The Saint by Antonio Fogazzaro

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"You are glad?" said Benedetto, almost plaintively,

Oh, glad! How could the master explain what he felt? His beloved
disciple was leaving him, leaving him for ever, after three years of
spiritual union; but then the hidden Will had made itself manifest; God
was taking him from the monastery, setting his feet in other ways. Glad!
Yes; afflicted and glad, but he could not communicate the cause of his
gladness to Benedetto, The Divine Word would have no value for Benedetto
did he not interpret it for himself.

"Not glad," he said, "but at peace. We understand each other, do we not?
And now prepare yourself to listen to my last words, which I hope you
will cherish."

Don Clemente's whole face flushed as he spoke thus, in low tones.

Benedetto bowed his head, and Don Clemente laid his hands upon it with
gentle dignity.

"Do you desire to surrender your whole being to Supreme Truth, to His
Church, visible and invisible?" said the low, manly voice.

As though he had expected both the action and the question, Benedetto
answered at once, and in a firm voice:

"Yes."

The low voice:

"Do you promise, as from man to man, to remain unwed and poor, until I
shall absolve you from your promise?"

The firm voice

"Yes."

The low voice:

"Do you promise to be obedient always to the authority of the Holy
Church, administered according to her laws?"

The firm voice:

"Yes."

Don Clemente drew his disciple's head towards him, and said, his lips
almost touching Benedetto's forehead:

"I asked the Abbot to allow me to give you the habit of a lay-brother,
that on leaving here you might, at least, carry with you the sign of
a humble religious office. The Abbot wished to speak with you before
deciding."

Here Don Clemente kissed his disciple on the forehead, thus intimating
what the Abbot's decision had been after their meeting; and into the
kiss he put silent words of praise which his fatherly character and the
humility of his disciple would not permit him to utter.

He did not notice that the disciple was trembling from head to foot.

"Here is what the Abbot wrote after talking with you," said he.

He showed Benedetto the sheet of paper, upon which the Abbot had
written:

"I consent. Send him away at once, that I may not be tempted to detain
him!"

Benedetto embraced his master impulsively, and rested his forehead
against his shoulder without speaking. Don Clemente murmured: "Are you
glad? Now it is I who ask you!"

He repeated his question twice without obtaining an answer. At last he
heard a whisper:

"May I be allowed not to answer? May I pray a moment?"

"Yes, _caro_, yes!"

Beside the monk's narrow bed, and high above the kneeling-desk, a great
bare cross proclaimed: "Christ is risen; now nail thy soul to me!" In
fact some one, perhaps Don Clemente, perhaps one of his predecessors,
had written, below it: "_Omnes superbiae motus ligno crucis affigat_."
Benedetto prostrated himself on the floor, and placed his forehead where
the knees should rest. Through the open window of the cell, the pale
light of the rainy sky fell obliquely upon the backs of the prostrate
man and of the man standing erect, his face raised towards the great
cross. The murmur of the rain, the rumble of the deep Anio, would have
meant to Jeanne the distressed lament of all that lives and loves in the
world; to Don Clemente they meant the pious union of inferior creatures
with the creature supplicating the common Father. Benedetto himself did
not notice them.

He rose, his face composed, and, in obedience to his master's gesture,
put on the robe of a lay-brother, which was spread out upon the bed, and
fastened the leathern girdle. When he was dressed he opened wide his
arms and displayed himself, smiling to his master, who was gratified to
see how dignified, how spiritually beautiful he was in that habit.

"You did not understand?" said Benedetto. "You were not reminded of
something?"

No, Don Clemente had thought that Benedetto's intense emotion had been
caused by his humility. Now he understood that he should have recalled
something; but what?

"Ah!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Was it perhaps your vision?"

Yes, surely. Benedetto had seen himself dying on the bare ground, in the
shade of a great tree, and wearing the habit of the Benedictines; and
one argument against believing in the vision--in accordance with the
advice of Don Giuseppe Flores and of Don Clemente--had been the seeming
contradiction between this detail and his repugnance to the monastic
vows, which had been ever increasing since his withdrawal from the
world. Now this contradiction seemed to be vanishing, and therefore the
credibility of the prophetic nature of the vision was reappearing. Don
Clemente was aware of this part of the vision, and should have been able
to read in Benedetto's heart, his awe at being once more confronted with
a mysterious, divine purpose concerning him, and his fear of falling
into the sin of pride. Of this, he had not thought.

