On her arrival at Assisi, Irene immediately felt a little calmer than she had done in Rome. She had often noticed that when staying in mountainous districts her nerves grew quieter, and she felt, for the time being, less depressed. She loved the scent of the fresh mountain air, and it seemed to her, under its influence, as though, after all, life might still have in store for her many happy hours. An old doctor who had once treated her in Paris had called her in fun “la femme des montagnes”—perhaps, indeed, she should have lived always at high altitudes.

Assisi, in addition, was a delightful place. From the hills among which the little town with its famous monastery nestled, there was a glorious view over an immense plain, dotted with houses, churches, gardens, and villages. In the distance rose the peaks of the Apennines.

The impression of this view was rendered all the more enchanting by that wonderful colouring, so well known to all who have visited Umbria or Tuscany in the spring. The mountains were nearly always wreathed in an azure mist; the shadows were deep blue, little white cloudlets floated in the turquoise sky; the valley was green under its carpet of velvet grass, powdered already with daisies; the fruit-trees in the orchards were covered with a wealth of pink and white blossom. Such landscapes can be seen only in the pictures of the Italian old masters, for they alone, of all painters, have possessed the gift of reproducing all the softness and harmony of their native colouring.

Assisi has, to this day, preserved its character of a mediÆval Borgo, and has probably changed but little since the days of St. Francis. An old ruined fortress crowns the higher of a group of hills, and from this point run in all directions narrow, ill-paved little streets, illuminated at night, as in old times, by feeble lanterns hanging on wires stretched across the roadway. Nobody seems to live in the monotonous, grey stone houses with eternally closed shutters; nobody ever seems to walk in the deserted streets and dark alleys. Only an occasional donkey tied to a wall stands meditatively in the middle of the road, and from time to time moves his long ears as a sign of life. Now and then there float across the air from some cellar the beat of a carpenter’s hammer, and the subdued tones of his voice, singing about the “faithless Fiametta.” Life seems to have stopped at the twelfth century, since when everything has lain still in an enchanted sleep. Even the numerous tourists do not succeed in awakening the slumbering town. The inhabitants are mostly monks and nuns, with a scattering of Polish Catholics, and English old maids, who come to kneel at the shrine of St. Francis.

Irene set herself zealously to visit all the holy places. First, she descended into the valley, to the Church of Santa Maria dei Angeli. It had once stood in the heart of a dreaming forest, where, in the fourth century, some monks had built a tiny chapel, round which, partly in cells, partly in caves, the brotherhood had settled. In this primitive little settlement, St. Francis lived and prayed and died. Later on his remains were removed and buried in the new and magnificent fortress-like Franciscan Monastery, whose white walls and towers now shine dazzlingly in the sun. The old forest has long since disappeared, and the touching little chapel is almost lost in the centre of the magnificent temple built around it. Monks show visitors round the monastery, pointing out the cell in which St. Francis died, the grotto in which he slept, and the little garden where grew the roses without thorns, that God had sent him as a special grace.

Irene went also to do homage to the body of St. Clara, who, influenced by the teaching of St. Francis, left the world, her family and friends, retired into a convent, and founded the Order of the Clarissians. St. Clara, too, passed her life in the modest little convent of St. Damian, and it was only after her death that her body was transferred to the gorgeous Church of the New Convent, where, in a niche, enclosed in a glass coffin, it rests in nun’s attire, and with a capuchin drawn over the blackened features.

Most of all, however, Irene enjoyed her excursion to Carceri, the distant hermitage in a mountain cave, where St. Francis had often prayed and fasted. She ordered a carriage a day in advance, and, at the appointed hour, Giuseppe, a handsome young Umbrian, drove up to the door of the hotel, raised his hat, and smiled caressingly to the waiting Irene. They traversed the entire town at a walking pace, on account of the steep, narrow streets, and this slow drive was a sort of triumphal progress for young Giuseppe. He seemed to be on a friendly footing with the whole place; every man they met on their way turned and walked for a while beside the carriage, his hand on the shaft, and conversing animatedly with Giuseppe. They all emphatically persuaded him to come, at some particular time and for some particular reason, to the Piazza Nuova, and he repeatedly swore by all the saints to keep the appointment.

At last they passed through the old fortress gates, and Giuseppe drove up to a small house, from the window of which peeped a pretty, sunburnt, smiling little face. Giuseppe jumped from his box, and leaving Irene at the mercy of the scorching Italian sun, disappeared into the house. Time passed; the young horse, peacefully regaling itself on fresh grass, was certainly in no hurry to proceed, and Giuseppe stayed away so long that Irene grew seriously angry. At last he appeared wreathed in smiles, and announced that the bullocks would be brought round in a moment.

“The bullocks!” exclaimed Irene; “but why do we want bullocks?”

“How should we do without them?” he retorted. “We are going into the mountains. A horse cannot make that journey alone. We must have two bullocks.”

