ANTONIO

BY

ERNEST OLDMEADOW

NEW YORK THE CENTURY CO. 1916

Copyright, 1909, by THE CENTURY Co.

Published, June, 1909

Contents

BOOK I THE EXODUS

BOOK II THE RETURN

BOOK III MARGARIDA

BOOK IV THE AZULEJOS

BOOK V ISABEL

BOOK VI "ITE, MISSA EST"

BOOK I THE EXODUS

ANTONIO

I

From a cork bench on the flat roof of the cloister, the monk Antonio gazed over dim orange-groves and vineyards toward the quiet Atlantic. For many a day no wind had vexed the waters, and the ocean swell, as it searched the creeks and caves, hummed no loudlier than a bee mining deeply in the bells of flowers. Overhead thousands of stars burned mildly. The May night's soft airs were rich with scents of lemon-blossom and honeysuckle: and, like a perfume from a great hidden lily, peace filled earth and heaven.

Peace. It was the watchword of Antonio's Order. Pax was chiseled boldly in the old stone lintel over each choir-monk's door; and, for the sake of the lay-brethren whose Latin was less fluent than their Portuguese, Paz had been painted between each pair of windows on the kitchen walls. On every one of the monastery's books, both in the library and in the choir, Pax was stamped in dull gold; and from the lips of St. Benedict's sons as they met in cloister or garden the salutation was ever going forth: Peace be with thee.

Peace. Within Antonio's breast as well as without there reigned on this summer night a peace which passed understanding. Hardly fifteen hours before, the apostolic hands of a saintly bishop had raised the young monk to the awful dignity of the priesthood, and had given him power to offer sacrifice for the dead and for the living.

With eyes at rest upon the dreaming sea the young Antonio recalled some of the hours he had spent sitting upon this same cork bench. All of them had not been hours of peace. Antonio remembered March nights of storm, when mountainous waves uplifted white crests in the cold shine of a racing moon. He remembered August dusks, when the thunder pounded and boomed like great guns, or like enormous breakers on a sandy shore, while the lightning unsheathed its blinding blade, bright and jagged as a scimitar. He remembered December gales, with the pine-trees cowering and creaking before the blast; and January floods raging down the mountain. But, most vividly of all, Antonio recalled his hours of inward strife and tempest. He remembered that long night's vigil when he wrestled and prayed against a sudden temptation to renounce the religious life and go back to the warm, sweet world. And he remembered those many, many hours of less sultry, more nipping and stinging tempest when all the arguments against religion in general, and against monasticism in particular, went on bursting

like hailstones about his head. Thrice during his novitiate and once more on the very eve of his full profession a tornado of doubt had well-nigh swung him off his feet and hurled him back into the world. But on this May night, within him and without, there was peace.

Peace. Better still, there was peace at last in Antonio's beloved fatherland, in beautiful Portugal. For more than five-and-twenty years the garden of the West had lain under the blight of war. At the bidding of Wellington had not the peasantry laid waste their fields, so that there should be neither a blade of grass nor a cob of maize for Napoleon's horses and men? And after Napoleon was flung back had not the ancient kingdom sunk to be a mere colony of Brazil, with Englishmen lording it amid the ruins? Worse still, had not the fratricidal strife of the Absolutists and the Constitutionalists soaked Portugal's hill-sides with her best blood? But now the civil war was ended. Napier, the amazing Englishman, had done his work, and Dom Miguel's cause was lost. At Evora Monte, with the coming of May, the faithful remnant of sixteen thousand Miguelistas had broken their swords across their knees and dashed their muskets to pieces against the stones at the news of their betrayal by a selfish and ungrateful master.

