The Saint by Antonio Fogazzaro

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Benedetto paused a moment, exhausted. The Pope raised his head,
and looked at the kneeling man, who was gazing fixedly at him with
sorrowful, luminous eyes, under knitted brows, the trembling of his
hands betraying the effort of the spirit. The Pope's face bore traces of
intense emotion. He wished to tell Benedetto to rise; but he would not
speak, fearing his very voice would reveal his emotion. He insisted by
gestures, and at last Benedetto rose. Drawing the chair towards him,
he rested his hands, still tightly clasped, on its back, and once more
began to speak.

"If the clergy neglect to teach the people to pray inwardly--and this is
as salutary to the soul as certain superstitions are contaminating to
it--it is the work of the second spirit of evil, disguised as an angel
of light, which infests the Church. This is the spirit of domination
of the clergy. Those priests who have the spirit of domination are
ill-pleased when souls communicate directly and in the natural way with
God, going to Him for counsel and direction. Their aim is righteous!
Thus does the evil one deceive their conscience, which in its turn
deceives; their aim is righteous. But they themselves wish to direct
these souls, in the character of mediator, and the souls grow weary,
timid, servile. Perhaps there are not many such; the worst crimes of the
spirit of domination are of a different nature. It has suppressed the
ancient and holy Catholic liberty. It seeks to place obedience first
among the virtues, even where it is not exacted by the laws. It desires
to impose submission even where it is not obligatory, retractions which
offend the conscience; wherever a group of men assemble for good works,
it wishes to take the command, and if they decline to submit to this
command, all support is withdrawn from them. It even strives to carry
religious authority outside the sphere of religion. Holy Father, Italy
knows this! But what is Italy? It is not for her that I speak, but for
the whole Catholic world. Holy Father, you may not yet have experienced
it, but this spirit of domination will strive to exert its influence
over you, yourself. Do not yield, Holy Father! You are the Governor of
the Church; do not allow others to govern you; do not allow your power
to become as a glove for the invisible hands of others. Have public
counsellors; let the bishops be summoned often to national councils; let
the people take part in the elections of bishops, choosing men who are
beloved and respected by the people; and let the bishops mingle with
the masses, not only to pass tinder triumphal arches, to be saluted by
clanging bells, but to become acquainted with the masses, to encourage
them in the imitation of Christ. Let them do these things rather than
shut themselves up in the episcopal palaces, like princes of the Orient,
as so many now do. And give them all the authority which is compatible
with that of Peter.

"May I continue, Your Holiness?"

The Pope, who while Benedetto had been speaking had kept his eyes fixed
on his face, now bowed his head slightly, in answer.

"The third evil spirit which is corrupting the Church does not disguise
itself as an angel of light, for it well knows it cannot deceive; it is
satisfied with the garb of common, human honesty. This is the spirit of
avarice. The Vicar of Christ dwells in this royal palace as he dwelt in
his episcopal palace, with the pure heart of poverty. Many venerable
pastors dwell in the Church with the same heart, but the spirit of
poverty is not preached sufficiently, not preached as Christ preached
it. The lips of Christ's ministers are too often over-complaisant to
those who seek riches. There are those among them who bow the head
respectfully before the man who has much, simply because he has much;
there are those who let their tongues flatter the greedy, and too many
preachers of the word and of the example of Christ deem it just for them
to revel in the pomp and honours attending on riches, to cleave with
their souls to the luxury riches bring. Father, exhort the clergy to
show those greedy for gain, be they rich or poor, more of that charity
which admonishes, which threatens, which rebukes. Holy Father!----"

Benedetto ceased speaking. There was an expression, of fervent appeal in
the gaze fixed upon the Pope.

"Well?" the Pontiff murmured.

Benedetto spread wide his arms, and continued:

"The Spirit urges me to say more. It is not the work of a day, but let
us prepare for the day--not leaving this task to the enemies of God and
of the Church--let us prepare for the day on which the priests of Christ
shall set the example of true poverty; when it shall be their duty to
live in poverty, as it is their duty to live in chastity; and let the
words of Christ to the Seventy-two serve them as a guide in this. Then
the Lord will surround the least of them with such honours, with such
reverence as does not to-day exist in the hearts of the people for the
princes of the Church. They will be few in number, but they will be the
light of the world. Holy Father, are they that to-day? Some among them
are, but the majority shed neither light nor darkness."

