The Saint by Antonio Fogazzaro

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In the large, dilapidated church--which, "one Sunday or another, will
crush us all, like so many rats," the hostess said--there were only the
two invalids and their party. The sick man and girl had been laid on the
floor exactly in the centre of the church, with two pillows under their
heads. Their companions, on their knees, were singing psalms, and,
without looking at the new-comers, continued their devotions. "Probably
they have brought them to be blessed by the Saint," said the hostess
under her breath. "That is painful to him; he does not wish it. Perhaps
they will try to touch his habit by stealth, but even that is difficult
now."

The poor people stopped singing, and a woman came to ask the hostess if
it had already struck eleven o'clock? Maria answered, telling her it was
only a quarter to eleven, and then inquired about the two sick ones. The
man had been ill with fever for two years, and the girl, his sister, had
heart disease. They had come from the lowlands of Arcinazzo, a journey
of several hours, to be healed by the Saint of Jenne. A woman from
Arcinazzo, who had heart disease, had been cured some days before by
simply touching his habit. Maria and Noemi spoke to the sufferers. The
girl was confident, but the man, who was shaking with fever, seemed to
have come simply to satisfy his people, to give this a trial also. He
had suffered greatly on the jouney.

"These roads lead me into the next world," he said. "I shall be healed
in that way."

A woman, his mother perhaps, burst into tears, and besought him to pray,
to commend himself to Jesus, to Mary. The two sisters withdrew, in
obedience to a summons from Giovanni; for a quarrel had broken out in
the square, between the women and the students who had passed the
Selvas on the Jenne hillside. The students had probably jested broadly
concerning the devotion of the women to the Saint, and this had enraged
them. The women of Jenne came rushing out of the bakehouse, while the
plumes of a couple of _carabinieri_ appeared in the opposite direction.
Noemi and Maria mingled with the women, trying to pacify them. Giovanni
harangued the students, who swaggered and laughed, and might possibly do
worse. Chanting was heard in the church, muffled at first and then loud,
as the door was thrown open:

"_Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis_."

The two sufferers appeared. The girl, supported on either side, was
walking; the man, as limp as a corpse, was being borne along, some women
carrying his shoulders, others his feet; and the bearers were also
chanting, with solemn faces:

"_Sancta Virgo virginum, ora pro nobis_."

The women in the square all fell on their knees, the astonished
_carabinieri_ standing in their midst. The students were silent, while
a party of ladies and gentlemen, about to enter the square from the Val
d'Aniene mule-path, stopped their mules. First Maria, then Noemi, knelt,
drawn towards the earth by an impulse which made them tremble with
emotion. Giovanni hesitated. This was not his faith. It seemed to him
an offence to the Creator, the Giver of reason, to allow a sick man to
journey a long distance on a mule, that he might be miraculously healed
by an image, a relic, or a man. Still it was faith. It was--enclosed in
a rough envelope of frail ignorance--that sense denied, to proud minds,
of the hidden truth which is life; that mysterious radium within the
mass of impure ore. It was faith, it was guiltless error, it was love,
it was suffering, it was a visible something belonging to the union of
the highest mysteries of the Universe. The ground itself, the great sad
face of the church, and the small humble faces of the little houses
surrounding the square, seem to understand, to reverence it. In his
mind's eye Giovanni saw the image of a dead woman who had been dear to
him, and who had believed thus; a cold wave flowed through his blood,
his knees bent under him. The little band with the sufferers passed on,
singing, their faces uplifted:

"_Mater Christi_." The kneeling women answered with bowed heads:

"_Ora pro nobis_."

Then they rose, and followed the procession, while three or four women
of Jenne said aloud:

"He does not wish it, he does not wish it!"

One of them explained to Maria that the Saint did not wish the sick
brought to him. Their words were not heeded, so they also joined the
procession, anxious to see what would happen.

Maria and Giovanni also, who, at first, had been loath to do so, started
on, following the eager Noemi. Behind them, at a proper distance to
indicate that they were spectators and not participants, came
the students. Alone, and at a much greater distance, walked the
_carabinieri_, forming the end of this winding, snake-like line of
people, which slipped into a crack between the dilapidated houses,
huddled together opposite the church, and disappeared.

