Best Short Stories Omnibus - Volume 1

The Jesuits’ Church in G——-1

The Jesuits’ Church in G——––––––––

PACKED UP IN A WRETCHED post-chaise, which the moths had left from instinct—as the rats left Prospero's vessel—I at last, after a break-neck journey, stopped half dislocated, at the inn in the G—— market-place. All the possible misfortune that might have befallen me had lighted on my carriage, which lay, shattered, with the postmaster at the last stage. Four skinny, jaded horses, after a lapse of many hours, dragged up the crazy vehicle, with the help of several peasants and my own servant; knowing folks came up, shook their heads, and thought that a thorough repair, which might occupy two, or even three days would be necessary. The place seemed to me agreeable, the country pretty, and yet I felt not a little horror-struck at the delay with which I was threatened. If, gentle reader, you were ever compelled to stop three days in a little town, where you did not know a soul, but were forced to remain a stranger to every body, and if some deep pain did not destroy the inclination for social converse, you will be able to appreciate my annoyance. In words alone does the spirit of life manifest itself in all around us; but the inhabitants of your small towns are like a secluded orchestra, which has worked into its own way of playing and singing by hard practice, so that the tone of the foreigner is discordant to their ears, and at once puts them to silence. I was walking up and down my room, in a thorough ill-humour, when it at once struck me that a friend at home, who had once passed two years at G——, had often spoken of a learned, clever man, with whom he had been intimate. His name, I recollected, was Aloysius Walter, professor at the Jesuits' college. I now resolved to set out, and turn my friend's acquaintance to my own advantage. They told me at the college that Professor Walter was lecturing, but would soon have finished, and as they gave me the choice of calling again or waiting in the outer rooms, I chose the latter. The cloisters, colleges, and churches of the Jesuits are everywhere built in that Italian style which, based upon the antique form and manner, prefers splendour and elegance to holy solemnity and religious dignity. In this case the lofty, light, airy halls were adorned with rich architecture and the images of saints, which were here placed against the walls, between Ionic pillars, were singularly contrasted by the carving over the doorways, which invariably represented a dance of genii, or fruit and the dainties of the kitchen.

The professor entered—I reminded him of my friend, and claimed his hospitality for the period of my forced sojourn in the place. I found him just as my friend had described him; clear in his discourse, acquainted with the world, in short, quite in the style of the higher class priest, who has been scientifically educated, and peeping over his breviary into life, has often sought to know what is going on there. When I found his room furnished with modern elegance, I returned to my former reflections in the halls, and uttered them to the professor aloud.

"You are right," said he, "we have banished from our edifices that gloomy solemnity, that strange majesty of the crushing tyrant, who oppresses our bosoms in Gothic architecture, and causes a certain unpleasant sensation, and we have very properly endowed our works with the lively cheerfulness of the ancients."

"But," said I, "does not that sacred dignity, that lofty majesty of Gothic architecture which seems, as it were, striving after Heaven, proceed from the true spirit of Christianity, which, supersensual itself, is directly opposed to that sensual spirit of the antique world which remains in the circle of the earthly?"

The professor smiled: "The higher kingdom," said he, "should be recognised in this world, and this recognition can be awakened by cheerful symbols, such as life—nay, the spirit which descends from that kingdom into earthly life—presents. Our home is above, but while we dwell here, our kingdom is of this world also."

"Ay," thought I, "in every thing that you have done you have indeed shown that your kingdom is of this world—nay, of this world only;" but I did not communicate my thoughts to Professor Aloysius Walter, who proceeded thus:

"What you say of the magnificence of our buildings in this place can only refer properly to the pleasant appearance of the form. Here, where we cannot afford marble, and great masters in painting will not work for us, we are—in conformity with the modern fashion—obliged to make use of substitutes. If we get as high as polished plaster we have done a great deal, and our different kinds of marble are often nothing more than the work of the painter. This is the case in our church, which, thanks to the liberality of our patrons, has been newly decorated."

I expressed a desire to see the church; the professor led me down, and when I entered the Corinthian colonnade, which formed the nave of the church, I felt the pleasing—too pleasing impression of the graceful proportions. To the left of the principal altar a lofty scaffolding had been erected, upon which a man stood, who was painting over the walls in the antique style.

"Now! how are you going on, Berthold?" cried the professor.

The painter turned round to us, but immediately proceeded with his work, saying in an indistinct, and almost inaudible voice: "Great deal of trouble—crooked, confused stuff—no rule to make use of—beasts—apes—human faces—human faces—miserable fool that I am!"

