he believed to be such would rush to his pen, but when
they were set down in writing, he would at once be forced to recognise
their inadequacy. Though surprised and grieved he would make another
attempt, but always with the same result. Nevertheless his wife was
certainly in error; this he never for a moment doubted, and there must
be a way of demonstrating it to her. He must study. But what, and how?
He consulted a priest to whom he had been to confession soon after his
arrival in Turin. This priest, a little misshapen old man, who was fiery
and very learned, invited him to his house in Piazza Paisana, and began
to help him enthusiastically, suggesting a number of books, some for his
own perusal, and others to be sent to his wife. He was a learned
Orientalist, and an enthusiastic Thomist, and had taken a great fancy to
Franco, of whose genius and culture he had formed an opinion which was
perhaps exaggeratedly favourable. At one time he was on the point of
proposing to him the study of Hebrew, and indeed insisted upon his
reading St. Thomas. He went so far as to sketch for Franco the outlines
of a letter to his wife, with a list of the arguments he must expound.
Franco had at once fallen in love with the enthusiastic little old man,
who, moreover, had the pure expression of a saint. He began to study St.
Thomas with great ardour, but did not persevere long. He felt he was
embarking upon a sea without beginning and without end, across which he
was unable to steer a straight course. The scholastic scheme of
treatment, that sameness in the form of argument for and against, that
icy Latin, dense with profound thought, and colourless on the surface,
had successfully routed all his good intentions at the end of three
days. Of the arguments contained in the sketch for the letter he
understood only a small part. He got the priest to explain them to him,
understood somewhat better, and prepared to open a campaign with them,
but found himself as much encumbered by them as was David by the armour
of Saul. They weighed upon him, he could not handle them, he felt they
were not his own and never would be. No, he could not present himself
before his wife with Professor G.'s priestly hat and tunic, a
theological lance in his hand, and entrenched behind a shield of
metaphysics. He recognised that he was not born to philosophise in any
way; he was destitute of the very power of strictly logical reasoning,
for indeed his glowing heart, ric