The Saint by Antonio Fogazzaro

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"Dear Padre Salvati must pardon me," he began, "if I observe that his
discourse--so warm with the true Christian spirit--is ill-timed. I
gather that he is with us in desiring a Catholic reform. To-night only a
proposal is before us; the proposal to form a sort of league among all
those who cherish the same desire. Let us then decide this point."

The _Scolopio_ would not yield. He could not understand an inactive
league, and action, according to the ideas of the intellectualists, did
not suit him. The Genevese abbe exclaimed:

"_Je l'avais bien dit!_"

And he rose, determined this time to depart. But Selva would not allow
this, and proposed closing the meeting, intending again to summon
Professor Dane, Minucci, di Leyni, and Fare, on the morrow, or perhaps
later on. Salvati was intractable, and It would be wiser to let Marinier
carry away the impression that the plan was abandoned. Minucci guessed
his motive, and was silent; but the thoughtless Don Paolo did not
understand, and insisted that they should deliberate and vote at
once. Selva, and di Leyni also--out of respect for Giovanni's
wishes--persuaded him to wait. Nevertheless he continued to fume, his
vexation directed mainly against the Swiss. Dane and Don Clemente were
dissatisfied, each for a reason of his own; Dane being at heart vexed
with Marinier, and sorry he had brought him; while Don Clemente would
have liked to say that Padre Salvati's words were very beautiful and
holy, and not out of season, because it was right that each should
labour according to his vocation, the intellectualist in one way,
the Franciscan in another. He who called them would provide for the
co-ordination of their actions. The different vocations might well be
united in the League. He would have liked to say this, but he had not
been prepared, and had let the right moment pass; partly from mental
shyness, fearing he should not speak well, partly out of consideration
for Selva, who evidently wished to cut the meeting short. It was cut
short, for all rose, and all, save Dane and Giovanni, went out to the
terrace.

The Abbe Marinier proposed going to Santa Scolastica and the Sacro
Speco on the morrow, returning perhaps to Rome by way of Olevano and
Palestrina, that road being new to him. Could any one show him the way
from the terrace? Don Clemente pointed out the road. It was the same
that he had followed as he came from Subiaco. It passed just below them,
crossed the Anio a little to the left, by the Ponte di S. Mauro, turned
to the right, and then rose towards the hills of Affile, over yonder.
The air rose to them laden with the odours of the woods, of the narrow
gorge below the convents, from whence the river issued. The sky was
overcast save just above the Francolano. There, over the great black
mountain, two stars trembled; Minucci called di Leyni's attention to
them.

"See how those two little stars flash," said he.

"Dante would say they are the 'little flames' of San Benedetto and Santa
Scolastica, glittering because they perceive, in the shadow, a soul akin
to theirs."

"You speak of saints?" said Marinier, drawing near. "A few minutes ago
I inquired whether you had a saint among you, and I expressed the hope
that you might possess one. These were simply oratorical figures, for
I know well enough that you have no saint. Had you one, he would
immediately be cautioned by the police, or sent to China by the Church."

"Well," di Leyni replied, "what if he were cautioned?"

"Cautioned to-day, he would be imprisoned to-morrow." "And what of
that?" the young man repeated. "How about St. Paul, Abbe Marinier?"

"Ah! my friend! St. Paul, St. Paul--"

By this unfinished sentence the Abbe Marinier probably meant to convey
that St. Paul was St. Paul. Di Leyni, on the other hand, reflected that
Marinier was Marinier. Don Clemente remarked that not all saints could
be sent to China. Why should not the saint of the future be a layman?

"I believe he will be," exclaimed Padre Salvati, The enthusiastic Don
Fare, on the contrary, was convinced that he would be a Sovereign
Pontiff. The Abbe laughed. "A simple and excellent idea," said he. "But
I hear the carriage coming that is to take Dane and myself, and any one
else who wishes to join us, to Subiaco, so I will go and take leave of
Signor Selva."

He leaned over the parapet to gather a small branch of the olive,
planted on the terrace of the ground floor.

"I should offer him this," he said, "and to you, gentlemen, as well," he
smilingly added, with a graceful gesture, and then entered the house.

The noise of a two-horse carriage on the road below could in fact be
heard. It rounded the cliff upon which the villa stood, and stopped
at the gate. A few moments later Maria Selva and Dane, in his heavy
overcoat and huge black broad-brimmed hat, came out on the terrace;
Giovanni and the Abbe followed.

