The Saint by Antonio Fogazzaro

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I know why I am wretched, I know why God has forsaken me. Always when
God forsakes me, when all the living springs of my soul are dry, and the
living germs are parched, and my heart becomes as a dead sea, I know the
reason why. It is because I have heard sweet music behind me, and have
looked back; or because the wind has brought me the scent of blossoming
fields beside my path, and I have paused; or because the mist has risen
before me, and I have been afraid; or because a thorn has pierced my
foot, and I have felt vexation. Moments, flashes, but in that moment the
door opens, an evil breath enters! It is always thus: an earnest glance,
a word of praise enjoyed, an image lingered over, an offence recalled,
any one of these suffices; the evil breath has time to enter.

And now all of these causes are joined together! Darkness descended upon
my path; I set my foot in the soft grass, I felt it; I withdrew my foot,
but not at once. Why do I speak in figures? Write, write the naked
truth, cowardly hand! Write that this house is a nest of ease, and that,
if I have enjoyed the soft bed, the fine linen, the odour of lavender, I
have delighted still more in the conversation of Giovanni Selva, in the
readings, which have filled me with the joys of the intellect, in the
presence of two young and pure women, cultured and full of grace, in
their secret admiration, in the perfume of a sentiment which I believe
one of them harbours, in the vision of a life of retirement in this
nest, with these beings, far from all that is vulgar, all that is low,
unclean, and loathsome.

I have felt the sin of the world with the repulsion which shrinks from
it, and not with the fiery sorrow which braves it and wrests souls from
its clutches. Moments, flashes; I took refuge, as in times past, in
the embrace of the cross; but, little by little, the cross turned to
unfeeling, dead wood in my arms, and this was not as in times past! I
told myself, "Spirits of evil, strong and cunning powers of the air, are
conspiring against me, against my mission." I answered myself, "Pride,
be gone!" And then the first idea took possession of me once more. In
this sad manner I rocked to and fro, every day, and all day long. And
because I did not allow any part of all this to transpire, because I
understood that Signor Giovanni and the ladies did not doubt I was
inwardly as calm, as pure as I was externally; I despised myself at
certain moments for a hypocrite, only to tell myself the next moment
that, on the contrary, my pure and calm exterior helped me to live--I
allude to the spiritual life--that by appearing strong, I was forced to
be strong. I compared myself to a tree whose marrow has been destroyed
by worms, whose wood is rotten, but which still lives through its bark,
by means of which it produces leaves and flowers, and can spread welcome
shade. Then I told myself that this was good reasoning before men; but
was it good reasoning before God, before God? And again I told myself
that God could heal me, for though the tree may not be healed yet a man
may be made whole. Again my mind was tormented, because I was incapable
of doing what God would demand of me, in order that my will might once
more work in unison with His. He would order me to flee, to flee! God is
in the voice of the Anio, which, since the evening of my departure from
Jenne, has been saying: "Rome, Rome, Rome!" And God is also in the
strength of the invisible worms, which have gnawed the vital virtues of
my body. Am I then to blame? Am I then to blame? Lord, hear my groan,
which asks for justice!

I have said many times that I will leave as soon as I am strong enough,
but they wish to keep me here, and how can I say to them "My friends,
you are my enemies?" Behold my cowardice! Why can I not say so? Why
should I not say so?

One day I read in the young Protestant girl's glance the question: "If
you go, what will become of my soul? Should you not desire to lead me to
your faith? I will not yet allow myself to be led." No, I cannot, I must
not write all. How can I write the meaning of a glance, the accent of
a word, commonplace in itself? They are not such glances as drove
St. Jerome to plunge into icy water, or at least my emotion does not
resemble his. Icy water is of no avail against a glance which is all
sweet purity. Only fire can prevail against it, the fire of the Supreme
Love! Ah! who will free me from my mortal heart, whose faintest throb
thrills all the fibres of my body? Who will set free the immortal heart
which is within it, like the germ of a fruit, preparing for itself a
celestial body? I cannot, I must not write all, but this, indeed, I will
write: The Lord seeks to ensnare me, to entrap me! When I shall have
fallen, He will deride me! Why did it happen that I wrote the Latin
quotation about those who live and do penance between the Dead Sea and
the desert, _"Sine pecunia, sine ulla femina, omni venere abdicata
socia palmarum_," on that piece of paper, which on the other side bore
words from J. D., words still hot concerning my past sin and hers, words
reminding me of the most terrible moments? How did a person so timid
dare to force a secret communication upon me?

