The Saint by Antonio Fogazzaro

A >> Antonio Fogazzaro >> The Saint

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27

As he talked Benedetto became transfigured. With the last words he rose
to his feet. His eyes flashed, his brow shone with the august light of
the spirit of Truth. He placed his hands on Don Clemente's shoulders.

"Dear Master," he said, his face softening, "I am leaving the roof, the
bread, the habit which were offered me, but while I have life, I will
not cease telling of Christ, who is the Truth! I go forth, but not to
remain silent. Do you remember giving me the letter to read, that St.
Peter Damian wrote to a layman, who preached? That man preached in the
church. I will not preach in the church, but if Christ wish me to speak
in the dwellings of the poor, I will speak in the dwellings of the poor;
if He wish me to speak in the palace, I will speak in the palace; if He
wish me to speak in the cubicles, I will speak in the cubicles; if He
wish me to speak on the housetops, I will speak on the housetops. Think
of the man who laboured in Christ's name, and was forbidden to do so by
the disciples. Christ said: 'Forbid him not.' Shall we obey the disciple
or shall we obey Christ?"

"You are right about the man in the Gospel, _caro_," Don Clemente
replied, "but remember that one may mistake what is really Christ's
will."

Don Clemente's heart did not speak precisely thus, but the heart's
imprudent, undisciplined words were not allowed to pass his lips.

"After all, _Padre mio_," Benedetto continued, "believe me, I am not
banished because I preached the Gospel to the people. There are two
things you must know. The first is this. A proposal was made to me here
in Jenne by a person whom I never saw again after that interview, to
take holy orders, that I might become a missionary. I replied that I did
not feel called to that work. The second incident is this. On one of the
first days after my arrival at Jenne, while talking religion with the
parish priest, I spoke of the eternal vitality of Catholic doctrine, of
the power which the soul of Catholic doctrine possesses, of continually
transforming its own body, increasing its strength and beauty
unlimitedly. You know _Padre mio_, from whom--through you--these
thoughts came to me. The parish priest must have repeated my words,
which pleased him. The next day he asked me whether I had met Selva at
Subiaco, and had read his books. He said he had not read them himself,
but he knew they were to be avoided. _Padre mio_, you will understand
now. It is on account of Signer Selva, and of your friendship for him,
that I am leaving Jenne thus. I have never loved you as I love you now.
I do not know whither I shall wander, but wherever the Lord may send me,
be it far or near, do not let your soul forsake me!"

As he spoke these words, his voice shaking with sorrow and love,
Benedetto again threw himself into the arms of his master, who--himself
torn by a tempest of conflicting emotions--knew not whether to ask his
forgiveness, or promise him glory, the true glory, and could only say,
with laboured breath:

"You do not know it, but I, too, have need that your soul should not
forsake me!"

Touching it with careful, reverent hands; Don Clemente made the habit
his disciple had laid aside into a bundle. When it was folded he
told Benedetto that he could not offer him the hospitality of Santa
Scolastica; he had intended asking Signor Selva to take him in, but he
now doubted if it would be opportune and in the interests of his mission
for Benedetto to put himself so openly under the protection of Signor
Giovanni.

Benedetto smiled.

"Oh! certainly not!" said he. "Shall we fear the darkness more than we
love the light? But I must pray God to make His will known to me, if it
be possible. Perhaps He desires that, perhaps something else. And now
will you send me some food and a little wine? And then let those come
in, who wish to speak with me."

Don Clemente was secretly astonished that Benedetto should ask him for
wine, but he did not allow his astonishment to appear. He said he would
also send him the young girl who was with the Selvas. Benedetto looked
at him questioningly. He remembered that when the girl, whom he had
seen later in the church, had asked for an interview, Don Clemente had
pressed his arm, as if silently warning him to be on his guard. Don
Clemente grew very red while he explained his action. He had seen the
young girl at Santa Scolastica with another person. His movement had
been involuntary. The other person was now far away. "We shall not meet
again," said he, "because as soon as I have sent you the food, and
spoken to these people, I must start for Santa Scolastica."

In speaking of going to Subiaco or elsewhere, Benedetto had said
"perhaps that, perhaps something else," with an accent so full of
meaning that, when Don Clemente bade him farewell, he murmured:

"Are you thinking of Rome?"

Instead of answering, Benedetto gently took from his hands the bundle
containing the poor tunic, which had been bestowed and then withdrawn,
and with trembling hands raised it to his lips, pressing them to it; he
let them rest there a long time.