"Who is coming with us?" Dane asked. No one answered. Above the deep
rumbling of the Anio, voices and steps could be heard approaching the
villa from the gate. Minucci, who was standing at the eastern end of the
terrace, looked down, and said:

"Ladies. Two ladies."

Maria gasped. "Two ladies?" she exclaimed. Hastening to the parapet she
perceived two white figures ascending slowly; they were at the first
turning of the steep little path. It was impossible to recognise the
figures, they were still too far away, and it was too dark. Giovanni
observed that they were probably people coming to the first floor to see
the proprietors of the house. Professor Dane smiled mysteriously.

"They may be coming to the second floor," said he.

Maria exclaimed:

"You know something about this!" and called down:

"_Noemi, est-ce vous?_"

Noemi's clear voice answered:

"_Oui, c'est nous!_"

Another female voice was heard saying aloud to her:

"What a child! You should have kept quiet!"

Maria gave a little cry of joy and disappeared, running down the winding
stairway.

"You knew, Professor Dane?" Selva asked. Yes, Dane knew. He had made
Signora Dessalle's acquaintance at her villa in the Veneto--the villa
containing the frescoes by Tiepolo--and had recently seen her in Rome.
Her brother, Signor Carlino Dessalle, had remained in Florence. She and
Signorina d'Arxel, wishing to surprise the Selvas, had forbidden him to
tell. The name Dessalle recalled to Selva's mind in a flash what he had
not at first remembered--the presence of Don Clemente, the suspicion
that he was this woman's missing lover, and the necessity of preventing
a meeting, which might prove terrible to both. He was, of course,
unaware of the conversation which had taken place between his wife and
the Padre. In the meantime they heard Maria hastening down the path, and
then joyous exclamations and greetings. Dane, uneasy lest he had stayed
too long on the terrace, proposed going downstairs. The ladies had
certainly availed themselves of the carriage which was coming for him.
Don Clemente also seemed very uneasy. Hiding his own agitation, Selva
hastily took his arm.

"If you do not care to meet these ladies," he said, "come with me at
once, and I will let you out through the Casino, by the upper path." The
Padre seemed greatly relieved, and the two started off in haste, the
Benedictine even forgetting to say good-night.

"It is late, too" said he. "When I asked the Father Abbot's permission,
I said I should be back at half-past nine."

They ran down the widening stairway, but when they reached the little
open space where the acacias stood, Jeanne Dessalle, Maria, and Noemi
were just entering it from the opposite direction.

It was not too dark under the acacias for Maria to recognise her husband
and Don Clemente in the two figures coming from the house. Being in
advance of her sister with Jeanne, she promptly turned to the right,
making her companion turn with her, and directed her steps towards the
little Casino, an addition to the villa, and standing with its back
to the larger house. Selva, on his part, seeing his wife's movement,
promptly whispered to the Padre:

"Go down the straight path at once."

But it was all to no purpose.

All to no purpose, because Noemi, astonished at seeing her sister turn
to the right, stopped short, exclaiming:

"Where are you going?" and Don Clemente, having perhaps noticed a lady
standing in his way, instead of passing her and going down, went to
summon the gardener, who was waiting for him in the darkest corner of
the little opening, where the side of the house meets the hill. He
called "Benedetto!" and then turning to Selva said: "Would you like to
show him the little field?" "At this hour?" Giovanni answered, while his
wife whispered to Noemi: "Some visitors are just leaving, let us stay
here at the Casino until they have passed," shaking her head at her so
emphatically the while, that Signora Dessalle noticed the action, and at
once suspected some mystery.

"Why?" she said. "Are they dangerous?" and slackened her pace. Noemi, on
the other hand, having understood her sister's wish, but not her
secret motive, was over-zealous in seconding her; and clasping her two
companions round the waist, she pushed them towards the Casino. Jeanne
Dessalle was instinctively moved to rebel, and turning upon her,
exclaimed: "What are you doing?" Then she saw Selva coming towards them.
He hastened to greet them, spreading out his arms as if to hide Don
Clemente, who, followed by the gardener, passed rapidly within five
paces of Jeanne, and descended the steep path.