During the long siege of Oporto the echoes of the bugles had often resounded in Antonio's cell, challenging him to imitate many a monk of bygone ages and to exchange the cowl for the helmet. This was one of the most frequent shapes in which his doubts assailed him. He was young, he was ardent, he loved his country; and sometimes a flush of shame would burn his cheek as he heard of some desperate sortie from the beleaguered city. To be praying in a cloister at such a time was a good work: but, so long as the battles were actually raging, was it not a work for women, like preparing lint? Once, indeed, he went so far as to approach the abbot for leave to interrupt his monastic life while he struck a good blow for Portugal: but the abbot confounded him by demanding sadly on which side Antonio felt it his duty to fight. To the old man's question the young one could give no clear answer. His political sympathies were with sterling liberalism: but he had read enough history and seen enough of the world to know that those who preach mostly of liberty often tolerate others'

liberty least, and that both the constitutionalism of Dom Pedro and the absolutism of Dom Miguel were mere passwords of opportunists rather than sincere utterances of convictions and principles. In response to his silence and confusion the abbot charged him, under obedience, to dismiss the idea of soldiering from his mind: but whenever tidings of fresh carnage on the banks of the Douro reached the monastery Antonio's heart bled anew. That Portuguese should have helped to slay the thousands of Frenchmen whom Massena had flung at the ridges of Bussaco was a thing for which Massena's master was alone to blame: but the shooting down of Portuguese by Portuguese was a different thing. And so it was with a brimming heart that Antonio, as he sat on his cork bench under the mild stars, thanked God for peace at last in Portugal.

Peace. Best of all, peace seemed to have begun even for the Church and for her religious Orders. It was true that the victorious Liberals had decreed the expected confiscation of the military Orders' rich possessions: but, instead of heeding the firebrands from France and suppressing the religious Orders altogether, the new Government had contented itself with closing the smaller houses and distributing their old inmates among the larger monasteries. And, it was true that the State was seeking to impose vexations upon the Church: but it seemed probable that patience and charity and prudence on the Church's part would soon make the crooked straight, and that the Portuguese family would once more dwell in harmony and peace.

Peace. From the peace of the sea Antonio's eyes wandered at last to the peace of the earth. Roving over wood and meadow and stream, his gaze came to rest at last in a little clearing between the ending of the orange-groves and the beginning of the vineyards. This was the monks' cemetery. It was three hundred years old, and the bones of nearly all the men who had lived and breathed and walked in the cloister under his feet lay beneath its pleasant turf and flowers. In the midst of the clearing a tall and slender cross glimmered pale through the dusk.

There was not a trace of morbidity in his mood; yet Antonio beheld God's acre with more of longing than of shrinking. On so soft and gracious a night even a pagan would have found something alluring in the thought of death. After the day's glare the dimness was like a veil for tired eyes, and the scented air was like caressing arms, wooing one to everlasting rest. Antonio was no pagan and no voluptuary. He wanted to live strenuously for God, according to the Holy Rule: but it was good to feel that whenever the body should be worn and weary even unto death, there would be this plot of hallowed earth for its repose. With his eyes upon the pale cross Antonio looked through it into his future. He pictured himself living his life, as the hundreds of dead men in the cemetery had lived theirs, in the cell, in the chapel, and in the cloister, studying the divine mysteries, ever advancing toward perfection, praying for those who would not pray for themselves, rendering to God some of the praise and worship whereof the careless deprive Him, and striving, as it were, to

redress the balance of the world. He saw himself giving his keen mind, his eager spirit, his young strength, his whole manhood to the divine office, so that the praising of God should not all be left to the weak, the simple, the aged, and to the fearful souls in the shadow of death. He knew full well that the world did not understand such a sacrifice, and that the mass of men were so entirely blind to the monastic ideal that they would look on him either as a cowardly shirker of life's duties or as a fanatical abstainer from its joys. But he had long ago learned to despise the judgments of the world. His sacrifice was acceptable to his Lord and it was the groundwork of his spirit's peace. It was as though Antonio heard from the midst of the stars His voice saying, Pacem relinquo vobis, pacem meam do vobis: non quomodo mundus dat, ego do vobis—"Peace, I leave with you. My peace I give to you; not as the world giveth give I to you."

Humility made haste to stifle the beginning of pride. This sacrifice of his—what was it, after all? What great merit was there in yielding back to God his body, soul and spirit? They were God's own, and at any moment he could revoke them. Antonio brought his mind back firmly to the stupendous happenings of the morning, and to the scene in the chapel when the bishop laid hands upon his head. He, Antonio, with all his unworthiness was a priest at last, and very soon he would be called upon to offer that ineffable Sacrifice, compared with which his own was nothing worth. He, Antonio, would soon stand before the altar, offering up the Lord and Maker of all these stars and seas and mountains, the very God of very God, for the dead and for the living.

