The Saint by Antonio Fogazzaro

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"I can understand why you speak thus to me," Benedetto resumed,
breathlessly; "but if I meet her, must I not seek to give her of the
good that is in me, as I once sought to give her of the evil? And have
not you yourself taught me that placing the saving of our own souls
above all things is incompatible with the love of God above all things?
That when we love truly we do not think of ourselves? That we strive
only to do the will of the person beloved, and desire that others do the
same? That thus we are sure of salvation, and that he who constantly has
in mind the saving of his own soul risks losing it?"

"That is very true, very true, my dear friend," answered the Padre,
stroking his hair. "But nevertheless to-morrow you must go to Jenne,
and remain there until I send for you. I will give you a letter to the
parish priest, who is a most worthy man, and you can stay with him. Do
you understand? And now we will go to the monastery, for it is late!"

He rose and obliged Benedetto to do the same. Above their heads the
clock of Santa Scolastica was ringing the hour. Was it ten o'clock,
or was it eleven? Don Clemente had not counted the strokes from the
beginning, and feared the worst; for with all these conflicting emotions
he had lost account of time. What was going to happen? Who could have
foreseen? And what would take place now? They left the grassy plateau
and started up the steep and rocky mule-path, Don Clemente in front, and
Benedetto following close behind; both silent and with stormy souls,
while the deep voice of the Anio answered their thoughts. At a bend of
the path they see the lights of distant Subiaco. Only a few, however, so
it is probably eleven o'clock! Presently a dark corner of the inclosure
of Santa Scolastica looms before the wayfarers. Benedetto is thinking by
what a mysterious way God has led him from the _logge_ at Praglia, where
Jeanne tempted and conquered him, to this toilsome ascent amidst the
gloom towards another holy spot, with Jeanne near, and his heart
anchored in Christ.

In the meantime, the reasons for practical prudence which pressed
upon Don Clemente at this time of distress, and the reasons for ideal
holiness which in calmer moments he had taught his beloved disciple,
were contending for supremacy over Benedetto's will, no longer so
steadfast as in the beginning; the first striving at close quarters, and
with imperious violence; the second, from a distance and by means only
of their stern and sad beauty. It seemed to him the two "holy lights"
high above the dark angle of the inclosure were watching him sternly and
sadly. Oh! unholy earth, he thought; oh! sad earth! And, perhaps, unholy
prudence, sad prudence--earthly prudence!

Upon reaching the corner, the two wayfarers turned to the left, leaving
the deep roar of the Anio behind them. They passed the great gate of
the monastery, and having turned the other corner of the inclosure, and
traversed the long, dark passage which runs beneath the library, reached
a low door. Don Clemente rang the bell. They would be obliged to wait
some time, for at nine o'clock, or shortly after, all the keys of the
monastery were taken to the Abbot.

"Then you will allow me to remain outside?" Benedetto asked.

On other occasions when the master had granted him this permission, he
had climbed the bare heights of Colle Lungo above the monastery, and
passed the night in prayer, either there, or on the heights of Taleo,
or on the rocky hillside which is crossed in going from the oratory of
Santa Crocella to the grove of the Sacro Speco. The master hesitated
a moment; he had not thought of this wish of Benedetto's again. And
precisely to-day his disciple had looked to him more emaciated, more
bloodless, than usual; he feared for his health, which was much impaired
by the fatigues of labour in the fields, by penance, and by a life
devoid of comfort. This the master told him.

"Do not consider my body," the young man pleaded humbly and ardently.
"My body is infinitely remote from me! Fear rather that I may not do all
that is possible to ascertain the Divine Will!"

He added that he would also pray for light concerning this meeting, and
that he had never felt God so near as when praying on the hills. The
master took his face between his hands, and kissed him on the forehead.

"Go," said he.

"And you will pray for me?"

"Yes, _nunc et semper_."

Steps in the corridor. A key turns in the lock. Benedetto vanishes like
a shadow.

* * * * *

Good old Fra Antonio, the doorkeeper of the monastery, did not betray
the fact that he had expected to see Benedetto also, and, with that
dignified respect in which were blended the humility of an inferior and
the pride of an old and honest retainer, he told Don Clemente that the
Father Abbot was waiting for him in his private apartment. Don Clemente,
carrying a tiny lantern, went up to the great corridor, out of which the
Abbot's rooms and his own opened.

The Abbot, Padre Omobono Ravasio of Bergamo, was waiting for him in
a small salon dimly lighted by a poor little petroleum lamp. The
_salottino_, in its severe, ecclesiastical simplicity, held nothing of
interest, save a canvas by Morone--the fine portrait of a man; two small
panels with angels' heads, in the style of Luini; and a grand piano,
loaded with music. The Abbot, passionately fond of pictures, music, and
snuff, dedicated to Mozart and Haydn a great part of the scant leisure
he enjoyed after the performance of his duties as priest and ruler. He
was intelligent, somewhat eccentric, and possessed of a certain amount
of literary, philosophical, and religious learning which, however,
stopped short with the year 1850, he having a profound contempt for all
learning subsequent to that date. Short and grey-haired, he had a clever
face. A certain curtness of manner, and his rough familiarity, had
astonished the monks, accustomed to the exquisitely refined manners of
his predecessor, a Roman of noble birth. He had come from Parma, and had
assumed his duties only three days previously.

Don Clemente knelt before him and kissed his hand.

"You have strange ways here at Subiaco," said the Abbot. "Is ten o'clock
the same as eleven o'clock to you?"

Don Clemente apologised. He had been detained by a duty of charity. The
Abbot invited him to be seated,

"My son," said he, "are you sleepy?" Don Clemente smiled without
answering.

"Well," the Father Abbot continued, "you have wasted an hour of sleep,
and now I have my reasons for robbing you of a little more. I intend
to speak to you about two matters. You asked my permission, to visit a
certain Selva and his wife. Have you been there? Yes? Can you assure me
that your conscience is at rest?"

Don Clemente answered unhesitatingly, but with a movement of surprise:

"Yes, most certainly."

"Well, well, well," said the Abbot, and took a large pinch of snuff with
evident satisfaction. "I do not know these Selvas, but there are people
in Rome who do know them, or, at least, think they do. Signor Selva is
an author, is he not? Has he not written on religion? I fancy he is a
Rosminian, judging by the people who are opposed to him; people unworthy
to tie Rosmini's shoe-strings; but let us discriminate! True Rosminians
are those at Domodossola, and not those who have wives, eh? Very well
then, this evening after supper I received a letter from Rome. They
write me--and you must know my correspondent is one of the mighty--that
precisely to-night a conventicle was to be held at the house of this
false Catholic, Selva, who had summoned to it other malignant insects
like himself; that probably you would wish to be present, and that I was
to prevent your going. I do not know what I should have done, for when
the Holy Father speaks I obey; if the Holy Father does not speak, I
reflect. But, fortunately for you, you had already started. There are
really some good people who will ferret out heretics in Paradise itself!
Now you tell me that your conscience is quiet. Am I not then to believe
what the letter says?"

Don Clemente replied that there had certainly been neither heretics nor
schismatics at Signor Selva's house. They had talked of the Church, of
her ills, and of possible remedies, but in the same spirit in which the
Abbot himself might speak.

"No, my son," the Abbot answered. "It is not for me to reflect upon the
ills of the Church, or upon possible remedies. Or rather, I may reflect
upon these matters, but I must speak of them only to God, that He
Himself may then speak of them to the proper persons. And do you do
the same. Bear this in mind, my son! The ills exist, and perhaps the
remedies also exist, but--who knows?--these remedies may be poisons,
and we must let the Great Healer apply them. We, for our part, must
pray. If we did not believe in the communion of saints, what would,
there be to do in the monasteries? So for the sake of our peace of mind,
my son, do not return to that house. Do not again ask permission to go
there."

The Abbot had ended in a paternal tone, and now laid an affectionate
hand upon his monk's shoulder. Don Clemente was much grieved at the
thought of not seeing his good friends again, and especially not to
be able to confer with Signer Giovanni the next day, to warn him of
Benedetto's danger, and to consult with him concerning a means of
defence.

"They are Christians of gold," he said sadly, and in submissive tones.

"I believe you," replied the Abbot. "They are probably far better than
the zealots who write these letters. You see I speak my mind. You come
from Brescia, eh? Well, I come from Bergamo. In either place they would
be called _piaghe_--festers! They are indeed festers of the Church. I
shall answer in a fitting tone. My monks take no part in meetings of
heretics. But, nevertheless, you will not revisit the Selvas."

Don Clemente kissed the hand of the fatherly old man resignedly.

"And now I come to the other question," said the Abbot. "I learn that
a young man whom you installed there has lived for three years at the
_Ospizio_ for pilgrims, where, as a rule, only the herder should have a
permanent abode. Oh, I know, of course, that my predecessor sanctioned
what you did! This young man is greatly attached to you, you are his
spiritual director, and you encourage him to study in the library. It
is true that he also works in the kitchen-garden, true that he displays
great piety, that he is a source of edification to all, still--as he
does not appear to have any intention of becoming a monk--his presence
at our _Ospizio_, where he has had a place for three years, Is somewhat
irregular, What can you tell concerning this matter? Come, let us hear."

Don Clemente knew that some of his brother monks--and not the oldest,
but precisely the youngest among them--did not approve of the
hospitality the late Abbot had extended to Benedetto. Neither was the
attachment existing between himself and Benedetto entirely to their
taste. Don Clemente had already had trouble on this account. He now at
once perceived that certain brothers had lost no time, but had already
tried to influence the new Abbot. His fine face flushed hotly. He did
not answer immediately, wishing first to quell the anger burning within
him by an act of mental forgiveness. At last he assured the Abbot that
it was both, his duty and his wish to enlighten him.

"This young man," he began, "Is a certain Piero Maironi of Brescia. You
must surely have heard of the family. His father, Don Franco Maironi,
married a woman without birth or money. His parents were already dead at
the time, and he lived with his paternal grandmother, Marchesa Maironi,
an imperious and proud woman."

"Oh!" exclaimed the Abbot, "I knew her! A perfect terror! I remember her
well. In Brescia they called her the 'Marchesa _Haynau_' [Footnote: In
allusion to the terrible Austrian, General Haynau, who, on account
of his cruelty to the Italian patriots, was surnamed the "Hyena of
Brescia."--TRANSLATOR.] She had twelve cats and wore a great black wig! I
remember her well!"

"I knew her only by reputation," Don Clemente continued, smiling, while
the Abbot, with a sort of guttural purr, took a generous pinch of snuff,
to rid himself of the bad taste this unpleasant memory had left.

"Well, the grandmother would not hear of this ill-assorted marriage. The
young couple therefore were guests in the house of the bride's uncle,
she being also an orphan. He, Don Franco, enlisted in 1859, and died of
the wounds he received. His wife died soon after. The little boy was
cared for by the grandmother, Marchesa Maironi, and, after her death,
by certain Venetian relations of hers, of the name of Scremin. The
grandmother left him very wealthy. He married a daughter of these
Scremins,' who, unfortunately, went mad soon after her marriage, I
believe. Piero felt this affliction keenly, and led a life of retirement
until he had the misfortune to come in contact with a woman separated
from her husband. Then a period of transgression set in; he transgressed
morally and in matters of faith. At last (it seems like a miracle
performed by the Lord Himself) the wife in her dying moments recovered
her reason, summoned her husband, spoke with him, and then died the
death of a saint. This death turned Piero's heart towards God; he left
the woman, renounced his rights, left everything, and fled from his home
in the night, telling no one whither he was going. Having met me once at
Brescia, where I had gone to visit my sick father, and knowing I was
at Subiaco, he came here. He was, moreover, fond of our Order, and
cherished certain memories connected with our poor Praglia. He told
me his story, entreating me to help him lead a life of expiation. I
supposed he aspired to enter the Order. But he told me that, on the
contrary, he did not feel himself worthy; that he had not as yet been
able to ascertain the Divine Will on this point; that he wished, in
the meantime, to do penance, to labour with his hands, to earn his
bread--only a crust of bread. He told me other things; he spoke of
certain incidents of a supernatural character which had happened to him.
I at once told the late Father Abbot about him, and we decided to lodge
him in the _Ospizio_, to let him work within the inclosure, helping the
kitchen-gardener, and to provide him with the frugal fare he craved. In
three years he has never once tasted coffee, wine, milk, or eggs. He
has touched nothing save bread, _polenta_, fruit, herbs, oil, and pure
water, He has led the life of a saint, all can assure you of that. Still
he believes himself the greatest sinner on earth!"

"Hm!" the Abott ejaculated thoughtfully, "Hm! I see! But why does he not
join the Order? Then, another thing: I know he has passed several nights
outside the inclosure."

Don Clemente felt his face once more aflame. "In prayer," he said.

"That may be, but perhaps some may not believe it. You know what Dante
says:

Ad ogni ver che ha faccia di menzogna
Dee l'uom chiuder la bocca quant'ei puote,
Pero che senza colpa fa vergogna."
[Footnote:Aye to that truth which has the face of falsehood
A man should close his lips as far as may be,
Because without his fault it causes shame.
--Longfellow's _Translation of the "Inferno."_]

"Oh!" Don Clemente exclaimed, blushing, in his modest dignity, for those
who were capable of harbouring vile suspicions.

"Forgive me, my son!" said the Abbot. "He is not accused, the
appearances alone are criticised. Do not vex yourself. It is wiser to
pray in the house! And these incidents of a supernatural character--pray
tell me about them."

Don Clemente said they were visions--voices heard in the air.

"Hm! Hm!" ejaculated the Abbot, with a complicated play of wrinkled
forehead, eyebrows, and lips, as if he were swallowing a mouthful of
vinegar.

"You said his name was--? His real name?"

"Piero, but when he came here he wished to part with that name, and
begged me to give him another. I chose 'Benedetto'--it seemed the most
appropriate." At this point the Abbot expressed a wish to see Signor
Benedetto, and desired Don Clemente to send him to him on the following
morning after the office in the choir. At this Don Clemente was somewhat
embarrassed, and had to confess that he could not promise to do so,
because, as it happened, the young man had gone out among the hills to
pass the night in prayer, and he did not know precisely at what hour he
would return. The Abbot was greatly annoyed, and mumbled a series of
reproaches and caustic remarks. Don Clemente therefore decided to tell
him of the meeting with Signora Dessalle, the former mistress; of what
had followed on the way home, of his determination to send Benedetto to
Jenne, and to oblige him to remain there until the woman had gone. The
Father Superior kept up a continuous, low grumbling, and heard him with
knitted brows.

"Here," he exclaimed at last, "you are going back to the days of St.
Benedict! to the wiles of shameless women! Let your Benedetto go, let
him go, let him go! To Jenne and farther still! And you were not going
to tell me this? Did it seem a matter of slight consequence? Was it of
no consequence that intrigues of this sort should be carried on round
the monastery? Now go; go, I say!"

Don Clemente was about to answer that he had not known of any intrigue,
nor if the woman had recognised his disciple; that at any rate he had
already informed Benedetto of his intention of sending him away; but he
silenced this useless self-justification and, kneeling, took leave of
the Abbot.

Don Clemente took up again the tiny lantern, which he had left in the
corridor, but did not go to his cell. Slowly, very slowly, he walked to
the end of the corridor; slowly, very slowly, and not without frequent
pauses, he descended by a little winding stair to the other passage
leading to the chapter-hall. The thought of his beloved disciple
wandering amidst the darkness on the mountains; the anticipation of the
resolutions he might form, after communing with his God; the covert
hostility of his brother monks; the Abbot's frowns and doubts; the fear
that he would oblige Benedetto to choose between leaving the convent
and taking the monastic vows, all weighed heavily upon his heart.
Benedetto's mystic fervour, his great and unconscious humility, his
progress in comprehending the Faith according to the ideas originating
with Signer Giovanni, a new lucidity of thought which flashed from him
in conversation, the growing strength of their mutual affection, had
awakened in him hopes of a revelation of Divine Grace, of Divine Truth,
of Divine Power for the saving of souls, to be made, at no distant
period, through this outcast of the world. They had said at the meeting
at Signor Selva's house, "A saint is needed." The first to affirm this
had been the Swiss Abbe. Others had said that the saint should be a
layman. This was moreover his own opinion, and Benedetto's repugnance
to a monastic life seemed to him providential. The coming of the woman
seemed almost providential also, forcing him as it did to leave the
convent. But what was happening out on the hills? What words was God
uttering in his heart? And if--

This unexpected, formidable _if_ flashing into his mind stopped the
ponderer in his slow walk. _"Magister adest et vocat te!"_ Perhaps the
Divine Master Himself was even now calling Benedetto to serve Him in the
habit of a monk.

He ceased thinking, terrified, and, having set the tiny lantern down,
passed from the chapter-hall into the church, directing his steps
towards the chapel of the Sacrament. With that dignity of which no
internal storm could rob his refined bearing and the lofty beauty of his
face, he sank upon his knees at the desk which stands in the centre of
the chapel, between the four columns, under the lamp, raising his eyes
to the tabernacle.

The Teacher of the Way, of Truth, of Life, the Beloved of the soul, was
there, and sleeping, as He had slept on that stormy night on the Lake
of Gennesaret, between Gadara and Galilee, in the bark which other
wave-tossed barks followed through the roaring darkness. He was there,
praying as on that other night, alone, on the hillside. He was there,
saying with His sweet eternal voice: "Come unto Me all ye who suffer,
all ye who are heavy laden, come unto Me." He was there and speaking,
the living Christ: "Believe in Me, for I am with you; I am your
strength, and I am peace. I the Humble, son of the Almighty; I the Meek,
son of the Terrible; I who prepare hearts for the kingdom of justice,
for the future union of all with Me in My Father." He, the Merciful, was
there in the tabernacle, breathing the ineffable invitation: "Come, open
thy heart; give thyself up to Me!"

And Clemente gave himself up, confiding to Him what he had never
confessed even to himself. He felt that everything in the ancient
monastery was dying, save Christ in the tabernacle. As the germ-cell
of ecclesiastical organism, the centre from which Christian warmth
irradiates upon the world, the monastery was becoming ossified by the
action of inexorable age. Within its walls noble fires of faith
and piety, enclosed--like the flames of the candles burning on the
altars--in traditional forms, were consuming their human envelope, their
invisible vapours rising towards heaven, but sending no wave of heat or
of light to vibrate beyond the ancient walls. Currents of living air no
longer swept through the monastery, and the monks no longer, as in the
first centuries, went out in search of them, labouring in the woods and
in the fields, co-operating with the vital energies of nature while
they praised God in song. His talks with Giovanni Selva had brought him
indirectly, and little by little, to feel thus regarding the monastic
life in its present form, although he was convinced that it has
indestructible roots in the human soul. But now, perhaps for the first
time, he looked his belief squarely in the face. For a long time his
wish and his hope had been that Benedetto might become a great gospel
labourer; not an ordinary labourer, a preacher, a confessor, but an
extraordinary labourer; not a soldier of the regular army, hampered by
uniform and discipline, but a free champion of the Holy Spirit. The
monastic laws had never before appeared to him in such fierce antagonism
with his ideal of a modern saint. And now, what if the Divine Will
concerning Benedetto should reveal itself contrary to his desires?