It disappeared, writhing through dark lanes, with pompous names, which
lead to another side of the village, the most miserable, the most
deformed part. Here, on the steep and rocky hillside, loosely fastened
to projections, to slabs of rock, the hovels, piled one above the other,
slide downwards among the stones. The small black windows, like empty
sockets in a skull, stare into the silence of the deep and narrow
valley. The doors pour out crazy flights of stairs upon the slope, most
of them reduced to three or four splintered steps, while some of
the doors are entirely widowed of their steps. When one has, with
difficulty, succeeded in climbing in at one of these doors, one finds a
cave without light or air.

"_So mali passi, vigoli cattivi_! [Bad walking, bad lanes!]" said a
smiling old woman, standing in her doorway, as the ladies passed.

One of these caves, so difficult of access, was Benedetto's abode. Two
streams of people--the crowd had split coming down the hill--met below
the open door. Some women came out of a neighbouring bakehouse to say
that Benedetto was not there. The crowd surged round the invalids, and
groans were heard. Anxious questions were asked, rumours were carried up
through the two streams of people, to the very end of the procession,
where the cause of those groans was not understood, and all, eager to
see, were struggling downwards. Perhaps the sufferers had become worse,
there in the blazing sun. Three students slid down among the women, and
were received with grunts and imprecations. Now a woman of the town has
spoken:

"Take the poor creatures inside."

Yes, yes! Inside, inside! Into the Saint's house!

The crowd already expects a miracle from the walls between which
he dwells, from the floor his foot presses, from all these objects
saturated with his holiness. On the Saint's bed! On the Saint's bed!
Some boards are laid upon the broken slabs of stone which lead up to
Benedetto's door, and the two invalids are half pushed, half carried up,
by the surging crowd. There they lie, crosswise upon the Saint's pallet.
The crowd fills the cave. All fall upon their knees in prayer.

It is indeed a cave. One whole side of it is a wall of yellowish rock,
hewn obliquely. The bare, uneven earth forms the floor. Near the couch,
raised about two spans, is a fireplace. There are no windows, but a ray
of sunshine, falling through the chimney, strikes--like a celestial
flame--on the stones of the hearth where there is no trace of ashes. A
brown blanket is spread over the couch. A cross is roughly carved on
the face of the rock, near the entrance. In one corner appear--the only
luxuries--a large pail full of water, a green basin, a bottle, and a
glass. Some books are piled on a rickety cane-seated chair; and a second
chair bears a plate of beans and some bread. The place indicates extreme
poverty, but is clean and orderly.

The feverish man complains of the cold, of the dampness, of the dark. He
says he is worse, that they have brought him here to die. They beseech
him to calm himself, to hope. But his young sister, with the diseased
heart, begins to feel relief almost as soon as they have placed her on
the bed. She proclaims this at once, announces that she is being healed.
Pressing around her they laugh and cry, and praise the Lord all at the
same moment. They kiss her garments, as if she herself had become holy;
the news is shouted to those outside. Joyous voices answer, more people
press into the den, with glowing faces, with eager eyes. But at that
moment some one who has gone farther down the hill in search of the
Saint, cries from afar: "The Saint is coming! The Saint is coming!" Then
the cave pours out a stream of people upon the slope; a din of voices
and a rush of feet flow downwards, and in a second the Selvas and the
three or four students stand alone, below the door of the cabin. Many of
the women of Jenne have gone back to their work in the bakehouse, while
others are looking on from the doorway. Maria exchanges a few words with
the latter. Are they all strangers, those who have gone down? _Eh, si_!
Not all, but most of them. People from Vallepietra, for the most part.
It would be better if water came to us from Vallepietra. And what do
they want? To take the Saint away from Jenne with them? Yes, they have
said that; they talked about doing great things. And you of Jenne? We of
Jenne know he does not wish to go. And besides--Her companions call out
something from within; the woman turns away; a quarrel is going on.
Giovanni, Maria, and the students go in to see the girl who has been
miraculously healed. Noemi remains outside. She is impatient to see
Benedetto; she trembles, without knowing why; in her heart she calls
herself a fool; but she does not move.