At this point the Pontiff for the first time bowed his head in sorrowful
acquiescence.

"The fourth spirit of evil," Benedetto continued "is the spirit of
immobility. This is disguised as an angel of light. Catholics, both
ecclesiastics and laymen, who are dominated by the spirit of immobility
believe they are pleasing God, as did those zealous Jews who caused
Christ to be crucified. All the clericals, Your Holiness, all the
religious men even, who to-day oppose progressive Catholicism, would, in
all good faith, have caused Christ to be crucified in Moses' name. They
are worshippers of the past; they wish everything to remain unalterable
in the Church, even to the style of the pontifical language, even to the
great fans of peacocks' feathers which offend Your Holiness' priestly
heart, even to those senseless traditions which forbid a cardinal to go
out on foot, and make it scandalous for him to visit the poor in their
houses. It is the spirit of immobility which, by straining to preserve
what it is impossible to preserve, exposes us to the derision of
unbelievers; and this is a great sin in the eyes of God."

The oil in the lamp was almost exhausted, the ring of shadows was
closing in, was growing deeper around and above the small circle of
light in which the two figures were outlined, confronting each other:
the white figure of the Pontiff in his chair, and Benedetto's dark
figure standing erect.

"In opposition to this spirit of immobility," said Benedetto, "I entreat
you not to allow Giovanni Selva's books to be placed on the Index."

Then, pushing the chair aside, he once more fell upon his knees, and
stretching out his hands towards the Pontiff, spoke more eagerly, more
excitedly.

"Vicar of Christ, I ask for something else. I am a sinner, unworthy to
be compared to the saints, but the Spirit of God may speak even through
the vilest mouth. As a woman once conjured the Pope to come to Rome, so
I now conjure Your Holiness to come forth from the Vatican. Come forth,
Holy Father; but the first time, at least the first time, come forth on
an errand connected with your office. Lazarus suffers and dies day by
day; go and visit Lazarus! Christ calls out for succour in all poor,
suffering human beings. From the Gallery of Inscriptions I saw the
lights shining before another palace here in Rome. If human suffering
call out in the name of Christ, there they may perhaps answer: 'nay,'
but they go. From the Vatican the answer to Christ is: 'yea,' but they
do not go. What will Christ say at the terrible hour, Holy Father? These
words of mine, could the world hear them, would bring vituperation upon
me, from those who profess the greatest devotion to the Vatican; but
though they hurl vituperation and thunderbolts against me, not until the
hour of my death will I cease crying aloud: What will Christ say? What
will Christ say? To Him I appeal!"

The lamp's tiny flame grew smaller and smaller; in the narrow circle of
pale light upon which the shadows were creeping little of Benedetto was
visible save his outstretched hands, little of the Pope was visible save
his right hand grasping the silver bell. As soon as Benedetto ceased,
the Holy Father ordered him to rise; then he rang the bell twice. The
door of the Gallery was thrown open; the trusted valet entered who had
already become popular in the Vatican, and was known as Don Teofilo.

"Teofilo," said the Pope, "is the light turned on once more in the
Gallery?"

"Yes, Your Holiness."

"Then go into the library, where you will find Monsignore. Request him
to come in here, and wait for me. And see that another lamp is brought."

When he had finished speaking, His Holiness rose. He moved towards the
door of the Gallery, signing to Benedetto to follow him. Don Teofilo
passed out by the opposite door. Sad omen! In the dark room, where so
many flaming words, inspired by the Spirit, had flashed, only the little
dying lamp remained.

That part of the Gallery of Inscriptions where the Pope and Benedetto
now found themselves was in semi-darkness. But at one end a great lamp,
with a reflector, shed its light upon the commemorative inscription
on the right of the door leading to the Loggia of Giovanni da Udine.
Between the long lines of inscriptions, which ran from one end of the
gallery to the other, and watched this dark conflict of two living
souls, like dumb witnesses well acquainted with the mysteries of that
which is beyond the grave and of the last judgment, the Pope advanced
slowly, silently, Benedetto following on his left, but a few paces
behind him. He paused a moment near the torso representing the river
Orontes, and gazed out of the window. Benedetto wondered if he were
looking at the lights of the Quirinal, and his heart beat faster as he
waited for a word. The word did not come. The Pope continued his slow,
silent walk, his hands clasped behind his back and his chin resting on
his breast. He paused again near the end of the gallery, in the light of
the great lamp, and seemed undecided whether to turn back or to proceed.
On the left of the lamp the door of the gallery opened upon a background
of night, of moonlight, columns, glass, and marble pavement. The Pope
turned in this direction, and descended the five steps. The moonlight
fell slanting upon the pavement, streaked with the black shadows of the
columns, and upon the end of the Loggia, cut off by the oblique profile
of the deeper shadow, within which the bust of Giovanni was barely
distinguishable.