The wind has blown my window open. Oh! Anio, Anio! will you never tire
of your commanding? I must start now, at once? Impossible, the doors
are locked. Moreover, it would be shame to leave thus. I should be
dishonouring God; they would say "what ungrateful, what mad servants has
the Lord!" Come, spirit of my master, come, come! Speak to me; I will
listen. What have you to say to me? What have you to say to me? Ah! you
smile at my tempest; you tell me to leave, yes, but to leave honourably,
to announce that the Lord Himself commands my departure. You tell me
to obey the voice of God in the Anio. Now the wind is ceasing; as if
satisfied, it seems to be growing quiet. Yes, yes, yes, with tears!
To-morrow, to-morrow morning! I will announce it. And I know to whom I
shall go in Rome. Oh! light, oh! peace, oh! springs burst forth again in
my soul: oh! dead sea, swelling with a wave of warmth! Yes, yes, yes,
with tears! I return thanks! I return thanks! Glory be to Thee, our
Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come: Thy
will be done!

CHAPTER VII

IN THE WHIRLPOOL OF THE WORLD

It was already growing dark when a private carriage stopped at the door
of a house in Via della Vite in Rome. Two ladies alighted, and quickly
disappeared within the gloomy entrance, while the carriage drove away.
Presently another carriage arrived, deposited two more ladies before the
same gloomy door, and in its turn rolled away. Thus, within a quarter of
an hour, five carriages drove up, and no less than twelve female figures
were engulfed by the dark portal. The narrow street then relapsed into
its usual quiet. In about half an hour groups of men began to appear,
coming from the Corso. They paused before the same door, read the number
by the light of a neighbouring street-lamp, and then entered. In this
manner about forty persons more were engulfed by the gloomy portal The
last arrivals were two priests. The one who tried to read the number
was near-sighted, and could not make it out. His companion said to him,
laughing:

"Go in, go in! There is an odour of Luther in the air; it must be here!"
The first priest entered the evil-smelling darkness. By a black and
dirty stair they mounted up, up, towards a small oil lamp, burning on
the fourth floor. On reaching the third floor they struck a match to
read the names upon the door-plates. A voice called out from above:

"Here, gentlemen, here!"

An affable young man in a dark morning suit came down to meet them. He
showed them great deference, said the others were waiting for them, and
conducted them through an ante-room and a passage almost as dark as the
stairway itself, to a large room, full of people, and dimly lighted by
four candles and two old oil lamps. The young man apologised for the
darkness, saying his parents would tolerate neither the electric light,
nor gas, nor petroleum. All the men who had arrived in groups were
assembled here. Three or four wore clerical dress. The others, with the
exception of an old man with a red face and a white beard, seemed to be
students. There were no women present. All were standing save the old
man, who was evidently an important personage. Conversation was being
carried on in low tones. The room was full of whisperings, like the
murmur of tiny rivulets and falling drops in a cave. When the two
priests had entered the young host said:

"We are ready!"

Those forming, the central group fell back in a circle, and Benedetto
appeared in their midst. A small table with two candles upon it, and a
chair, had been prepared for his use. He begged that the candles might
be removed. Then he was dissatisfied with the table. Saying he was
weary, he asked to be allowed to speak seated on the sofa, beside the
old man with the flushed face and the white beard. Benedetto was dressed
in black, and was paler and thinner than at Jenne. His hair had receded
from his forehead, which had acquired something of the solemn aspect of
the brow of Don Giuseppe Flores. His eyes had become a still brighter
blue. Many of the faces turned eagerly towards him seemed more
fascinated by those eyes and that brow than anxious to hear his words.
Making no gestures, his hands resting on his knees, be began speaking as
follows:

"I must first state to whom I speak, for not all here present are of one
mind concerning Christ and the Church. I do not address my remarks to
the ecclesiastics; I believe and hope they are not in need of my words.
Neither do I speak to this gentleman seated beside me, for I know he
does not need my words. I speak to no one who is firmly grounded in the
Catholic faith. I address myself solely to those young men who wrote to
me in the following terms."