Noemi, who had also turned at her brother-in-law's greeting, ran to
embrace him; Selva in the meantime, feeling gratified that Don Clemente
had avoided a meeting. Selva, releasing himself from Noemi's embrace,
extended his hand to Jeanne, who did not see it, and murmured absently
some incomprehensible words of greeting. At that point Dane, Marinier,
Fare, di Leyni, and Padre Salvati issued from the villa. The Selvas went
to meet them, leaving Noemi and Signora Dessalle to await their return.
The parting compliments lasted some time. Dane wished to pay his
respects to Signora Dessalle, but Maria, not seeing her where she had
left her, supposed that she and Noemi had gone into the house, passing
behind them, so she promised to be the bearer of the professor's
greetings. At last, when the five had started down the hill accompanied
by Giovanni, Maria heard Noemi calling her:

"Maria! Maria!"

A peculiar note in her sister's voice told her something had happened.
She ran back, and found Signora Dessalle seated on a bundle of fagots,
in the corner where the gardener from Santa Scolastica had stood, not
five minutes before, and repeating in a weak voice: "It is nothing,
nothing, nothing! We will go in directly, we will go in directly!"
Noemi, greatly agitated, explained that her friend had suddenly felt
faint while those gentlemen were talking, and that she had with
difficulty been able to drag her as far as the bundle of fagots.

"Let us go in, let us go in," Jeanne repeated, and rising with an
effort, dragged herself as far as the villa, supported by her two
friends. She sat down on the steps waiting for some water, of which
she took only a sip. She would have nothing else, and was presently
sufficiently restored to ascend the stairs very, very slowly. She
apologised at each halt, and smiled, but the maid who, walking
backwards, led the way with the light nearly fainted herself, at sight
of those dazed eyes, those white lips, and that terrible pallor. They
led her to the sofa in the little salon; and after a minute of silent
relaxation with closed eyes, she was able to tell Signora Selva, still
smiling, that these attacks were caused by anaemia, and that she was
accustomed to them. Noemi and Maria spoke softly together. Jeanne caught
the words "to bed" and with a look of gratitude, consented by a nod.
Maria had prepared the best room in the little apartment for Jeanne and
Noemi--the corner room opposite Giovanni's study, on the other side of
the corridor. While Jeanne was walking painfully towards it, leaning on
Noemi's arm, Selva returned, having accompanied his friends as far as
the gate. His wife heard his step on the stairs, and went down to detain
him. They spoke, in the dark, with hushed voices. Then it was really he;
but how could she have recognised him? Indeed Giovanni had attemped to
place himself between Jeanne and Don Clemente at the critical moment,
and the Padre had passed her almost running; but he, Giovanni, had at
once suspected something, for Signora Dessalle had stood like a statue,
not giving him her hand, and hardly responding to his greeting. On
the terrace the Padre himself had shown uneasiness when he heard that
Signora Dessalle had arrived. His desire to avoid her had been evident;
but he was quite master of his feelings. Oh! yes, he was quite master
of his feelings. Maria was of the same opinion, and she told of her
conversation with him at the foot of the stairway. Husband and
wife slowly ascended the stairs, absorbed in contemplation of this
extraordinary drama, of the poor woman's crushing grief, of the terrible
impression the man must have borne away with him, and--now that it
was over--of the night both must pass, wondering what would happen
to-morrow, what he would do, what she would do.

"It is well to pray over such matters, is it not?" said Maria.

"Yes, dear, it is. Let us pray that she may learn to give her love and
her sorrow to God," the husband answered.

Hand in hand they entered their bedroom, which was divided in two by a
heavy curtain. They went to the window and looked up at the sky, praying
silently. A breath of the north wind soughed like a lament through the
oak overhanging the tiny chapel of Santa Maria della Febbre.

"Poor creature!" said Maria. It seemed to her and to her husband that
their affection for one another was more tender than ever to-night, but
nevertheless--though neither said so--both felt that there was something
deterring them from the kiss of love.

Jeanne, as soon as Noemi had closed the door of their room behind them,
fell upon her neck in a paroxysm of uncontrollable sobbing. Poor Noemi
had concluded, from the effect produced on her friend when the monk
hastened past her, that he was Maironi, and she was now overcome with
pity. She spoke most loving, tender, and sweet words to her, in the
voice of one soothing a suffering child. Jeanne did not answer, but her
sobbing continued.

"Perhaps it is better so, dear," Noemi ventured to say. "Perhaps it is
better for you to know, that you may no longer cherish a false hope;
better for you to have seen him in that habit."

This time an answer came between the sobs, "No, no!" Jeanne repeated
passionately and vehemently many times, and the tone, though hardly
sorrowful, was so strange that Noemi was greatly puzzled. She resumed
her soothing, but more timidly now.

"Yes, dear! yes, dear! because knowing there is no help---"

Jeanne raised her tear-stained face, "Do you not understand? It is not
he!" she said.

