The Saint by Antonio Fogazzaro

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He had expected some one between eight o'clock and a quarter past. The
quarter had already struck, and no one had appeared. He turned and gazed
at the bronze portal. Only one wing of it was open, and he could see
lights beyond. From time to time small groups of dwarfish figures passed
into it, as tiny, heedless moths might fly into the yawning jaws of a
lion. At last a priest approached the portal from within and beckoned.
Benedetto drew near. The priest said:

"You have come about Sant' Anselmo?"

That was the question which had been agreed upon. When Benedetto had
assented, the priest signed to him to enter.

"Please come this way," said he.

Benedetto followed him. They passed between the pontifical guards, who
gave the priest the military salute. Turning to the right they mounted
the Scala Pia. At the entrance to the courtyard of San Damaso there were
other guards, other salutes, and an order given by the priest in a low
tone; Benedetto did not hear it. They crossed the courtyard, leaving the
entrance to the library on their left and on their right the door by
which the Pope's apartments are reached. High above them the glass of
the Logge shone in the moonlight. Benedetto, recalling an audience the
late Pontiff had granted him, was astonished at being conducted by this
strange way. Having crossed the courtyard in a straight line, the priest
entered the narrow passage leading to the small stairway called "dei
Mosaici," and stopped before the door opening on the right, where the
stairway called "del Triangolo" descends. "Are you acquainted with the
Vatican?" he inquired.

"I am acquainted with the Museums and the Logge," Benedetto replied.
"The predecessor of the present Pontiff once received me in his private
apartment; but I am not acquainted with any other parts."

"You have never been here?"

"Never."

The priest preceded him up the stair, which was dimly illuminated by
small electric lights. Suddenly, where the first flight reaches a
landing, the lights went out. Benedetto, pausing with one foot on the
landing, heard his guide run rapidly up some stairs on the right. Then
all was silence. He supposed the light had gone out by accident, and
that the priest had gone to turn it on again. He waited. No light, no
footfall, no voice. He stepped on to the landing; stretching out his
hands in the darkness, he touched a wall on the left; he went forward
towards the right, feeling his way. By touching them with his foot he
became aware of two flights of stairs which branched from the landing.
He waited again, never doubting the priest would return.

Five minutes, ten minutes passed and the priest did not come. What could
have happened. Had they wished to deceive him, to make sport of him? But
why? Benedetto would not allow himself to dwell upon a suspicion about
which it was useless to speculate. He reflected rather upon what it was
best to do. It did not seem reasonable to wait any longer. Had he better
turn back? Had he better go up still higher? In that case, which stair
should be choose? He looked into himself, questioning the Ever-Present
One.

No, he would not turn back. The idea was displeasing to him. He started
up one of the flights, without choosing--the one leading to the
servants' rooms. It was short; presently Benedetto found himself on
another landing. Now, he had heard the priest run up many stairs rapidly
and without stopping, and the noise of his steps had been lost far, far
above. He came down again, and tried the other flight. It was longer.
The priest must have mounted this one. He decided to follow the priest.

On reaching the top he passed through a low door, and found himself upon
the Loggia, illumined by the moon. He looked about him. Near at hand,
on the right, a gateway divided this Loggia from another one, the two
meeting there and forming a right angle. Far away, on the left, the
Loggia terminated at a closed door. The full moon shone through the
great, glazed spaces, upon the pavement; showed the sides of the
courtyard of San Damaso: and in the background, between the two enormous
black wings of the Palace, humble roofs, the trees of Villa Cesi and the
lights of Sant' Onofrio were visible. Both the door on the left, and the
gateway on the right appeared to be closed. Again and again Benedetto
looked from right to left. Little by little he began to recall former
impressions. Yes, he had been in that Loggia before, he had seen that
gateway when on his way to visit the Gallery of Inscriptions--the Via
Appia of the Vatican--with an acquaintance of his, a reader in the
"Vaticana." Yes, now he remembered quite well. The door on the left
at the end of the Loggia, must lead to the apartments of the Cardinal
Secretary of State. The Loggia beyond the gateway was that of Giovanni
da Udine; the great barred windows opening on to it were the windows of
the Borgia apartment, and the entrance to the Gallery of Inscriptions
must be precisely in the angle. On that former occasion a Swiss guard
had stood by the gate. Now there was no one there. The place was quite
deserted; on the right and on the left silence reigned.

To try the door of the Cardinal Secretary of State's apartment was not
to be thought of. Benedetto pushed the gate. It was open. He paused,
rinding himself before the entrance to the Gallery of Inscriptions.
Again he listened. Profound silence. An inward voice seemed to say to
him: "Mount the steps. Enter!" Fearlessly he mounted the five steps.

