Читать книгу The Essential Works of William Harrison Ainsworth - William Harrison Ainsworth - Страница 59

CHAPTER 10
SAINT CYPRIAN’S CELL

Table of Contents

Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch’ entrate.

Dante.

Cyprian de Mulverton, fifth prior of the monastery of Saint Francis, a prelate of singular sanctity, being afflicted, in his latter days, with a despondency so deep that neither penance nor fasting could remove it, vowed never again to behold, with earthly eyes, the blessed light of heaven, nor to dwell longer with his fellowmen; but, relinquishing his spiritual dignity, “the world forgetting, by the world forgot,” to immure himself, while living, within the tomb.

He kept his vow. Out of the living rock that sustained the saintly structure, beneath the chapel of the monastery, was another chapel wrought, and thither, after bidding an eternal farewell to the world, and bestowing his benediction upon his flock, whom he committed to the care of his successor, the holy man retired.

Never, save at midnight, and then only during the performance of masses for his soul’s repose, did he ascend from his cell: and as the sole light allowed within the dismal dungeon of his choice was that of a sepulchral lamp, as none spoke with him when in his retreat, save in muttered syllables, what effect must the lustre emanating from a thousand tapers, the warm and pungent odors of the incense-breathing shrine, contrasted with the earthy vapors of his prison-house, and the solemn swell of the Sanctus, have had upon his excited senses? Surely they must have seemed like a foretaste of the heaven he sought to gain!

Ascetic to the severest point to which nature’s endurance could be stretched, Cyprian even denied himself repose. He sought not sleep, and knew it only when it stole on him unawares. His couch was the flinty rock; and long afterwards, when the zealous resorted to the sainted prior’s cell, and were shown those sharp and jagged stones, they marvelled how one like unto themselves could rest, or even recline upon their points without anguish, until it was explained to them that, doubtless, He who tempereth the wind to the shorn lamb had made that flinty couch soft to the holy sufferer as a bed of down. His limbs were clothed in a garb of horsehair of the coarsest fabric; his drink was the dank drops that oozed from the porous walls of his cell; and his sustenance, such morsels as were bestowed upon him by the poor — the only strangers permitted to approach him. No fire was suffered, where perpetual winter reigned. None were admitted to his nightly vigils; none witnessed any act of penance; nor were any groans heard to issue from that dreary cave; but the knotted, blood-stained thong, discovered near his couch, too plainly betrayed in what manner those long lone nights were spent. Thus did a year roll on. Traces of his sufferings were visible in his failing strength. He could scarcely crawl; but he meekly declined assistance. He appeared not, as had been his wont, at the midnight mass; the door of his cell was thrown open at that hour; the light streamed down like a glory upon his reverend head; he heard the distant reverberations of the deep Miserere; and breathed odors as if wafted from Paradise.

One morn it chanced that they who sought his cell found him with his head upon his bosom, kneeling before the image of the virgin patroness of his shrine. Fearing to disturb his devotions, they stood reverently looking on; and thus silently did they tarry for an hour; but, as in that space he had shown no signs of motion, fearing the worst, they ventured to approach him. He was cold as the marble before which he knelt. In the act of humblest intercession — it may be, in the hope of grace — had Cyprian’s spirit fled.

“Blessed are they who die in the Lord,” exclaimed his brethren, regarding his remains with deepest awe. On being touched, the body fell to the ground. It was little more than a skeleton.

Under the cloisters of the holy pile were his bones interred, with a degree of pomp and ostentation that little accorded with the lowliness and self-abasement of this man of many sorrows.

This chapel, at the time of which we treat, was pretty much in the same condition as it existed in the days of its holy inmate. Hewn out of the entrails of the rock, the roof, the vaults, the floor, were of solid granite. Three huge cylindrical pillars, carved out of the native rock, rough as the stems of gnarled oak-trees, lent support to the ceiling. Support, however, was unneeded; an earthquake would scarce have shaken down those solid rafters. Only in one corner, where the water welled through a crevice of the rock, in drops that fell like tears, was decay manifest. Here the stone, worn by the constant dripping, had, in some places, given way. In shape, the vault was circular. The integral between each massive pillar formed a pointed arch. Again, from each pillar sprang other arches, which, crossed by diagonal, ogive branches, weaving one into the other, and radiating from the centre, formed those beautifully intricate combinations upon which the eye of the architectural enthusiast loves to linger. Within the ring formed by these triple columns, in which again the pillars had their own web of arches, was placed an altar of stone, and beside it a crucifix of the same rude material. Here also stood the sainted image of her who had filled the prior with holy aspirations, now a shapeless stone. The dim lamp, that, like a star struggling with the thick gloom of a wintry cell, had shed its slender radiance over the brow of the Virgin Thecla, was gone. But around the keystone of the central arches, whence a chain had once depended, might be traced in ancient characters, half effaced by time, the inscription:

STA. THECLA ORA PRO NOBIS.