For the dead. Still gazing at the pale cross, he vowed to remember in his first Mass the faithful departed whose dust lay beneath its pitiful arms. And for the living. A league away two lights still beamed from the windows of a farm-house, and, far out at sea, the mast-head lamp on a fisherman's boat twinkled like another star. They reminded him of the toiling men and women whose cheerful labor is the Te Deum most beloved of heaven, and he vowed more heartily still that he would always exercise his priesthood in spiritual communion with these obscure saints. And, from them, his charity widened to all Portugal. Portugal had reeled long enough under the shocks of war, even as her cliffs had seemed to reel and shudder under the enormous assault and battery of winter storms: and Antonio yearned over her, almost as if he already held the chalice in his hand, praying with his whole heart that this May night, with the soft waters nestling to Portugal's side and crooning a lullaby, might be an earnest of his country's abiding peace.

He rose from the bench and sought the stone stairway. Less than a mile from the monastery gate two lanterns were bobbing violently up and down on the road, as if they were being carried by galloping horsemen. Antonio strained his ears, and made out the clattering of many hoofs and a faint clink of steel.

II

"Go down quickly and meet them at the gate," said the Prior to Antonio as soon as the young monk had finished his rapid story. "If they are Miguelistas tell them they cannot be harbored here. Say the war is over and we have suffered enough."

"And what if they are Liberals?"

"If they are Liberals—" the Prior began. But he stopped short with trouble in his face. "If they are Liberals," he repeated slowly, "they are coming here for no good."

"There is not a moment to lose," said Antonio.

As he spoke the door of the nearest cell opened and a third monk appeared. He was older than Antonio—perhaps forty years of age. His fine features were pain-worn, and, in spite of the softness of the night, he was drawing his black habit closely round his slender body.

"Here is Father Sebastian," cried the Prior. "He will go with you. Father Sebastian, there is fresh trouble. Antonio has heard soldiers. Meet them at the gate. Tell them of the Abbot's illness. Take them to the guest-house. Say I will speak to them there. Run!"

Antonio gathered up his habit and sped off like a hare. But at the entrance of an avenue flanked by giant camellias he halted, suddenly remorseful. Sebastian overtook him.

"Don't wait for me. Run on," he panted.

Antonio plunged into the dark tunnel. Before he had run half its length the cracked bell at the monastery gate broke into an insolent din. Where the camellias ended he slackened pace and allowed his habit to fall once more in dignified amplitude to his feet. Meanwhile somebody was noisily clanking the scabbard of a sword against the iron bars of the gate. He drew nearer and made out a throng of cloaked men on little white horses.

"We demand entrance," piped a weak voice, as a trooper flashed the light of a lantern through the bars into Antonio's face.

"If you are Miguelistas," returned Antonio, "I must refuse."

"Miguelistas?" squeaked the weak voice. "Miguelistas! If we were Miguelistas you would make us welcome like the traitors you are. Miguelistas! We are no Miguelistas. Open in the name of the Queen."

"Why?" asked Father Sebastian quietly, as he took his place at Antonio's side.

The beam of the lantern searched Father Sebastian's face also. Then the weak voice began again. But it was immediately drowned by the strong and hearty tones of an officer, who plucked the lantern out of the soldier's hand and held it close to his own face so that he could be seen while he was speaking.

"Your Reverences," he said, "we ask pardon. But we must enter. We are simply doing our duty. Your Reverences have not heard of the decrees."

"Your Excellency is wrong," answered Father Sebastian. "We have studied them all. The military orders are suppressed; but ours is not a military order. The smaller monasteries are to be closed; but this is not one of the smaller monasteries. What have the decrees to do with us?"

"Everything," retorted the weak voice in triumph. The officer turned in his saddle and held the lantern up so as to exhibit a squat, blonde, elderly man, clinging precariously to a thick-legged horse. "Yes, everything. The new decree is only forty-eight hours old. All the orders are suppressed. All of them, big and little. All of them, in all Portugal. All of them, bag and baggage, root and branch, lock, stock and barrel. It was high time. Here is the decree in my hand. Open the gates before we smash them down."