The Via Appia of the Vatican, as broad, perhaps, as the ancient way,
contained not a single lamp. At regular intervals pale streaks of light
lay across the pavement, falling through the windows, which, from among
the tombstones, the cippi, and the pagan sarcophagi, look down upon
Rome. No light fell through the windows of the Christian wall, which
overlook the courtyard of the Belvedere. The distant end of the Gallery,
towards the Chiaramonti Museum, was shrouded in complete darkness.
Then, realising that he was in the very heart of the immense Vatican,
Benedetto was seized with a terror mingled with awe. He approached a
great window, from whence he could see Castel Sant' Angelo and the
innumerable tiny lights dotted over the lower city, while higher up, and
more brilliant, those of the Quirinal shone against the horizon. Not
the sight of illumined Rome, but the sight of a low and narrow bench,
running along below the cippi and the sarcophagi, calmed his spirit.
Then, in the dim light, he distinguished a canopy, which was already
half demolished. What could it mean? Along the opposite wall ran a
second bench, exactly like the first. Proceeding, he stumbled against
something which proved to be a large armchair. Now terror had given
place to a fixed purpose. The imperious, inward voice, which had already
commanded him to enter, said to him, "Go forward!" The voice was so
clear, so loud, that a sudden flash illumined his memory.

He smote his forehead. In the Vision he had seen himself in conversation
with the Pope. This he had never been able to forget. But he had
forgotten--and now the memory of it had flashed back to him--that a
spirit had led him through the Vatican to the Pope. He moved along the
left-hand wall, near which he had stumbled against the great chair. He
was convinced that at the end of the Gallery he should find an exit, and
light at last. He did remember that, at the end, was the gateway leading
to the Chiaramonti Museum. He went on, often pressing his hand against
the wall, against the tombstones. Suddenly he became aware that what he
was touching was neither marble nor stone. Gently, he beat upon the wall
with his fist. It was wood--a door! Involuntarily he stopped and waited.
He heard a step behind the door; a key turned in the lock; a blade of
light slanted across the Gallery and broadened; a black figure appeared;
the priest who had abandoned Benedetto on the stairs! He came out,
moving rapidly, closed the door behind him, and said to Benedetto, as if
nothing strange had taken place:

"You are about to find yourself in the presence of His Holiness."

He signed to Benedetto to enter, and again closed the door, he himself
remaining outside.

On entering, Benedetto could distinguish only a small table, a little
lamp with a green shade, and a white figure seated behind the table,
and, facing him. He sank upon his knees.

The white figure stretched out its arm, and said: "Rise. How did you
come?"

The singularly sweet face, framed in grey hair, wore an expression of
astonishment. The voice, with its southern ring, betrayed emotion:

Benedetto rose, and answered:

"From the bronze portal as far as a spot which I cannot locate, I was
accompanied by the priest who was here with Your Holiness; from thence I
came alone."

"Were you familiar with the Vatican? Did they tell you, you would find
me here?"

When Benedetto had answered that, years ago, he had paid a single
visit to the museums of the Vatican, the Logge, and the Gallery of
Inscriptions; that on that occasion he had not reached the Logge from
the courtyard of San Damaso; that he had had no idea where he should
find the Sovereign Pontiff, the Pope was silent for a moment; absorbed
in thought. Presently he said, tenderly, affectionately, pointing to a
chair opposite him:

"Be seated, my son."

Had Benedetto not been absorbed in contemplation of the Pope's ascetic
and gentle face, he would have looked about him not without surprise,
while his august interlocutor was engaged in gathering together some
papers which were scattered upon the little table. This was indeed a
strange reception-room, a dusty chaos of old pictures, old books, old
furniture. One would have pronounced it the ante-room of some library,
of some museum, which was being rearranged. But he was lost in
contemplation of the Pope's face, that thin, waxen face, which wore an
ineffable expression of purity and of kindliness. He drew nearer, bent
his knee, and kissed the hand which the Holy Father extended to him,
saying, with sweet dignity:

"_Non mihi, sed Petro._"

Then Benedetto sat down. The Pope passed him a sheet of paper, and
pushed the little lamp nearer to him.

"Look," said he. "Do you know that writing?"

Benedetto looked and shuddered, and could not check an exclamation of
reverent sorrow.

"Yes," he replied. "It is the writing of a holy priest, whom I dearly
loved, who is dead, and whose name was Don Giuseppe Flores."

