 | CHAPTER IX. El Fureidîs |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
If the original founder of this old fortress-like monastery
was actuated by the desire of rigid seclusion from the world,
or by a love of lonely and sublime contemplation, he could
not have chosen a more fit locality. It seemed, indeed, a
marvel that the necessities of life could be obtained, and its
ordinary routine carried on, amid such desolation of surrounding
nature; and of late years this result had only been
accomplished by the most untiring industry. The institution
had once been largely endowed, and the monks had
enjoyed extensive revenues; but the political convulsions
and rival feuds, which had from time to time shaken and
devastated the mountains, had swept away the property and
influence of the once powerful brotherhood, which had now
dwindled to a few feeble old men, who by diligent labor and
patient economy eked out a scanty livelihood.
But though the ambitious and proselyting spirit of their
order had died out with its wealth, the pure and simple virtues
of monastic life had never been so fully developed as
in this its day of outward decline. Their labors as husbandmen,
vine-dressers, and gardeners left the good fathers
no time for contentions and intrigues; and a more harmless,
peaceable, and hospitable household could scarcely be conceived
than this band of Maronite brethren, who, so long as
they were undisturbed in the remmant of their heritage, had
no disposition to interfere with the rights and privileges of
other men.
Between the inmates of the convent and the family of
M. Trefoil there had always existed a friendly and neighborly
understanding, which was evidenced rather by a reciprocity
of civilities and kind deeds than by any frequency of
intercourse. The old Superior had observed with a somewhat
jealous eye the successful labors of M. Lapierre, and
had shaken his head disapprovingly as he watched the erection,
within the constant range of his vision, of a church
dedicated to a liberal faith; but he had forborne any open or
secret expostulation, and the bells of the convent tower and
the village church had long since learned to chime in unison.
In the early years of Ianthe's residence in El Fureidis, it
had been her habit to pay an annual visit to the convent,
carrying with her not a few acceptable gifts to the old men,
and especially exciting their gratitude by her thoughtfulness
for their increasing infirmities, and by the invaluable prescriptions
and remedies in which she was wonderfully skilled.
But the strongest bond of union between the convent
fathers and the inhabitants of the opposite valley was the
mountain child, who, as the companion of her mother, had
early been admitted to the free range of court-yard, garden,
and refectory, and who, now that Ianthe's incapacity for
fatigue forbade her periodical visits, had become at once
the joy of the old monks' hearts, and their chief medium of
intercourse with the outer world. Hers was the only youthful
laugh that ever interrupted the grim silence of their
ruinous corridors; she alone loved to ransack the antique
library on which they prided themselves, as the chief relic
of their former grandeur. The choicest fruits of their orchards,
the rarest flowers of their gardens, were reserved for
her approbation and praise; and humble as their offerings
might be, the messenger of Ianthe's bounty seldom went
away empty-handed.
M. Trefoil had spoken truly when he said that no stranger
could be introduced into the convent under more flattering
circumstances than as the friend of Havilah. There was
welcome in the quick striking of the old porter's crutch upon
the pavement, as he came hobbling to unbar the gateway to
her familiar tap; there was cordiality in the eagerness with
which he fumbled at the rusty lock; there was untold hospitality
in the generous manner in which he drew wide the
portal, pronounced with trembling lips a blessing on the
child, and held out a paralytic hand to her companion.
“This sunny day has brought us up the mountain, you
see, Father Ambrose,” said Havilah.
“It is always a sunny day when you come hither,” said
the old monk, as he closed and rebarred the door, — “always,
— always,” he continued to mutter to himself, as, tottering
on his crutch, he preceded his visitors through the narrow
court-yard, now and then looking back over his shoulder to
feast his eyes upon Havilah, and assure himself that she
and the stranger were following close upon his footsteps.
The outer court-yard which they thus crossed was a high-walled
enclosure, a mere vestibule leading to the inner or
principal square, round which the convent buildings were
situated. The chuckling satisfaction which Father Ambrose
had evinced at sight of Havilah was succeeded by an
almost ludicrous air of dignity and parade on the part of
the imbecile old man, as, holding back the inner gate, he
stood aside to let his visitors pass, his dim eye scanning
Meredith's face, that he might read there the impressions of
awe which he believed it impossible this interior view could
fail to awaken. Poor Father Ambrose! he remembered
the days of pride when he had held open this same gateway
for the admission of some neighboring dignitary, followed by
a long ecclesiastical train, and met at the entrance by the
while the tower-bell rang out a welcome, and the
central fountain sent up its sparkling waters, and busy
functionaries hastened to and from the luxurious refectory.