"If this is true," flung back Antonio in an outburst of indignation, "the Government has broken its word. But I don't believe it. Your decree is a forgery. You have come here to cheat and rob us. You have come—"

"Be silent, Father Antonio," said Father Sebastian. "Help me draw the bolt. Leave this affair to me."

The principal gate had not been opened since the days when Wellington and his staff had made the monastery their headquarters: but the bolt gave way at last. The gates turned upon their rusty hinges with a piercing sound which cut through the darkness like a wail. One might almost have believed that the genius of the place was crying to heaven for help. Men and horses began pressing through the gate, but Father Sebastian stood in their way.

"Senhor Captain," he said, "our Prior is at your Excellency's service. But our Abbot is lying sick. He is nearly eighty years old. This path leads to our guest-house. The Prior begs that he may attend you there. It is not far. We will show your Excellency the way."

The captain hesitated. Even the feeble light of the lanterns was enough to show that he did not relish his task. But before he could speak the squat, blonde man piped out:

"Most decidedly and emphatically not. The sick and the aged shall have every consideration; but there are no longer people here entitled to call themselves Priors and Abbots. Senhor Captain, our duty is clear. Let us get on."

"Your Reverence," said the captain to Father Sebastian. "I am sorry. But what can I do? My instructions are to support the Senhor Visconde in taking possession of the monastery. The Prior shall see the decree. I will do my best not to distress the reverend Abbot. But I cannot follow you to the guest-house."

He leaped down from his horse, and led it behind Antonio and Sebastian into the avenue of camellias. The squat civilian followed, without dismounting, and about thirty troopers brought up the rear. The two monks walked with bowed heads, Sebastian praying, Antonio burning. No one spoke: but the rattle of hoofs and weapons was so loud that the Prior guessed the failure of his ambassadors almost as soon as the last soldier had crossed the sill of the gate.

Before the noisy procession clattered into the paved space in front of the monastery, the eighteen choir-monks, with the Prior at their head and the lay brethren behind, were already assembled under the stone vault of the vestibule. As every one of them issued from his cell carrying a lamp or a candle they seemed to be assembled for some solemn religious function, such as a mass or requiem. Most of the monks were old men; for the long years of foreign invasions and civil wars had not been fertile in religious vocations. To more than half of them the monastery had been their only home for forty years or more. Hardly ten words had been exchanged among them as to the meaning of the Prior's summons; yet one and all of them divined their fate. Two or three of the oldest and weakest huddled against their younger and stronger brethren, with the look of hunted animals who hear the dogs beginning to nose and work at the mouths of their burrows.

Expressing his failure by a sad gesture, Father Sebastian bowed to the Prior and passed in to join the crowd in the vestibule, with Antonio in his wake. The captain followed on their heels, uncovering respectfully as the Prior advanced to meet him. There was a silence; but it was quickly ended by a wheezy cry from without: "Wait for me! This is my business. Wait for me, I say."

"We are waiting for the Senhor Visconde," rapped back the captain with a touch of scorn.

"Then bring me a stool," the Viscount demanded. "Help me down. Bring me a stool or a chair. Here Ferreira, you fat dog, help me down."

The fat dog Ferreira backed up and with his arms clasped round the burly trooper's neck, the Viscount was rescued from the perils of the thick-legged horse. Either from stupidity or from malice, Ferreira did not set him down upon his feet but carried him up the monastery steps as sailors carry land-lubbers ashore through the surf. When he finally landed on the vestibule floor the Viscount might have recovered his dignity had not another trooper, safely hidden in the outer darkness, uttered a loud guffaw. He turned round angrily with a threat at his tongue's end: but the weird black ranks of monks silently staring at him in the smoky light scared him into speechlessness.

"The most illustrious and most excellent Senhor Visconde will explain to your Reverence why we are here," announced the captain dryly.

"I am at your Excellency's service," said the Prior, stepping forward and looking the Viscount in the face.

For two whole days during his carriage-ride from Lisbon the Viscount had been jotting down a discourse on the inevitable victory of the emancipated human intellect over priestcraft and superstition. It was in the best French manner. Even during his fearsome hour on the thick-legged horse, after the roughness of the by-roads had compelled him to descend from his chariot, he had contrived to add a flourish or two to his peroration. But the steady eyes of the Prior burned up all the Viscount's fine phrases like stubble, and he could only stutter: