The Saint by Antonio Fogazzaro

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"What day is this?" Jeanne asked her friend under her breath.

"Saturday."

"To-morrow I will speak to Carlino, Monday and Tuesday we will settle
our affairs, Wednesday we will pack our boxes, and Thursday we will
start. You can write to your sister that we shall be at Subiaco the week
after next."

"Don't decide so suddenly. Think about it."

"I have decided. I must know. If it is he, I will not be a hindrance in
his path. But I wish to see him." "We will talk it over again to morrow,
Jeanne. Do not decide yet,"

"I have thought it over, and I have made up my mind."

Midnight sounded from the great tower of the Halles. High up in the
clouds rang out the long solemn melancholy song of the innumerable
bells. Noemi, who had intended to have her own way, was silent, her
heart full of despondency. It was as if those melancholy voices from the
darkening sky were proclaiming her friend's destiny; a destiny of love
and suffering, which must be accomplished.

CHAPTER II

DON CLEMENTE

The light was fading in Giovanni Selva's study, and on the little table
covered with books and papers. Giovanni rose and opened the west window.
The horizon was on fire behind Subiaco, along the oblique line of the
Sabine hills, which stretch from Rocca di Canterano and Rocca di Mezzo
to Rocca San Stefano. Subiaco, that pointed pile of houses large and
small which culminates in the Rocca del Cardinale, was veiled in shadow;
not a branch stirred on the olives clustered behind the small, red villa
with green blinds, rising on the summit of the circular cliff, round
whose base winds the public road; not a branch stirred on the great oak
beside it, overhanging the little ancient oratory of Santa Maria della
Febbre. The air, laden with the odours of wild herbs and recent rain,
came fresh from Monte Calvo. It was a quarter past seven. In the
shell-shaped tract watered by the Anio the bells were ringing; first the
big bell of Sant' Andrea, then the querulous bells of Santa Maria della
Valle; high up on the right, from the little white church near the great
wood, the bells of the Capuchins, and others in the far-away distance. A
woman's voice, submissive and sweet, the voice of five and twenty, came
from the half-open, door behind Giovanni, saying almost timidly In
French:

"May I come in?"

Giovanni, smiling, turned half round, and stretching out his arm,
encircled the young woman pressing her to his side without answering,

She felt she must not speak; that her husband's soul was following the
dying night, and the mystic song of the bells. She rested her head on
his shoulder, and only after a moment of religious silence did she ask
softly;

"Shall we say our prayer?"

A pressure of the arm encircling her was the answer. Neither her lips
nor his moved. Only the eyes of both dilated, straining towards the
Infinite, and assumed that look of reverence and sadness which mirrors
the thoughts that remain unspoken, the uncertain future, the dark
portals which lead to God. The bells became silent, and Signora Selva,
fixing her blue eyes on her husband's eager gaze, offered him her lips.
The man's snowy head and the woman's fair face met in a long kiss which
would have filled the world with astonishment. Maria d'Arxel, at one and
twenty, had fallen In love with Giovanni Selva. after having read one of
his books on religious philosophy, translated into French. She wrote to
the unknown author in such ardent words of admiration, that Selva, in
answering, alluded to his fifty-six years and his white hair. The girl
replied that she was aware of both, that she neither offered nor asked
for love, she only craved a few lines from time to time. Her letters
sparkled with brilliant intellect. They came to Selva when he was
passing through a dark crisis, a bitter struggle, which need not be
related here. He thought this Maria d'Arxel might prove his saving star.
He wrote to her again.

"Do you know what anniversary this is?" asked Maria. "Do you remember?"

Giovanni remembered; it was the anniversary of their first meeting.
During the correspondence the two had bared the very depths of their
souls to one another in an inexpressible fervour of sincerity, while as
yet unacquainted save by means of portraits. After they had exchanged
four or five letters, Giovanni asked his unknown correspondent for her
likeness; a request she had expected and dreaded. The girl consented on
condition of a speedy restitution of the photograph, and was in agony
until it was returned, accompanied by some very tender words from her
friend. He was charmed with the intellectual, passionate, and youthful
face, with the sweetness of the great eyes, with the symmetry of the
figure. Then when they had arranged to meet, he coming from the Lake of
Como, she from Brussels to Hergyswyl near Lucerne, both had been in a
fever of apprehension. She reflected:

"The portrait pleased him, but the bearing of the real person, a line,
the colour of the garments, the manner of meeting, the first words, the
tone of voice, may perhaps destroy his love at one blow,"

He thought:

"She knows my face, ravaged by time, my white hair, and she loves them
in the picture, but I am ageing day by day; perhaps when she sees me
this incredible love will be killed at a blow."

He had reached Hergyswyl by boat some hours before her; she, leaving
Basel in the morning, arrived by the Bruenigbahn in the afternoon.

"Do you know," Maria continued, "when I did not see you at the station,
my first sensation was one of relief; I trembled so! The second
sensation was different, was one of fright,"

Giovanni smiled,

"You never told me that," said he.

The young wife looked up at him and smiled in her turn.

"Perhaps you yourself have never told me quite everything about those
moments."

Giovanni placed his hands on her shoulders and whispered in her ear:

"That is true."

She started, and then laughed at herself for starting, and Giovanni
laughed with her.

"What, what?" she cried, her face aglow, vexed but still laughing. Her
husband whispered again, in a tone of great mystery:

"That your hat was in disorder!"

"Oh, that is not true! Really not true!"

Sparkling with mirth, and at the same time trembling at the idea of the
great danger she had encountered unawares, she protested that it was
impossible; she had looked in the mirror of her _necessaire_ so many
times before reaching Hergyswyl.

Every moment of that hour passed two years before, they recalled
together jestingly; she often kissing his breast, and he her hair.
Giovanni had not waited for her at the station, where there was a crowd
of holiday-makers, but a few yards distant, on the road leading to the
hotel. He had seen her coming, tall, slender, with a tiny sprig of _Olea
fragrans_, the sign they had chosen, at her breast. He had approached
her, his head bared, and they had pressed one another's hands in
silence. He had signed to the porter, who was following with her
travelling bag, to precede them. They had followed slowly, their throats
contracted by a nameless emotion. She had been the first to murmur, in
her sweet refined voice: "_Mon ami_."

Then he had spoken in subdued tones, in broken sentences, of his
infatuation, of his love, of his ecstasy, and had not noticed when they
passed the hotel. Twice the porter called after them:

"_Monsieur! Madame! C'est ici!_" and neither had heard. Then the girl
had gone to her room smiling, but pale with fatigue, and with aching
head. Giovanni went out again to wander among the level gardens and
orchards of Hergyswyl, breathing hard like a man exhausted by excess of
feeling, blessing every stone and every leaf of this verdant corner of
a foreign land, the lake, sleeping in its bosom, the crowd of great
religious mountains; blessing God, who at his time of life had sent him
such a love. And he had returned soon, too soon, to the hotel. The only
other guests there on that May day, an old German professor and his
daughter, had gone up Mount Pilatus. There was no one in the little
reading-room. In that reading-room Maria and Giovanni had spent two
happy hours, hand in hand, talking with hushed voices, often trembling
in fear lest some one should come in.

"Do you remember," said Maria, "that there was a fireplace in the room,
near the sofa where we sat?"

"Yes, dear."

"And that it was cold, although it was May; so cold that the waiter came
in to light the fire?"

"Yes, and it was then I made you cry."

"Could you repeat those same words to-day?"

"Oh, no!"

So saying, Giovanni kissed his wife's white forehead reverently, as if
it were a holy thing. When the waiter came in to light the fire in the
little salon at Hergyswyl, Giovanni had dropped the beloved hand, and
had said, while the servant still lingered:

"The old log will surely burn on to the end, but who can tell how long
the youthful flame will last?" Maria had not answered, but had looked
at him, her eyes dilating, and dimmed by the cold touch of the unjust
suspicion, as the glass of a hothouse is dimmed by the touch of a frost
outside.

No, Giovanni had never again harboured such a thought. He and Maria
often said to each other that perhaps there was no other union on earth
like theirs, so penetrated with, so full of peace derived from the
solemnly sweet and grave certainty that, no matter how God might order
their existence after death, their spirits would surely be united in the
love of the Divine Will. Nevertheless, they did not neglect to lay the
desire of their souls before the Almighty. The prayer they had just
prayed together, both wrapt in inward contemplation, had been composed
by Giovanni, and ran as follows:

"Father, let it be with us as Jesus prayed that last night; life with
Him in Thee, for all eternity."