Ah! was he not already almost on the verge of committing mortal sin?
Had he not been about to judge the ways of God, he presumptuous dust?
Prostrate upon the kneeling-stool, he sought to merge himself in
the Almighty, praying silently for forgiveness, for a revelation to
Benedetto of the Divine Will, and ready to worship it, whatever it might
be, from this time forth. As he rose, with a natural ebbing of the
mystic wave from his heart, his eyes still turned towards the altar, but
no longer fixed upon the tabernacle, he could not refrain from thinking
of Jeanne Dessalle and of what Benedetto had said. The very indifferent
picture above the altar represented the martyr Anatolia offering,
from Paradise, the symbolical palms to Audax, the young pagan who had
attempted to seduce her, but whom, instead, she had led to Christ.
Jeanne Dessalle had seduced Benedetto; of this Don Clemente had no
doubts, notwithstanding Benedetto's attempt to exonerate her and accuse
himself. What if she should now be converted through him? Was it perhaps
right that he should try? Was Benedetto's impulse really more Christian
than his own fears and the Abbot's scruples? As he crossed the church
with bowed head, Don Clemente's mind was struggling with these
questions. Anatolia and Audax! He remembered that a sceptical foreigner,
upon hearing the explanation of the picture from him, had said: "Yes,
but what if neither of them had been put to death? And what if Audax had
been a married man?"

These jesting words had seemed to him an unworthy profanation. He
thought of them again now, and, sighing, took up the little lantern he
had left on the floor in the chapter-hall.

Instead of going towards his cell he turned into the second cloister
to look at the ridge of the Colle Lungo, where, perhaps, Benedetto was
praying. Some stars were shining above the rocky, grey ridge, spotted
with black, and their dim light revealed the square of the cloister, the
scattered shrubs, the mighty tower of Abate Umberto, the arcades, the
old walls, which had stood for nine centuries, and the double row of
little stone friars ascending in procession upon the arch of the great
gate where Don Clemente stood, lost in contemplation. The cloister and
the tower stood out majestic and strong against the darkness. Was
it indeed true that they were dying? In the starlight the monastery
appeared more alive than in the sunlight, aggrandised by its mystic
religious communing with the stars. It was alive, it was big with many
different spiritual currents, all confused in one single being, like the
different wrought and sculptured stones, which, united, formed its
body; like different thoughts and sentiments in a human conscience.
The ancient stones, inclosing souls which love had mingled with them,
saturated with holy longings and holy sorrows, with groans and prayers,
radiated a dim something which penetrated the subconsciousness. They had
the power of infusing strength into those of God's labourers who, in
arid moments, withdrew from the world, seeking brief repose among them,
as a spring of water infuses strength into the reaper on the lonely
hills. But in order that the life of the stones might continue, a
ceaseless living stream must flow through them, a stream of adoring and
contemplating spirits. Don Clemente felt something akin to remorse for
the thoughts he had harboured in the church about the decrepitude of the
monastery; thoughts which had sprung from his own personal judgment,
pleasing to his self-esteem, and therefore tainted by that arrogance
of the spirit which his beloved mystics had taught him to discern and
abhor. Clasping his hands, he fixed his gaze on the wild ridge of the
hill, picturing to himself Benedetto praying there, and, in an act of
silent renunciation, he humbly relinquished his own desires concerning
the young man's future. He praised God should He choose to let him
remain a layman; he praised God should He choose to make him a monk,
should He reveal His will, or should it remain hidden. "_Si vis me
esse in luce sis benedictus, si vis me esse in tenebris sis iterum
benedictus._" And then he sought his cell.

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