The Saint by Antonio Fogazzaro

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"Hope in God!" Benedetto answered the old woman gently. He went to the
bed, bent over the sick man and felt his pulse. The old woman stopped
crying, the sufferer stopped cursing and groaning. The buzzing of flies
in the light fireplace could be heard.

"Have you sent for the doctor?" Benedetto whispered.

The old woman began to sob again,

"You heal him! You heal him! in the name of Jesus and Mary!"

Again the sick man's groans were heard. Maria Selva said softly to
Benedetto:

"The doctor is in Subiaco. Signor Selva, whom you perhaps know, has gone
to the chemist's. I am his wife."

At this point Giovanni returned, out of breath and worried. The
chemist's shop was closed, the chemist absent. The parish priest had
given him some Marsala, and some tourists from Rome, who had brought
plenty of provisions, had given him brandy and coffee. Benedetto
beckoned Don Clemente to his side, and whispered to him to bring the
parish priest, for the man was dying. He would go for him himself, but
it seemed cruel to the poor mother to leave them. Don Clemente went out
without a word. A few steps from the hut, the party of smart people
who had come from Rome out of curiosity about the Saint of Jenne, were
holding a consultation; the party consisted of three ladies and four
gentlemen, and was under the guidance of the citizen of Jenne, whom the
Selvas had met on the hillside. On perceiving the Benedictine they spoke
together rapidly, in an undertone, and then one of their number, a very
fashionably dressed young man, screwed his eyeglass into his eye,
and came towards Don Clemente, at whom the ladies were looking with
admiration, and also with disappointment, their guide having informed
them that he was not the Saint.

These people also wished for an interview with Benedetto. The ladies
were especially anxious to speak with him. The young man added, with a
derisive smile, that for his part, he did not consider himself worthy,
Don Clemente answered very shortly, that for the present it was
impossible to speak with Benedetto and he walked away. The young man
informed the ladies that the Saint was in the tabernacle, under lock and
key!

In the meantime Benedetto--although the distracted mother implored him
not to use medicines, but to perform a miracle--was comforting the
prostrate man with a few mouthfuls of the cordial Giovanni Selva had
brought, but still more comforting were his gentle caresses, and the
promise of other saving words, which would soon be brought to him. And
the pitying voice, tender and grave, worked a miracle of peace. The sick
man breathed with great difficulty, and still groaned, but he no longer
cursed. The mother, wild with hope, murmured tearfully, with clasped
hands.

"The miracle, the miracle, the miracle!"

"_Caro_ [dear one]," Benedetto said, "you are in God's hand, and
you feel its might. Give yourself up to Him, and you will feel its
gentleness. Let His hand place you once more in the ocean of life, or
place you in heaven, or place you where it will, but give yourself up,
do not think of that. When you were a little child your mother carried
you, and you asked neither how, nor when, nor why; you were in her
arms, you were in her love, you asked nothing more. It is the same now,
_caro_. I, who speak to you, have done much evil in my life, perhaps
you also have done a little evil; perhaps you remember it. Weep, weep,
resting thus on the bosom of the Father who is calling you, who longs to
pardon, who longs to forget it all. Presently the priest will come, and
you will tell him everything, all the evil you have done, just as you
remember it, without anguish. And then, do you know who will come to you
in the great mystery? Do you know, _caro_, what love, what pity, what
joy, what life will come?"

Struggling in the shadow of death, his glassy eyes fixed on Benedetto,
eyes which shone with an intense longing, and with the fear of being
unable to express it, the poor young man who had misunderstood
Benedetto's words, and thought he must confess to him, began telling him
of his sins. The mother, who, while Benedetto had been speaking, had
flung herself on her knees in front of the wall of rock, and kept her
lips pressed to the cross expecting a miracle, started up at the strange
ring in that voice, sprang to the bedside and--understanding--gave a
cry of despair, flinging her hands towards heaven, while Benedetto,
terrified, exclaimed: "No, _caro_, not to me, not to me!" But the sick
man did not hear; he put his arm round Benedetto's neck, drawing him to
him, and continued his sorrowful confession, Benedetto repeating over
and over again "My God, my God!" and making a mighty effort not to
hear, but lacking the courage to tear himself away from the dying man's
embrace. And, in fact, he did not hear, nor would it have been easy to
do so, for the words came so slowly, so brokenly, so confusedly. Still
the parish priest did not appear, and Don Clemente did not return.
Subdued voices and steps could be heard outside, and, sometimes a
curious face peered in at the door, but no one entered. The dying man's
words lost themselves in a confusion of weak sounds, and at last he was
silent.