Two Benedictine habits are crossing the small field in the distance
below. Above the second the blade of a scythe flashes from time to time.
Hearing the hubbub of voices, and steps descending from above, Benedetto
turned to his companion with a smile:

"_Padre mio!_"

Upon reaching Jenne, Don Clemente had immediately joined Benedetto in
the small field he was mowing. He had given him the painful message,
and after a long discussion, had promised to say certain things which
Benedetto wished said, to those who called him a saint. He also heard
the hubbub of the crowd which was coming down; the cry of "The Saint!
The Saint!" And when Benedetto said to him, smiling: "_Padre mio!_" his
face paled, but he made a gesture of acquiescence, and stepped forward.
Benedetto dropped his scythe and went a few steps away from the path.
He sat down behind a rock and a great apple tree covered with blossoms,
which hid him from those who were approaching. Don Clemente faced the
crowd alone.

On perceiving him they stopped. Several voices said. "It is not he!"
Other voices answered "He is behind!" While others in the rear-guard
called out "Press forward!" The column moved on.

Then Don Clemente raised his hand and said:

"Listen!"

This man who could not speak to two strangers without blushing was now
very pale. His soft, sweet voice hardly made itself heard, but the
gesture was seen. The beautiful, peaceful face, the tall figure,
inspired reverence.

"You seek Benedetto," said he. "You call him a saint. By this you cause
him great grief. Since the day of his arrival at Jenne he has repeatedly
stated that he was a great sinner, brought by the grace of God to
repentance. Now he wishes me to confirm this to you. I do confirm it; it
is the truth. He was a great sinner. To-morrow he may fall again. If he
believed you, for one moment only, when you call him a saint, God would
depart from him. Do not again call him thus, and above all do not ask
him to perform miracles."

"Padre!" Coming forward, his arms spread wide, an old man, tall, thin,
toothless, with the profile of the eagle, interrupted him in a solemn
voice. "Padre, we do not ask for a miracle, the miracle is already
performed. The woman was healed when she touched the man's dwelling, and
we say to you that the man is saintly, and that if there are those in
Jenne who speak differently, they are worthy to burn in the very bottom
of hell! _Padre_, we kiss your hands, but we say this."

"There is another to be healed, another to be healed!" ten, twenty
voices cried. "Let the Saint come!"

Among the students forming the rear-guard voices shouted: "Bring the
Saint forward! Let the Saint speak!"

"What actions are these?" the old man exclaimed, turning round with
the indignation of the popular orator who finds himself deposed. "What
actions are these?"

A rumble of angry voices drowned his words, and the students continued
to shout louder than ever:

"The Saint! Let the Saint speak! Away with the priest! Away with him!"

The women turned threateningly:

"Away with you, yourselves! Away with you!"

Up above, among the hovels perched on the hillside, the plumes of the
_carabinieri_ appeared. Then Benedetto rose, and came out into the open.

As soon as the people perceived him, they greeted him with a great,
joyous clamour. The Selvas went to the door of the cave and looked down.
Noemi ran swiftly down the hill. In a second Benedetto found himself
surrounded by people kissing his habit, and pouring out blessings upon
him. Many were weeping, on their knees. Noemi, who had rushed down alone
behind the students, pressed forward, and saw the man, at last!

Jeanne had shown her several photographs of him, telling her at the same
time that no one of them was entirely satisfactory. In Piero Maironi's
winning face Noemi had noticed a shade of sadness; Benedetto's face
shone with extraordinary vivacity. Two days before he had had his
hair and beard shaved, because he had heard a woman murmur: "He is as
beautiful as Jesus Himself!" The expression of the dominating soul in
him had become more marked; the nose had grown more prominent through
his increased fleshlessness, there were great dark rings under his eyes.
The eyes had an ineffable fascination. They still wore an expression of
sadness, but of sweet sadness, full of vigour, of peace, and of mystic
devotion. Standing there, under the little white cloud of the flowering
apple tree, in the midst of the prostrate crowd, surrounded by sunshine
and moving shadows he seemed an apparition such as visited the old
masters. Noemi stood as if turned to stone, a great sob in her throat.
Near her, several women were weeping for the joy of having seen him,
and influenced by reciprocal hypnotism. One, who was ill and weary, had
seated herself on the edge of the path, where she could not see the
Saint, and was weeping from excitement, without knowing why. Some
late arrivals came forward, an old man and three women from Vallepietra.
The three women immediately mistook Don Clemente for Benedetto, and
burst out sobbing and exclaiming: "How beautiful he is, how beautiful!"