Irene waited with some curiosity. In about ten minutes a middle-aged woman, probably the mother of the pretty sunburnt girl, appeared, leading by a rope two enormous, splendid, grey bullocks, with immense horns. They were evidently perfectly tame, and the woman, placing them in front of the horse, tied them to the carriage. Giuseppe helped solely with advice, exchanging playful glances the while with the pretty daughter, who was hopping about near him on one foot, the other foot, evidently wounded, being tied up with a white rag.

After much delay the procession started. The road was indeed appalling! A narrow, steep, stony mountain path, over which no man in his senses would ever dream of driving a carriage. But what will not an Italian do when there is a chance of earning a few lire?

In front, leading the bullocks, walked the woman with a shawl pushed well down over her forehead. She looked sufficiently modest and respectful, and was also sufficiently careless and untidy, to remind one of a Russian peasant woman. The thin useless little ropes she had brought broke every minute, the ends falling and getting entangled in the animals’ feet. Giuseppe was furious, constantly jumped off the box, and bitterly reproached the poor woman.

At last the bullocks were unharnessed, the relieved horse trotted gaily along a wider and much smoother road, and Irene thought that her troubles were over. Alas, however! At a turn of the way appeared a peasant waiting with two other bullocks (white ones this time), and the same story began all over again. The road grew always worse and more dangerous, and Irene hardly knew whether to be more frightened or delighted with the wonderful view that greeted her gaze. Assisi, with its stone walls and towers, lay spread out before her like a fairy-fortress, with a background of blue hills, and surrounded by a frame of grey-green olive-trees and dark cypresses. In the foreground, like carpets flung down at random, gleamed brilliant patches of emerald grass—the whole picture, indeed, was so fresh, so lovely, so poetical, that it might have been torn from a masterpiece by Botticelli.

At last the bullocks turned into a cavern-like opening among the rocks, from which issued a whiff of cold air. They had reached the entrance to the monastery, and Irene alighted and followed the path between two stone walls. A deathlike silence surrounded her. The sun caressed the as yet leafless old trees, birds sang, the path grew always narrower, and at last the old gates barred the way. Irene rang the bell. A decrepit old door-keeper, walking with difficulty, led her into a tiny courtyard with a stone well in its centre, and passed her on to a young Franciscan, just on the point of acting as guide to an Englishwoman who had come from Assisi on foot.

The tiny retreat was arranged partly in natural grottos and partly in little cave-cells, hewn out of the rocks. The little staircases and doors were so narrow and low that one could nowhere stand upright. Here, in the twelfth century, lived, at times, St. Francis, and la sua compagnia; then, later on, St. Bernard of Siena, and many other saints. The poetic stillness of the place, and its sacred associations, had attracted them, and they had jealously guarded the few small relics of St. Francis that had been left there—a tiny narrow pillow, a little box for the Holy Sacrament, and a cross.

The young Franciscan explained to the two visitors the arrangement and disposition of the settlement. He showed them the sort of things that are always shown in all monasteries; an old, faded sacred image, that was superstitiously supposed to have on one occasion spoken to some nun, and a miraculous crucifix, carved from some specially sacred wood. Lowering his voice, the monk added that an influential cardinal had once taken this crucifix away to his splendid chapel in Rome, but that during the very first night after its arrival there it had disappeared, and returned miraculously to its old place. He showed them also the precipice into which St. Francis had flung the devil who had come to tempt him (the latter had been smashed to pieces on the stones below, and had never again returned to the settlement), and the mountain-stream, whose noisy rush had disturbed the saint’s meditations, and whose voice he had silenced for ever.

Irene was specially touched by the little platform in the heart of the forest, from which, according to tradition, St. Francis had preached sermons to the birds. How beautiful, how poetic was this legend! Having withdrawn himself from human companionship, far away from men who in their pride imagine themselves to be superior beings, specially created, made of special clay, St. Francis had humbled himself before God’s greatness, and had understood that birds were his dear, innocent brothers. He longed to share with them the rapture that filled his soul, and the birds, understanding this rapture, joyfully sang and twittered in answer. Man was not made for solitude—and the hermit, having isolated himself in the desert, found the way to salvation in the friendship of tame birds and beasts.…

Having once seen all the sights of Assisi, Irene seldom ventured out of doors. She spent most of her time on the little terrace of the hotel, admiring the view that was spread out before her, and growing, day by day, more attached to it. What a wealth, indeed, of variety and beauty was to be found there! At seven o’clock each morning she opened her window and let in the fresh, fragrant air. The whole valley then seemed to be asleep, wrapped in a dewy mist. At mid-day, however, all was smiling and basking in floods of brilliant sunlight, and towards five in the afternoon the sun, like a great ball of fire, disappeared in the West, the sky grew pale, and light-blue shadows gradually began to draw their veils across the plain. Even lovelier still was the night, when bright stars trembled like diamonds in the dark sky, and the young moon shone as far away, as coldly, and as indifferently as she shines in the North and in the mountains. The whole great valley was dotted with little lights; the neighbouring town of Perugia made a sudden splash of brightness, and the white roads wound about mysteriously among the dark fields. The silence was indescribable; not a sound was to be heard, except, from time to time, the distant barking of a dog, or the throb of a far-off, passing train.