"Is there any one outside?" Benedetto inquired. "Let some one go to the
parish priest, and bid him hasten."

Giovanni and Maria were attending to the mother, who, quite beside
herself, was tossed between grief and anger. After having believed in
the miracle, she would not now believe that her son had been reduced to
this desperate condition by natural causes; at one moment she wept for
him, and at the next cursed the medicines Benedetto had given him,
although the Selvas assured her they were not medicines. Maria had put
her arms round her, partly to comfort her and partly to hold her. She
signed to Giovanni to go for the priest and Giovanni hurried away. The
glistening eyes of the dying man were full of supplication. Benedetto
said to him:

"My son, do you long for Christ?"

With an indescribable groan, he bowed his head feebly in assent.
Benedetto kissed him and kissed him again, tenderly.

"Christ tells me that your sins are forgiven, and that you may depart in
peace."

The glistening eyes lighted up with joy. Benedetto called the mother,
who, escaping from Maria's open arms, threw herself upon her son. At
that moment Don Clemente entered, looking exhausted; Giovanni and the
parish priest were with him.

* * * * *

At the priest's house Don Clemente had found an ecclesiastic whom he did
not know, arguing with the parish priest. According to what he said, a
crowd of fanatics were about to carry the girl who had been healed by a
miracle to the church of Sant' Andrea, to return thanks to God. It was
the priest's duty to prevent such a scandal. If the healing of this
girl were not an imposture, neither was it a fact. The would-be
miracle-worker had also preached much rank heresy concerning miracles
and eternal salvation. He had spoken of faith as being a natural virtue;
he had even criticised Christ, who healed the sick. At present he was
preparing another miracle with a second unfortunate victim. A stop must
be put to this! Put a stop to it, indeed! The poor priest who already
perceived the odour of the Holy Office, reflected that it was easy
enough to say "put a stop to it," but how was it to be accomplished? Don
Clemente's arrival at that point gave him a moment of relief. "Now," he
told himself, "he will help me." But, on the contrary, things were worse
than ever. When he had heard Don Clemente's sad message the strange
priest exclaimed:

"You see! That is how these miracles end. You must not enter that
heretic's house with the holy viaticum, unless he has first left it, and
left it never to return."

Don Clemente's face flushed.

"He is not a heretic," said he. "He is a man of God!"

"You say so!" the other retorted.

"And you, consider well!" he added, turning to the parish priest. "But,
after all, you are free to act as you please. It is none of my business.
_A rivederla_!"

Having bowed to Don Clemente, he slipped out of the room, without
another word.

"And now? And now?" groaned the unhappy priest, pressing his hands
to his temples. "That is a terrible man, but I must not betray the
Almighty! Tell me what to do! Tell me what to do!"

Indeed the parish priest had a holy fear of God, but he was also not
without a certain fear (half holy, half human), of Don Clemente, of the
austere conscience which would judge him. At that decisive moment the
wisest course to pursue became suddenly clear to Don Clemente.

"Arrange for the viaticum," said he, "and come with me at once, to hear
this poor young man's confession. Benedetto will show whether he be a
heretic or a man of God!"

The servant came to say a gentleman begged the priest to make haste, for
the sick man was dying.

Don Clemente, much exhausted, entered the hut, with Giovanni and the
parish priest. He called Benedetto to him, standing near the door and
spoke to him in an undertone. The rattling had begun in the sick man's
throat. Benedetto listened with bowed head to the painful words which
demanded of him a saintly humiliation; he knelt, without answering,
before the cross he had carved on the rock and kissed it eagerly at the
point where the tragic arms meet, as if to draw into himself from the
furrow in the stone, the symbol of sacrifice, its love, its blessedness,
its strength its life and then, rising, he went forth for ever.