He took out a letter and read:

"'We were educated in the Catholic faith, and on attaining manhood
we--by an act of our own free will--accepted its most arduous mysteries;
we have laboured in the faith, both in the administrative and social
field; but now another mystery rises in our way, and our faith falters
before it. The Catholic Church, calling herself the fountain of truth,
to-day opposes the research of truth, when her foundations, the sacred
books, the formulae of her dogmas, her alleged infallibility, become
objects of research. To us this signifies that she no longer has faith
in herself. The Catholic Church, which proclaims herself the channel of
life, to-day chains and stifles all that lives youthfully within her,
to-day seeks to prop all that is tottering and aged within her, To us
these things mean death, distant, but inevitable death. The Catholic
Church, claiming to wish to renew all things through Christ, is hostile
to us, who strive to wrest the direction of social progress from the
enemies of Christ. This fact, with many others, signifies to us, that
she has Christ on her lips but not in her heart. Such is the Catholic
Church to-day. Can God desire our obedience to her to continue? We come
to you with this question. What shall we do? You who profess to be a
Catholic, who preach Catholicism, who have the reputation----'"

Here Benedetto broke off, saying;

"Only some unimportant words follow."

And he continued his discourse.

"I answer those who wrote to me, thus: Tell me, why have you appealed to
me who profess to be a Catholic? Do you perhaps think me a superior of
the superiors in the Church? Will you, perhaps for that reason, rest in
peace upon my word, if my word be different from what you call the word
of the Church? Listen to this allegory. Thirsty pilgrims draw near to a
famous fountain. They find its basin full of stagnant water, disgusting
to the taste. The living spring is at the bottom of the basin; they
do not find it. Sadly they turn for aid to a quarryman, working in
a neighbouring quarry. The quarryman offers them living water. They
inquire the name of the spring. 'It is the same as the water in the
basin,' he replies. 'Underground it is all one and the same stream. He
who digs will find it.' You are the thirsty pilgrims, I am the humble
quarryman, and Catholic truth is the hidden, underground current. The
basin is not the Church; the Church is the whole field through which the
living waters flow. You have appealed to me because you unconsciously
recognise that the Church is not the hierarchy alone, but the universal
assemblage of all the faithful, _gens sancta;_ that from the bottom of
any Christian heart the living waters of the spring itself, of truth
itself, may rush forth. Unconscious recognition, for were it not
unconscious you would not say, the Church opposes this, the Church
stifles that, the Church is growing old, the Church has Christ on her
lips and not in her heart.

"Understand me well. I do not pass judgment upon the hierarchy; I
respect the authority of the hierarchy; I simply say that the Church
does not consist of the hierarchy alone. Listen to another example. In
the thoughts of every man there is a species of hierarchy. Take the
upright man. With him certain ideas, certain aims, are dominant
thoughts, and control his actions. They are these: to fulfil his
religious, moral, and civil duties. To these various duties he gives
the traditional interpretations which have been taught him. Yet this
hierarchy of firmly grounded opinions does not constitute the whole man.
Below it there are in him a multitude of other thoughts, a multitude of
other ideas, which are continually being changed and modified by the
impressions and experiences of life. And below these thoughts there is
another region of the soul, there is the subconsciousness, where occult
faculties work at an occult task, where the mysterious contact with God
comes to pass. The dominant ideas exercise authority over the will
of the upright man, but all that other world of thought is of vast
importance as well, because it is continually deriving truth from the
experience of what is real externally, and from the experience of what
is Divine internally, and therefore seems to rectify the superior ideas,
the dominant ideas, in that in which their traditional element is not in
perfect harmony with truth. And to them, it is a perennial fountain of
fresh life which renews them, a source of legitimate authority, derived
rather from the nature of things, from the true value of ideas, than
from the decrees of men. The Church is the whole man, not one separate
group of exalted and dominant ideas; the Church is the hierarchy, with
its traditional views, and the laity, with its continual derivations
from reality, its continual reaction upon tradition; the Church is
official theology, and she is the inexhaustible treasure of Divine
Truth, which reacts upon official theology; the Church does not die; the
Church does not grow old; the Church has the living Christ in her heart
rather than on her lips; the Church is a laboratory of truth, which is
in continual action, and God commands you to remain in the Church, to
become the Church fountains of living water."

