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

As he passed the Abbot's door in the broad corridor where the two dim
lamps were still burning, he thought of the talk he had had with the old
man, of those maxims of his concerning the ills affecting the Church,
and the wisdom of struggling against them. He remembered something
Signor Giovanni had said about the words "_Fiat voluntas tua_," which
the majority of the faithful understand only as an act of resignation,
and which really point out the duty of working with all our strength for
the triumph of Divine Law in the field of human liberty. Signor Giovanni
had made his heart beat faster, and the Abbot had made it beat more
slowly: which had spoken the word of life and of truth?

His cell was the last one on the right, near the balcony which overlooks
Subiaco, the Sabine Hills, and the shell-shaped tract watered by the
Anio. Before entering his cell Don Clemente stopped to look at the
distant lights of Subiaco; he thought of the little red villa, nearer
but not discernible; he thought of the woman. Intrigues, the Abbot had
said. Did she still love Piero Maironi? Had she discovered, did she know
that he had sought refuge at Santa Scolastica? Had she recognised him?
If so, what did she propose to do? Probably she was not staying in the
Selvas' very small lodging, but was at some hotel in Subiaco. Were those
distant lights fires in an enemy's camp? He made the sign of the cross,
and entered his narrow cell, for a short rest until two o'clock, the
hour of assembly in the choir.

Benedetto took the road to the Sacro Speco. Beyond the further corner
of the monastery he crossed the dry bed of a small torrent, reached the
very ancient oratory of Santa Crocella on the right, and climbed the
rocky slope which tumbles its stones down towards the rumbling Anio and
faces the hornbeams of the Francolano, rising, straight and black, to
the star-crowned cross on its summit. Before reaching the arch which
stands at the entrance to the grove of the Sacro Speco, he left the
road, and climbed up towards the left, in search of the scene of his
last vigil, high above the square roofs and the squat tower of Santa
Scolastica. The search for the stone where he had knelt in prayer on
another night of sorrow distracted his thoughts from the mystic fire
which had enveloped him, and cooled its ardour. He soon perceived this
and was seized with a heavy sense of regret, with impatience to rekindle
the flame, enhanced by the fear of not succeeding in the attempt, by
the feeling that it had been his own fault, and by the memory of other
barren moments. He was growing colder, ever colder. He fell upon his
knees, calling upon God in an outburst of prayer. Like a small flame
applied in vain to a bundle of green sticks, this effort of his will
gradually weakened without having moved the sluggish heart, and left him
at last in vague contemplation of the even roar of the Anio. His senses
returned to him with a rush of terror! Perhaps the whole night would
pass thus; perhaps this barren coldness would be followed by burning
temptation! He silenced the clamour of his fervid imagination, and
concentrated his thoughts on his determination not to lose courage. He
now became firmly convinced that hostile spirits had seized upon him. He
would not have felt more sure of this had he seen fiendish eyes flashing
in the crevices of the neighbouring rocks. He felt conscious of
poisonous vapours within him; he felt the absence of all love, the
absence of all sorrow; he felt weariness, a great weight, the advance of
a mortal drowsiness. Once more he fell into stupid contemplation of the
noise of the river, and fixed his unseeing eyes upon the dark woods of
the Francolano. Before his mental vision passed slowly, automatically,
the image of the evil priest, who had lived there with his court of
harlots. He felt weary from kneeling, and let himself sink to the
ground. Again he was the slow automaton. With a painful effort he rose
to a sitting posture, and dropped his hand upon the tufts of soft,
sweet-smelling grass, pushing up between the stones. He closed his eyes
in enjoyment of the sweetness of that soft touch, of the wild odour,
of rest, and he saw Jeanne, pale under the drooping brim of her black,
plumed hat, smiling at him, her eyes wet with tears. His heart beat
fast, fast, ever faster; a thread, only a thread of will-power held him
back on the downward slope leading him to answer the invitation of that
face. With wide eyes, his arms extended, his hands spread open, he
uttered a long groan. Then, suddenly fearing some nocturnal wayfarer
might have heard him, he held his breath, listening. Silence: silence in
all things save the river. His heart was growing more calm. "My God! my
God!" he murmured, horrified at the he had been in, at the abyss he had
crossed. He clung with his eyes, with his soul, to the great, sacred,
cube-shaped Santa Scolastica, down below with its squat, friendly tower,
which he loved. In spirit he passed through the shadows and the roofs;
he had a vision of the church, of the lighted lamp, of the tabernacle,
of the Sacrament, at which he gazed hungrily. With an effort he pictured
to himself the cloisters, the cells, the great crosses near the monks'
couches, the seraphic face of his sleeping master. He continued in this
effort as long as possible, checking in anguish of soul frequent flashes
of the drooping plumed hat and of the pale face, until these flashes
grew fainter, and were finally lost in the unconscious depths of his
soul. Then he rose wearily to his feet, and slowly, as though his
movements were controlled by a consciousness of great majesty, he
clasped his hands and rested his chin upon them. He concentrated his
thoughts on the prayer from the _Imitation: "Domine, dummodo voluntas
mea recta et firma ad te permaneat, fac de me quid-quid tibi
placuerit."_ He was no longer inwardly agitated; it seemed to him that
the evil spirits had fled, but no angels had as yet entered into him.
His weary mind rested upon external things: vague forms, the flakes of
white among the shadows, the distant hoot of an owl among the hornbeams,
the faint scent of the grass which still clung to his clasped hands upon
the grass, before Jeanne's sad smile had appeared to him. Impetuously he
unclasped his hands and turned his hungry eyes towards the monastery.
No, no, God would not allow him to be conquered! God had chosen him to
do His own work. Then from the depths of his soul, and independently of
his will, arose images, which, in obedience to his master's counsels, he
had not allowed himself to evoke since his arrival at Santa Scolastica;
images of the vision, a written description of which he had confided to
Don Giuseppe Flores.