Was it regret for the days of peace, of labour, of prayer, of gospel
words? Was it the anticipation of a luminous hour in the future?

He gave the bundle back into his master's hands.

"Farewell!" said he.

Don Clemente hastened away.

The room the master of the house had set apart for Benedetto's use
contained a large sofa, a small square table, covered with a yellowish
cloth; over which a blue floral pattern sprawled; a few shaky chairs;
one or two armchairs, their stuffing showing through the rents in the
old and faded leather; and two portraits of bewigged ancestors in
tarnished frames. It had two windows, one almost blinded by a grey wall,
the other open to the fields, to a lovely, peaceful hill, to the sky.
Before receiving his visitors Benedetto approached this window to take a
last farewell of the fields, the hill, and the poor town itself. Seized
with sudden weakness, he leaned against the sill. It was a gentle,
pleasant weakness. He was hardly conscious of the weight of his body,
and his heart was flooded with mystic beatitude. Little by little, as
his thoughts became vague and objectless he was moved by a sense of the
quiet, innocent, external life; the drops falling from the roofs, the
air laden with odours of the hills, stirring mysteriously at that hour
and in that place. The memory of distant hours of his early youth came
back to him, of a time when he was still unmarried and had no thought of
marriage. He recalled the close of a thunder storm in the upper Valsolda
on the crest of the Pian Biscagno. How different his fate would have
been had his parents lived thirty or even twenty years longer! At least
one of them! In his mind's eye he saw the stone in the cemetery at Oria:

TO FRANCO
IN GOD
HIS LUISA;

and his eyes filled with tears. Then came the violent reaction of his
will against this soft langour of the intellect, this temptation of
weakness.

"No, no, no!" he murmured, half aloud. A voice behind him answered:

"You do not wish to listen to us?"

Betiedetto turned round, surprised. Three young men stood before him.
He had not heard them enter. The one who appeared to be the eldest, a
fine-looking young fellow, short of stature, dark, with eyes speaking
knowledge of many things, asked him boldly why he had laid aside the
clerical dress. Benedetto did not reply.

"You do not wish to say?" the other exclaimed.

"It does not matter, but listen to us. We are students from the
University of Rome, men of little faith, that I confess openly and at
once. We are enjoying and making the most of our youth, that I will also
confess at once."

One of his companions pulled a fold of the spokesman's coat.

"Be quiet!" said the leader. "It is true there is one among us who,
though he has no great faith in the saints, is very pure. He, however,
is not here before you. There are others missing also, who are playing
cards at the tavern. The 'Most Pure' would not come with us. He says he
will find a way of speaking with you alone. We are what I have told
you. We came from Rome for an excursion, and, if possible, to witness a
miracle; in fact, we came to have some fun!"

His companions interrupted him, protesting. "Yes, yes!" he repeated,
"to have some fun! Excuse me, I speak frankly. Indeed our fun came near
costing us too dear. We joked a little and they wanted to knock us down,
you know; and all to your honour and glory! But then we heard the little
speech you made to that crowd of fanatics. 'By the Lord Harry,'
we thought, 'this is a new style of language for a priestly or
half-priestly mouth! This is a saint who suits us better than the
others!' Forgive my familiarity! So we at once decided to ask you for an
interview; because even if we be rather sceptical, and fond of worldly
pleasures, we are also more or less intellectual, and certain religious
truths interest us. I myself, for instance, shall perhaps very shortly
become a Neo-Buddhist."

His companions laughed, and he turned upon them angrily.

"Yes indeed! I shall not be a practical Buddhist, but Buddhism interests
me more than Christianity!"

Then ensued an altercation among the three students, on account of this
inopportune sally, and a second spokesman, tall, thin, and wearing
spectacles, took the place of the first. This man spoke nervously,
with frequent spasmodic movements of the head and stiff forearms. His
discourse was to the following effect. He and his companions had often
discussed the question of the vitality of Catholicism. They were
all convinced that it was exhausted, and that speedy death could
be prevented only by radical reform. Some considered such a reform
possible, while others did not. They were anxious to have the opinion of
an intelligent and modern-spirited Catholic such as Benedetto had shown
himself. They had many questions to ask him.

At this point the third ambassador of the party of students, feeling
that his turn had come, poured out upon Benedetto a disordered stream of
questions.