His Holiness continued:

"Now read. Read aloud."

Benedetto read:

"Monsignore,--

"I entrust to my Bishop the sealed packet enclosed, with this note, in
an envelope bearing your address. It was left with me, to be opened
after his death, by Signor Piero Maironi, who was well known to you
before his disappearance from the world. I know not if he be still
alive or if he no longer be among the living, and I have no means of
ascertaining. I believe the packet contains an account of a vision of a
supernatural nature which visited Maironi when he returned to God out of
the fire of a sinful passion. I hoped at that time that the Almighty had
chosen him as the instrument of some special work of His own. I hoped
that the holiness of the work would be confirmed, after Maironi's death,
by the perusal of this document, which might come to be looked upon in
the light of a prophecy. I hoped this, although I was at great pains to
prudently hide my secret hopes from Maironi.

"Two years have elapsed since the day of his disappearance, and nothing
has since been heard of him. Monsignore, when you read these words, I
also shall have disappeared. I beg you to take my place in this pious
stewardship. You will act as your conscience may dictate, as you may
deem best.

"And pray for the soul of

Your poor

DON GIUSEPPE FLORES."

Benedetto laid the paper down, and gazed into the Pontiff's face,
waiting.

"Are you Piero Maironi?" he said.

"Yes, your Holiness."

The Pontiff smiled pleasantly.

"First of all, I am glad you are alive," he said. "That Bishop believed
you were dead; he opened the packet, and deemed it his duty to entrust
it to the Vicar of Christ. This happened about six months ago, while
my saintly predecessor was still living. He mentioned it to several
cardinals and to me also. Then it was discovered that you were still
alive, and we knew where you lived and how. Now I must ask you a few
questions, and I exhort you to answer with perfect truth."

The Pontiff looked with serious eyes into Benedetto's eyes; Benedetto
bowed his head slightly. "You have written here," the Pontiff began,
"that when you were in that little church in the Veneto, you had a
vision of yourself in the Vatican, conversing with the Pope. What can
you recall concerning that part of your vision?"

"My vision," Benedetto answered, "grew more and more indistinct in
my memory during the time I spent at Santa Scolastica--about three
years--partly because my spiritual director there, as well as poor Don
Giuseppe Flores, always counselled me not to dwell upon it. Certain
parts remained clear to me, others became indistinct. The fact that I
had seen myself in the Vatican, face to face with the Sovereign Pontiff,
remained fixed in my mind; but only the bare fact. A few moments ago,
however, there in the dark gallery from whence I entered this room, I
suddenly remembered that in the vision I was guided to the Pontiff by a
spirit. I recalled this when I found myself alone in the night, in the
darkness, in a place unknown to me, or practically unknown, for I had
been there only once, many years before, when, having no idea what
direction to take, I was about to retrace my steps, and an inward voice,
very clear, very loud, commanded me to press forward."

"And when you knocked at the door," the Pope inquired, "did you know you
would find me here? Did you know you were knocking at the door of the
library?"

"No, Your Holiness. I did not even intend to knock. I was in the dark; I
could see nothing, I was simply touching, the wall with my hand."

The Pope was silent for some time, lost in thought; then he remarked
that the manuscript contained the words: "At first a man dressed in
black guided me." Benedetto did not remember this.

"You know," the Pope continued, "that prophecy alone is not sufficient
proof of saintliness. You know there are such things (such cases have
been met with) as prophetic visions which were the work of-well, perhaps
not of malign spirits, we know too little of these matters to assert
that--but of occult powers, of powers innate in human nature, or of
powers superior to human nature, but which most certainly have nothing
to do with holiness. Can you describe to me the state of your soul when
you had the vision?"

"I was feeling most bitter sorrow at having drawn away from God, at
having been deaf to His calls, an infinite gratitude for His patient
kindness, and an infinite desire of Christ. In my mind I had just seen,
really seen, shining clear and white against a dark background, those
words of the Gospel, which long ago, in the time of goodness had been
so dear to me: _'Magister adest et vocat te.'_ Don Giuseppe Flores was
officiating, and Mass was nearly over, when, as I prayed, my face buried
in my hands, the vision came to me. It was instantaneous; like a flash!"

Benedetto's chest heaved, so violent was this revulsion of memory.

"It may have been a delusion," he said; "but it was not the work of
malign spirits."

"The evil spirits," the Pontiff said, "do sometimes masquerade as angels
of light. Perhaps, at that time, they were striving against the spirit
of goodness which was within you. Did you take pride in this vision,
later on?"