"Do not you think of it, either," said he, and he hastened to change the
subject. He gave Benedetto some books and a letter for the parish-priest
at Jenne, whose guest he would be for the present. Whether or no he
should remain at Jenne, and in case he did not, whether he should return
to Subiaco or go elsewhere, that Divine Providence must point out to
him.

"_Padre mio_," Benedetto said, "truly I do not think of what may happen
to me to-morrow. I think only of the words: _'Magister adest et vocat
me!'_ but not as being spoken by a supernatural voice. I was wrong not
to understand that the Master is always present, and always calling me,
you, every one! If only our soul be hushed, we may hear His voice!"

A faint ray of sunshine glinted into the cell. Don Clemente reflected at
once that should the rain cease, Signora Dessalle would very probably
come to visit the monastery. He said nothing, but his inward anxiety
betrayed itself by a slight shudder, by a glance at the sky which told
Benedetto it was time to leave. He begged the privilege of praying,
first in the Church of Santa Scolastica, and then at the Sacro Speco.
The sun disappeared, and it began to rain again. Master and disciple
descended to the church together, and there, kneeling side by side,
they lingered in prayer. That was their only farewell. At nine o'clock
Benedetto took the road to the Sacro Speco. He left the monastery
unobserved, while Fra Antonio was confabulating with Giovanni Selva's
messenger. At that moment the rays of the returning sun suddenly lit
up the old walls, the road, the hill itself; shrill cries of gladness,
swift wings of tiny birds broke through the green on all sides, and to
his lips the words rose spontaneously:

"I am coming!"

III

Jeanne and Noemi reached the monastery at ten o'clock. A few paces from
the gate Jeanne was seized with a violent palpitation. She would have
liked to visit the garden before the convent, the urchin from Subiaco
having told her that the monks of Santa Scolastica had a fine
kitchen-garden, and that some people belonging to them worked in it--an
old man from Subiaco and a young stranger. Now, it was out of the
question. Pale, exhausted, and leaning on Noemi's arm, she, with
difficulty, dragged herself as far as the door, where a beggar stood,
waiting for his bowl of soup. Fortunately Fra Antonio opened the door
before Noemi had time to ring, and she entreated him to bring a chair
and a glass of water for her friend, who was feeling unwell. Frightened
at the sight of Jeanne, so deathly pale, and drooping against her
companion's shoulder, the humble old lay-brother placed the bowl of soup
he had brought for the beggar in Noemi's hands, and hastened away in
search of the chair and the water. Thanks partly to the droll spectacle
the astonished Noemi presented, as she stood holding the bowl of soup,
partly to the rest--the water, the sight of the ancient cloister
sleeping so peacefully, and the reassertion of her own will--a few
minutes sufficed to restore Jeanne sufficiently. Fra Antonio went to
call the _Padre foresterario_, to act as guide to the visitors.

"Tell him we are the two ladies staying at Signor Selva's house," said
Noemi.

Don Clemente appeared, blushing in the virginal purity of his soul
because Jeanne was unaware that he knew her story, as he might have
blushed had he been committing some fraud. He mistook Noemi, who came
forward first, for Signora Dessalle. Tall, slim, and elegant, Noemi
might well pass for a siren; she did not, however, look a day over five
and twenty, and therefore could not be the woman of whose adventures
Benedetto had told him. But the Benedictine was incapable of such
calculations, and Noemi was anxious to satisfy herself that Fra Antonio
had fulfilled his mission faithfully.

"Good morning, Padre," she said in her pretty voice, to which the
foreign accent lent additional charm. "We met last night. You were just
leaving Signor Selva's house."

Don Clemente bent his head slightly. Noemi had really hardly had a
glimpse of him, but she had been struck by his beauty, and had reflected
that if he were Signer Maironi she could understand Jeanne's passion.
Conscious of her fresh and youthful appearance, it never entered
her head that her twenty-five years could be mistaken for Jeanne's
thirty-two. Jeanne, in the meantime, was wondering how she could turn
her dilemma to the best account.

"You were not expected last night," said Don Clemente to Noemi. "You
come from the Veneto, I believe?"

"The Veneto?" Noemi seemed surprised.

"The Selvas told me you lived in the Veneto," the Padre added.

Then Noemi understood. She smiled, and murmured a monosyllable which was
neither "yes" nor "no"; she also was determined to take advantage of
her position, and, thanks to this misunderstanding, obtain a private
interview with Don Clemente, and warn him if necessary. It was moreover
most amusing to talk to this handsome monk, who believed her to be
Jeanne. By a look she cautioned Jeanne, who, much embarrassed, was
glancing from her to the monk, doubtful whether to speak or remain
silent.