Did he feel disposed to become the champion of a reform in the Church?
Did he believe in the infallibility of the Pope, of the Council? Did
he approve of the worship of the Virgin Mary and of the saints in
its present form? Was he a Christian Democrat? What were his views
concerning the desired reform? They had seen Giovanni Selva at Jenne.
Was Benedetto acquainted with his works? Did he approve of cardinals
being forbidden to go out on foot, and of priests not being allowed
to ride a bicycle? What was his opinion of the Bible, and what did he
believe concerning its inspiration?

Before answering, Benedetto looked steadily and severely at his young
interlocutor.

"A physician," he began at last, "was reputed to be able to cure all
diseases. A man, who did not believe in medicine, went to him out of
curiosity, to question him about his art, his studies, his opinions. The
physician let him talk on for some time; then he took his wrist, thus."
Benedetto took the wrist of the one who had spoken first, and continued.

"He took it, and held it a moment in silence; then he said to him, 'My
friend, your heart is affected. I read it first in your face, and now I
feel the hammering of the carpenter who is making your coffin!"

The young man whose pulse he was pressing could not refrain from
wincing.

"I do not mean you," said Benedetto. "The physician was speaking to the
man who does not believe in medicine. And he continued, thus: 'Do you
come to me for health and life? I will give you both. Are you not come
for that? Then I have no time for you!' The man, who had always believed
himself to be well, turned pale, and said. 'Master, I place myself in
your hands; give me life!'"

The three students stood for a moment dum-founded. When they showed
signs of coming to their senses, and of wishing to answer, Benedetto
continued:

"If three blind men ask me for my lamp of truth what shall I reply? I
shall reply, 'First go and prepare your eyes for it, because, should I
give it unto your hands now, you would receive no light from it, and you
would only break it.'"

"I hope," said the tall, lean, bespectacled student, "that in order to
see your lamp of truth it may not be necessary to shut out the light of
the sun. But, after all, I can easily understand that you do not wish to
explain yourself to us, whom you believe to be reporters. To-day we are
not--or at least I am not--in the state of mind you desire. I may be
blind, but I do not feel inclined to ask the Pope for light, or a Luther
either. Nevertheless, if you come to Rome, you will find young men
better disposed than I am, than we are. Come, speak, let us also listen
to you! To-day it is curiosity with us, to-morrow, who knows? we may
feel the right spirit. Come to Rome!"

"Give me your name," said Benedetto.

The other offered him his card. His name was Elia Viterbo. Benedetto
looked at him curiously.

"Yes, indeed," he said, "I am a Jew; but these two baptised ones are no
better Christians than I am. I have, moreover, no religious prejudices."

The interview was over. As they were leaving, the youngest of the party,
the man of the stream of questions, made a last onslaught.

"Tell us, at least, if you believe Catholics should vote on political
questions?"

Benedetto was silent. The other insisted:

"Will you not answer even that question?"

Benedetto smiled.

"_Non expedit_," said he.

There were steps in the ante-room; two gentle taps at the door; the
Selvas entered with Noemi. Maria Selva came in first, and seeing
Benedetto dressed thus, could not restrain a movement of indignation, of
regret, and a soft laugh; then she blushed and wished to speak a word
of protest, but could not find the right one. The tears came to Noemi's
eyes. All four were silent for a moment and understood each other. Then
Giovanni murmured:

"'_Non fu dal vel del cuor giawmai disciolto_'"[*1*];

and pressed the hand of him who in his awkward garments still appeared
august to him.

"But you must not wear these things!" exclaimed Maria, less mystic than
her husband.

Benedetto made a gesture which said, "Let us not speak of that," and
looked at the master of his master with eyes full of longing and
reverence.

"Are you aware," said he, "how much truth and how much good have come to
me from you?"

Giovanni did not know how strongly he had influenced this man through
Don Clemente. He supposed he had read his books. He was moved, and in
his heart thanked God, who was thus gently showing him that he had
worked some real good in a soul.

"How happy I should have been," Benedetto continued, "to have worked in
your garden, to [Footnote 1:"Of the heart's veil she never was divested."
DANTE'S _Paradiso_, Canto iii.
(Longfellow's translation) ] have sometimes seen you, to have heard you
speak!"