Benedetto bowed his head, and reflected for some time.

"Perhaps--on one occasion," said he, "for one moment, at Santa
Scolastica, when my master, in the Abbot's name, offered me the habit of
a lay-brother, that habit which was afterwards taken from me at Jenne.
Then I thought for a moment that this unexpected offer confirmed the
last part of my vision, and I felt a wave of satisfaction, deeming
myself the object of divine favour. I immediately entreated God to
pardon me, as I now entreat Your Holiness to pardon me."

The Pontiff did not speak, but he raised his hand with wide-spread
fingers, and lowered it again, in an act of absolution.

Then he began to examine the different papers lying on the little table,
seeming to consult more than one attentively, as he turned them over. He
laid them down, arranged them in a packet, which he pushed aside, and
once more broke the silence:

"My son," he said, "I must ask you other questions. You have mentioned
Jenne. I was not even aware of the existence of this Jenne. It has been
described to me. To tell the truth, I cannot understand why you ever
went to Jenne."

Benedetto smiled quietly, but did not attempt to justify himself, not
wishing to interrupt the Pope, who continued:

"It was an unfortunate idea, for who can say what is really going on at
Jenne? Do you know there are those up there, who look on you with little
favour?"

In reply Benedetto only prayed His Holiness not to oblige him to answer.

"I understand," the Pope said, "and, I must confess, your prayer is most
Christian. You need not speak; but I cannot hide the fact that you have
been accused of many things. Are you aware of this?"

Benedetto was aware of, or rather suspected, one accusation only. The
Pope seemed the more embarrassed. He himself was calm.

"You are accused of having pretended at Jenne to be a miracle-worker,
and by this boasting of yours, to have caused the death in your own
house of an unfortunate man. They even assert that he died of certain
drinks you gave him. You are accused of having preached to the people
more as a Protestant than as a Catholic, and also----"

The Holy Father hesitated. His virginal purity recoiled from alluding to
certain things.

"Of having been over-intimate with the village schoolmistress. What can
you answer, my son?"

"Holy Father," Benedetto said calmly, "the Spirit is answering for me in
your heart."

The Pontiff fixed his eyes on him, in great astonishment; but he was not
only astonished, he was also much troubled; for it was as if Benedetto
had read in his soul. A slight flush coloured his face.

"Explain your meaning," he said.

"God has allowed me to read in your heart that you do not believe any of
these accusations."

At these words of Benedetto's, the Pope knit his brows slightly.

"Now Your Holiness is thinking that I arrogate to myself a miraculous
clairvoyance. No. It I is something which I see in your face, which I
hear in your voice; poor, common, man that I am!"

"Perhaps you know who has recently visited me?" the Pope exclaimed.

He had summoned to Rome the parish priest of Jenne, and had questioned
him concerning Benedetto. The priest, finding a Pope to his liking, a
Pope who differed vastly from those two zealots who had intimidated him
at Jenne, had seized the opportunity of thus easily making his peace
with his own conscience, and had shown his remorse by praising and
re-praising. Benedetto knew naught of this.

"No," he answered, "I do not know."

The Pontiff was silent; but his face, his hands, his whole person
betrayed lively anxiety. Presently he leaned back in his great chair,
let his head sink upon his breast, stretched out his arms, and rested
his hands, side by side, on the little table. He was reflecting.

While he reflected, sitting motionless there, his eyes staring into
space, the flame of the tiny petroleum lamp rose, red and smoky, in the
tube. He did not notice it at once. When he did, he regulated it, and
then broke the silence.

"Do you believe," said he, "that you really have a mission?"

Benedetto answered with, an expression of humble fervour.

"Yes, I do believe it."

"And why do you believe it?"

"Holy Father, because every one comes into the world with a mission
written in his nature. Had I never had this vision, or received other
extraordinary signs, my nature, which is eminently religious, would
still have made religious action incumbent upon me. How can I say it?
But I will say it"--here Benedetto's voice trembled with emotion--"as I
have said it to no one else, I believe, I know that God is the Father of
us all; but I feel His paternity in my nature. Mine is hardly a sense of
duty, it is a sense of sonship."

"And do you believe it is your duty to exercise the religious action
here and now?"

Benedetto clasped his hands, as if already imploring attention.

"Yes," said he, "here also, and now."

When he had spoken he fell upon his knees, his hands still clasped.

"Rise," said the Holy Father. "Utter freely what the Spirit shall
dictate."

Benedetto did not rise.

"Forgive me," he said, "my message is to the Pontiff alone, and here I
am not heard by the Pontiff only."