He saw himself in Rome at night, on his knees in Piazza San Pietro,
between the obelisk and the front of the immense temple, illumined by
the moon. The square was deserted; the noise of the Anio seemed to him
the noise of the fountains. A group of men clad in red, in violet and
in black, issued forth from the door of the temple and stopped on the
steps. They fixed their gaze upon him, pointing with their forefingers
towards Castel Sant' Angelo, as if commanding him to leave the sacred
spot. But now it was no longer the vision, this was a new imagining.
He was standing, straight and bold, before the hostile band. Suddenly
behind him he heard the rumbling of hastening multitudes pouring into
the square in streams from all the adjacent streets. A human wave swept
him along, and, proclaiming him the reformer of the Church, the true
Vicar of Christ, set him upon the threshold of the temple. Here he faced
about, as if ready to affirm his world-wide authority. At that moment
there flashed across his mind the thought of Satan offering the kingdoms
of the world to Christ. He fell upon the ground, stretching himself
face downward on the rock, groaning in spirit: "Jesus, Jesus, I am not
worthy, not worthy to be tempted as Thou wast!" And he pressed his
tightly closed lips to the stone, seeking God in the dumb creature. God!
God! the desire, the life, the ardent peace of the soul! A breath of
wind blew over him, and moved the grass about him.

"Is it Thou?" he groaned. "Is it Thou, is it Thou?"

The wind was silent.

Benedetto pressed his clenched hands to his cheeks, raised his head,
and, resting his elbows on the rock, listened, for what he knew not.
Sighing he rose to a sitting posture. God will not speak to him. His
weary soul is silent, barren of thought. Time creeps slowly on. To
refresh itself, the weary soul makes an effort to recall the last part
of the vision, its soaring flight through a stormy nocturnal sky to meet
descending angels. And he reflects dimly: "If this fate awaits me, why
should I repine? Though I be tempted I shall not be conquered, and
though I be conquered still God will raise me up again. Neither is it
necessary to ask what His will is concerning me. Why not go down, and
sleep?"

Benedetto rose, his head heavy with leaden weariness. The sky was hidden
by thick clouds as far as the hills of Jenne, where the valley of the
upper Anio turns. Benedetto could hardly distinguish the black shadow
of the Francolano opposite, or the livid, rocky slope at his feet. He
started down, but stopped after a few steps. His legs would not support
him, a rush of blood set his face aflame. He had scarcely broken his
fast for thirty hours, having eaten only a crust of bread at noon. He
felt millions of pins pricking him, felt the violent beating of his
heart, felt his mind becoming clouded. What was that tangle of serpents
winding themselves about his feet, in the disguise of innocent grasses?
And what sinister demon was that, waiting for him down there, crouching
on all fours on a rock, disguised as a bush and ready to jump upon him?
Were not the demons waiting for him at the monastery also? Did they not
nest in the openings of the great tower? Was there not a black flame
flashing in those openings? No, no, not now; now they were staring at
him like half-closed and mocking eyes. Was this the rumbling of the
Anio? No, rather the roaring of the triumphant abyss. He did not
entirely credit all he saw and heard, but he trembled, trembled like a
reed in the wind, and the millions of pins were moving over his whole
body. He tried to free his feet from the tangle of serpents, and did not
succeed. From terror he passed to anger: "I _must_ be able to do it!"
he exclaimed aloud. From the gloomy gorge of Jenne, the dull rumble of
thunder answered him. He glanced in that direction. A flash of lightning
rent the clouds and disappeared above the blackness of Monte Preclaro.
Benedetto tried again to free his feet from the serpents, and again the
leonine voice of the thunder threatened him.

"What am I doing?" he asked himself, trying to understand. "Why do I
wish to go down?" He no longer knew, and was obliged to make a mental
effort to recall the reason. That was it! He had decided to go down and
sleep, because one sure of the kingdom of heaven has no need of prayer.
Then, like the lightning flashing round him, came a flash within him:

"I am tempting God!"

The serpents pressed him tighter; the demon crept towards him on all
fours, up the rocky slope, all hellishly alive with fierce spirits; the
black flames burst forth in the openings of the great tower, the abyss
the while howling, triumphant! Then the sovereign roar of the thunder
rumbled through the clouds: "Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God!"
Benedetto raised his face and his clasped hands towards heaven,
worshipping as best he might with the last glimmer of clouded
consciousness. He swayed, spread wide his arms, clutching the air.
Slowly he bent backwards, fell prostrate upon his back on the hillside,
and then lay motionless.

* * * * *

His body, motionless midst the rush of the thunderstorm, lay like an
uprooted trunk, among the straining gorse and the waving grass. His soul
must have been sealed by the central contact with the Being without time
and without space, for when Benedetto first regained consciousness he
had lost all sense of place and of time. His limbs felt strangely light;
he experienced a pleasant sensation of physical exhaustion, and his
heart was flooded with infinite sweetness. First upon his face, then
upon his hands, he felt innumerable slight touches, as though loving,
animate atoms of the air were gently tickling him; he heard a faint
murmur of timid voices round what seemed to be his bed. He sat up and
looked about him, dazed, but at peace; forgetful of the where and the
when, but perfectly at peace and filled with content by the quiet, inner
spring of vague love, which flowed through all his being, and overflowed
upon surrounding things, upon the sweet little lives about him, that
thus came to love him in turn. Smiling at his own bewilderment, he
recognised the where and the how. The when he could not recognise, nor
did he desire to do so. Neither did he question whether hours or minutes
had passed since his fall, so content was he in the blessed present. The
storm had rolled down towards Rome. In the murmur of the rain falling
softly, without wind; in the great voice of the Anio, in the restored
majesty of the mountains, in the wild odour of the damp rocky slope, in
his own heart, Benedetto felt something of the Divine mingling with the
creature, a hidden essence of Paradise. He felt that he was mingling
with the souls of things, as a small voice mingles with an immense
choir, felt that he was one with the sweet-smelling hill, one with the
blessed air. And thus submerged in a sea of heavenly sweetness, his
hands resting in his lap, his eyes half closed, soothed by the soft,
soft rain, he gave himself up to enjoyment, not however, without a vague
wish that those who do not believe, those who do not love, might also
know such sweetness. As his ecstasy diminished his mind once more
recalled the reason of his presence on the lonely hill, in the darkness
of night; recalled the uncertainties of the morrow, and Jeanne, and
his exile from the monastery. But now his soul anchored in God, was
indifferent to uncertainties and doubts, as the motionless Francolano
was indifferent to the quiverings of its cloak of leaves. Uncertainties,
doubts, memories of the mystic vision, departed from him in his profound
self-abandonment to the Divine Will, which might deal with him as it
would. The image of Jeanne, which he seemed to contemplate from the
summit of an inaccessible tower, awakened only a desire to labour
fraternally for her good. Calm reason having fully resumed its sway,
he perceived that the rain had drenched his clothes and that it still
continued to fall softly, softly. What should he do? He could not go
back to the _Ospizio_ for pilgrims, for the herder would be asleep, and
he would not wake him to get in, nor would this, indeed, be easy to
accomplish. He determined to seek shelter under the evergreen oaks of
the Sacro Speco. He rose wearily, and was seized with dizziness. He
waited a short time, and then crept down very, very slowly, towards the
path which leads from Santa Scolastica to the arch at the entrance to
the grove. Exhausted he let himself sink upon the ground there, in the
dark shadow of the great evergreen oaks, bent and spreading upon the
hillside, their arms flung wide; there between the dim light on the
slope beyond the arch to the right, and the dim light on the slope in
front of the grove to the left.