* * * * *

The sun was disappearing in a whirling mass of smoke-like clouds rising,
in the north, behind the village. The places which, only a short time
before, had been astir with people, were now colourless and deserted.
From the turnings of stony lanes, from behind half-open doors, round the
corners of poor houses, women were peering. When Benedetto came in sight
they all withdrew. He felt that Jenne knew of the agony of the sick
man who had come to him in search of health, he felt that the hour of
triumph had come for his adversaries. Don Clemente, the Master, the
friend, had first asked him to lay aside his habit, and now asked him to
go forth from his house, to go forth from Jenne. It is true he had asked
in grief and love, still he had asked. Partly because of the bitterness
of it all, partly because of his long fasthe had not been able to eat
his mid-day meal of beans and bread--he felt ready to faint, and his
sight was troubled. He sank down on the decayed threshold of a small,
closed door, at the entrance to the little lane called _della Corte_. A
long peal of thunder sounded above his head.

Little by little, as he rested, he recovered. He thought of the man who
was dying in the desire of Christ, and a wave of sweetness swept
his soul. He was filled with remorse that he had, for a few moments
forgotten the Lord's great gift; that he had ceased to love the cross,
as soon as he had drawn life and joy from it. He hid his face in his
hands and wept silently. A slight noise above of a shutter being opened;
something soft fell upon his head. With a start, he removed his hands
from his eyes; at his feet lay a tiny wild rose. He shivered! For
several days--either on returning to his hut at night, or on leaving
it in the morning--he had found flowers on his threshold. He had never
removed them. He simply placed them on one side upon a stone, that they
might not be stepped on, that was all. Neither had he ever tried to
discover what hand laid them there. Surely this tiny wild rose had
fallen from the same hand. He did not raise his head, but he understood
that even if he did not lift the rose, or make any movement towards it,
he must, nevertheless, leave the spot. He tried to rise, but his limbs
could, as yet, hardly support him, and he tarried a moment before moving
away. The thunder rumbled again louder and longer. A small door was
pushed open, and a young girl, dressed in black, looked out. She was
fair, and as white as wax; her blue eyes were full of despair and
of tears. Benedetto could not help turning his face towards her. He
recognised the village schoolmistress, whom he had once seen for a
moment at the priest's house. He was already moving away without
greeting her, when she moaned softly: "Hear me!" Stepping back into the
passage she fell upon her knees, stretched out beseeching hands to him,
and dropped her head upon her breast.

Benedetto stopped. He hesitated a moment and then said, with dignified
gravity:

"What do you want of me?"

It had become almost dark. The lightning flashed, the noise of the
thunder filled the miserable little lane, and prevented the two from
hearing each other. Benedetto approached the door.

"I have been told," the young girl answered, without raising her head,
and pausing when the thunder crashed forth, "that you will perhaps be
obliged to leave Jenne. A word spoken by you has given me life, but your
departure will kill me. Repeat that word to me; say it for _me_, for me
alone."

"What word?"

"You were with the _Signor Arciprete_, the parish priest, I was in the
next room with the servant, and the door was open. You said that a
man may deny the existence of God without really being an atheist or
deserving eternal death, if that God, whose existence he denies, be
placed before him in a shape repugnant to his intellect, and if he love
Truth, Virtue, and his fellow-men, and by his life give proof of his
love."

Benedetto was silent. Yes, he had said this, but to a priest, and not
knowing another person (perhaps one not capable of understanding) was
listening. She guessed the cause of his silence.

"I am not the person in question," she said. "I believe; I am a
Catholic. It was my father, who lived and died thus; and--only think of
it--they have persuaded even my mother that he cannot be saved."

While she was speaking, amidst the lightning and the thunder, large,
slow drops began to beat upon the road, making great spots in the dust,
hissing through the air, lashing against the walls. But Benedetto did
not seek shelter inside the door, nor did she invite him to do so; and
this was the only confession on her part, of the profound sentiment,
which covered itself with a cloak of mysticism and filial piety.

"Tell me, tell me!" she begged, raising her eyes at last. "Say that my
father is saved, that I shall meet him in Paradise!"

Benedetto answered:

"Pray!"

"My God! Only that?"

"Do we pray for the pardon of such as may not be pardoned? Pray!"

"Oh! Thank you!--Are you ill?" These last words were whispered so softly
that it was possible Benedetto did not hear them. He made a gesture of
farewell, and started on, in the driving rain, that lashed and pushed
the little dead, wild rose away, into the mud.

Either from a window, or from the door of the inn, where she was, with
the sick girl of Arcinazzo, Noemi saw him pass. She borrowed an umbrella
from the innkeeper, and followed him, braving the wind and the rain.