A stifled exclamation escaped Noemi when reminded of that evening full
of memories she could not express. Giovanni took this opportunity of
offering hospitality to Benedetto, Don Clemente having told him he
intended leaving Jenne that night. They could leave together, if he
wished, after the interview which he was going to grant Giovanni's
sister-in-law. Noemi, very pale, looked fixedly at Benedetto for the
first time, awaiting his answer.

"I thank you," said he. "If I knock at your door, you will throw it open
to me. I can say no more at present."

Giovanni and his wife prepared to leave. Benedetto begged them to
remain. Surely the _Signorina_ had no secrets from them; at least not
from her sister, if perhaps from her brother-in-law. Even this indirect
appeal to Maria was of no avail, for Noemi remarked, with much
embarrassment, that these secrets were not her own. The Selvas withdrew.

Benedetto remained standing, and did not invite Noemi to be seated. He
was aware that a friend of Jeanne's stood before him, and he foresaw
what was coming--a message from Jeanne.

"_Signorina_?" said he.

His manner was not discourteous, but signified clearly, "The quicker the
better."

Noemi understood. She would have been offended had another person acted
thus; but with Benedetto she was not offended. With him she felt humble.

"I have been requested to ask you," she began, "whether you know
anything about a person with whom you must have been intimately
acquainted, whom, I believe, you also loved very dearly? I am not sure
I pronounce the name correctly, I am not an Italian. It is Don Giuseppe
Flores."

Benedetto started. He had not expected this.

"No!" he exclaimed anxiously, "I know nothing."

Nomei gazed at him a moment in silence. Before continuing she would have
liked to ask his forgiveness for the pain she was about to cause him.
She said sadly and in a low tone:

"Some one has written to me to tell you that he is no longer of this
world."

Benedetto bowed his head, and hid his face in his hands. Don Giuseppe,
dear Don Giuseppe; dear, great, pure soul; dear luminous brow, dear
eyes, full of God, dear, kind voice! Softly came two tears, which Noemi
did not see; then he heard Don Giuseppe's voice saying within him, "Do
you not feel that I am here, that I am with you, that I am in your
heart?"

After a long silence Noemi said softly:

"Forgive me! I am sorry I was obliged to cause you so much pain."

Benedetto raised his head.

"Pain, and still not pain," said he. Noemi maintained a reverent
silence. Benedetto asked if she knew when this person had passed away.

Towards the end of April, she believed. She was absent from Italy at the
time. She was in Belgium, at Bruges, with a friend to whom the news had
been sent. She had understood from her friend that that person--a sense
of delicacy prevented Noemi from pronouncing the name--had died a very
holy death. She had also been asked to say that his papers had been
entrusted to the bishop of the city. Benedetto made a gesture of
approval which might also serve to close the interview. Noemi did not
move.

"I have not yet finished," she said, and hastened to add:

"I have a Catholic friend--I myself am not a Catholic, I am a
Protestant--who has lost her faith in God. She has been advised to
devote herself to deeds of charity. She lives with her brother, who is
very hostile to all religions. This innovation, the fact that his sister
interests herself in charities, that she associates with people who
promote good works from religious principles, is most displeasing to
him. At present he is ill; he becomes irritated, excited, protests
against these virtuous bigots, does not wish his sister to visit the
poor, to protect young girls, or to provide for abandoned children. He
says all these things are clericalism, are utopianism, that the world
wags in its own way, and that it must be allowed to wag in its own way,
that all this associating with the lower classes only serves to put
false and dangerous ideas into their heads. Now, my friend has been told
that she must either leave her brother, or lie to him, by doing secretly
what she has hitherto done openly. She is in sore need of sound advice!
She writes to me to ask you for it. She has read in the newspapers that
you are helping so many here in these hills, and she hopes you will not
refuse."

"As her brother is ill, both bodily and mentally," Benedetto answered,
"does she not find deeds of charity to perform in her own house? Will
she arrive at a knowledge of God by becoming a bad sister? Let her give
up her works of charity and devote herself to her brother; let her
attend to his bodily ills, and to his moral ills, with all the
affection"--he was going to say "which she bears him," but he corrected
himself, that he might not thus clearly admit a knowledge of the
person--"with all the affection of which she is capable; let her make
herself precious to him; let her win him by degrees, without sermons,
by her goodness alone. It will do her much good also, this striving to
incarnate in herself true goodness, active, untiring, patient, prudent
goodness. And she will win him, little by little, without words; she
will persuade him that all she does is well done. Then she can take up
her works of charity again, take them up alone, and she will succeed
better. Now she performs them because she has been advised to do so, and
perhaps she does not succeed very well. Then she will be prompted by the
habit of goodness, acquired with her brother, and she will have better
success."