He forgot that these days of grandeur had long since
passed; that one after another the stately procession had
been laid in the rock-hewn sepulchre below; that the tower
bell had ceased to sound its welcome to an illustrious
throng; that the fountain was dried up, the orange and fig
trees that stood around it withered; and that nothing was
left to indicate past greatness but a platform of defaced,
uneven paving, a half-ruined chapel hewn from the rock, a
long line of vacant dormitories, and a few old men tottering
on the verge of the grave.
There is a certain melancholy grandeur attendant on
utter ruin and decay; but even this element of tender interest
was wanting to the scene which the old priest disclosed,
with such a mockery of pride, to the gaze of Meredith.
The wide, open area, so far from reposing in stately desolation,
had been converted to the homeliest domestic uses,
and was suggestive rather of the present laborious economy
and patient thrift of the fraternity, than of the solemn receptions
and dignified ceremonies of the past. In one
corner, a gray-bearded priest, clad in the coarse blue robe
worn by the Syrian peasantry, was diligently shaking a
huge skin filled with cream, which he was in the act of
converting to butter; two others were transferring wine of
their own manufacture from one receptacle to another, several
clumsy casks being mounted for the purpose on the
discolored stones of the dry fountain; a fourth was engaged
in the primitive occupation of grinding corn between two
flat stones; while various implements of toil, resting against
the walls, indicated the numerous other uses to which the
court-yard was applied.
All labor, however, was suspended on the entrance of
Havilah and the Englishman. There was a mingling of
curiosity and shyness in the manner with which the simple
brethren eyed the latter; but sincere and unaffected pleasure
shone in each of their faces as the young girl passed
from one to another, with here a kind inquiry and there a
congratulatory comment on their health or the success of
their labors.
Their Superior, they said, was at work in the flower-garden,
and thither Father Ambrose hurried his guests,
after affording them a brief opportunity to take a general
survey of the establishment, so far as it could be discerned
from the court-yard. A small archway and a narrow corridor,
which pierced like a tunnel to the exterior wall of the
monastery, conducted to a small plat of ground, which was
the chief source of recreation to the convent inmates, and
which well rewarded their patience and skill. Every particle
of earth had been laboriously transported hither, and
was artificially retained and watered; still the garden sufficed
for the production and growth of every mountain herb
and flower which could enrich and beautify the place. Here,
in the midst of his floral treasures, the Superior might often
be seen, laboring with as true a zeal as that of the plodding
husbandmen, who with their single yoke of oxen were diligently
tilling the olive-orchard and grain-fields below. As
Havilah and Meredith approached, he stood, leaning on
his spade, looking forth on the broad lands of the distant
plain, which had once been the property of his predecessors,
and, wrapped in his black gown and capuchin-like hood,
resembled rather a statue of porphyry than a living being.
On hearing the sound of footsteps, he turned quickly round,
revealing an attenuated face and figure, and a grave, melancholy
expression of countenance. A cordial though sickly
as he bestowed a paternal benediction on Havilah, and
greeted Meredith with friendly hospitality, though with
scarcely more enthusiasm than had been evinced by the
other friars. He warmed into animation, however, as Havilah
inquired after each of his vegetable favorites, commented
on the growth of each rare shrub, and finally exclaimed, with
delight, as she caught sight of a rose which had been the
object of his care and contemplation for months, “It has
blossomed at last! O how beautiful!”
“It is yours, my daughter,” was the eager response; and
stooping down, the devoted gardener removed it reverentially
from its stalk, and placed it in Havilah's hand with
the air of one who is laying a sacrifice on an altar, adding,
as he did so, “It is the first-fruits of my labors, dedicated
to the Mother Ianthe.” Then turning to Meredith, he addressed
him in Italian, a language with which the Englishman
was fortunately acquainted, and, leading the way back to
the convent, proposed to conduct him through the buildings,
urging him at the same time, if he purposed remaining in
the country, to take up his abode within its walls.
Though the latter part of the proposition was respectfully
declined, the former was accepted with alacrity. Father
Ambrose, with due deference, retired to his bench in the
court-yard, and Meredith made a survey of the ancient
building under the guidance of the Superior,—and under
his guidance alone, it may be added, for Havilah had disappeared
at the same moment with Father Ambrose, though
in a different direction. Had Meredith been less familiar
with the impulsive and independent movements of the young
girl, he would have felt some anxiety for her safety among
the lonely corridors and dim archways of the half-dilapidated
convent; and it must be confessed that, even with his
when, having passed through chapel, refectory, and
dormitory, explored subterranean vaults, and surveyed the
prospect from the high tower, he was at length ushered into
the antique library, and beheld her quietly seated on the
low sill of a deep-set Gothic window, the floor around her
strewn with strange old books and manuscripts, while Father
Anastase was seeking amid his musty archives for some
hidden volume which he had reason to believe would suit
her erratic tastes.
