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

"At once?" she said. "At once? Is it imminent?"

"No. no. He wishes to see you to-morrow. He believes it will be
to-morrow, but he may be mistaken. Let us hope he is mistaken,"

"My God, Selva! But the doctor writes that he has no fever!"

Selva made the gesture of one who is obliged to admit the presence of a
misfortune without understanding it. The music was silent, he spoke in
subdued tones. Benedetto had written to him. The doctor had found him
free from fever, but he himself foresaw a fresh attack, after which
the end would come. God was granting him the blessing of a sweet and
peaceful respite. He had a favour to ask of Selva. He was aware that
Signora Dessalle, a friend of Signorina Noemi's, was in Rome. He had
promised this lady, before an alter at the Sacro Speco, to call her to
him before his death, that they might speak together. Probably Signorina
Noemi would be able to explain the reason of this to him.

Selva paused; he had the letter in his pocket, and began searching for
it. Jeanne saw his movement, and was seized with convulsive shuddering.
"No, no," said he. "I repeat he may be mistaken."

He waited for her to become calm, and then, instead of taking the letter
from his pocket, he repeated the last part of it by heart:

"The attack will return this evening or in the night; to-morrow night,
or the day after to-morrow in the morning, the end will come. I wish to
see Signora Dessalle to-morrow, to speak a word to her in the name of
the Lord, to whom I am going. I asked the Senator, a few moments ago,
to arrange this meeting for me, but he found excuses for not doing so.
Therefore I appeal to you."

Jeanne had covered her face with her hands and was speechless. Selva
thought it best to say something hopeful. Perhaps the attack would not
return; perhaps the fever was checked. She shook her head violently, and
he did not dare to insist. Suddenly she fancied she heard Chieco saying
good-bye. She shuddered, and removed her hands from her face, which was
ghostly, under her disordered hair. But, instead, the first gay notes of
the _Curricolo Napoletano_ burst forth; that was the piece Chieco
always played last. She started to her feet, and spoke convulsively,
tearlessly.

"Selva, I know Piero is dying, I know he is not mistaken. If possible
make him stay where he is. Bring his friends to him--swear to me that
you will bring his friends to him, that he may have that comfort! Tell
them about me, all about me; tell them the truth. Tell them how pure,
how holy Piero really is! I will wait here, I will not stir. When he
calls me I will come, as you shall direct me. I am strong. See, I am no
longer crying! Telegraph to Don Clemente that his disciple is dying, and
that he must come. Let us do all we can. It is late. Go now. You, in one
way or another, will see Piero to-night. Tell him----"

At this point a spasm of grief checked her words. Chieco came in,
whistling, and beating one hand against the other in his own peculiar
fashion, Selva slipped out through the door. Jeanne ran after him into
the dark corridor. She seized one of his hands and pressed a wild kiss
upon it.

* * * * *

A few hours later, towards ten o'clock, Jeanne was reading the Figaro to
Carlino, who was--buried in an easy-chair, his legs enveloped in a rug,
a large cup of milk, which he was holding with both hands, resting
upon his knee. Jeanne read so badly, was so heedless of commas and of
full-stops, that her brother was continually interrupting her, and was
growing impatient. She had been reading about five minutes when her maid
entered and announced that Signorina Noemi was there. Jeanne threw
the paper aside, and was out of the room in a flash. Noemi related
hurriedly, standing the while--for she was anxious to leave again on
account of the lateness of the hour--that while Giovanni and Maria were
at the Grand Hotel, Professor Mayda, just back from Naples, had come
to their house, perfectly furious, and demanding an explanation of
Benedetto's disappearance from his house. Then she had told him
everything, and Mayda had gone directly to Via della Polveriera. There
he had found Maria, di Leyni, the Senator, and the doctor, whose opinion
was that Benedetto could be moved. A discussion had arisen between Mayda
and the doctor on this point, to which Mayda had finally put an end by
saying: "Well, rather than leave him here, I will carry him away again
myself!" In an hour's time he was back again with a carriage full of
pillows and rugs, and had indeed carried him off. It seemed the journey
had been accomplished successfully.

When she had heard the story, Jeanne embraced her friend in silence,
clasping her close. And her friend, trembling and full of tears,
whispered to her:

"Listen, Jeanne! Will you pray for tomorrow?"

"Yes," Jeanne replied.

She was silent, struggling against a rising tempest of tears. When she
had conquered it she went on, in a low tone:

"I do not know how to pray to God. Do you know to whom I pray? To Don
Giuseppe Flores."

