The City and the World | Page 5

Ramoni told, a story of years in the novitiate when the
old man had ever repressed him, a story of checks that had been put
upon him as a preacher, of his banishment from Rome, and now of this
crowning humiliation. Furiously Ramoni told of them all while the old
man sat, letting the torrent wear itself out on the rocks of patience.
Then, after Ramoni had been silent long moments, he spoke.
"You did not pray, my son?"
"Pray?" Ramoni's laughter rasped. "How can I pray? My life is ruined. I

am ashamed even to meet my brethren in the chapel."
"And yet, it is God one meets in the chapel," the old man said. "God,
and God alone; even if there be a thousand present."
"God?" flung back the missionary. "What has He done to me? Do you
think I can thank Him for this? Yet I am a fool to ask you, for it was
not God who did it--it was you! You interfered with His work. I know
it."
"I hope, my son, that it was God who did it. If He did, then it is right
for you. As for me, perhaps I am somewhat responsible. I was
consulted, and I advised Pietro."
"Don't call me 'my son,'" cried the other.
"Is it as bad as that with you?" There was only compassion in the old
voice. "Yet must I say it--my son. With even more reason than ever
before I must say it to you to-night."
The old man's thin hands were groping about his girdle to find the
beads that hung down from it. He pulled them up to him and laid the
string across his knees; but the crucifix that he could not see he kept
tightly clasped in his hand. His poor, dull, pathetic eyes were turned to
Ramoni who felt again that strange impression that he could see, as
they fixed on his face and stared straight at him without a movement of
their lashes. And Ramoni knew how it was that a man may be given a
finer vision than that of earth, for Father Denfili was looking where
only a saint could look, deep down into the soul of another.
"Son of the city and the world," he said. "I heard Monsignore call you
that, and he was right. A son of the city and of the world you are; but
alas! less of the city than you know, and more of the world than you
have realized. My son, I am a very old man. Perhaps I have not long to
live; and so it is that I may tell you why I have come to you to-night."
Ramoni started to speak, but the other put out his hand. "I received you,
a little boy, into this Community. No one knows you better than I do. I
saw in you before any one else the gifts that God had given you for

some great purpose. I saw them budding. I knew before any one else
knew that some day you would do a great thing, though I did not know
what it was that you would do. I was a man with little, but I could
admire the man who had much. I had no gifts to lay before Him, yet I,
too, wanted to do a great work. I wanted to make you my great work.
That was my hope. You are the Apostle of Marqua. I am the Apostle of
Ramoni. For that I have lived, always in the fear that I would be
cheated of my reward."
Ramoni turned to him. "Your reward? I do not understand."
"My reward," the old man repeated. "I watched over you, I instructed
you, I prayed for you, I loved you. I tried to teach you by checking you,
the way to govern yourself. I tried to make a channel in your soul that
your great genius might not burst its bonds. I knew that there was
conflict ever within you between your duty to God and what the world
had to offer you--the old, old conflict between the city and the world. I
always feared it. All unknown to you I watched the fight, and I saw that
the world was winning. Then, my son, I sent you to Marqua."
The old man paused, and his trembling hand wiped away the tears that
streamed down his face. Ramoni did not move. "I am afraid, my son,"
the voice came again, "that you never knew the city--well called the
Eternal--where with all the evil the world has put within its walls the
good still shines always. This, my son, is the city of the soul, and you
were born in it. It lives only for souls. It has no other