Noemi drew away from her embrace, amazed,

"What do you mean? Not he--! All this scene because it is not he?"

Jeanne again fell upon her neck.

"The monk who passed me, is not he," she said sobbing; "it is the other
man!"

"What other man?"

"The one who was following him, who went away with him!"

Noemi had not even noticed this person. With a convulsive laugh Jeanne
nearly suffocated her in a close embrace.

CHAPTER III

A NIGHT OF STORMS

On his way down from the villa to the gate, Don Clemente asked himself
with secret anxiety: "Did he recognise her, or not? And if he did, what
impression did she make?" On reaching the gate he turned to him he had
called Benedetto, and scrutinised his face closely--a fleshless, pallid,
intellectual face, in which he read no sign of agitation. The eyes met
his wonderingly, almost as if questioning: "Why do you look at me thus?"
The monk said to himself: "Probably he did not recognise her, or he
supposes me to be unaware of her arrival." He passed his arm through
his companion's, holding him close, and in silence turned to the left
towards the dark and noisy gorge of the Anio. When they had walked on a
few paces under the trees which border the road, he said: "Do you not
wish to question me about the meeting?" There was more tenderness in his
tone than the commonplace words demanded. His companion answered:

"Yes, tell me about it."

The voice was husky and devoid of interest. Don Clemente said to
himself: "He certainly recognised her!" Then he talked of the meeting,
but as one preoccupied with other thoughts, without warmth, without
details; nor did his companion once interrupt him with questions or
comments.

"We separated," he said, "without having come to any conclusion; this
was partly owing to the arrival of some foreigners. So I was not able
to arrange with Signor Giovanni about you. But I think some of us,
at least, will meet again tomorrow. And you yourself," he added
hesitatingly, "do you, or do you not feel inclined to return?"

Benedetto, walking steadily on, answered in the same submissive tone as
before: "Are the foreign ladies I saw going to remain?"

Don Clemente pressed his arm very hard.

"I do not know," he said, adding, much moved, and with another pressure
of the arm: "If I had only known--!"

Benedetto opened his lips to speak, but checked himself. They proceeded
thus in silence towards the two black cliffs in the noisy ravine, and
leaving the main road, which turns to cross the Anio by the Ponte di San
Mauro, took the mule-path leading to the convents, which winds up to
the cliff on the left. The enormous, slanting mass of rock before them
seemed to Don Clemente at that moment the symbol of a demoniacal power
standing in Benedetto's way; so, too, the gathering darkness seemed to
him symbolically threatening, and threatening also the ever-increasing,
ever-deepening roar of the lonely river.

Beyond the oratory of San Mauro, where the mule-path to the convents
turns to the left, running along the side of the hill towards the
Madonnina dell' Oro, and another mule-path leads straight into the
ravine, past the ruins of the Baths of Nero, Benedetto disengaged
himself gently from the monk's arm, and stopped.

"Listen, Padre," said he; "I must speak with you; perhaps at some
length."

"Yes, my friend, but it is late; let us go into the monastery."

Benedetto lived at the Ospizio for pilgrims, the farmhouse, which is
reached from a courtyard communicating by a great gate with the public
way and by a small gate with the corridor of the monastery, leading from
the public way to the church and to the second of the three cloisters.

"I had rather not return to the monastery tonight, Padre," said he.

"You had rather not return?"

On other occasions during the three years he had spent in the free
service of the monastery, Benedetto had obtained permission from Don
Clemente to spend the night in prayer, out among the hills. Therefore
the master at once concluded that his disciple was passing through one
of those periods of terrible inward struggle, which forced him to flee
from his poor couch and from the shadows of his room, accomplices,
these, of the evil one, in tormenting his imagination,

"Listen to me, Padre!" said Benedetto.

His tone was so firm, so laden with the gravity of coming words, that
Don Clemente judged it wiser not to insist upon the lateness of the
hour. Hearing the beat of hoofs above them, and knowing the riders were
coming in their direction, the two stepped aside on to the small, grassy
plateau, upon which still remain humble remnants of Neronian grandeur,
which, with some arches hidden in the thick grove of hornbeams on the
opposite bank, once formed part of the same _Terme_, but are now divided
by the complaining of the Anio far below. Above those arches once dwelt
the priest of Satan, and the shameless women, who assailed the sons of
St. Benedict with their wiles. The monk thought of Jeanne Dessalle.
There, at the end of the ravine, high up above the hills of Preclaro and
of Jenne Vecchio, shone the two stars which had bean spoken of on the
Selvas' terrace as "holy lights."