"Of course my friend knows Santa Scolastica already," she said, "but I
have never been here before."

She turned to Jeanne.

"If the Padre will be kind enough to accompany me, it seems to me you
might remain here, as you are not feeling well," she said.

Jeanne consented so readily that Noemi suspected she had some secret
plan, and wondered if she had not made a mistake in proposing this.
However, it was too late now. Don Clemente, not over-pleased at having
to accompany one lady alone, suggested they should wait; perhaps her
friend would feel stronger presently. Jeanne protested. No, they must
not wait; she was glad to remain there.

While passing from the first to the second cloister, Noemi once more
reminded the Padre of their meeting on the previous night.

"You had a companion?" she said, and immediately felt ashamed of her
deceit, and of not having cleared up the mistake under which the monk
was labouring. Don Clemente answered almost under his breath:

"Yes, signora, a kitchen-gardener from the monastery."

Both their faces were crimson, but they did not look at one another, and
each was conscious only of his and her own blush.

"Do you know who we are?" Noemi continued.

Don Clemente replied that he believed he knew. They must be the two
ladies Signora Selva expected. He thought she had mentioned her sister
and Signora Dessalle.

"Oh! you heard of us from my sister?"

At Noemi's words Don Clemente could not refrain from exclaiming:

"Then you are not Signora Dessalle?"

Noemi saw that the man knew. Therefore he had surely taken precautions,
and an unexpected meeting was not possible. She breathed freely again,
and in her feminine heart curiosity took the place of the anxiety of
which she was now relieved.

Don Clemente spoke to her of the tower, of the ancient arcades, of the
frescoes near the door of the church, while she wondered how he could be
brought to speak of Maironi. When he was showing her the procession of
little stone monks, she interrupted him thoughtlessly, to ask if souls,
tired of the world, disappointed and desirous of giving themselves to
God, often came to the monastery.

"I am a Protestant," she said. "This interests me greatly."

In his heart Don Clemente thought that if this really interested her
greatly, it was not on account of her Protestantism, but on account of
her friendship for Signora Dessalle.

"Not often," he answered; "sometimes. Such souls usually prefer other
Orders. So you are a Protestant? But you will have no objection to
entering our church? I do not mean the Catholic Church," he added,
smiling and blushing, "I mean the church of our monastery."

And he told her about a Protestant Englishman, who was in love with St.
Benedict, and made long stays at Subiaco, frequently visiting Santa
Scolastica and the Sacro Speco.

"He has a most beautiful soul," he said.

But Noemi wished to return to the first subject; to know if--urged by a
spirit of penitence--any one ever came from the world to serve in the
cloister without wearing the habit. She received no answer, for Don
Clemente, seeing a colossal monk enter the cloister, begged to be
excused one minute, and went to speak to him, returning presently with
his majestic companion, whom he introduced as Don Leone, a guide far
superior to himself, both as to the amount and the depths of his
knowledge. Then, to her great chagrin, he himself withdrew.

When she was alone Jeanne had another attack of violent palpitation.
_Dio!_ how the past came back to her! How Praglia came back! And to
think that he came and went through that entrance, through those
cloisters, who knows how many times a day; that he must often think
of Praglia, of that hour fixed by fate, of that water spilled, of the
ecstasy, the tightly clasped hands, under cover of the fur cloak, on the
way home. To think he was now free, and she also was free! How feverish
she felt, how feverish!

Fra Antonio, who had at first been terrified at finding this breathless
woman left there on his hands, was presently amazed by the rapid words
and questions with which she suddenly assailed him.--Was there not a
kitchen-garden near the monastery?--Yes, very near, on the west side;
there was only a narrow lane intervening.--And who cultivated it?--A
kitchen-gardener.--Young? Old? From Subiaco? A stranger?--Old. From
Subiaco.--And no one else?--Yes, Benedetto.--Benedetto? Who was
Benedetto?--A young man from the _Padre foresterario's_
native town.--And what was the _Padre foresterario's_ native
town?--Brescia.--And this young man was called Benedetto?--Every one
called him Benedetto, but Fra Antonio could not say if that was his real
name.--But what sort of man was he?--Ah! that Fra Antonio could say. He
was almost more holy than the monks themselves. You could see by his
face that he came of a good family, yet he was housed like a dog; he ate
only bread, fruit, and herbs; he spent whole nights, in prayer probably,
out on the mountains. He tilled the soil, and he also studied in the
library with the _Padre foresterario_. And such a heart! Such a great
heart! Many times he had given the scanty dole of food he received
from the monastery to the poor.--And where could one find him at this
hour?--Oh! surely in the garden; Fra Antonio fancied he would be busy
sprinkling the grape vines with sulphate of copper.