He longed for a little food, but dared not ask it of God, for it would
be like asking for a miracle. He was prepared to wait for the dawn. The
air was warm, the ground hardly damp; a few great drops fell, here and
there, from the leaves of the evergreen oaks. Benedetto sank into a
sleep so light that it hardly made him unconscious of his sensations,
which it transformed into a dream. He fancied he was in a safe refuge of
prayer and peace, in the shadow of holy arms extended above his head;
and it seemed to him he must leave this refuge for reasons of which the
necessity was evident to him, although he was unaware of their nature.
He could go by a door opening on to the road which leads down to the
world, or he could go by the opposite door, taking a path which rose
towards sacred solitudes. He hesitated, undecided. The falling of a
great drop near him made him open his eyes. After the first moment of
numbness he recognised the arch on the right, where the road begins
which leads down to Santa Scolastica, to Subiaco, to Rome; and on the
left the path which rises toward the Sacro Speco. He noticed with
astonishment that on both sides, beyond the evergreen oaks, the bare
rocks looked much whiter than before; that many little streaks of light
were glinting through the foliage above his head. Dawn? Was it dawn?
Benedetto had thought it was little past midnight. The hour struck at
Santa Scolastica--one, two, three, four. It was indeed morning, and it
would be lighter still--for it no longer rained-were the sky not one
heavy cloud from the hills of Subiaco to the hills of Jenne. A step in
the distance; some one coming up towards the arch.

It was the herder of Santa Scolastica who, for special reasons, was
carrying the milk to the Sacro Speco at that unusually early hour.
Benedetto greeted him. The man started violently at the sound of his
voice, and nearly let the jug of milk fall.

"Oh, Benede!" he exclaimed, recognising Benedetto, "are you here?"

Benedetto begged for a drink of milk, for the love of God!

"You can explain to the monks," said he. "You can say I was exhausted,
and asked for a little milk, for the love of God."

"Yes, yes! It is all right! Take it! Drink!" the man exclaimed, for he
believed Benedetto to be a saint. "And have you passed the night out
here? You were out in all that rain? Good Lord! how wet you are! You are
soaked through like a sponge!" Benedetto drank.

"I thank God," he said, "for your Madness and for the blessing of the
milk."

He embraced the man, and years afterwards the herder, Nazzareno Mercuri,
used to tell that while Benedetto held him in his arms, he, Nazzareno
did not seem to be himself; that his blood first turned to ice and then
to fire; that his heart beat hard, very hard, as it did the first time
he received Christ in the Sacrament; that a terrible headache which
had tormented him for two days suddenly disappeared; that then he had
realised he was in the arms of a saint, a worker of miracles; and that
he had fallen on his knees at his feet! In reality he did not fall on
his knees, but stood as one petrified, and Benedetto had to say twice to
him: "Now go, Nazzareno; go, my dear son." Having despatched him thus
lovingly on his way to the Sacro Speco, he himself started towards Santa
Scholastica.

In the light of day the rocky slope held no spirits either good or evil.
The mountains, the clouds, even the dark walls of the monastery, and the
tower itself looked heavy with sleep in the pale dawn. Benedetto entered
the Ospizio, and stretching himself on his poor couch, without removing
his wet garments, he crossed his arms on his breast, and sank into a
deep sleep.

CHAPTER IV

FACE TO FACE

I.

The rumbling of the thunder roused Noemi shortly after two o'clock;
she had fallen asleep only a short time before. Her room was next
to Jeanne's, and the door between them had been left open. Jeanne
immediately called out to her. They had talked until two o'clock,
when Noemi, quite exhausted, and after many vain efforts, had finally
succeeded in persuading her indefatigable friend to leave her in peace.
Now she pretended not to hear. Jeanne called again.

"Noemi! The thunder-storm! I am so frightened!"

"You are not a bit frightened!" Noemi answered irritably. "Be quiet! Go
to sleep!"

"I am frightened! I am coming into your room."

"I forbid it!"

"Then you must come in here!"

Noemi's "Will you be quiet?" sounded so resolute that the other was
silent.

Only for a moment, however; then the tearful, childish voice, that Noemi
knew so well, began again:

"Have you not slept long enough? Can you not talk now? You must have
slept three hours!"

Noemi struck a match and looked at her watch, holding which she had
previously begged for silence.

"Twenty-two minutes!" she announced. "Be quiet!"

Jeanne was still for a moment, then she uttered those little
hm!--hm!--hms!--which are always the prelude to tears in a spoilt child.
And the complaining voice went on:

"You do not love me at all! Hm! Hm! For pity's sake let us talk a
little! Hm! Hm! Hm!"

In her mother tongue, Noemi sighed:

"_Oh_! _mon Dieu_!"