Even in the present they were two in one, in the narrowest, the most
accurate sense of the phrase, for their duality was also perceptible
in their spiritual union; as, when a green current mingles with a blue
current, it sometimes happens, at the beginning of their united course,
that broken waves flash here and there--some the colour of the woods,
some as blue as the sky. Giovanni was a mystic, who harmonised all
human affections with Divine love, in his heart. His wife, who had come
through him from Protestantism to a Catholicism thirsting for reason,
had entered into his mystic soul as far as was possible; but love for
Giovanni predominated in her over every other sentiment. She was rich
and he comfortably off, but they lived almost poorly, that they might
have greater means for their broad charities. They lived in Rome in the
winter, in Subiaco from April to November, in the modest villa of
which they had hired the second floor. Only on books and on their
correspondence did they spend freely. Giovanni was preparing a work on
reason in Christian morality. His wife read for him, made extracts, took
notes.

"I should so much like to go to Hergyswyl next summer," said she, "that
you might write the last chapter of the book there, the chapter on
Purity!"

So saying, she clasped her hands, happy in the vision of the little
village, nestling among the apple trees at the head of the tiny bay, the
calm lake, the great religious mountains, the quiet days, spent in work
and peaceful contemplation. She was acquainted with the entire plan of
her husband's work, with the subject of each chapter, with the principal
arguments.

The chapter on Purity was her favourite because of its rational trend.
In it her husband intended to propose and to solve the following
problem: "Why does Christianity exalt, as an element of human
perfection, that renunciation which subjects man to fierce struggles, is
of no benefit to any one, and closes the door of existence to possible
human lives?" The answer was to be deduced from, the study of the moral
phenomenon in its historical origins, and its development; to this study
the first two chapters of the work were dedicated. Selva showed by the
example of the brutes, who sacrifice themselves for their young, or for
companions of their own kind, and are sometimes capable of strictly
monogamous unions, that in inferior animal nature the moral instinct
becomes manifest and develops in proportion as the carnal instinct
diminishes. He maintained the hypothesis that the human conscience was
thus being progressively developed in the inferior species. He now
proposed to return to this conclusion, and to lay down the general
principle that the renunciation of carnal pleasures for a satisfaction
of a higher order signifies the striving of the species towards a
superior form of existence. He would then examine the exceptional cases
of individuals who, with no other end in view than that of honouring the
Divinity, oppose to the carnal instincts--greatly stimulated in them
by intellect and sensual imagination--a still stronger instinct of
renunciation. He would show that many creeds furnish such examples
and extol renunciation, but that It must, however, always remain a
spontaneous action on the part of the individual. He was willing to
admit that it would be both a blameworthy and foolish action, did it not
correspond to a mysterious impulse of Nature herself--to that so-called
spiritual element--which persists in its eternal antagonism to the
carnal instinct, in obedience to a cosmic law. Unconscious collaborators
of Him who governs the universe, these heroes of supreme renunciation
imagine that only through their sacrifice are they honouring Him,
while in reality they incarnate, according to the Divine design, the
progressive energy of the species, strengthening their own spiritual
element, that it may have the power to create for itself a superior
corporeal form, more in the likeness of the Master; thus their purity is
human perfection, is the elevation on which our human nature culminates,
and touches the nebulous beginnings of an unknown superhuman nature.

"When I think of incarnate purity," said Giovanni, "I see! Don Clemente
before me. Did I tell you he is coming to the meeting to-night? He will
come down directly after supper."

Maria started. "Oh!" said she, "I almost forgot to tell you Noemi has
written to me. She was to leave Milan yesterday with the Dessalles, They
are going to stay in Rome a day or two, and then they are coming here."

"You recalled this because I mentioned Don Clemente," said Giovanni
smiling. "Yes," replied his wife; "nevertheless, you know I do not
believe."

How could Don Clemente's lofty forehead, his blue eyes, so serene and
pure, have known passion? In the soft, submissive, almost timid voice
of the young Benedictine there was--to Maria's mind--a chastity too
delicate, a purity too virginal.

"You do not believe," Giovanni answered, "and perhaps, after all, you
are right; perhaps, after all, he is not Maironi. Still it will be
better to let him know to-night, in some way, that Signora Dessalle is
coming to Subiaco, and that she will, of course, visit the convents.
Especially as he would be obliged to accompany her, being the Father who
receives visitors."

