The Saint by Antonio Fogazzaro
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Antonio Fogazzaro >> The Saint
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"Do you know, when they brought me here from the villa I longed to be
laid under the pine-tree, which we see from the window, so that I might
die there. But I thought at once that this was something too strongly
desired, and that it was not good. And besides," he added, smiling,
"after all the habit would have been missing."
A slight movement of Don Clemente's lips revealed to him that he had
brought the habit with him from Subiaco. Benedetto experienced a great
wave of intense inward emotion. He clasped his hands, and remained
silent as long as the inward struggle was going on, the struggle between
the desire that the vision might be fulfilled, and the consciousness
that its fulfilment could not come about naturally. He concentrated his
mind in an act of abnegation to the Divine Will.
"The Lord wishes me to die here," he said. "But still he permits me, at
least, to have the habit on my bed, before I die." Don Clemente bent
over him, and kissed his forehead.
Meanwhile the Selvas were waiting a little way off. Benedetto called
them to him, and told them that he would receive Signora Dessalle in
half an hour, but he begged her not to come alone. She might come with
them. Mayda went out with the Selvas. The sister was dozing. Then
Benedetto asked Don Clemente to go to the Pontiff, afterwards, and to
tell him that the end of the vision had not been fulfilled, that thus
all that had seemed miraculous in his life had vanished and that before
his death he had felt the sweetness of the Pope's blessing.
"And tell him," he added, "that I hope to speak in his heart again."
His breathing was less laboured, but his voice was growing weaker, and
his strength was going with the fever. Don Clemente took his wrist and
held it for some time. Then he rose.
"Are you going for the habit?" Benedetto murmured, with a sweet smile.
The Padre's handsome face flushed. He quickly conquered the human
sentiment which prompted him to prevaricate, and replied:
"Yes, _caro_, I think the hour is come."
"What time is it?"
"Half-past five."
"Do you think it will be at seven? At eight?"
"No, not so soon, but I want you to have this consolation at once." In
a small sitting-room at the villa, Giovanni Selva, after consulting his
watch, said to his wife, "Go, now."
It had been arranged that Maria and Noemi should accompany Jeanne to see
Benedetto. Noemi stretched out her hands to her brother-in-law.
"Giovanni," she said, trembling, "I have some news to give him
concerning my soul. Do not be offended if I tell him first."
Jeanne guessed the nature of the news Noemi had for the dying man: her
conversion to Catholicism, in the near future. All the strength she had
gathered in herself for the supreme moment now forsook her. She embraced
Noemi, and burst into tears. The Selvas strove to encourage her,
mistaking the cause of her tears. Between her sobs she entreated them
to go, to go; she herself could not possibly go. Only Noemi understood.
Jeanne would not come because she had guessed, because she could not do
the same. She besought her, she entreated her, and whispered to her,
holding her in an embrace: "Why will you not yield, at this moment?"
Jeanne, still sobbing, answered,
"Ah! you understand me!" And because Noemi protested that now she would
not go, it was Jeanne's turn to entreat her to do so, to go at once; not
to delay giving him this consolation. She, herself, could not go, could
not, could not! It was impossible to move her. A servant came to call
Selva. Maria and Noemi went out. When she was alone Jeanne was tempted,
for a moment, to hasten after them, to yield, to go also, and say the
joyful word to him. She fell upon her knees, and stretched out her arms,
almost as if he were standing before her, and sobbed: "Dear one, dear
one! How could I deceive you?" She had often struggled against her
own unbelief, and always in vain. A surrender to faith through sudden
impulse would not be lasting, that she knew.
"Why will you not have me alone?" she groaned again, still on her knees.
"Why will you not have me alone? That pious consciences may not be
scandalised? That my despair may not trouble you? Why will you not have
me alone? How can I say, before them, what is within me? You who are
gentle as your Lord Jesus, why will you not have me alone? Oh!"
She started to her feet, convinced that if Piero heard her, he would
answer, "Yes, come!" She stood a moment as if turned to stone, her hands
pressed to her forehead; then she moved slowly, like one walking in her
sleep, left the room, crossed the hall and went down into the garden.