With another sigh she resigned herself to the inevitable:

"Well, go ahead! But what can you say to me that you have not already
said in the last four hours?"

The thunder roared, but Jeanne no longer noticed it.

"To-morrow morning we will go to the monastery," said she.

"Why yes, of course!"

"Only we two alone?"

"Yes, certainly, that is already settled."

The tearful voice was silent a moment, and then went on: "You have not
yet promised not to tell anything here in the house."

"I've promised at least ten times!"

"You know what you are to say--do you not--if you are questioned about
my fainting last night?"

"I know."

"You must say that the Padre was not _he_; that I was disappointed, and
that was why I fainted."

"Gracious, Jeanne! This is the twentieth time you have said that!"

"How cruel you are, Noemi! How little you care for me!"

Silence.

Jeanne's voice began again:

"Tell me what you think. Do you really believe he has forgotten me?"

"I will not answer that again!"

"Oh! please answer! Just one word, then I will let you go to sleep!"

Noemi reflected a moment and then answered drily, hoping to silence
Jeanne:

"Well, I think he has. I do not believe he ever loved you."

"You say that because I myself have said so to you!" Jeanne retorted
violently, no longer in a tearful voice.

"You are no judge of that!"

"_Bon ca_!" Noemi grumbled. "_C'est elle qui me l'a dit, et je ne dois
pas le savoir_!" Silence again.

The tearful voice once more:

"Noemi!"

No answer.

"Noemi, listen!"

Still no answer. Jeanne began to cry, and Noemi yielded.

"For heaven's sake! what Is it now?"

"Piero cannot know that my husband is dead."

"Well, and what of that?"

"Then he cannot know that I am free,"

"Well? How stupid you are! You make me angry!"

Silence. Jeanne knew the nature of her anger very well. Her friend's
convictions were too much like her own, and she longed to have her
painful presentiment contradicted, longed for a word of hope.

She laughed a low, forced laugh:

"Noemi, now you are pretending to be offended on purpose not to have to
talk."

Silence.

Jeanne began again, very sweetly:

"Listen. Don't you believe he suffers temptations?"

Silence.

Jeanne, this time ignoring the fact that Noemi did not answer,
exclaimed:

"It _would_ be nice if he had just now stopped suffering from
temptations!"

Her sarcasm is so comic, that--although she is greatly shocked--Noemi
cannot help laughing; and Jeanne laughs with her. In spite of her mirth,
Noemi reproaches Jeanne for saying such intensely foolish things without
stopping to reflect. For Noemi knows her friend, and knows that the
Jeanne of this hour is not the true Jeanne, self-possessed and mistress
of herself; or rather perhaps it is the true Jeanne, but certainly not
she who will stand before Piero Maironi, if, by any chance, they meet.

The thunder has ceased, and Jeanne would like to see what the weather
is, but she dreads to leave her bed, fearing to feel ill again, fearing
to discover she will not be able to go up to the monastery a few hours
hence. She also fears the opposition of her hosts, should the weather
prove too unpleasant. She is therefore anxious to see how the sky looks.
Get up must Noemi, the slave whose acts of rebellion very seldom ended
in victory. Noemi rises, opens the window, and examines the darkness,
her hand extended. Tiny, frequent drops tickle her palm. The darkness
grows less impenetrable as her eyes become accustomed to it. She
distinguishes, down below, Santa Maria della Febbre, grey, against a
black background. The mass of heavy mist grows lighter, and the arms of
the oak towering on the right show black against it. The tiny, frequent
drops continue to tickle her outstretched hand, which she finally
withdraws. Jeanne questions.

"Well?" "It is raining."

She sighs "What a bother," as if it were going to rain for ever. And the
tiny drops acquire a louder voice, fill the room with soft murmurs, and
then are hushed once more. Jeanne does not understand the soft murmurs,
does not understand that the man of whom her heart is full is lying
unconscious, on the lonely, rocky, hillside, down which the rain washes.

Late on the following morning Signora Selva, somewhat anxious because
neither of her guests had as yet appeared, entered her sister's room
quietly. Noemi was nearly dressed, and signed to her to be silent.
Jeanne had fallen asleep at last. The two sisters left the room together
and went to the study where Giovanni was waiting for them. Well? Was Don
Clemente really the man? The husband and wife were anxious to know in
order to regulate their conduct accordingly. Giovanni no longer doubted,
but his wife was not sure even now. Noemi! Noemi must know! Giovanni
closed the door, while Maria, interpreting her sister's silence as
confirmation, insisted: "Then it is really he, really he?"

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