She followed him, distressed at seeing him bareheaded and without an
umbrella, and reflecting that if he were not a Saint, one would think
him insane. On entering the square where the church stands, she saw a
door on the right open a little way; a tall, thin priest looked out. She
believed the priest would invite Benedetto to come in, but, to Noemi's
great vexation, when Benedetto was quite near him, the priest closed the
door noisily. Benedetto entered the church of Sant' Andrea; she went in
also. He approached the high altar and knelt down, while she remained
near the door. The sacristan, who was dozing, seated on the steps of an
altar, heard them enter, and, rising, went towards Benedetto. But he
belonged to the Roman priest's party, and, recognising the heretic,
turned back, and asked the foreign signorina if she could tell him
anything about the sick man from Arcinazzo, who had been brought to the
church that morning, when the sacristan had also seen her there. He
added that his reason for inquiring was, that he had been ordered to
wait for the parish priest, who was going to carry the viaticum to the
man. Noemi knew that the young man from Arcinazzo was dying, but that
was all.

"I see," said the sacristan, raising his voice intentionally. "He
probably does not wish for Christ. These are their fine miracles! Thank
God for the thunder and lightning, for had it not been for the storm,
they would have brought the girl here!"

Then he went back to rest and doze on the steps.

Noemi could not turn her eyes away from Benedetto. It was not a
fascination in the true sense of the word, nor was it the passionate
sentiment of the young schoolmistress. She saw him sway, rest his hands
on the steps and then turn with difficulty and sit down; and she did
not ask herself if he were suffering. She gazed at him, but was more
absorbed in herself than in him, absorbed in a gradual change which was
taking place within her, and which was making her different, making her
irrecognisable to herself; a still confused and blind sense of immense
truth, which was being borne in upon her, in mysterious ways, and
which strained painfully at the innermost fibres of her heart. Her
brother-in-law's religious arguments might have troubled her mind, but
they had never touched her heart. Why was it touched now? And how? What
had that pale, emaciated man said, after all? Ah I but the look, the
voice, the-what else? Something it was impossible to grasp. Perhaps
a presentiment--But of what? _Ma! Chi sa?_ Who knows? A presentiment of
some future bond between this man and herself. She had followed him, had
entered the church that she might not lose the opportunity of speaking
to him, and now she was almost afraid of him. And then to talk to him of
Jeanne! Had Jeanne understood him? How had Jeanne, loving him, been able
to resist the current of higher thought which was in him, which perhaps,
at that time, was latent, but which a Jeanne should have felt? What had
she loved? The lower man? If she, Noemi, spoke with him, she would speak
not only of Jeanne, but of religion also. She would ask him what his
own religion really was. And then what if he should answer something
foolish, something commonplace? For this reason she was almost afraid to
speak to him.

A dash of rain splashed through a broken window upon the pavement. It
seemed to Noemi she could never forget that hour, that great empty
church, that dark sky, that dash of rain like falling tears, that
world's outcast on the steps of the high altar, absorbed in what sublime
thoughts God alone knew, and the sacristan, his enemy, who had gone to
sleep on the steps of another altar, with the easy familiarity of a
colleague of the Almighty. Some time elapsed, perhaps an hour, perhaps
more. The church grew lighter; the rain seemed to be stopping. It struck
four o'clock. Don Clemente entered the church, followed by Maria and
Giovanni who were glad to find Noemi there, for they had not known where
she was. The sacristan, who knew Don Clemente, came forward.

"_Dunque_? The viaticum?"

The viaticum? Alas, the man was dead; they had thought of the viaticum
too late! The Padre inquired for Benedetto, and Noemi pointed to where
he sat. They spoke of the interview which Noemi desired. Don Clemente
blushed and hesitated, but could not refuse to ask for it, and he went
to join Benedetto.

While the two conversed, Giovanni and Maria related to Noemi all that
had taken place. After the arrival of the parish priest, the sick man
had not spoken again. Confession had not been possible. Meanwhile the
storm had burst with such violence as to render it impossible for the
priest to go for the holy oil. They had thought the sick man would live
some hours longer, but at three o'clock he had expired. As soon as the
torrents of rain would permit, Don Clemente and the priest had gone out,
but Giovanni and Maria had remained with the mother until the arrival of
the dead man's elder sister; the mother seemed to have quite lost her
senses. Then they also had left, to go in search of Noemi. Not finding
her at the inn, they had started for the church. In the square they had
met the Padre, coming out of one of the best houses. They did not know
what errand had taken him there. Maria spoke enthusiastically of
Benedetto, of his spiritual ministrations to the dying man. She and her
husband were very indignant at the war which had been waged against him
by people who would now find no difficulty in turning the whole town
against him. They censured the parish priest's weakness, and were not
satisfied with Don Clemente himself. He should not have aided in driving
his disciple away. Why had he been the one to tell him to leave, when
the parish priest came? His first mistake had been in bringing the
Abbot's message. Noemi knew nothing of this message. When she heard that
Benedetto was to be deprived of his habit her indignation burst forth:
Benedetto must not obey.