It was raining so hard, the sky, still rent from time to time by
lightning, was so dark, that although it was not yet seven o'clock, on
that February evening it seemed almost like night. Just as she was, with
bare head, Jeanne went out into the cold and streaming rain. Without
hastening her steps, she took, not the avenue of orange-trees on the
right, but the path which, on the left, leads downwards, between two
rows of great agaves, to a little grove of laurels, cypresses and
olives, to which roses cling. She passed the great pine that looks
towards the Crelian and wind'ing down, on the right by a long curve of
paths, she reached the spring which an ancient sarcophagus receives
on the steep slope, within a belt of myrtles, a few steps below the
gardener's little house. Here she stopped. A window in the little house
was lit up; surely that was Piero's window. A shadow flitted across
it--perhaps that was Noemi! Jeanne sat down on the marble rim of the
basin. Would it be possible to drown in that? Would she try to die, if
it were not for Carlino? Vain speculations! She did not linger over
them. She waited, and waited in the cold rain, her eyes and her soul
fixed on the lighted window. Other shadows passed. Were they going now?
Yes, perhaps Maria and Noemi were going, but they would not leave Piero
alone. Mayda would be there; the Benedictine and the sister would be
there. Well, at least, she would try. A hurried footstep in the avenue
of orange-trees; some one was going towards the gardener's house.
Jeanne, who had risen, sat down again. Now the unknown person
entered. More shadows at the window. Two people came out, in animated
conversation--the voices of the Professor and of Giovanni Selva. They
seemed to be speaking of some one who had come for news. Others came
out. The water from the eaves dripped on their umbrellas. It must be
Maria and Noemi. Jeanne once more rose, and started forward.
She crossed the threshold of the little house, and saw people in the
gardener's kitchen. She asked a girl to go up-stairs and see who was
with the sick man. The girl hesitated, demurred at first, but finally
went, and came down again immediately. The priest and the sister were in
the room. Jeanne asked for a piece of paper, a pencil, and a light. She
began to write.
"Padre--I appeal--" She stopped and listened. Someone was coming down
the wooden stair. A man's step, therefore it must be the Padre. Then she
would speak to him. She threw aside the pencil, and went to meet him on
the stairs. It was dark, and Don Clemente mistook her for Maria Selva.
"He is quiet," the Benedictine said, before she could speak. "He seems
to be asleep. What your sister told him did him so much good! The
Professor thinks he will live through the night. Send for the other
lady. He has asked for her. I thought you had already gone for her."
Jeanne was dumb. She stepped aside. With an "Excuse me" he passed her
without looking at her, and entered the kitchen, to ask for a little
bread and some water, for he had been fasting since the night before.
Jeanne was trembling like a leaf. He had asked for her! The words and
the opportunity thus offered made her dizzy. Noiselessly she mounted the
stairs. Noiselessly she pushed the door open. The sister saw her, and
started to rise. She signed to her, her finger on her lips, not to move,
and noiselessly approached the bed. She saw a long, black something
spread upon it, over the quilt, and stopped, horrified, not
understanding. A faint groan. The man on the bed raised his right hand
with a vague gesture, as if in search of something. The sister rose, but
Jeanne, moving more swiftly, rushed to the pillow, and bent over Piero,
who had begun to groan again and move his hand.
Jeanne questioned him anxiously, but he did not answer. He only groaned
and looked at something beside the bed. Jeanne offered him a glass of
water, but he shook his head. She was in despair because she could not
understand. Ah! the Crucifix! the Crucifix! The sister lifted the light
from the ground; Jeanne held out the Crucifix to Piero, who, pressing
his lips to it, gazed at her, gazed at her with those great glassy eyes,
from which death looked forth. The sister gave a cry and ran to call the
Padre. Piero gazed and gazed at Jeanne. With a great effort, he clasped
the Crucifix in both hands, and raised it towards her. His lips moved,
moved again, but no sound came from them. Jeanne took Piero's hands
between her own, and pressed a passionate kiss upon the Crucifix. Then
he closed his eyes. A smile broke across his face.
His head drooped a little towards his right shoulder. He moved no more.
THE END.
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