Like a gust of wind, a feeling of emotion and of admiration swept over
the audience. Benedetto, whose voice had been growing louder and louder,
rose to his feet.

"But what manner of faith is yours!" he exclaimed excitedly, "if you
talk of deserting the Church because you are displeased with certain
antiquated doctrines of her rulers, with certain decrees of the Roman
congregations, with certain tendencies in the government of a Pontiff?
What manner of sons are you who talk of denying your mother because her
dress is not to your taste? Can a dress change the maternal bosom? When
resting there, you tearfully confess your infirmities to Christ, and
Christ heals you, do you speculate concerning the authenticity of a
passage in St. John, the true author of the Fourth Gospel, or the two
Isaiahs? When, gathered there, you unite yourselves to Christ in the
sacrament, are you disturbed by the decrees of the Index, or of the Holy
Office? When, lying there, you pass into the shadows of death, is the
peace it sheds about you any less sweet because a Pope is opposed to
Christian Democracy?

"My friends, you say 'We have rested in the shade of this tree, but now
its bark is splitting, is being dried up, the tree will die; let us seek
another tree.' The tree will not die. If you had ears you would hear the
movement of the new bark which is forming, which will have its span of
life, which will crack, will be dried up in its turn only to be replaced
by another coat of bark. The tree does not perish, the tree grows."

Benedetto sat down, exhausted, and was silent. There was a movement
among the audience like the shuddering of waves surging towards him.
Raising his hands, he stopped them.

"Friends," he said, in a weary, sweet voice, "listen to me once more.
Scribes and Pharisees, elders and princes among priests, have striven in
all times against innovations, as they strive to-day. It is not for me
to speak to you of them; God will judge them. We pray for all those who
know not what they do. But perhaps those of the other Catholic camp, the
militant camp, are not entirely without sin. In the other camp they
are intoxicated with the idea of modernity. Modernity is good, but the
eternal is better. I fear that there they do not esteem the eternal at
its just value. It is expected that the Church of Christ will
derive much strength from united Catholic action in the fields of
administration and politics, action resulting in strife, through which
the Father will suffer insult at the hands of men, while not enough
reliance is placed on the strength to be derived from the light shed by
the good deeds of each individual Christian, through which light the
Father is glorified. The supreme object of humanity is to glorify the
Father. Now men glorify the Father of such as possess the spirit of
charity, of peace, of wisdom, of purity, of fortitude, who give their
vital strength for the good of others. One such just man, who professes
and practises Catholicism, contributes more largely to the glory of the
Father, of Christ, of the Church, than many congresses, many clubs, many
Catholic victories in politics.

"A moment ago I heard some one murmur: 'And what about the social
action?' The social action, my friends, is certainly salutary, as a work
of justice, of fraternisation; but like the Socialists, some Catholics
put upon it the seal of their own religious and political opinions, and
refuse to admit well-intentioned men, if they do not accept that seal;
they repulse the good Samaritan, and this is an abomination in the eyes
of God. They also set the seal of Catholicism upon works which are
instruments of gain, and this again is an abomination in the eyes of
God. They preach the just distribution of riches, and that is well; but
they too often forget to preach also poverty of the heart, and if they
are deterred from doing this by mercenary motives, then this is
another abomination in the eyes of God. Purge your actions of these
abominations. Call all well-intentioned men to help, especially in works
of justice and of love, satisfied yourselves to have initiated these
labours. By your words and by your example preach poverty of the heart
to rich and poor alike."

The audience swayed confusedly, drawn in different directions. Benedetto
covered his face with his hands, while he collected his thoughts.

"You ask me what you are to do?" he said uncovering his face.

He reflected a moment longer and then continued:

"I see, In the future, Catholic laymen striving zealously for Christ
and for truth, and finding a means of instituting unions different from
those of the present. They will one day take arms as knights of the Holy
Spirit, banding together for the united defence of God and of Christian
morality in the scientific, artistic, civil, and social fields; for the
united defence of legitimate liberty in the religious field. They shall
be under certain special obligations, not however of community of
living, or of celibacy, integrating the office of the Catholic clergy,
to which they will not belong as an Order but only as persons, in the
individual practice of Catholicism. Pray that God's will may be made
manifest concerning this work in the souls of those who contemplate it.
Pray that these souls may willingly strip themselves of all pride
in having conceived this work, and of all hope of witnessing its
completion, should God manifest disapproval of it. If God manifest His
approval of it, then pray that men may be taught to organise its every
detail to His greater glory, and to the greater glory of the Church.
Amen!"