Meanwhile the Padre and his disciple were approaching the door.
Benedetto stood apart while the Padre came to tell the Selvas and Noemi
that as several persons wished to speak with Benedetto, he had arranged
that they should see him at the house of a gentleman of the town. He
must now take Benedetto there, but in a few minutes he would return to
the church for them.

* * * * *

The gentleman was the same person the Selvas had met on the hillside of
Jenne, where he was awaiting the Duchess di Civitella. The Duchess had
arrived shortly after, with two other ladies and several gentlemen,
among them a journalist, and the young man of the eye-glass. The
citizen, of Jenne was beside himself with satisfaction; on that day he
was in a truly ducal state of graciousness and magnificence! Therefore,
when Don Clemente--following the parish priest's advice--appealed to
him, he had no difficulty in obtaining from him the promise of an
old suit of black, a black tie, and a broad brimmed black hat, for
Benedetto.

In the room where the secular clothes were spread out, the disciple,
having removed his habit, began to put them on in silence, and his
master, who was standing at the window, could not repress a sob.
Presently Benedetto called softly to him.

"_Padre mio_," said he, "look at me!"

Arrayed in the new clothes, which were too long and too large for
him, he smiled, showing himself at peace. The Padre seized his hand,
intending to kiss it, but Benedetto caught it hastily away, and opening
his arms, pressed to his breast the man who now seemed the younger, the
son, the penitent instrument of shameful human persecutions, which, upon
that heart, beating with divine fire, turned to dust, to ashes, and
vanished! They stood a long time thus, locked in a silent embrace.

"I did it, for your sake," Don Clemente murmured at last. "I myself
brought the humiliating message, that I might see the grace of the Lord
shine, in this humble dress, even brighter than in the habit."

Benedetto interrupted him. "No, no!" said he. "Do not tempt me, do
not tempt me! Let us rather thank God, who is chastening me for that
presumptuous joy I experienced at Santa Scolastica, when you offered me
the Benedictine habit, and I reflected that in my vision, I had seen
myself dying in that dress. My heart was uplifted as if crying out: 'I
am beloved indeed of God!' And now--"

"Ah! but--!" the Padre exclaimed, and then stopped suddenly, his face
suffused with colour. Benedetto believed he understood what was in his
mind: "It is not said that you may not sometime resume the habit you
have just laid aside! It is not said that the vision may not yet come
true!" He had not wished to utter this thought, either from prudence, or
in order not to allude to Benedetto's death. He smiled and embraced his
master. The Padre hastened to speak of other things; he apologised for
the parish priest, who was much grieved by what was happening, and would
not have sent Benedetto away, had he not feared his superiors. He was
not a Don Abbondio [1]; he did not fear for himself, but dreaded scandal
of a conflict with the authorities.

[Footnote: Don Abbondio-a priest in Mazzoni's work _I Promessi Sposi_.
(Translator's Note.)]

"I forgive him," said Benedetto, "and I pray God to forgive him, but
this lack of moral courage is a great evil in the Church. Many, rather
than contend against their superiors, will contend against God Himself.
And they rid themselves of all responsibility by substituting their
superiors' conscience to their own wherein God speaks. They do not
comprehend that by striving against what is good, or by refraining from
striving against what is evil, in obedience to superiors, they give
scandal to the world, they stain the Christian character in the eyes of
the world. They do not comprehend that both their duty toward God and
their duty toward their superiors may be fulfilled, by never striving
against what is good, by never refraining from striving against what is
evil, by never judging their superiors, by obeying them with perfect
obedience in everything that is neither opposed to what is good nor in
favour of what is evil, by laying even life itself at their feet, but
not their conscience; their conscience, never! Thus the Inferior,
stripped of everything save conscience and just obedience, becomes a
pure grain of the salt of the earth, and where many such grains are
united, that to which they adhere will be saved from corruption, and
that to which they do not adhere, will rot and fall to pieces!"

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