Noemi buried her face on Jeanne's shoulder, and said in a stifled voice:
"How I wish that, afterwards, he might see us working together for his
faith."

Jeanne did not answer, and Noemi went away.

* * * * *

Jeanne returned to Carlino to continue the reading, but he received her
roughly. He declared he was tired of this sort of life, and that she was
to prepare to leave with him to-morrow for Naples, Jeanne replied that
this was folly, and that she would not leave. Then Carlino fired up,
caught, her wrists, and shook her so that he really hurt her. She must
absolutely go! Now that she tried to resist, the moment had come to
tell her that he was acquainted with the reasons of her windings and
twistings, of her mysteries, her red eyes, her bad reading, and also of
her not wishing to leave Rome. He had been informed of these things by
anonymous letters. Woe to her if she did not break with that madman! Woe
to her if she sacrificed her convictions to him, if she allowed herself
to be won over to superstition, to bigotry, to the religion of the
priests! He would never look on her face again. He would disown her as a
sister, he who wished to live and die a free-thinker. No, no, she
must break, break! They would go to Naples, to Palermo, to Africa if
necessary!

"A free-thinker? Certainly. And what about my liberty?" Jeanne said
without anger, simply reminding him of a right, but without the
intention of taking advantage of it. Carlino thought, on the contrary,
that she intended taking advantage of it in the way he feared, and
lost his head completely. Jeanne grew faint as she listened to the abuse
which this man poured forth with so much bitterness, this man whom she
had known to be nervous, but had believed to be good and kind. She spoke
no word in reply, but withdrew to her own room, trembling violently. She
wrote him a few lines telling him that her dignity would not permit her
to remain with him unless he apologised for his insults; that she was
going away, and that if he wished to send her a word, he would find her
at Casa Selva. She took only a small bag with her, and, leaving the
letter on the writing-desk, went out accompanied by her maid.

She could not see any cabs near the hotel, so she started towards the
Esedro intending to take the tram there. The west wind was blowing. The
evergreen oaks along the avenue were writhing and groaning. It was dark,
and hard walking on the uneven soil. The frightened maid exclaimed:

_"Gesummaria, Signora! Where are we going?"_

Jeanne, her head aflame, her heart and her pulse in a tumult, went on
without answering. It seemed to her she was being borne through the
darkness towards him, on the tide of an unknown sea.

Towards him, towards him. Towards his God also? The mighty wind confused
her, roaring above and around her. Noemi's words, Carlino's words were
rending her soul in a violent struggle. Towards his God also? Ah! how
could she tell? In the meantime, towards him!

CHAPTER IX

IN THE WHIRLWIND OF GOD

I

At two o'clock on the following day Jeanne, with Maria and Noemi, was
waiting at Casa Selva for news from Villa Mayda, her thoughts dwelling,
from time to time, on the persistent silence at the Grand Hotel.
Giovanni had gone to Villa Mayda before seven o'clock. He had returned
at nine. He had not been able to see Benedetto. Professor Mayda would
not allow him or any one else to enter. He knew that the sick man had
received the Sacraments, but more as an act of devotion than because
he was in immediate danger. However, in the night a trace of fever had
reappeared. It was hoped the attack might be conquered or checked.
Perhaps, in making this report to Jeanne, Giovanni had slightly coloured
it with optimism. Benedetto was in the Professor's own room. Giovanni
said it would not be possible to describe how full of exquisite, womanly
tenderness were the attentions lavished upon him by this terrible Mayda,
who was believed by many to be harsh and proud. Giovanni had gone back
again after lunch about mid-day. From Carlino nothing had come, neither
a written word, nor a message. Notwithstanding her other great sorrow,
Jeanne could not help thinking of him also. What if his grief, his
anger, had really made him ill? Her friends reassured her. Either
the maid or the footman would have come to tell her. She had little
confidence in the intelligence of these servants. What was to be done?
Jeanne was about to beg that some one might be sent to inquire, when, at
a quarter-past two, hurried steps were heard in the hall, and Giovanni
entered, in his great-coat, his hat in his hand. Jeanne glanced at his
face, and understood that the moment was come. She rose, as white
as death. Silently and immediately Maria and Noemi rose also, Maria
watching Jeanne, while Noemi gazed at her brother-in-law, who,
confronted by Jeanne's ghostly face, could find no words. Five or six
terrible seconds passed, but not more. Then Maria said, in a hushed
voice:

"Are we to go?"