The Pope walked on till he reached this shadow and paused in it, while
Benedetto, who had stopped several paces behind that he might not seem
to press him irreverently in his anxiety for an answer, was gazing at
the moon, sailing midst the great clouds above Rome. As he gazed thus
at the orb he asked himself, asked some Invisible One who might be near
him, asked even the grave, sad face of the moon herself, whether he had
dared too much, dared in the wrong way. But he repented of this doubt
immediately. Was it he himself who had spoken? No, the words had come
unsought to his lips, the Spirit had spoken. He closed his eyes in an
effort of silent prayer, his face still raised towards the moon, as
a blind man lifts his sightless eyes towards the silver splendour he
divines.

A hand touched him gently on the shoulder. He started and opened his
eyes. It was the Pope, and the expression of his face told him that at
last words had matured in his mind which satisfied it. Benedetto bent
his head respectfully, ready to listen.

"My son," His Holiness began, "many of these things the Lord had spoken
of in my heart long ago. You--God bless you--have to deal with the Lord
alone; I have to deal also with the men the Lord has placed around me,
among whom I have to steer my course according to charity and prudence,
and above all, I must adapt my counsels, my commands, to the different
capacities, the different states of mind, of so many millions of men. I
am like a poor schoolmaster who, out of seventy scholars, has twenty who
are below the average, forty of ordinary ability, and only ten who are
really brilliant. He cannot carry on the school for the benefit of the
ten brilliant pupils alone, and I cannot govern the Church for you alone
and for those who are like you. Consider this for instance. Christ paid
tribute to the State, and I--not as the Pontiff, but as a citizen--would
gladly pay my tribute of homage, there in that palace whose lights you
saw shining, did I not fear by so doing to offend the sixty scholars, to
lose even one of those souls which are as precious to me as the others.
And it would be the same if I caused certain books to be removed from
the Index, if I called to the Sacred College certain men who have the
reputation of not being strictly orthodox, if, during an epidemic, I
should go--_ex abrupto_--to visit the hospitals of Rome."

"Oh, Your Holiness!" Benedetto exclaimed, "forgive me, but it is not
certain that those souls, so ready to be scandalised by the Vicar of
Christ for such causes as these, will be saved at last, whereas it is
certain that very many other souls would be secured which otherwise
cannot be won over."

"And then," the Pope continued, as if he had not heard him, "I am old;
I am weary; the cardinals do not know whom they have placed here. I did
not wish it. I am ill also, and I know by certain signs that I must soon
appear before my Judge. I feel, my son, that you are moved by the right
spirit; but the Lord cannot exact of a poor old man like me the things
you have spoken of, things which even a young and vigorous Pontiff could
not accomplish! Still, there are some which even I, with His help, may
be able to bring about; if not the great things, at least the lesser
ones. Let us pray God to raise up at the right moment one capable of
dealing with the weightier matters, and those who may be able to help
him in the work. My son, if I were to begin to-night to transform and
rebuild the Vatican, where should I find a Raphael to adorn it with his
paintings? or even a Giovanni? Still, I do not say I can do nothing."

Benedetto was about to reply, but the Pontiff, perhaps not wishing to
give any further explanations, afforded him neither time nor opportunity
to do so, and at once asked him a very welcome question.

"You know Selva?" said he. "What manner of man is he in private life?"

"He is a just man!" Benedetto hastened to answer. "A most just man. His
books have been denounced to the Congregation of the Index. They may,
perhaps, contain some bold opinions, but there is no comparison between
the deep, burning piety of Selva's works and the cold and meagre
formalism of certain other books, which are more often found in the
hands of the clergy than the Gospels themselves. Holy Father, the
condemnation of Selva would be a blow directed against the most active
and vital energies of Catholicism. The Church tolerates thousands of
stupid, ascetic books which unworthily diminish the idea of God in the
human mind; let her not condemn those which magnify it!" The hour struck
in the distance; half-past nine. Silently His Holiness took Benedetto's
hand, held it between his own, and communicated to him through that mute
pressure an understanding and approval which his prudent lips might not
utter.