They waited for the riders to pass. When they had done so, Benedetto, in
silence, fell upon his master's neck. Don Clemente, full of wonder and
noticing that he trembled and was shaken by convulsive starts, concluded
that the sight of that woman had caused this emotion, and, kept
repeating to him:

"Courage, dear friend, courage; this is a trial sent by the Lord!"
Benedetto whispered to him:

"It is not what you think."

Having controlled his feelings, he begged the master to sit down upon a
ruined wall, against which he himself--kneeling on the grass--rested his
folded arms.

"Since this morning," said he, "I have been warned by certain signs that
the Lord's will concerning me is changed; but I have not been able to
understand in what way. You know what happened to me three years ago in
that little church where I was praying, while my poor wife lay dying?"

"You allude to your vision?"

"No; before the vision--having closed my eyes--I read on my eyelids the
words of Martha: '_Magister adest et vocat te!_' This morning, while
you were saying Mass, I saw the same words within me. I believed this
to be an automatic revulsion of memory. After the communion I had a
moment of anxiety, for it seemed to me Christ was saying in my soul:
'Dost thou not understand, dost thou not understand, dost thou not
understand?' I passed the day in a state of continual agitation,
although I strove to tire myself more than usual in the garden. In the
afternoon I sat reading a short time under the ilex tree, where the
Fathers congregate. I had St. Augustine's _De Opere Monachorum_. Some
people passed on the upper road, talking in loud voices. I raised my
head mechanically. Then, I cannot tell why, but instead of resuming my
reading, I closed the book and fell to thinking. I thought of what St.
Augustine says about manual labour for monks, I thought of the order of
St. Benedict, of Rance, and of how the Benedictine order might again
return to manual labour. Then, in a moment of weariness, but with my
heart still full of the immense grandeur of St. Augustine, I believed
I heard a voice from the upper world crying: '_Magister adest et
vocat te!_' Perhaps it was only an hallucination, only because of St.
Augustine, only some unconscious memory of the '_Tolle, lege_'; I do not
deny this, but, nevertheless, I trembled, trembled like a leaf. And I
asked myself fearfully, Does the Lord wish me to become a monk?
You know, _Padre mio_--I have repeated it to you on two or three
occasions--that in one particular, at least, this would correspond
with the end of my vision. But when you counselled me, as did also Don
Giuseppe Flores, not to put faith in this vision, I told you that, to
me, another reason for not putting faith in it was that I do not feel
myself worthy to be a priest, and, furthermore, that the idea of joining
any religious order is strangely repugnant to me. But what if God should
enjoin it upon me! What if this great repugnance be but a trial! I
wished to speak to you when we were on our way to the Selvas', but you
were in haste to be there, and so it was not possible. There, seated on
the bundle of fagots under the acacias, I received the last blow. I was
weary, very weary, and for five minutes allowed myself to be overcome by
sleep, I dreamt that I was walking with Don Giuseppe Flores under the
arches of the courtyard at Praglia. I said to him weeping: 'Here, it was
here!' And Don Giuseppe answered with great tenderness: 'Yes, but do not
think of that, think rather that the Lord calls you.' And I replied:
'But whither, whither does He call me?' My anguish was so great that I
awoke. I heard a voice calling from the top of the house, and some one
answered in French from the bottom of the garden. I saw a lady leave the
villa, running. I heard the greetings she exchanged with the new-comers;
I distinguished _her_ voice! At first I was not sure of it, but
presently, the voices coming nearer, I could no longer doubt. It was
she! For a second I was dazed, but only for a second. Then a great light
shone out in my mind."

Benedetto raised his head and his clasped hands. His voice rang with
mystic ardour. "_Magister adest_," said he. "Do you understand? The
divine Master was with me, I had naught to fear, _Padre mio!_ And I
feared naught, neither her, nor myself. I saw her coming up to the open
space. My thought was: 'If we meet alone, I will speak to her as to a
sister, I will beg her forgiveness; perhaps God will give me a word of
truth for her. I will show her that I have hopes for her soul, and
that I do not fear for my own." Don Clemente could not refrain from
interrupting him.

"No, no, no, my son!" he exclaimed, greatly alarmed; and while he held
the young man's face imprisoned between his hands, he was casting about
in his mind for a means of preventing such a meeting, and of getting
Benedetto away. The Selvas, the Selvas! they must be warned!

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