Her husband answered:

"We had better go."

Nothing more was said.

The three ladies went to put on their cloaks and hats, Jeanne into one
room, Maria and Noemi into another. Giovanni followed his wife and
Noemi. Well? The fever had greatly increased, and the Professor no
longer hoped. Noemi, hearing this, put on her hat quickly, and went to
the other room, where Jeanne was dressing. She turned, saw that Noemi
was coming to kiss her, and checked her, with a gesture placing her
finger on her lips. Noemi understood. It was a time for fortitude;
Jeanne would have neither kisses, nor words, nor tears. She did not ask
for particulars, asked no questions. They all met presently, and Maria
told her husband, in a low tone, to send for two closed cabs, for the
sky had become overcast, and one of the thunderstorms of the Roman
winter was threatening. No cabs would be necessary, for Giovanni had
come in the landau, belonging to Casa Mayda. They entered the landau,
which was closed. Then Jeanne noticed that her companions had on
dark dresses, while she was wearing a gray dress, too light and too
fashionable. She started slightly, and the others looked at her
questioningly. She hesitated a moment, but reflected that she had
neither the time nor the means to make a change, and answered:

"It is nothing."

The carriage moved on. No one spoke again.

Upon turning into Via del Pianto the carriage was stopped by an
obstruction. It had grown darker still and was thundering. The horses
were frightened, and Maria looked anxiously out of the window. Jeanne,
seated opposite Giovanni, asked him in a low tone if he had telegraphed
to Don Clemente. Giovanni answered that Don Clemente had been at Villa
Mayda ever since half-past ten. The carriage started forward. When they
reached Piazza Montanara it began to rain. The horses were trotting
rapidly. When at last the coachman brought them down to a walk Maria
looked at her husband--Is not this the Aventine? We must be near. This
was said with the eyes, not with the lips. Jeanne had never passed that
way, but she also felt that they would soon reach their destination.
Holding herself very straight, she stared at the wall, which passed
before her eyes. She stared at it attentively, as if striving to count
the chinks between the stones. The horses broke into a trot. Beyond
Sant' Anselmo the road leads downwards. People standing on the right
and on the left looked into the carriage. Involuntarily Giovanni Selva
murmured:

"Here we are."

Then Jeanne started violently, and covered her face with her hands.
Maria, who sat next to her, put her arm round her neck, and, bending
close to her, whispered:

"Courage!"

But Jeanne drew back, avoiding her as much as possible, while Noemi
shook her head, signing to her sister not to insist. Maria sighed, and
the carriage, turning to the left, between two dense lines of people,
passed through a gateway. The wheels grated on the gravel and then
stopped. A servant came to the door. The Professor desired them to come
into the villa. Not until then did Giovanni Selva tell his companions
that Benedetto was no longer in the villa, that he had begged to be
carried to his little old room in the gardener's house. The carriage
moved forward a few yards, and the four friends alighted before a
flight of white marble steps, between two groups of palms. It was still
raining, but not heavily, and no one thought about it, neither the
populace crowding round the gate, nor a group of people who were
watching the new arrivals, from the avenue bordered by orange trees,
which ran parallel with the inclosing wall down to the gardener's little
house. Some one left the group. It was di Leyni, who mounted the marble
steps behind Selva, and, stopping him under the arch of the Pompeian
vestibule, spoke to him in a low tone, without so much as a glance at
the magnificent scene which was spread out before them between the two
groups of palms: the river of begonias, tumbling down the slope of
the Aventine, between two banks of _musae_; the black and stormy sky,
striped with white down above the battlements of Porta San Paolo, above
the pyramid of Caio Cestio, and above the little grove of cypress which
springs from the heart of Shelley.

* * * * *

Selva entered the vestibule, and reappeared a moment later with his
wife. They went down the steps with di Leyni, and turned in the
direction of the people, who seemed to be expecting them in the avenue
of orange-trees. At that moment a volley of angry voices rang out at the
gate. The road was full of people. They had been waiting for hours, ever
since the rumour spread in the Testaccio quarter that the Saint of Jenne
had returned to Villa Mayda, but was ill. So far they had asked only for
news. Now they demanded that a deputation be allowed to enter, and to
see him. The servants refused to take the message, and an exchange of
angry words was the result, which, however, suddenly stopped as
the tall, dark figure of Professor Mayda appeared, coming from the
orange-grove. The men took off their hats. He ordered the gate to be
opened, told the people that all should see Benedetto later, but not
now. In the meantime they might come into the garden. "Of course, poor
things!"