"I thank you!" said Noemi. "I thank you for my friend, and also for
myself, for I am much pleased with what you have said. And may I repeat
your advice, your words of encouragement, in your name?"

The question seemed superfluous, because the words of encouragement and
advice had been spoken by Benedetto in direct answer to the friend. But
Benedetto was troubled. It was an explicit message which Noemi asked of
him for Jeanne.

"Who am I?" he said. "What authority do I possess? Tell her I will
pray!"

Noemi was trembling inwardly. It would have been so easy now to speak
to him of religion! And she did not dare. Ah! but to lose such an
opportunity! No, she must speak; but she could not reflect a quarter of
an hour upon what she should say. She said the first thing that came
into her head.

"I beg your pardon, but as you speak of praying, I should like to ask
you if you really approve of all my brother-in-law's religious views?"

As soon as she had uttered the question, it seemed to her so
impertinent, so awkward, that she was ashamed. She hastened to
add, conscious she was saying something still more foolish, but,
nevertheless, feeling impelled to say it. "Because my brother-in-law is
a Catholic, and I am a Protestant, and I should like to know what to
believe."

"_Signorina,_" Benedetto answered, "the day will come when all shall
worship the Father in spirit and in truth, upon the hilltops; to-day it
is best to worship Him in the shadows, in figures, from deep Valleys.
Many there are who can rise, some higher than others, towards the spirit
and the truth; but many cannot. There are plants which bear no fruit
above a certain altitude, and if carried still higher, they die. It
would be folly to remove them from the climate which suits them. I do
not know you, and I cannot say if your brother-in-law's religious views,
planted without preparation in you, would bear good fruit. But I advise
you to study Catholicism carefully, with Signor Selva's help; for there
is not one conscientious Protestant who knows it well."

"You will not come to Subiaco?" Noemi inquired timidly.

A note of hidden melancholy rang in her voice, and aroused in
Benedetto's heart a sense of sweet pain, which at once turned to fear,
so new was it.

"No," said he, "I think not."

Noemi wished, and still did not wish to say she was sorry. She
pronounced some confused words.

They heard some one in the ante-room. Noemi bowed, and Benedetto doing
the same, the interview came to an end, without any further leave
taking.

The Duchess also was anxious to speak with Benedetto. She brought her
companions, both male and female, with her. No longer young, but still
frivolous, half superstitious, half sceptical, egotistical but not
heartless, she was devoted to the consumptive daughter of her old
coachman, Having heard of the Saint of Jenne and his miracles, she had
arranged this excursion, partly for amusement, partly to satisfy her
curiosity, and she wished to ascertain if it would be wiser to have
the Saint come to Rome, or to send the girl to him. At the house of a
cardinal, her cousin, she had become acquainted with one of the priests
now staying at Jenne, This man, having met her, had given her his own
opinion of the Saint, announcing the downfall of his reputation. But, as
the Duchess had little confidence in any priest, and was curious to
know a man to whom such a romantic past was attributed, and as her
companions--one woman in particular--shared her curiosity she resolved,
at any cost, to find a means of approaching him.

An elderly, English gentlewoman was of her party; a lady famous for her
wealth and her peculiar _toilettes_, for her theosophic and Christian
mysticism, metaphysically in love with the Pope and also with the
Duchess who laughed at her friends. These friends, on beholding
Benedetto in that strange outfit, exchanged glances and smiles which
very nearly became giggles; but the elderly Englishwoman forestalling
them all constituted herself their spokeswoman. She said, in bad French,
that she was aware she was speaking to a man of culture, that she, with
her friends, of both sexes and of all nationalities, was working to
unite all Christian Churches under the Pope, reforming Catholicism in
certain particulars which were really too absurd, and which no one
honestly believed were of any further use, such particulars as
ecclesiastical celibacy and the dogma of hell. She needed a saint to
accomplish these reforms. Benedetto would be that saint, because a
spirit (she herself was not a spiritualist, but a friend of hers was),
the Spirit of the Countess Blavatzky herself, had revealed this fact.
It was therefore necessary that he should come to Rome, and there his
saintly gifts would also enable him to render a service to the Duchess
di Civitella, here present. She ended her discourse thus:

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27