Jeanne's heart beats so violently that her sight becomes dim. She sits
silent and motionless. Fra Antonio thinks she has forgotten Benedetto.
"Ah! signora," he says, "Santa Scolastica is a fine monastery, but you
should see Praglia!" For Fra Antonio passed several years at Praglia in
his youth, before the abbey was suppressed, and he speaks of it as of a
venerable mother. "Ah! the church at Praglia! The cloisters! The hanging
cloister, the refectory!" At these unexpected words Jeanne grows
excited. They seem to say to her: "Go, go, go at once!" She starts from
her chair.

"And this garden? In which direction is it?"

Fra Antonio, somewhat astonished, answered that it might be reached
through the monastery, or by skirting the outside. Jeanne went out;
absorbed in her burning thoughts she passed the gate, turned to the
right, entered the gallery below the library, where she paused a moment,
pressing her hands to her heart, and walked on again.

The herder belonging to the convent, standing at the entrance to the
courtyard where the Ospizio, which shelters pilgrims, is located,
pointed out the door of the garden on the opposite side of the narrow
lane, running between two walls. She asked him if she would find a
certain Benedetto in the garden. In spite of her efforts to control
herself, her voice trembled in anticipation of an affirmative answer.
The herder replied that he did not know, and offered to go and see.
Knocking several times, he called: "Benede! Benede!"

A step at last! Jeanne was leaning against the door-post to keep herself
from falling. O God! if it be Piero, what shall she say to him? The door
opens; it is not Piero but an old man. Jeanne breathes freely again,
glad for the moment. The old man looks at her, astonished, and says to
the herder:

"Benedetto is not here."

Her gladness had already vanished; she felt icy cold; the two men looked
at her curiously, in silence.

"Is this the lady who is looking for Benedetto?" said the old man.

Jeanne did not reply; the herder answered for her, and then he told how
Benedetto had spent the night out of doors; that he had found him at
daybreak, in the grove of the Sacro Speco, wet to the skin. He had
offered him some milk and Benedetto had drunk like a dying man to whom
life is returning.

"Listen, Giovacchino," the herder added, growing suddenly grave. "When
he had drunk he embraced me like this. I was feeling ill; I had not
slept, my head ached, all my bones ached. Well, as he held me in his
arms slight shivers seemed to come from them and creep over me, and then
I felt a sort of comforting heat; and I was content, and as comfortable
all over as if I had had two mouthfuls of the very best spirits in
my stomach! The headache was gone, the pains in the bones were gone,
everything was gone. Then I said to myself: 'By St. Catherine, this man
is a saint!' And a saint he certainly is!"

While he was speaking a poor cripple passed, a beggar from Subiaco.
Seeing a lady, he stopped and held out his hat. Jeanne, completely
absorbed in what the herder was saying, did not notice him, nor did she
hear him when--the herder having ceased speaking--he begged for alms,
for the love of God. She asked the gardener where this Benedetto was to
be found. The man scratched his head, doubtful how to answer. Then the
beggar groaned out in a mournful voice:

"You are seeking Benedetto? He is at the Sacro Speco."

Jeanne turned eagerly towards him.

"At the Sacro Speco?" said she; and the gardener asked the beggar if he
himself had seen him there.

The cripple, more tearful than ever, told how more than an hour ago he
had been on the road to the Sacro Speco, beyond the grove of evergreen
oaks, only a few steps from the convent. He was carrying a bundle of
fagots, and had fallen badly, and could not rise again with his burden.

"God and St. Benedict sent a monk that way," he continued. "This monk
lifted me up, comforted me, gave me his arm, and took me to the convent,
where the other monks restored me. Then I came away, but the monk stayed
at the Sacro Speco."

"And what has all this to do with it?" the gardener exclaimed.

"Simply this, that dressed as he was I did not at once know him; but
afterwards I did. It was he."

"Whom do you mean by _he_?"

"Benedetto."

"Who was Benedetto?"

"The monk."

"You are mad! You idiot!" the two men exclaimed together.

Jeanne gave the cripple a silver piece.

"Think well," she said. "Tell the truth!"