And the people entered, slowly, respectfully, some gathering around the
Professor and asking, with tears in their eyes:

"Is it true, _Signor Professore_? Is it true he is dying? Tell us!"

And behind them others pressed, anxiously awaiting the answer. The
answer was only:

"Alas! What can I say to you?"

But the sad, manly face said more than the words and the crowd moved
away mournfully, along the green slopes, which had taken on a livid hue
under the black sky streaked with white and formed a mystic symbol of
death, of the dark passage from terrestrial shadows to the upper regions
of infinite brightness.

II

Benedetto loved Professor Mayda. When, at the Senator's house, he heard
that the Professor had decided to carry him away to Villa Mayda, he
showed great pleasure, He loved this man, who was perhaps, as yet,
incapable of faith, but was profoundly convinced that there are enigmas
which science cannot solve; who was generous, haughty with the great,
but gentle with the humble. He loved the garden also, the trees, the
flowers, and the grass, whose friend and servant he had been, as he had
been the friend and servant of the Professor. Everything in this garden
was full of sweet, innocent souls, in whose company he had adored God
in certain moments of spiritual ecstasy, placing his lips on the
tiny beings, on a flower, on a leaf, on a stem, in a breath of green
coolness. He was happy in the thought of dying amidst them. Sometimes,
under one of those pine-trees, its canopy, full of wind and of sound,
turned towards the Coelian Hill, he had thought of the last scene in his
vision, and had imagined himself stretched there on the grass, in the
Benedictine habit, pale and calm, and surrounded by mournful faces,
while the pine-tree above him sang the mysterious song of Heaven. Each
time he had stifled in his heart this sense of pleasure, which was not
unmixed with selfish, human vanity, and not entirely controlled and
suppressed in submission to the Divine Will. But he had not been able to
tear out its roots. Therefore he stretched out his arms gratefully
to the Professor. But immediately he was assailed by scruples.
His intelligence and his Christian sentiment were in a state of
contradiction. He was aware that he was not liked by the lady who had
married the Professor's son, a naval officer, now in the East; he saw
that his return to Villa Mayda would be displeasing to her, and a source
of discord between her father-in-law and herself. But how could he say
so now, without implying a want of justice and of charity in a person
whom, from the very fact that she was his enemy, he was especially bound
to love? He entreated the Professor to let him go to Sant' Onofrio.
The change was so sudden that it surprised Mayda. He thought a moment,
understood, and then said, knitting his brows:

"Do you wish me never to forgive some one for something?"

Benedetto offered no further opposition. Only when that night the moment
came to go down to the carriage, and he realised that he could not stand
alone, he said to the Professor, smiling, and placing his hand on his
friend's arm:

"You know that, if I continue thus, you will have a dead man in your
house to-morrow or the day after?"

The Professor replied that he would not lie to him, that this was
possible, but not certain.

"You know," Benedetto continued, no longer smiling, "that first you will
have--"

"I understand what you mean," the Professor interrupted him. "Come in
peace, dear friend. I am not a believer, as you are, but I wish I were;
and I will throw my doors open respectfully to all whom you may wish me
to see. Meanwhile shall we not take this with us?"

From the wall he took the Crucifix which Benedetto had brought with him,
and then lifted the sick man in his powerful arms.

The journey was accomplished without accident. Stretched across the
landau, upon a bank of cushions, Benedetto, who seemed to have shrunk in
stature, answered the Professor's frequent questions more often with
a smile than with his feeble voice. The Professor kept his finger
continually on Benedetto's pulse, and from time to time gave him a
cordial. At the entrance to the villa, either from emotion or from
fatigue, the sick man's poor, fleshless face blanched, and was covered
with sweat, and he closed his great, shining eyes. Mayda carried him
to his own bed, and thus it happened that when Benedetto regained
consciousness he was quite bewildered.

In his state of extreme weakness he did not regain consciousness without
passing through shadows of vain imaginings. He thought he was dead, and
lying on the ever-dark face of the moon, in the centre of a funnel,
formed by the solar rays, which streaked away to the infinite; and at
the dark bottom of this funnel he saw the flaming eyes of the stars.
Little by little be realised he was on an enormous bed which stood in
darkness, but was surrounded by a pale light, so dim that the walls were
hardly visible. Great shadows were moving about him. Opposite him was
a blue, open space, all strewn with specks of light. His heart beat
faster. Were they not, indeed, stars? He was obliged to remind himself
of the feeling of the bed, and that he was alive, in order to convince
himself that they were stars, but that he was not lying on the moon.
Where was he, then? He gave himself up to a sense of sweetness which was
coming over him, the sweetness of hardly feeling his body any longer,
but of feeling God in his soul, so near, so tender, so warm. He was
where God wished him to be.