The Pope started, and gave him a questioning glance, full of severity.

Benedetto, looking towards a door behind the Pope, raised his eyebrows,
and slightly lifted his chin.

His Holiness seized a silver bell which stood on the table, commanded
Benedetto by a gesture to rise, and then rang the bell. The same priest
as before appeared at the door of the Gallery. The Pope ordered him to
summon Don Teofilo to the Gallery; Don Teofilo was the faithful valet
whom he had brought with him from his archbishopric in the South. Upon
his arrival the priest himself was to await His Holiness in the halls
of the Library. "You will pass through this room, on your way back," he
said.

Several minutes elapsed. They awaited the priest's return in silence.
The Pontiff, lost in thought, never raised his eyes from the little
table. Benedetto, standing, kept his eyes closed. He opened them when
the priest reappeared. When he had passed out through the suspicious
door, the Pope made a sign with his hand, and Benedetto spoke in a low
voice. The Pontiff listened, grasping the arms of his chair, his body
bent forward, his head bowed.

"Holy Father," Benedetto said, "the Church is diseased. Four evil
spirits have entered into her body, to wage war against the Holy
Spirit. One is the spirit of falsehood. And the spirit of falsehood has
transformed itself into an angel of light, and many shepherds, many
teachers in the Church, many pious and virtuous ones among the faithful,
listen devoutly to this spirit of falsehood, believing they are
listening to an angel. Christ said: 'I am the Truth.' But many in the
Church, even good and pious souls, separate truth in their hearts, have
no reverence for that truth which they do not call 'religious,' fear
that truth will destroy truth; they oppose God to God, prefer darkness
to light, and thus also do they train men. They call themselves the
faithful, and do not understand how weak, how cowardly is their faith,
how foreign to them is the spirit of the apostle, which probes all
things. Worshippers of the letter, they wish to force grown men to exist
upon a diet fit for infants, which diet grown men refuse. They do
not understand that though God be infinite and unchangeable, man's
conception, of Him grows ever grander from century to century, and that
the same may be said of all Divine Truth. They are responsible for a
fatal perversion of the Faith which corrupts the entire religious life;
for the Christian, who by an effort, has bent his will to accept what
they accept, to refuse what they refuse, believes he has accomplished
the greatest thing in God's service, whereas he has I accomplished less
than nothing, and it remains for him to live his faith in the word of
Christ, in the teachings of Christ; it remains for him to live the
_'fiat voluntas tua'_ which is everything. Holy Father, to-day few
Christians know that religion does not consist chiefly in the clinging
of the intellect to formulas of truth, but rather in actions, and a
manner of life in conformity with this truth, and that the fulfilment of
negative religious duties, and the recognition of obligations towards
the ecclesiastical authority, do not alone correspond to true Faith. And
those who know this, those who do not separate truth in their hearts,
those who worship the God of truth, who are on fire with a fearless
faith in Christ, in the Church and in truth--I know such men, Holy
Father--those are striven against with acrimony, are branded as
heretics, are forced to remain silent, and all this is the work of
the spirit of falsehood, which for centuries has been weaving, in the
Church, a web of traditional deceit, by means of which those who to-day
are its servants believe they are serving God, as did those who first
persecuted the Christians. Your Holiness--"

Here Benedetto sank upon one knee. The Pope did not move. His head
seemed to have drooped still lower. The white skull-cap was almost
entirely within the radius of the little lamp.

"I have read this very day, great words you spoke to your former
parishioners concerning the many revelations of the God of truth in
Faith, and in Science and also directly and mysteriously in the human
soul. Holy Father the hearts of many, of very many, priests and laymen
belong to the Holy Spirit; the spirit of falsehood has not been able to
enter into them, not even in the garb of an angel. Speak one word, Holy
Father, perform one action which shall lift up those hearts, devoted to
the Holy See of the Roman Pontiff! Before the whole Church honour some
of these men, some of these ecclesiastics, against whom the spirit of
falsehood is striving. Raise some to the episcopal chair, some to the
Holy College! This also, Holy Father! If it be necessary, counsel
expounders and theologians to advance prudently, for science, in order
to progress, must be prudent; but do not allow the Index or the Holy
Office to condemn, because they are bold to excess, men who are an
honour to the Church, whose minds are full of truth, whose hearts are
full of Christ, who fight in defence of the Catholic faith! And as Your
Holiness has said that God reveals His truths even in the secret souls
of men, do not allow external devotions to multiply, their numger is
already sufficient, but recommend to the pastors the practice and
teaching of inward prayer!"

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