I.N.R.I Part 37

"I have not. Another has."

The father turned over the sheets, read a line here and there, shook his shaven head a little, and said "It seems to resemble the New Testament. Have you been copying it from the Gospel?"

"No, I haven't got a New Testament. That's why I had to write this for myself."

"This Gospel! You've written one for yourself out of your own head?"

"Not exactly. Well, perhaps now and then I have. I've written what I could remember. I will be responsible for the errors."

"My curiosity grows," cried the father. "May I read it?"

"It's not worth your trouble, but I knew of nothing else to help me."

"The work has exhausted you, Ferleitner."

"No; on the contrary, I may almost say it has revived me. I'm sorry it is finished. I thought of nothing else; I forgot everything."

His enthusiasm has consumed him, thought the monk.

"Ferleitner, will you let me take it away with me for a few days?"

Conrad shyly gave permission. The monk gathered the sheets together, and thrust them carelessly into his pouch, so that the roll stuck out at the top. When he had gone, Conrad gazed sadly into emptiness and longed for his ma.n.u.script. How happy he had been with it all those weeks! What would the priest think of it? Everything would be wrong.

Such people see their G.o.d with other eyes than ours. And if he criticised it, all the pleasure would go out of it.

But Conrad did not have to do without it long. The father brought it back the next morning. He had begun to read it the evening before, and had sat up all night to finish it. But he would not give his opinion, and Conrad did not ask for it. Almost helplessly, they sat at the rough table, while the monk tried to think how he could express his thoughts. After a while, he took up the ma.n.u.script, laid it down again, and said that of course, from the ecclesiastical point of view, there would naturally be some objections.

"The details of the history are not altogether correct. I know, Ferleitner, that you asked me for a copy of the New Testament. If I had known that you had gone so far, I would willingly have given you one. But perhaps it is better so. Though I must tell you, Conrad Ferleitner, that nothing has given me so much pleasure for a long while as these meditations and--I may also say--fancies of yours. As for the faults, let those who take a pleasure in finding them, look for them.

The living faith is the one important thing, the living faith and the living Jesus, and that is here! My son," he added, laying his hand on the prisoner's head, "I feel your piety of soul is so profound, that I will administer the sacrament to you. Yes, Conrad, you are saved.

Only, pray fervently."

Conrad covered his face with his hands, and wept quietly. The priest's words made him so happy.

"I even think," continued the father, after a pause, "that others who are seeking for the simple word of G.o.d, and cannot find it, might read your book. There must be many such people in hospitals, poor-houses, and prisons, and especially those who are in your situation. Would you have any objection?"

"My G.o.d, why should I?" replied Conrad. "If this work of mine could be the help to other poor wretches that it has been to me! But I do not know--it was not meant for that. I wrote it only for myself."

"Naturally, one or two things must be altered," said the father. "We would go through it again together."

"But, holy father," asked the prisoner wistfully, "that is--if you think there will be time?"

"Above all, we must try and find a suitable t.i.tle. Have you not thought that your child must have a name?"

"I wrote the letters I.N.R.I. at the top."

"It is rather out of the common. People won't know what to make of it.

We must at least have a sub-t.i.tle."

"The t.i.tle's a matter of absolute indifference to me," said Conrad: "perhaps you can find one."

"I will think it over. May I take the ma.n.u.script away again? I must try and become literary in my old age. If a carpenter lad can write a whole book, surely a Franciscan monk can find a t.i.tle! Have you anything on your mind, my son? No? Then G.o.d be with you. I will come again soon." At the door he turned: "Tell me, my son, does the jailer give you food enough?"

"Yes, more than I need."

Outside it was hot summer-time. Conrad knew nothing of it, he had not thought of it. The jailer came with the permission that, as an exception, he would be allowed to walk for half an hour in the garden.

Conrad felt quite indifferent. As the warder led him along the vaulted pa.s.sage, he staggered slightly; he had almost forgotten how to walk.

He steadied himself on his companion's arm and said:

"I feel so strange."

"Hold on to me; nothing will happen to you."

"Are we going right out into the open?"

"From now, you will go for a short walk in the garden every day."

"I do not know if I care to," said Conrad, hesitating. "I am afraid--of the sun."

They were out under the open sky, in the wide, dazzling green light.

Conrad stood still for a moment and covered his eyes with his hand, then he looked up, and covered them again, and began to tremble. The warder remained silent, and supported him as he tottered along under the shade of the horse-chestnuts. On either side stretched green banks glowing with flowers and roses, their bright colours quivering like flame blown by the wind. Above was the blue sky with the great burning sun. And all around he heard the songs of the birds. Oh, life! life!

He had almost forgotten what it meant--to live! He groaned aloud, it might have been either from sorrow or joy. Then he sat down on a bench and paused, exhausted. He gazed out into the illimitable light. Tears trickled slowly down his hollow cheeks.

After a time the warder started to go on. Conrad raised himself unsteadily, and they moved slowly forward. They came to a white marble bust standing on a stone pillar surrounded with flowers.

Conrad stood still, shaded his eyes with his hand, looked at the statue, and asked: "Who is that?"

"That is the king," answered the warder. Conrad gazed at it thoughtfully. And then he said softly and much moved: "How kindly he looks at me!"

"Yes, he is a kind master."

Then joy slowly entered the heart of the poor sinner. The world is beautiful. People are good. Life is everlasting. And the Heavenly Father reigns over all. . . .

The warder looked at his watch. "It is time to return."

Conrad was taken back to his cell. He stumbled over the threshold and knocked up against the table, it was so dark. But his heart rejoiced.

The world Was beautiful. People were good. . . .

Then, gradually, fear stole back upon him. He was tired and lay down for a little on the straw. The key grated in the lock. Conrad started to his feet in terror. What was coming? What was coming?

The father entered quickly and cheerfully. Swinging the ma.n.u.script in his hand, he cried: "Glad tidings! Glad tidings!"

Conrad's hands fluttered to his breast. "Glad tidings? It had come?

Life--to live again?" So he cried aloud. He stood for a moment motionless, then he sat down on the wooden bench.

"Yes, my son," the monk continued. "We will call the book, 'Glad Tidings,' I.N.R.I. Glad tidings of a poor sinner. That will suit the Gospel; that sounds well, does it not?" He stopped and started: "Ferleitner, what is the matter?"

Conrad had fallen against the wall, his head sunk on his breast. The breath rattled in his throat. The father reached quickly for the water-pitcher to revive him. He reproached him good-naturedly for losing heart so quickly, and bathed his forehead tenderly. Then he noticed the stillness of the breast and the eyes--how glazed they were!

He shouted for help. The jailer appeared. He looked, paused a moment, and then said, softly: "It is well."