One outlet only was there from the chapel — that which led by winding steps to the monastery; one only recess — the prior’s cell. The former faced the altar; the latter yawned like the mouth of a tomb at its back. Altogether it was a dreary place. Dumb were its walls as when they refused to return the murmured orisons of the anchorite. One uniform sad coloring prevailed throughout. The gray granite was grown hoar with age, and had a ghostly look; the columns were ponderous, and projected heavy shadows. Sorrow and superstition had their tale, and a moral gloom deepened the darkness of the spot. Despair, which had inspired its construction, seemed to brood therein. Hope shunned its inexorable recesses.

Alone, within this dismal sanctuary, with hands outstretched towards the desecrated image of its tutelar saint, knelt Sybil. All was darkness. Neither the heavy vapors that surrounded her, nor the shrine before which she bent, were visible; but, familiar with the dreary spot, she knew that she had placed herself aright. Her touch had satisfied her that she bowed before the altar of stone; that her benighted vision was turned towards the broken image of the saint, though now involved in gloom the most profound; and with clasped hands and streaming eyes, in low and mournful tones, she addressed herself in the following hymn to the tutelar saint of the spot:

HYMN TO SAINT THECLA

In my trouble, in my anguish,

In the depths of my despair,

As in grief and pain I languish,

Unto thee I raise my prayer.

Sainted virgin! martyr’d maiden!

Let thy countenance incline

Upon one with woes o’erladen,

Kneeling lowly at thy shrine;

That in agony, in terror,

In her blind perplexity,

Wandering weak in doubt and error,

Calleth feebly upon thee.

Sinful thoughts, sweet saint, oppress me,

Thoughts that will not be dismissed;

Temptations dark possess me,

Which my strength may not resist.

I am full of pain, and weary

Of my life; I fain would die:

Unto me the world is dreary;

To the grave for rest I fly.

For rest! — oh! could I borrow

Thy bright wings, celestial dove!

They should waft me from my sorrow,

Where peace dwells in bowers above.

Upon one with woes o’erladen,

Kneeling lowly at thy shrine;

Sainted virgin! martyr’d maiden!

Let thy countenance incline!

Mei miserere Virgo, Requiem æternam dona!

By thy loveliness, thy purity,

Unpolluted, undefiled,

That in serene security

Upon earth’s temptations smiled; —

By the fetters that constrain’d thee,

By thy flame-attested faith,

By the fervor that sustain’d thee,

By thine angel-ushered death; —

By thy soul’s divine elation,

‘Mid thine agonies assuring

Of thy sanctified translation

To beatitude enduring; —

By the mystic interfusion

Of thy spirit with the rays,

That in ever bright profusion

Round the Throne Eternal blaze; —

By thy portion now partaken,

With the pain-perfected just;

Look on one of hope forsaken,

From the gates, of mercy thrust.

Upon one with woes o’erladen,

Kneeling lowly at thy shrine,

Sainted virgin! martyr’d maiden!

Let thy countenance incline!

Ora pro me mortis horâ! Sancta Virgo, oro te! Kyrie Eleison!

The sweet, sad voice of the singer died faintly away. The sharpness of her sorrow was assuaged. Seldom, indeed, is it that fervent supplication fails to call down solace to the afflicted. Sybil became more composed. She still, however, trembled at the thoughts of what remained to be done.

“They will be here ere my prayer is finished,” murmured she —“ere the end is accomplished for which I came hither alone. Let me, oh! let me make my peace with my Creator, ere I surrender my being to His hands, and then let them deal with me as they will.” And she bowed her head in lowly prayer.

Again raising her hands, and casting her eyes towards the black ceiling, she implored, in song, the intercession of the saintly man who had bequeathed his name to the cell.

HYMN TO SAINT CYPRIAN

Hear! oh! hear me, sufferer holy,

Who didst make thine habitation

‘Mid these rocks, devoting wholly

Life to one long expiation

Of thy guiltiness, and solely

By severe mortification

Didst deliver thee. Oh! hear me!

In my dying moments cheer me.

By thy penance, self-denial,

Aid me in the hour of trial.

May, through thee, my prayers prevailing

On the Majesty of Heaven,

O’er the hosts of hell, assailing

My soul, in this dark hour be driven!

So my spirit, when exhaling,

May of sinfulness be shriven,

And His gift unto the Giver

May be rendered pure as ever!

By thy own dark, dread possession,

Aid me with thine intercession!

Scarcely had she concluded this hymn, when the torch of the knight of Malta in part dissipated the gloom that hung around the chapel.