A hand was laid on his forehead, an electric light dazzled his eyes, and
an affectionate, strong voice said:

"Well, how do you feel?"

He recognised Mayda. Then he asked him where he was, why he was not in
his little old room? Before the Professor could answer, Benedetto was
assailed by a painful doubt. The Crucifix? The dear Crucifix? Had it
been left at the Senator's house? The Crucifix was standing on the table
by his side. The Professor showed it to him.

"Do you not remember," he said, using the affectionate "thou", "that we
brought it with us?"

Benedetto looked at him, pleased at the new word of affection, and
stretched out his hand in search of Mayda's; the Professor took it
tenderly between his own.

At the same time he felt humiliated by his own forgetfulness. Was he
about to lose his reason? All the previous day he had thought about the
words he should speak to his friends, and to the person who had made
her invisible presence so keenly felt. But if he lost his reason?
The Professor began to saturate him with quinine. At first Benedetto
accepted these painful injections and bitter doses willingly, in his
desire to grow a little stronger, and thus to ward off the darkening of
his spirit, and also because he wished to suffer. Oh yes! to suffer, to
suffer! During the preceding days he had suffered greatly, not from
any local pain, not from any acute pain, but his was an inexpressible
suffering, which extended from the roots of his hair to the soles of his
feet. It had been a beatitude for his soul to be able, in such moments,
to associate his own will with the Divine Will, to accept from this Love
all the pain which he was destined to suffer, without revealing to him
the mysterious reason, a reason hidden in the designs of the Universe,
certainly a reason bringing good; bringing good not only to him who
suffered, but universal good; a good radiating from his poor body, and
without known limits, like the movement of a vibrating atom of the
world. Oh! to suffer great things, like Christ, humbly, to continue the
redemption, as a sinner may, making amends by his own pain for the ills
of others. There on that lonely path leading to the Sacro Speco, In
the roaring of the Anio, among the everlasting hills, Don Clemente had
spoken thus to him.

And now that mortal suffering was past. When the quinine began to ring
in his head, he felt discouraged. These remedies were stupefying him.
He called the Professor; a sister answered him. He begged that a priest
might be sent for from Bocca della Verita.

The Professor, who had gone to rest for an hour, came to reassure
him, and judged it best to tell him what he had before concealed. Don
Clemente had telegraphed to Selva that he would reach Rome the next
morning at ten o'clock. This was a great joy to Benedetto.

"But will it not be too late?" he said. "Will it not be too late?"

No, it would not be too late. At present he was not in immediate danger.
It would be a question of life and death if the fever should return, but
even in the worst event many hours would elapse. Mayda feared he had
spoken too plainly, and whispered to him.

"But you will recover."

He left the room. Benedetto, thinking of Don Clemente, passed from the
quiet of his contentment into a light sleep, into dreams, whither the
spirits of evil descended, and conjured up for him a deceitful vision,
suggested by the Professor's last words. He saw himself confronted by a
colossal marble wall, crowned with rich balustrades, which shone white
in the moonlight. Up there, behind the balustrades, a dense forest
swayed in the wind. Six flights of stairs, these also flanked by
balustrades, slanted down, across the face of the great wall, three on
the left, and three on the right, and terminated upon six landings,
jutting out from the wall. The upper balustrades were divided by small
pilasters, supporting urns. And now, between the urns, six beautiful
maidens appeared; they seemed to be dancing and all came forward at the
same time, with the same graceful motion of the head. They were all
dressed alike, in pale blue robes, which left their shoulders bare. With
the same harmonious movement of their bare arms, bending their bodies
forward, they offered him from their elevation, six shining silver
goblets. Then, at the same moment, all withdrew from the balustrade, to
reappear again simultaneously, on the six flights of stairs, down which
they came with uniform swiftness, and reaching the landings they again
offered him the six shining goblets, bending their bodies forward
gracefully, and gazing at him with a strange gravity. No word fell from
their lips, but nevertheless he knew that the six maidens were offering
him, in those six silver goblets, an elixir of life, of health, of
pleasure.

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