In the meantime Benedetto, standing under the little white cloud of
the flowering apple tree, had succeeded, with words of sorrow, of
supplication, of reproach, in repulsing the assault of the adoring
throng, and in bringing the people to their feet. A cry went up from the
group of students: "Speak!" Just at that moment the bells of Jenne, far
up above them, solemnly announced the hour of noon to the village, to
the solitudes, to Monte Leo, to Monte Sant' Antonio, to Monte Altuino,
and to the clouds, sailing westwards. Benedetto laid his finger on his
lips, the bells alone spoke. He glanced at Don Clemente, and his look
seemed to convey a tacit invitation. Don Clemente bared his head, and
began to recite the _Angelus Domini_. Benedetto, erect, his hands
clasped, said it with him, and, as long as the bells continued to ring,
kept his gaze fixed on the young man who had shouted to him to speak;
his eyes were full oisadness, of mystic sweetness. That ineffable look,
the pealing of the solemn-voiced bells, the trembling of the grass, the
gentle waving in the breeze of the flowery branches, the rapt expression
of so many tearful faces, all turned towards this one face, were blended
for Noemi into a single word, which thrilled her while it evaded her,
as the soul is tormented by the longing for that occult word which
underlies a tragic procession of harmonious chords. The bells ceased,
and Benedetto said gently to those nearest him:

"Who are you, and what has happened that you come to me as if I were
that which I am not?"

Several voices answered at once; he was informed of the miracle, and of
how he was wanted in this village and in that.

"You exalt me," said he, "because you are blind. If this girl is healed,
not I have healed her, but her faith has made her whole. This power of
faith, which has caused her to rise up and walk, is in God's world,
everywhere and always, like the power of terror, which causes us to
tremble and fall down. It is a power in the soul, like the powers which
are in water, and in fire. Therefore, if the girl is healed, it is
because God has put this great power into His world; praise God for it,
and not me. And now listen! You offend God by believing His strength
and bounty to be greater in miracles. His strength and bounty are
everywhere, and always infinite. It is difficult to understand how faith
can heal, but it is impossible to understand how these flowers can grow.
The Lord would be no less powerful, no less good, if this girl had
not been healed. It is well to pray for health, but pray still more
fervently to understand this great thing of which I have just told you;
pray to be able to adore the Lord's will, when it gives you death, as
when it gives you life. There are men in the world who think they do not
believe in God, and when sickness comes to their homes they say: 'It is
the law, it is nature, it is the economy of the Universe; we bow our
heads, we accept without a murmur, we march on in the path of duty.'
Have a care that such men do not pass before you in the kingdom of
Heaven! And reflect also on the manner of miracles you demand. You come
to be healed of the ills of the body, and for this you wish me to visit
your villages. Have faith, and you will be healed without me. But
remember that your faith may be used to better purpose, according to the
will of God. Are you, all of you, perfectly healthy in your souls? No,
you are not; and what can it profit you that the skin be whole, if the
wine be spoiled? You love yourselves and your families better than
truth, better than justice, better than divine law. You are always
dwelling upon what is due to you and yours, and you seldom dwell upon
what is due to others. You believe your souls will be saved by the great
number of your prayers, and you do not even know how to pray. You pray
in the same manner to the saints, who are the servants, and to God, who
is the Master; when you do not do still worse! You do not reflect that
the Master cares little for many words. He desires rather that you serve
Him faithfully in silence, your minds fixed always on His will. And you
do not understand the nature of your own ills; you are like the dying
man who says: 'I am well!' Perhaps some one of you is thinking at this
moment. 'If I do not understand that I am doing wrong, then God will not
condemn me.' But the Lord does not judge as do the judges of this world.
He who takes poison unwittingly must fall, as he who takes it wittingly
must fall. He who is without the white robe may not come to the Lord's
supper, though he be not aware the robe is necessary. He who loves
himself above all things, be he ignorant of conscious of his sin, cannot
pass through the gate of the kingdom of Heaven; as the bride's finger,
if it be doubled up, cannot pass through the ring the bridegroom offers.
Know the infirmities of your souls, and pray with faith to be freed from
them. In the name of Christ, I say to you, that you will be freed from
them. The healing of your body is good for you, for your family, for the
animals and plants you tend; but the healing of your soul--believe this,
though you do not understand it!--the healing of your soul is good for
all the poor souls of the living, which are being tossed between good
and evil, is good for all the poor souls of the dead, which by toil and
suffering are being purified, as the victory of a soldier is good for
the whole nation. It is also good for the angels, who, Jesus has told
us, feel immense joy at the healing of a soul. Joy enhances their power;
and do you think their power is for the darkness or for the light, for
death or for life? Ask with faith, first for the healing of the soul,
and then for the healing of the body!" From the steep hillside a sea of
faces looked down on him; those highest up, where only the sound of his
voice could be heard, were eager, and tear-stained. Of those nearest
him, some were astonished, some enthusiastic, some doubtful. The tears
were pouring down Noemi's pale face also. The students had put off their
air of raillery. When Benedetto ceased, one of them came forward to
speak, resolute and serious. At the same moment the old man exclaimed:

"Heal our souls, heal our souls!"