There could be no doubt about this. Maria herself would warn him. As she
did not believe him to have been Jeanne's lover it would be easier for
her to speak naturally to him of her. But what a terrible thing it would
be if he really were Maironi, and if they should meet face to face,
quite unprepared, in front of the monastery, he and the woman! Was
Giovanni quite sure the monk was coming to the meeting? Yes, quite sure.
Don Clemente had obtained the abbot's permission while Giovanni was at
the convent, and had at once told him. He was coming, and would
bring with him, and introduce to them, the man who helped the
kitchen-gardener, of whom he had already spoken to Giovanni. Thus,
another time, the gardener could come alone, and would teach him to bank
up the potatoes in the little piece of ground he had hired behind the
villa, intending to cultivate it with his own hands. Manual labour, to
which he had recently taken, was a pet hobby of Giovanni's of which
Maria did not altogether approve, deeming it incompatible with his
habits and with his age. However, she respected his whim and held her
peace. At that moment the girl from Affile, who served them, came to
tell them that their guests were on their way upstairs, and that supper
would be ready shortly.

Three people, in fact, were ascending the narrow winding stair of the
little villa, Giovanni went down to meet them. First came his young
friend Leyni, who, on greeting Giovanni, begged to be excused for
preceding the two ecclesiastics who were his companions.

"I am master of ceremonies," he explained, and proceeded to introduce
them there on the stairs.

"The Abbe" Marinier of Geneva. Don Paolo Fare of Varese, with whose name
you are already acquainted."

Selva was slightly perplexed; nevertheless he at once invited his guests
to follow him, and conducted them to the terrace, where some chairs had
been placed.

"And Dane?" said he anxiously to Leyni, taking his arm, "And Professor
Minucci, and Father Salvati."

"They have arrived," the young man replied, smiling. "They are at the
Aniene. I must tell you about it--but it is a long story! They will be
here presently."

Meanwhile the Abbe Marinier had gone out on the terrace, and now
exclaimed:

"_Oh, c'est admirable!_"

Don Paolo Fare, always loyal to his native Como, murmured, "Beautiful,
beautiful indeed!" as if he would have liked to add, "but if you could
only see my country!"

Maria joined them, and the introductions were repeated; then Leyni told
his story while Marinier let his little sparkling eyes wander over the
landscape, from the pyramid-shaped Subiaco, standing out with a dark
scenic effect against the bright background in the west, to the wild
hornbeams close by, which shut out the east.

Don Fare was devouring Selva with his eyes, Selva, the author of
critical essays on the Old and New Testament, and especially of a
book on the basis of future Catholic theology, which had elevated and
transfigured his faith. Baron Leyni was telling his story. At the
station of Mandela it had been very windy, and Professor Dane greatly
feared he had taken cold; suspecting that there would be no cognac in
the house of such an alcohol hater as Selva, and, moreover, the hour
having arrived at which it was his daily custom to take two eggs, he
had stopped at the Albergo dell' Aniene for the eggs and cognac. On the
terrace of the restaurant, which faced the river, there was too much
air, and in the small adjacent rooms there was too little, so he had
ordered his repast served in a room at the hotel, and had sent the eggs
back twice. Then the others had walked on, leaving him in the company of
Professor Minucci and Father Salvati.

As Professor Dane, who was so delicate and sensitive to the cold, was
not of the party, Giovanni. proposed having supper on the terrace. He at
once abandoned the idea, however, on perceiving that it did not suit the
Abbe from Geneva. The elegant, worldly Marinier took as great care of
his own person as did his friend Dane, but with more dissimulation and
without the excuse of ill-health. He had not, stayed to supper at the
Aniene with his friend, because, on a previous visit to Subiaco, he had
found the cuisine of that hotel too simple to suit his taste, and he had
hopes of a French supper from Signora Selva. Baron Leyni knew well how
fallacious such hopes were; but in a spirit of mischief he refrained
from enlightening him. There was barely: room for the five people in the
tiny dining-room. It was fortunate the other two had not come. In fact,
neither the Abbe Marinier nor Don Fare was expected, but others who
had been expected were absent. A monk and a priest, men of repute from
northern Italy, who should have been present, had both written to
apologise for their absence, to the lively regret of Selva, of Fare,
and of Leyni. Marinier, on the other hand, proffered his apologies for
having intruded. Dane was responsible for his presence, as Leyni was for
the presence of Don Paolo Fare. Selva protested. Friends of his friends
were, of course, always welcome. Leyni and Dane both knew they were free
to bring any one in whom they had confidence, any one who shared their
views. Maria was silent; she was not greatly pleased with Abbe Marinier.
She also felt that Leyni and Dane would have done well had they
abstained from introducing strangers without notifying Giovanni.
Marinier spoke, with slightly knitted brows, after a close scrutiny of
his bean soup.