He had finished, but no one moved. All eyes were fixed upon him, anxious
and eager for other words to follow these last, unexpected ones, which
had sounded so mysterious and grand. Many would have liked to break the
silence, but no one ventured to do so. When Benedetto rose, and all
gathered round him in a respectful circle, the old gentleman with the
red face and the white hair rose also, and said, his voice shaking with
emotion.

"You will suffer insult and blows; you will be crowned with thorns
and given gall to drink; you will be derided by the Pharisees and the
heathen; you will not see the future you long for, but the future is
yours; the disciples of your disciples will see it!"

He embraced Benedetto and kissed him on the brow. Two or three of those
nearest him clapped their hands timidly, and then a burst of applause
swept through the room. Benedetto, greatly agitated, signed to a
fair-haired young man, who had come to the house with him, and who now
hastened to his side, his face radiant with emotion and joy. Some one
whispered:

"A disciple!"

Some one else added, softly:

"Yes, and the favourite!"

The master of the house almost prostrated himself before Benedetto,
pouring out words of deference and gratitude. Then one of the priests
ventured to come forward, and said in a tremulous voice:

"Master, have you no word of counsel for us?"

"Do not call me master!" Benedetto replied, still much agitated. "Pray
that light may be shed upon these young men, upon our shepherds, and
also upon me!"

When he had left the room, a crackle of voices arose, some resonant,
others short and hoarse, for astonishment still held these agitated
minds in check. Presently, here and there, the intense excitement burst
forth, and spread in every direction. Exclamations of admiration broke
from all lips, some praising this or that expression the speaker had
used, this or that thought he had uttered, while others remarked upon
his glance, his accent, or marvelled at the spirit of holiness which
shone in his face, and which seemed to emanate from his very hands.
Soon, however, the master of the house dismissed the guests, and though
his apologies were profuse, and his words very gracious, still his
haste was such as to be almost discourteous. As soon as he was alone he
unlocked the door, and, pushing it open, stood bowing on the threshold.

"Ladies!" said he, and threw the door wide open.

A swarm of ladies fluttered into the empty hall. A middle-aged spinster
literally flung herself towards the young man, and, clasping her hands,
exclaimed:

"Oh! how grateful we are to you! Oh! what a saint! I don't know what
prevented us from rushing in and embracing him!"

"_Cara!_ My good creature!" said another with the quiet irony of the
Venetian, her fine large eyes sparkling. "It was probably because the
door was locked, fortunately for him!"

The ladies were twelve in number. The master of the house, Professor
Guarnacci, son of the general-agent of one of them--the Marchesa Fermi,
a Roman--had spoken to her about the meeting which was to take place
at his house, and had mentioned the discourse to be pronounced by that
strange personage about whom all Rome was already talking, knowing him
as an enthusiastic religious agitator and miracle worker, most popular
in the Testaccio district. The Marchesa was determined to hear him
without being seen. She had arranged everything with Guarnacci, and had
admitted three or four friends into the conspiracy, each in her turn
obtaining permission to introduce others. They appeared a strangely
assorted company. Many were in evening _toilettes_, two were dressed
precisely like Friends, while only one lady wore black.

The two Friends, who were foreigners, seemed quite beside themselves
with enthusiasm, and were highly incensed against the Marchesa, a
sceptical, very sarcastic old woman, who remarked calmly:

"Yes, yes, he spoke very well; but I should have liked to see his face
while he was speaking."

Declaring she could judge men far better by their faces than by their
words, the old Marchesa reproached Guarnacci for not having made a hole
in the door, or at least left the key in the lock.

"You are too holy," she said. "You do not understand women!"

Guarnacci laughed, apologising with all the consideration due to his
father's employer, and assured her that Benedetto was as beautiful as an
angel. A rather insipid young woman who had come, "Goodness only knows
why!" the two Friends thought angrily, announced, in quiet tones, that
she had seen him twice, and that he was ugly.

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