These last words he cried aloud in a voice, that nothing but the deepest agony working in the soul could produce. I felt strangely affected;—these words, the expression of face, the glance which he had previously cast at the professor, brought before my eyes the whole struggling life of an unfortunate artist. The man could have been scarcely more than forty years old; his form, though disfigured by the unseemly, dirty costume of a painter, had something in it indescribably noble, and deep grief could only discolour his face, but could not extinguish the fire that sparkled in his black eyes. I asked the professor for particulars respecting this painter: "He is a foreign artist," was the reply, "who came here just at the time when the repair of the church had been resolved upon. He undertook the work we offered him with pleasure, and indeed his arrival was for us a stroke of good fortune, since neither here, nor for a great distance round, could we find a painter so admirably fitted for all that we require. Besides, he is the most good-natured creature in the world, and we all love him heartily; for that reason he got on well in our college. Beside giving him a considerable salary for his work, we board him, which, by the way, does not entail a very heavy burden upon us, for he is abstemious almost to excess, though perhaps it may accord with the weakness of his constitution.

"But," said I, "he seemed to-day so peevish—so irritable."

"That," replied the professor, "is owing to a particular cause. But let us look at some fine pictures on the side altars, which by a lucky chance we obtained some time ago. There is only a single original—a Dominichino—among them, the rest are by unknown masters of the Italian school; but if you are free from prejudice, you will be forced to confess that every one of them might bear the most celebrated name."

I found it was exactly as the professor had said. Strangely enough, the only original was one of the weakest—if not the very, weakest of the collection, while the beauty of many of the anonymous pictures had for me an irresistible charm. The picture on one of the altars was covered up, and I asked the cause of this: "This picture," said the professor, "is the finest that we possess,—it is the work of a young artist of modern times—certainly his last, for his flight is checked. At this time we are obliged, for certain reasons, to cover it up, but to-morrow, or the day after, I shall perhaps be in a condition to show it you."

I wished to make further inquiries, but the professor hurried swiftly through the passage, and that was enough to show his unwillingness to answer more. We went back to the college, and I readily accepted the invitation of the professor, who wished me, in the afternoon, to go with him to some public gardens in the neighbourhood. We returned home late, a storm had risen, and I had scarcely reached my dwelling than the rain began to pour down. About midnight the sky cleared up, and the thunder only murmured in the distance. Through the open windows the warm air, laden with scents, entered the room, and though I was weary I could not resist the temptation to take a walk. I succeeded in waking the surly man-servant, who had been snoring for about two hours; and in showing him that there was no madness in walking at midnight. Soon I found myself in the street. When I passed the Jesuits' church, I was struck by the dazzling light that beamed through a window. The little side-door was ajar, so I entered and saw a wax-taper burning before a niche. When I had come nearer, I observed that before this niche a pack-thread net had been spread, behind which a dark form was running up and down the ladder, and seemed to be designing something on the niche. It was Berthold, who was accurately tracing the shadow of the net with black colour. On a tall easel, by the ladder, stood the drawing of an altar. I was much struck at the ingenious contrivance. If, gentle reader, you are in the least acquainted with the noble art of painting, you will once know, without further explanation, the use of the net, the shadow of which Berthold was sketching. Berthold was about to paint a projecting altar on the niche, and that he might make a large copy of the small drawing with due correctness, he was obliged to put a net, in the usual manner, over both the sketch and the surface on which the sketch was to be completed. In this instance he had to paint not on a flat surface but on a semicircular one; and the correspondence of the squares which the curved lines of the net formed on the concave surface, with the straight ones of the sketch, together with accuracy in the architectural proportions which were to be brought forward in perspective, could not be otherwise obtained than by that simple and ingenious contrivance. I was cautious enough not to step before the taper, lest I might betray myself by my shadow, but I stood near enough to his side to observe the painter closely. He appeared to me quite another man. Perhaps it was the effect of the taper, but his face had a good colour, his eyes sparkled with internal satisfaction, and when he had completed the lines he placed himself before the screen, with his hands resting on his sides, and looking at his work, whistled a merry tune. He now turned round, and tore down the net. Suddenly he was struck by my figure, and cried aloud:

"Halloah! halloah! is that you, Christian?"

I went up to him, explained how I had been attracted into the church, and praising the ingenious contrivance of the net, gave him to understand that I was but a connoisseur and practiser of the noble art of painting. Without making me any further answer, Berthold said:

"Christian is neither more nor less than a sluggard. He was to have kept with me faithfully through the whole night, and now he is certainly snoring somewhere! I must get on with my work, for probably it will be bad to paint here on the screen to-morrow—and yet I can do nothing by myself."

I offered my assistance, upon which he laughed aloud, laid hold of both my shoulders, and cried:

"That is a capital joke! What will Christian say, when he finds to-morrow that he is an a*s, and that I have done without him? So, come hither, stranger, help me to build a little."

He lit several tapers, we ran through the church, pulled together a number of blocks and planks, and a lofty scaffold was soon raised within the screen.