The cripple overflowed with benedictions, mingling with them such humble
expressions as: "Just as you please, just as you please! I may have
been mistaken, I may have been mistaken," and with his string of pious
mumblings he took himself off. Jeanne again questioned the herder
and the gardener. Was it possible that Benedetto had taken the
habit?--Impossible! The beggar was only a poor fool.

Presently the herder left, and Jeanne, entering the kitchen-garden, sat
down tinder an olive tree, reflecting that Noemi could easily learn from
the door-keeper where to find her. The old gardener, whose curiosity
was aroused, asked, with many apologies, if she was a relative of
Benedetto's,

"For it is known that he is a gentleman, a rich man!" said he.

Jeanne did not answer his question. She wished rather to find out why
this belief in Piero's riches prevailed.--Well, you could see by his
manners and by his face; he really had the face of a gentleman.--And
he had not become a monk?--Well, no.--And why had he not become a
monk?--That was not known for a certainty, There were many tales told.
It was even said he had a wife, and that his wife had played him what
the gardener called "a mean trick." Jeanne was silent, and it suddenly
struck the gardener that she might be the wife, the woman who had played
the "mean trick." She had perhaps repented, and was come to ask his
forgiveness.

"If this story about the wife is true," he added, "I don't say she may
not have had her reasons; but as far as goodness goes, she surely did
not find a better man. You see, signora, these fathers are holy men,
that is undeniable; but there is no one so holy as he, either at Santa
Scolastica or at the Sacro Speco. That I will swear to! Not even Don
Clemente, who is most holy! Still he is not equal to Benedetto. No, no!"

The beggar's words suddenly sounded in Jeanne's heart. Benedetto a monk!
But why? It was discouraging to have them thus return, without a reason,
to her heart. Had not the two men said it was nonsense; that the cripple
was a fool? Yes, nonsense, she could see that herself; yes, a fool, he
had impressed her as such; but still the stupid words beat and throbbed
in her heart, as gruesome as masqueraders in comic masks would be should
they knock at your door at any other time save during Carnival!

"If you will wait, signora, in less than half an hour he is sure to be
here. _Che_! What am I saying? In a quarter of an hour. Perhaps he is in
the library studying with Don Clemente, or perhaps he is in the church."

The library, which runs across the narrow lane, communicates directly
with the kitchen-garden.

"There he is now!" the old man exclaimed.

Jeanne started to her feet. The door leading from the library to the
garden opened slowly. Instead of Piero, Noemi appeared, followed by
the big monk. Noemi perceived her friend among the olives, and stopped
suddenly, greatly surprised. Jeanne in the garden? Was it possible
that--? No, the old man beside her could not be Maironi, and there was
no one else with her. She smiled and shook her finger at her. Don Leone
took leave of Noemi upon learning that this was the friend who--as she
had told him during the visit to the monastery--had remained at the
door-keeper's lodge. Of course the ladies would go up to the other
convent, and his great size was no longer adapted to the climb to the
Sacro Speco.

It was nearly eleven o'clock; they had ordered the carriage to meet them
where they had left it at half-past twelve, for dinner was at one at the
Selvas'; if Jeanne wished to see the Sacro Speco there was no time to
lose, provided her indisposition had disappeared, as would seem to be
the case. Noemi encouraged her going, and did not stop to ask, in the
presence of the gardener, why she had left Fra Antonio to run off and
explore the garden. She merely whispered: "You were making believe, eh?"
Jeanne said that Noemi must certainly start for the Sacro Speco at once,
but that she herself intended to wait for her in the garden. Noemi
suspected another plot.

"No, no!" she exclaimed, "either you come to the Sacro Speco or--if you
do not feel well enough--we will go down to Subiaco at once."

Jeanne objected that it would be useless to go down now, for they would
not find the carriage; but Noemi was determined not to yield. They could
walk down very slowly, and be ready for the carriage as soon as it
arrived. Jeanne refused again, more emphatically than before, having
no other argument to set forth. Then Noemi looked searchingly into her
eyes, silently trying to read her hidden purpose there. In that moment
of silence Jeanne's heart was again assailed by the beggar's words.
Impulsively she seized her friend's arm.

"You wish me to go to the Sacro Speco?" she said. "Very well, let us go
then. You believe something and you do not know! Let Fate decide!"

But before moving a step she dropped her friend's arm, and while Noemi,
completely bewildered, stood watching her she wrote in her notebook: "I
am at the Sacro Speco. For the sake of Don Giuseppe Flores wait for me!"
She did not sign her name, but tearing out the tiny page gave it to
the gardener. "For that man, should he return." Then once more taking
Noemi's arm, she exclaimed:

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