"I fear," said he, "we shall weary Signora Selva if we talk now of the
subject to be discussed at the meeting."

Maria reassured him. She should not be present at the meeting, but she
took the liveliest interest in its objects.

"Very well, then," Marinier continued. "It will be a great advantage to
me to become better acquainted with those objects, for Dane has spoken
of them only in rather vague terms, and I do not feel sure that I
entirely share your views."

Don Paole could not restrain a movement of impatience. Selva himself
seemed slightly annoyed, because unanimity of opinion on certain
fundamental principles was surely necessary. Without this unanimity the
meeting might prove worse than useless, even dangerous. "Well," said he,
"there are many Catholics in Italy and outside of Italy who, with us,
desire certain reforms in the Church. We wish them to be brought about
without rebellion, to be the work of the legitimate authorities. We
desire reforms in religious instruction, in the ceremonies, in the
discipline of the clergy, reforms even in the highest sphere of
ecclesiastical government. To obtain these ends it is necessary to
create a current of opinion strong enough to induce the legitimate
authorities to act in conformity with our views, be it twenty, thirty,
or even fifty years hence. Now we who hold these opinions are widely
dispersed, and, save in the case of those who publish articles or books,
are ignorant of one another's views. Very probably a large number of
pious and cultured people in the Catholic world feel as we do; and I
believe it would afford the greatest assistance in the spreading of our
opinions if we could, at least, know one another. To-night a few of us
are to meet together for a first discussion."

While Giovanni spoke, the others kept their eyes fixed on the Genevese.
The Abbe gazed steadily as his plate. A brief silence followed, and
Giovanni was the first to break it.

"Has Professor Dane not told you this?" he asked.

"Yes, yes," replied the Abbe, raising his eyes from his plate at last;
"he has told me something similar." The tone was that of one who only
half approves. But, why, then, had he come? Don Paolo looked displeased;
the others were silent. An embarrassing pause ensued. At last Marinier
said:

"We will discuss this again to-night."

"Yes," answered Selva quietly; "we will discuss it again to-night."

He felt he had found an adversary in this abbe, and he thought Dane had
committed an error both of judgment and of tact in inviting him to the
meeting. At the same time he comforted himself with the tacit reflection
that it would be an advantage to hear all possible objections set
forth; and that a friend of Professor Dane was, at least, sure to be
trustworthy, and would not divulge names and speeches it were better to
keep secret for the present. Young di Leyni, on the other hand, was very
apprehensive of this danger knowing how many and how various were the
Abbe Marinier's acquaintances in Rome, where he had lived for five
years, pursuing certain historical studies; and he was also annoyed at
not having known of his coming in time to write to Selva, suggesting the
advisability of seeking to propitiate him, beginning through his palate.
The table at the Selvas', always exquisitely neat, and decorated with
flowers, was most frugal, and very simple as regards food. The Selvas
never drank wine, and the pale, acid wine of Subiaco could only have a
souring effect on a man accustomed to French vintages. The girl from
Affile had already served the coffee, when, at the same moment, Don
Clemente arrived on foot from Santa Scolastica, and Dane, Professor
Salvati, and Professor Minucci, in a two-horse carriage, from Subiaco.
But Don Clemente, who was followed by his gardener, seeing the carriage
approaching the gate of the villa, and understanding that it brought
guests for the Selvas, hastened his steps, that Giovanni might see the
gardener and speak with him a few moments before the meeting.

The Selvas and their three companions had risen from the table, and
Maria, coming out to the terrace on the arm of the gallant Abbe
Marinier, saw, in spite of the growing darkness, the Benedictine on the
steep path leading up from the gate which opened upon the public road.
She greeted him from above, and begged him to wait for a light at the
foot of the stairs. She herself descended the winding stairs with the
light, and signed to Don Clemente that she wished to speak to him,
casting a significant glance in the direction of the man standing behind
him. Don Clemente turned, and requested him to wait outside under
the acacias. Then, having ascended a few steps at the lady's silent
invitation, he stopped to listen to what she had to tell him.

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