The Saint by Antonio Fogazzaro

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Noemi was silent. She would perhaps have betrayed her friend's secret in
order to conspire with the Selvas for Jeanne's happiness, had she not
been deterred by a doubt of their agreeing with her, and by a sense of
wavering in her own mind. Probably, as Catholics, the Selvas would
not wish this man who had fled from the world to return to it. She, a
Protestant, could not feel thus; at least she _should_ not feel thus.
She should rather believe that God is better served out in the world and
in the married state. She did feel this, but she could not hide from
herself that should Signor Maironi marry Jeanne now, she could feel
little respect for him. At any rate it would be wiser to hide the
strange truth.

"Well, what is it you think?" said she. "That the priest who was here
last night, and who passed in front of us, after all that by-play of
yours, was really the former lover? Is he your Don Clemente? Very well
then, he is not the man."

"Ah! Really not?" Giovanni exclaimed, between surprise and incredulity.
His wife triumphed.

"There!" said she.

But Giovanni would not yield. He asked Noemi if she were quite sure of
what she said, and how she explained Signora Dessalle's fainting? Noemi
answered that there was nothing to explain. Jeanne suffered from anaemia,
and was subject to attacks of terrible weakness. Giovanni was silent,
but he was not convinced. If this were really so, how could Noemi assert
so positively that Don Clemente was not the man? In his sister-in-law's
words, in her manner, in her face, Giovanni perceived something that was
not natural. Maria asked how they had passed the night. How had Signora
Dessalle rested? She had been uneasy? In what way uneasy?

"She was uneasy! What more can I say?" Noemi exclaimed rather irritably,
and went to the open window as if to ascertain the intention of the
clouds. Giovanni took a step towards her, determined to conquer her
reticence. She had a presentiment of this, and, as an expedient, she
asked what his predictions concerning the weather were.

The sky was completely overcast; low, heavy clouds rolled down from the
crests of Monte Calvo upon the Cappuccini and the Rocca. The air was
warm, the roar of the Anio loud. Far below, the road to Subiaco, like
a winding ribbon and almost black with mud, was visible through the
foliage of the olives. Giovanni answered;

"Rain."

Noemi at once asked how far it was from the little villa to the
convents. It took twenty minutes to go to Santa Scolastica. But why did
she ask? Upon hearing that Jeanne intended going there with Noemi that
very morning, Maria protested. In such weather? You are obliged to walk
the last part of the way. Could they not postpone their visit until
to-morrow or the next day?

"When did she tell you?" Giovanni asked, almost sharply. Noemi hesitated
before answering:

"In the night."

As soon as she had spoken the words she realised that they would arouse
suspicion, especially after that moment of hesitation; she now awaited
an attack, undecided whether to resist or surrender.

"Noemi!" Giovanni exclaimed severely.

She looked at him, her face slightly flushed; she was silent, not even
saying, "Well, what is it?"

"Do not deny it," her brother-in-law went on.

"This woman recognised Don Clemente. Do not deny it, rather say so at
once; it is a duty which your conscience must surely urge upon you! They
must on no account be allowed to meet!"

"What I said is true," Noemi answered, having now decided on a line
of action. In her tone, free from all trace of irritation and almost
submissive, there lurked the implied confession that she had not told
the whole truth.

"She did not recognise him? But surely you know something more?"

"Yes, I do know something more," Noemi replied; "but I must not tell
you what I know. I can only ask you to warn Don Clemente that Signora
Dessalle and I propose visiting the convents this morning. I will say
nothing more, and now I am going to see if Jeanne is awake."

She left the room hastily. The Selvas looked at each other. What was
the meaning of her wish to have Don Clemente warned? Maria read in her
husband's thoughts something which displeased her, something she did not
wish him to utter,

"You had better write the letter to Don Clemente," she said.