She looked up as Meredith and the Superior entered,
responded slightly to the former's smile of surprise and
recognition, but, without suffering herself to be interrupted
by their presence, continued her eager examination of the
books by which she was surrounded, selected that which
she most coveted, then, gathering up the remainder, assisted
Father Anastase in restoring them to their proper places,
—a service with which the old librarian could ill dispense,
since his ignorance was such that he could not even read
the titles of the volumes whose exterior it was his pride to
have handled all his life long.
Meredith was in the mean time listening with what patience
he might to the somewhat tedious narration of the
Superior, who had an almost interminable story to tell of
the past greatness of the establishment, its privileges and
endowments. Her labors finished, Havilah drew within
hearing, and bestowed for a while the most docile and respectful
attention upon the old man's words, though she
could not now and then avoid an incredulous smile at some
of the absurd legends in which the simple monks placed the
most implicit faith. At length, bethinking herself of the
lateness of the hour, she took advantage of a pause in the
convent history, and, with a graceful apology to the Superior,
to the proposition. They declined with united voice a
cordial offer of refreshment, on the plea that dinner, which
had been delayed on their account, would be awaiting them
at the villa, and the whole party now hastened to the court-yard.
It was near the hour for the refectory bell to sound,
and the monks, thirteen in number, had all assembled round
Geita and Bachmet, each eager to express thanks for his
share in Ianthe's bounty, and to send back some slight token
of gratitude, in the shape of ripe fruit, mammoth vegetables,
or a bunch of rare herbs.
It was interesting to watch Havilah moving amid the little
group, the cheerfulness of her pleasant parting words
reflected in each shrunken face, and her gay garments contrasting
with their time-worn habiliments, like the tints of
some bright bird flitting among the dry twigs and withered
leaves of autumn. From Meredith the simple friars kept
a little aloof, his reserved bearing evidently impressing them
with a sense of restraint which was not observable in their
Superior, who with grave decorum accompanied his guests
to the inner portal, where he bade them farewell. He manifested
a slight shade of embarrassment as Meredith with
some hesitation placed in his hand a generous gratuity.
His fingers closed eagerly over it, however, nor could he
resist a quick glance at the glittering gold, which his humbler
brethren were gazing at with undisguised satisfaction.
Nor was old Ambrose forgotten; he, too, received the
recompense of his services, and it was not without reason
that, as he barred the gateway behind the visitors, he prayed
that the good Virgin might soon send them thither again.
This visit to the convent, in spite of the tedious narratives
of the old Superior, had but served to increase Meredith's
interest in the place and its isolated inmates, an
sketches which Havilah gave him, on their homeward way,
of the remarkable ruins and arehæological curiosities with
which the mountain abounded, and to which the old friars
could readily guide him. “They believe them,” said she,
“the remains of temples crected in the time of the Crusaders,
and they will relate to you many a marvellous legend of
miracles performed at the saered shrines; but Father Lapierre,
who is as learned as the monks are ignorant, ascribes
these ruins to an earlier age, and thinks them the remains
of temples erected in the high places by the ancient Hivites
for the worship of Baal.”
Perhaps this information, with various other hints equally
suggestive to the antiquarian and man of science, could not
have been better timed; for so thoroughly was the spirit of
exploration aroused in Meredith, that he fully resolved to
come hither again at the carliest opportunity, and, animated
by this resolve, was steeled against the difficulties of the
mountain descent, which was even more perilous than the
ascent had been. Under the influence of Havilah's example,
however, he was becoming an adept in pedestrian
exploits, and they soon found themselves at the foot of the
declivity, where they crossed the water-course in the same
manner as in the morning.
They had scarcely gained the other side, and struck once
more into the flowery path, when they were joined by M.
Lapierre, who, hearing of their excursion, and the probable
hour of their return, had come to meet them. Meredith,
eager to learn more of the Canaanitish ruins, turned the
conversation in that direction, and Father Lapierre, equally
ready for antiquarian disquisition and argument, entered
upon a discourse replete with interest to both his listeners,
and which fully engrossed their time and attention during
their homeward walk to the villa.
| CHAPTER IX. El Fureidîs | |