul will have room for
never a care of earth, never a pang of her woes,
her wrongs, and her sorrows! The blessing of
Heaven be upon thee, as thou passeth through the
gate of Eternal Solitude into the presence of
God!
And the procession of dark robed monks wended
heir way toward the altar of black, and the hymn
of life and the hymn of death, broke louder and yet
louder upon the air, while high over all the marriage
chime and the death-knell mingled their
notes of bliss and woe, with a combination of discord
and harmony, that seemed like a mockery of
the petty joys and petty sorrows that make up the
sum of human life.
Adrian the Neophyte stood upon the Altar of
Black.
THE LIVING DEATH.
On either side, and around the foot of the altar,
were grouped circling bands of dark-robed priests;
beyond were the temple aisles, thronged by laughing
groups of carnival revellers, in their fantastic
costumes, and garish attire, and at the further nave
of the church, the morning sunlight fell warmly
and brightly over the altar of white with the marriage
procession winding up its flower-strewn steps,
in bright and magnificent array, their jewelled attire
glittering in the light, and their happy faces
glowing with the smiles of vacant joy.
“It is past—thy month of trial!” said the venerable
Abbot, laying his withered hands upon the
brown locks of the neophyte. “And now take one
long and earnest gaze around thee, at the gay world
which thou art about to leave forever! Disease
has not weakened thy young limbs, nor sorrow
dimmed thine eye, and yet in the full glow of
youth and health, thou passeth from this gay scene,
to the shadows of Eternal Solitude! Canst thou
resign the world without a sigh?”
“I can!”
The Neophyte turned his face to the Altar of
Black, with its iron cross and its grinning skull.
“And dost thou here in the presence of the gay
and glittering world, in the name of God, in the
name of his blessed Son, in the name of the Awful
Spirit, before the Virgin ever worthy of adoration
and in presence of the Saints, vow a solemn vow
by the safety of thine eternal soul, to set thyself
apart from the world, apart from the faces of men,
apart from human hope and human consolation,
now and forevermore! Dost thou take this solemn
and irrevocable vow?”
“I do!”
The Neophyte placed his hand upon the cross and
the skull.
“Adrian, Sacred and Set-apart, turn thee and
look upon the world for the last time!”
Adrian turned and looked. His glance was fixed
and unwavering, and yet he beheld not the throng
of dark robed monks clustering around the altar,
he saw not the sea of upturned faces, he heard not
their voices, he knew not of their presence in the
cathedral aisles.
THE DOOM OF THE STUDENT AND THE LADYE.
He looked far, far beyond, and there, gleaming
in the sunlight, he beheld the altar of white, the
bridegroom and the bride.
One long glance he cast over the sea of faces, and
ran along the cathedral, and the altar of black was
vacant, while through the affrighted multitude with,
steps that knew no obstacle or hinderance, rushed
a figure in mingled robes of white and black, his
eye fixed upon the distant altar, his arms outspread
and a long and slender dagger gleaming in his
clenched right hand.
Onward, still onward, ere the venerable Abbot
had time to glance around him, ere the dark robed
monks knew that the Altar of Black was vacant,
onward and onward, fearlessly breaking his way
through the bands of maskers and revellers, onward
toward the bridal altar, with the speed of wind
rushed Adrian the Neophyte.
A pause of a moment!
Another yell of horror shrieks along the aisles of
the cathedral!
The dark figure has reached the bridal altar—one
bound and he springs upward, and stands erect
upon the velvet carpeting of the stage, the gleaming
knife raised on high, the arm nerved and the
death certain, while the astonished priests, the
thunder-striken bridegroom, and the bridal guests
recoil with the utter helplessness of a fearful surprise.
He stands upon the altar, his eyes glaring, and
the knife raised!
One blow, and the Rose of Ellarini will fall a
bleeding corse upon the snow white velvet of the
bridal altar—no human arm may save her now—
the madman may call one single moment his own
—that moment is small, yet to him, to Adrian the
neophyte 'tis worth an age—it will serve for the accomplishment
of his purpose!
“Nay, start not, fair maiden, nor turn pale!”
These were the words that fell shrieking from his
lips. “Recoil not with horror, nor avert thine eyes
with fear! Fair thou art and beautiful, thy full
dark eyes were but made to speak passion, thy ruby
lips to murmur tones of love! And for thee have
I denied my God, for thee have I bartered my soul,
for thee have I kindled the flames of the eternal
fire within this bosom, that knew no care till mine
eyes looked upon thy face of beauty and thy form
of grace!
“And these are the last words of Adrian the Neophyte
to the proud and peerless beauty—Rose of
Ellarini!
“If ever thou knowest a joy, dear unto thee, as
hath been the thought of God to me, then may that
joy be torn from thee as thou hast torn the thought
of God from my soul!
“Mayst thou taste the cup of human bliss, nor
taste alone, but drain to the dregs—mayst thou
revel in hollow pleasure and souless gaiety, until it
becometh a part of thy nature, and then when the
faces thou lovest to look upon wither, when the
friends of thy heart are faithless, when the lips thou
wert wont to kiss stale on thy taste, then when
life has wasted all her pleasures at thy feet, mayst
thou then know, not Despair, nor Woe, nor
Death—but Life! And then as the curse of curses
—the curse of SATIETY is gathering over thy
heart, then remember that for thee, Adrian the
Neophyte denied his God and bartered his soul!”
With eye flashing, with hair thrown back from
his brow, in a tone of fear and horror, the Neophyte
uttered the words, which thrilled the spectators
with helpless terror, while the dagger gleamed in
his clenched hand.
He advanced toward the maiden—he gazed upon
her fair face for a moment—he flung the dagger to
the floor.
“The curse of Satiety!” he murmured, looking
her fully in the face, and then folding his arms
across his breast, he stepped backward, and cast a
look to heaven!
In a moment a heavy body fell to the floor, and
the bystanders gazed upon the shapeless corse of
Adrian the Neophyte, the arms outstretched, the
limbs contorted, and a thin stream of blood flowing
from the compressed lips.
“He lieth low, a wreck of all that is noble or
good!” exclaimed the venerable Abbot, as bursting
through the affrighted throng he surveyed the corse.
“He lieth low, a shapeless corse, and yet fair maiden
'tis for thee that we should weep—not for him!—
He hath said the curse, and it is upon thee—the
curse of a broken heart! Behold how his blood
streams along the white robes of the altar!”
And there, while the bystanders recoiled with
horror at this strange and spectral scene, while the
Lord Urban Di Capello hid his face in his robe, and
the maiden Rose of Ellarini stood gazing vacantly
at the corse, while the head of the Abbot was
drooped on his breast, and from aisle to aisle of the
cathedral ran the shriek and the cry and the groan,
there, above shout and cry and groan, was heard the
sound of unreal laughter, far above in the air, and
a voice unseen and unknown whispered the
words—
“Youth—and Hope—and Love! Brave things
are they all! Ha—Ha—Ha—Behold
Adrian the Neophyte!”
| THE FOURTH PICTURE. Adrian, the neophyte | |