Irene began to feel the vague weariness of springtime. She had experienced so much of late, and had received so many new impressions, that her mind needed rest. She did not want to think about anything. Her thoughts moved lazily; she was placidly happy on the little terrace, with its palms and its flowers; she had no wish to go anywhere, she wanted only to repose in her comfortable wicker sofa-chair, and delight in nature.

She often thought of Gzhatski, but always unwillingly, even with displeasure.

“Why did I ever meet that man?” she thought resentfully. “Until he came, everything went well!” But for him, she would already have taken the veil, and would probably have found happiness. Why had she ever paid attention to the words of a mere passer-by, who had occupied himself with her affairs simply because he had nothing else to do? Very soon he would return to his Russia, where he had so many interests and so many friends, and would never even remember Irene. Perhaps it would be better to stay at Assisi until after he had left Rome.

Having arrived at this decision, Irene wrote to PÈre Etienne, telling him that the mountain air was agreeing with her splendidly, and that she would not return to Rome till Easter. She posted her letter, and feeling pleased and relieved, went for a stroll in the balmy evening air. What was her astonishment and annoyance when, on her return, she found Gzhatski in the entrance-hall of the hotel, eagerly questioning the proprietor about something. Her face expressed such frank displeasure, that Gzhatski felt provoked.

“What an unexpected meeting!” he said as naturally as possible, pretending, somewhat unsuccessfully, to be much astonished. “I was told you had taken the veil in one of the Roman convents.”

“Not yet,” smiled Irene, “but it is as a preparation for that event that I am recuperating here in the mountain air.”

“Yes, the air is lovely,” agreed Gzhatski, hurriedly. “And the views are beautiful. I hardly expected to find all this in the Apennines.”

Irene took it upon herself to show Gzhatski all the sights of Assisi. Sergei Grigorievitch praised everything, was delighted with all he saw, was respectful to the monks who acted as guides in the churches and monasteries, and bought a whole collection of various Catholic souvenirs.

“Can you guess what I have found to amuse me in Rome?” he asked Irene one day at dinner. “I go to the churches and listen to the Catechism lessons. I assure you it is most interesting. On one side of the church sits a nun, surrounded by little girls, and on the other, a monk, with a class of little boys, to whom he addresses questions, in turn. If you could only see what lovely little faces they have! These same Italians, that are so horrid when they grow up, are, at the age of eight or ten, exactly like Raphael’s cherubs. Of course, they don’t understand anything yet about the Catechism. What is the use of a catechism when the little legs of the pupils run all by themselves, so that there is no stopping them? The greater part of the lesson consists, for the ‘Pater,’ in persuading his listeners to sit still, not to swing on their chairs, not to jump up, not to run about the church, and not to fight.

“It is amusing, too, to listen to their conversations with their teacher. I remember once, for instance, he asked one such little Cupid the number of the Sacraments, or something like that. The answer had to be five. The young rascal thought for a moment, then smiled roguishly, spread out all the five fingers of his right hand, and, silently, with a triumphant air, held them to the Pater’s nose. Do you imagine the priest was offended at this lack of respect? Not in the least! He is an Italian himself, and teaches his Catechism more by means of gestures than words. Oh! what amusing people! When I look at those children, I feel a great heartache because I have not a little sonlet like that of my own!”

“But why do you not get married, if you so much want to have children?”

“Get married? That is not so easy. I will tell you a conversation I once had on the subject with my small nephew Seryozha. He is my godson, and will probably be my heir. We are enormous friends. When I go to stay in the country with his mother, my cousin, Seryozha never leaves me for a moment, and if only you could hear our conversations! He has the straightforward, logical, fearless intelligence of most small boys of his age. And so, on one occasion, he announced to me that as soon as ever he grows up, he will get married, just because he wants to have little children, whom he likes. ‘There is only one trouble,’ he added, very seriously, ‘I shall have to live all the time with my wife; there is no escape.’ He said it so well, that I gave him a hearty kiss. You see, although I am forty, and Seryozha is only eight, he explained to me quite clearly why I do not marry.”

“The poor wife!” laughed Irene.

On the following day, Gzhatski left Assisi. Just as he was getting into the cab to go to the station, he suddenly turned to Irene, who was there to say good-bye, and exclaimed:

“By the way, I had quite forgotten. I brought you a present from Rome. Please accept it,” and he took a book from his pocket, and handed it to her.

“What is it?” stammered Irene vaguely.

“It is a Life of St. Amulfia. Like you, she found that her vocation was to enter a convent. I thought that, as a future nun, it might be interesting and useful to you to know something of her convent life.”

Irene accepted this gift somewhat mistrustfully. It seemed suspicious, especially as Gzhatski obstinately avoided meeting her glance, while an ill-concealed smile trembled on his lips.

Irene went back to her favourite terrace, and for a long time watched the cab going down the hill, raising a cloud of dust. A suspicion arose in her heart, that Gzhatski had come to Assisi exclusively with the purpose of giving her this book, and she began to read it with great interest.

---