He pressed the hand, shook it, caressed it, and pressed it again. At
last he said, in a stifled voice:

"Pray for me, pray that the Lord may enlighten me!"

A tear trembled in each of the beautiful, gentle eyes of the old man,
who had never wilfully soiled himself with an impure thought, who was
full of the sweetness of charity. Benedetto was so deeply moved that he
could not speak.

"Come again," the Pope said, "We must converse together again."

"When, Your Holiness?"

"Soon, I will summon you."

Meanwhile the advancing shadows had engulfed the white figure and the
black one. His Holiness placed his hand on Benedetto's shoulder and
asked him softly, almost hesitatingly:

"Do you remember the end of your vision?"

Benedetto, bowing his head, answered, also in a low tone:

"_Nescio diem, neque horam_."

"The words are not in the manuscript," His Holiness continued; "but do
you remember?"

Benedetto murmured:

"In the Benedictine habit, on the bare earth, in the shade of a tree."
"Should it happen thus," the Holy Father said gently, "I would wish to
bless you in that moment. Then I shall be awaiting you in Heaven."

Benedetto knelt down. The Pope's voice sounded very solemn in the
darkness:

"_Benedico te in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti_."

The Pontiff rapidly ascended the five steps, and disappeared.

Benedetto remained upon his knees, wrapt in that benediction which, it
seemed to him, had come from Christ Himself. On hearing steps in the
gallery he rose. A few moments later he was returning to the bronze
portal, accompanied by Don Teofilo.

III

The room on the fourth floor was hardly decent. An iron bedstead, a
pedestal, a writing-desk, with a few torn and dilapidated books, a deal
chest of drawers, an iron washstand, and a few straw-bottomed chairs,
were all it contained. A suit of grey clothes was hanging from one nail,
a broad-brimmed black hat from another. Frequent flashes of lightning
could be seen through the open window; breaths of the dark, stormy night
blew in, causing the flame of the petroleum lamp on the pedestal to
flare and the light and the shadows to tremble, as they fell upon the
not too clean sheets, the two fleshless hands, the cluster of roses
lying loose between them, on the flannel shirt of the sick man, who had
pulled himself up into a sitting position, and on his deeply lined, thin
face, greyish with a month-old beard. On the other side of the poor bed
in the gloaming stood Benedetto. The sick man gazed at the flowers in
silence. His hands and his lips trembled.

He had been a monk. At thirty he had thrown off the cowl and married.
A man of little culture, of few talents, he had managed to make a poor
living for his wife and two daughters, working as a copyist. The wife
was dead, the daughters had been led astray, and now he himself was
dying slowly, there in that fourth-floor room, in Via della Marmorata,
near the corner of Via Manuzio, wasted by misery, by disease, by the
bitterness of his soul.

A sob he could not check broke from his lips. He opened his arms,
encircled Benedetto's neck, and drew his head towards him in an embrace.
Then, suddenly, he pushed him away, and covered his face with his hands.

"I am not worthy! I am not worthy!" said he.

But now Benedetto in his turn encircled the man's neck, kissed him, and
answered:

"Nor am I worthy of this blessing the Lord has sent me!"

"What blessing?" the sufferer inquired.

"That you weep with me!"

Having spoken these words, Benedetto drew away from the embrace, but
his gaze lingered affectionately on the old man, who stared at him
in astonishment as if asking the question: "You know all?" Benedetto
silently and gently bowed his head in assent.

The man had no suspicion that the story of his past life was known. He
had lived here three years. A neighbour, older than he, a poor little
hunchbacked woman, very charitable and pious, rendered him many
services, tended him in illness, and managed to assist him out of the
pension of two lire a day which was all she possessed. She had learned
from the concierge that the man was an unfrocked monk, and seeing how
sad, humble, and grateful he was, she prayed night and morning to the
Madonna and to all the Saints of Paradise, that they might intercede
with Jesus on his behalf, that this man might be pardoned and brought
back into the fold of the Church. She told her hopes and her fears to
other pious old women, saying:

"I myself do not dare to pray to Jesus for him; that unhappy man has
committed too great a sin against Him. He needs the prayers of some
powerful personage!"

