The Black Opera by Mary Gentle Read Free Book Online Page B

churches—”
    Impolite to call them Protestant , here.
    â€œâ€”And I remember listening to them sing of the all-seeing, all-punishing Deity, and thinking they sounded the way mice would sound, if mice worshipped a cat.”
    Ferdinand’s eyebrows shot up, his bland expression surprised into keen intelligence. “Rather an Old Testament view… So you’ve been exposed to heresies as well as the true Faith. Your opinion of the Holy Father and the Church is—?”
    Conrad closed one fist around the chain-links, tight enough to leave marks.
    Tullio always tells me I don’t have the brains for a convincing lie .
    â€œI don’t deny the Church’s miracles, sir. Or rather, I don’t deny that, by the singing of Mass, the sick are healed, daily, and ghosts are laid to rest, and the walking dead appeased. I’ve seen this.”
    â€œBut?”
    â€œBut—!” Conrad gestured, and restrained himself at the sound of clinking metal. “I do deny that this has anything to do with a Deity! Nothing about it demands a god in explanation. Why aren’t these things regarded as a part of the natural world which we don’t yet understand?”
    Ferdinand’s pace slowed. He clasped his hands behind him as he walked. His bright gaze appraised Conrad. “The natural world? Do you hold with Dr Schelling’s ideas of Naturphilosophie , then—that all of nature is a single organism, aspiring upwards to a more spiritual stage, no matter how low it may be? A speck of dust, a weed, a reptile; all aspire to rise and become part of the single great World-Spirit?”
    Conrad couldn’t help an impolite snort. “I rather think that’s religion under another name! Wasn’t Schelling a poet as well as a professor of philosophy, sir? Poets often have a difficult time telling science from mysticism.”
    Conrad could have sworn the King of the Two Sicilies momentarily looked highly amused.
    â€œAnd this from a man who writes poetry for a living!”
    â€œI don’t write poetry, sir. I write librettos.”
    â€œAnd the difference?”
    â€œThe English poet Mister Lord Byron doesn’t have to take his poem back during rehearsals and turn one stanza into one line—or one line into six lines on a different subject altogether.”
    â€œAh…”
    Man-sized Roman amphorae stood against the palace wall. Vines grew up from urns, curling around the stanchions that held the awning. The sun cast coiling shadows on the flagstones, at which the King tilted his head, appearing thoughtful.
    â€œNo God, only material nature. That sounds very much like ‘denying the Church’s miracles.’”
    â€œSir, the Church claims miracles are caused by a deity rewarding and punishing us according to the condition of our immortal souls… But even a glance shows virtue often isn’t rewarded, and sin isn’t punished. Besides, I met during the war a Monsieur Xavier Bichat, a physician, who developed an analysis of human tissue types. He found no ‘soul’ there, no matter how deeply he dug.”
    Conrad glanced away off the terrace, at where the bare masts of merchant ships rocked rhythmically; crews rowing between them and the shore. One warship—an English frigate, from the flags—cut white water at her prow, running down towards Sorrento. Flocks of bum-boats, lateen-sailed feluccas and dhows, and fishing boats (all equally full of traders) disconsolately tacked back towards the harbour.
    â€œBichat theorised there might be some vital Galvanic force of life that arises purely from our material bodies—a vital force which may be capable of thingswe don’t yet understand—a force which produces our conscious souls. Yes, I’ve attended Madame Lavoisier’s salon , and heard other natural philosophers claim M. Bichat is wrong! But they won’t go to Church doctrine when they seek to disprove