Other voices repeated anxiously:

"Heal our souls, heal our souls!"

In an instant the contagion had spread throughout the vanguard; they
flung themselves on their knees, stretching out imploring arms:

"Heal our souls, heal our souls!"

Benedetto sprang forward, his hands clenched in his hair, exclaiming:

"What are you doing again? What are you doing again?"

A shout rang out from above: _"La miracolata!_ The girl who is healed!"
The girl who had felt health returning to her, as she lay on Benedetto's
bed, was coming down in search of him, leaning on the arm of an elder
sister. He heeded neither the cry nor the movement among those up above,
who parted, allowing the two women to pass. Being unable to persuade the
crowd to rise, he himself fell upon his knees. Then those around him
rose, and the excited movement and the cry of _"La_ _miracolata, la
miracolata!"_ having reached them, they forced him to rise also; he did
not seem to have heard. _"La miracolata!"_ each one repeated to
him. _"La miracolata!"_ And they searched his face for a trace of
satisfaction at the miracle, with eyes that called out "She is coming to
you! You have healed her!" They acted as if he had not spoken to them
only a few minutes before.

The young girl was coming down, as pale and sallow as the stony,
sun-baked path, her gentle, sad, little face, resting against her
sister's arm. And the sister looked sad also. The crowd parted before
them, and Benedetto, stepping aside sought refuge behind Don Clemente;
an involuntary action, which however, seemed premeditated. Every one was
trembling and smiling, in the anticipation of another miracle. The two
women were not deceived; they passed Don Clemente without so much as a
glance, turned to Benedetto, and the elder said firmly:

"Holy man of God! You have healed this one, now heal the other also!"

Benedetto replied, almost under his breath, trembling violently:

"I am not a holy man; I did not heal this one, and for the other one of
whom you speak, I can only pray."

When they had told him that the sick man was their brother, that he was
in the hut, stretched on the bed, and suffering greatly, Benedetto said
to Don Clemente: "Let us go and care for him!"

And he started forward with his master. Behind them the divided stream
of people flowed together again, noisily. Benedetto turned, and forbade
them to follow him; he ordered the women to attend to the young girl,
who must not climb the steep hill on foot, under the burning rays of the
sun. He ordered them to take her to the inn, put her to bed and refresh
her with food and wine. Those who were following stopped, and the others
stepped aside, allowing him to pass. The student who had once before
asked to speak, approached him respectfully, and inquired if he and some
of his friends might speak a few words with him alone, later on.

"Oh yes!" Benedetto answered, consenting with manly warmth and
eagerness. Noemi, who was standing near, took heart.

"I also must ask for five minutes," she said in French, blushing; and
then it immediately occurred to her she had thus shown that she knew
him to be a man of culture; her face was aflame, as she repeated her
petition in Italian.

Almost involuntarily Don Clemente pressed Benedetto's arm gently.
Benedetto replied courteously, but somewhat drily:

"Do you wish to do a kind action? Care for that poor girl."

And he passed on.

He and Don Clemente entered the hovel alone. No one had followed them.
An old woman, the sick man's mother, seeing him enter, threw herself
weeping at his feet, repeating her daughter's words:

"Are you the holy man? Are you he? You have healed one of my children,
now heal this one also."

At first, coming from the sunlight into that darkness, Benedetto could
not distinguish anything, but presently he saw the man stretched on the
bed; he was breathing hard, groaning and crying, and cursing the Saints,
women, the village of Jenne, and his own unhappy fate. On her knees
beside the bed, Maria Selva was wiping the sweat from his brow with
a handkerchief. There was no one else in the cave. Near the luminous
entrance the great cross, carved unevenly on the wall of yellowish
stone, was repeating at that moment a dark and solemn word.

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