That day the old man had said to her several times that he would be
so happy if he could have a few roses. Then the little hunchback had
thought:

"There is the holy man of whom every one is talking,--he works as a
gardener. I will go to him and tell him the whole story. I will ask him
to bring some roses, and who knows what may come of it!" Such were her
thoughts, but at once she said to herself:

"If that thought did not come to me from the Madonna, it certainly came
from St. Anthony!"

In her simple, pure heart she had felt a wave of sweetness and joy.
Without losing any time she had started for Villa Mayda, the elegant
Pompeian villa, standing out white on the Aventine, among the beautiful
palms, almost opposite the window of the old unfrocked monk. Benedetto
was about to go to bed, in obedience to the orders of the Professor,
who had found him feverish. It was the low, insidious fever which, for
several weeks, had been consuming his strength without otherwise causing
any suffering. When he had heard what the cripple had to tell, he had
come at once with the roses.

* * * * *

The old man still kept his face hidden, for he was ashamed. Presently,
without looking at Benedetto, he spoke of the roses, and explained his
longing for them. He was the son of a gardener and had himself intended
to become a gardener; but he was also fond of going to church, and all
his toys had been copies of sacred objects: little altars, candelabra,
small busts of bishops wearing mitres. His employers--very religious
people--had intimated to his parents that, if he showed a vocation for
the ecclesiastical career, they would have him educated at their own
expense. Thereupon his parents had promptly determined that he should
adopt that career. He soon discovered that his strength was not
sufficient to enable him to remain faithful to the priestly vows, but he
lacked the courage to take a step which would have caused his family the
greatest distress. Instead of that he imagined he might be safe if he
withdrew completely from the world, and so, listening to imprudent
counsellors, he entered the monastery from which he was to come forth
again later in disgrace. In after years he would sometimes allude to his
order, when jesting covertly with his friends, and say "When I was in
the regiment!" but he did not repeat that now. As a boy he had loved
flowers, but, after entering the seminary, he had thought no more about
them--thought no more about them for forty years. The night before
Benedetto's visit he had dreamed of the big rose garden in which his
childhood had been spent. The white roses were all bending towards him,
and gazing at him in the dream-world, as pious souls gaze with curiosity
on a pilgrim in the world of shadows. They said to him: "Where are yon
going? where are you going, poor friend? Why do you not return to us?"
On waking he had felt a longing for roses, a tender longing that moved
him to tears. And how many roses now lay on his bed, all through the
kindness of a saintly person, how many beautiful, sweet-smelling roses!
He was silent, gazing fixedly at Benedetto, his lips parted, his eyes
shining with a painful question: "You know, you understand, what do you
think of me? Do you believe there is hope of pardon for me?"

Benedetto, bending over the sick man, began to talk to him and caress
him. The stream of gentle words flowed on and on in a varying tone,
sometimes of joy, sometimes of pain. Now the old man seemed comforted,
now anxious questions broke from his lips; then, all of a sudden, the
gentle stream of words restored the happy look to his face. Meanwhile,
the little crippled woman came and went between her own room and her
neighbour's door, clasping her rosary, and divided between her anxiety
at that decisive moment to get in as many _Ave Marias_ as possible, and
the desire to hear if they were talking in there and what they were
saying.

But down below, in the street, a crowd had begun to gather of people
who, regardless of the bad weather, were anxious to see the Saint of
Jenne. A woman who kept a little shop had seen him enter with his roses,
accompanied by the little hunchback. In an instant about fifty persons
were standing around the door, women for the most part, some wishing
only to see him, others eager for a word from him. They waited
patiently, speaking in low tones as if they had been in church; speaking
of Benedetto, of the miracles he performed, of the blessings they were
going to implore him to grant. A cyclist rode up, got off his machine,
and, having inquired why these people were assembled there, made them
tell him exactly where the Saint of Jenne was. Then he mounted his
bicycle once more and started off at full speed. Shortly afterwards a
close carriage--a so-called "_botte_"--followed by the same cyclist,
stopped before the door. A gentleman got out, pushed his way through the
crowd, and entered the house. The cyclist remained near the carriage.
The gentleman exchanged a few words with the concierge, whom he desired
to accompany him as far as the door, where the little hunchback stood,
trembling, and clasping her rosary. He knocked, regardless of her silent
gesticulations, as she implored the Madonna to send this intruder away.
It was Benedetto who came to open the door.

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