But Giovanni, before writing, wished to free his mind. There seemed to
be only one explanation possible: Don Clemente was really the man. Noemi
had promised Signora Dessalle not to say so, but she nevertheless wished
to prevent a meeting. Maria exclaimed with some heat: "Oh! Noemi does
not tell lies!" and then, crimsoning and smiling, she embraced her
husband as if fearful of having offended him. For, once, she had
offended him by some thoughtless words concerning the lack of
truthfulness in Italians, and now perhaps her exclamation might have the
effect of recalling the shadow of that cloud. He was indeed annoyed,
more by the embrace than by the protest, and, remembering, he also
crimsoned and maintained that in Noemi's place Maria herself would have
denied everything. Maria was silent, and left the study, importunate
tears welling up in her eyes. At first Giovanni was glad he had repulsed
this offensive tenderness, and he began the note to Don Clemente. Before
he had finished it, however, his irritation had turned to remorse,
and he rose and went in search of his wife. She was in the corridor,
speaking in low tones to Noemi. She turned her face towards him at once;
understanding, she smiled, her eyes still wet, and signed to him to come
nearer, and to speak softly. What was the matter? The matter was that
Jeanne wished to start for Santa Scolastica at once. Noemi explained
that she had only just awakened, and that _at once_ meant an hour and a
half at least. But they must send to Subiaco for a carriage, for Jeanne
was in no condition to walk more than was absolutely necessary--more
than the last part of the way. A ring of the bell called Noemi away.
Jeanne was waiting for her with impatience.

"What a chatterbox of a maid!" she said, half jestingly and half
irritably. "What have you been telling your sister?"

Noemi threatened to leave her. Jeanne clasped her hands in supplication,
and asked, looking her straight in the eyes, as though to read her soul:

"How shall I arrange my hair? How shall I dress?"

Noemi answered thoughtlessly:

"Why, just as you please."

Jeanne stamped her foot angrily. Noemi understood.

"As a peasant girl," said she.

"You silly creature!"

Noemi laughed.

Jeanne sighed out the usual reproach:

"You do not love me! You do not love me!"

Then Noemi became serious, and asked her if she really wished to entice
him back again--her precious Maironi?

"I want to be beautiful!" Jeanne exclaimed. "There!"

She really was beautiful at that moment, in her dressing-gown of a warm
yellow tint, with her streaming dark hair down to a hand's-breadth below
her waist. She looked far lovelier and younger than the night before.
Her eyes shone with that look of intense animation which, in former
days, they had been wont to assume when Maironi entered the room, or
even when she heard his step outside.

"I wish I had the _toilette_ I wore at Praglia," she said. "I should
like to appear before him in my green fur-lined cloak, now, in May! I
should like him to see at a glance how unchanged I am, and how much I
wish to remain unchanged! Oh! my God, my God!"

With a sudden impulse she threw her arms about Noemi's neck, and pressed
her face against her shoulder, stifling a sob and murmuring words Noemi
could not distinguish.

"No, no, no!" she cried at last. "I am mad! I am wicked! Let us go away,
let us go away!" She raised her tearful face. "Let us go to Rome!" said
she.

"Yes, yes!" Noemi answered in great agitation, "we will go to Rome. We
will leave at once. Let me go and ask when the next train starts."

Jeanne immediately seized upon her and held her back. No, no, it was
madness. What would her sister say? What would her brother-in-law think?
It was madness, an impossibility! And besides, besides, besides--She
hid her face, whispering behind her hands that she would be satisfied if
she could only see him for one moment; but she could not--no, no--she
could not leave without having seen him.

"Enough!" said she, uncovering her face, after a long pause. "Let us
dress! I will wear whatever you please; sackcloth, if you wish it, or
even haircloth!"

Her face had resumed the aggrieved smile she had worn before.

"Who can tell?" she said. "Perhaps it will do me good to see him in the
dress of a peasant!"

"It would cure _me_ at once!" Noemi muttered; then she blushed, for she
felt she had spoken a great untruth.

When Signora Selva knocked at the door to say the carriage was waiting,
Jeanne, with mock humility, begged Noemi to allow her to wear a certain
large Rembrandt hat of which she was very fond. The black, feather-laden
brim, drooping over her pale face, above the sombre light in her eyes,
above the tall figure wrapped in a dark cloak, seemed to partake of her
feelings, gloomy, passionate, and haughty. When she said good morning
to Maria Selva she felt the admiration she aroused. She saw it in
Giovanni's eyes also, but it was admiration of a different sort, and not
of a sympathetic nature. As soon as she and Noemi had left him and were
on their way down to the gate, where the carriage was waiting, Jeanne
asked her if she really had not told her brother-in-law anything at all?
Upon being reassured she murmured:

"I thought you must have."

When they had proceeded a few paces she pressed her friend's arm
very hard and exclaimed, much pleased, and as though she had made an
unexpected discovery:

"At any rate, I am still beautiful!"

Noemi did not heed her. She was wondering if the name Dessalle had
conveyed anything to the monk. Had Maironi ever mentioned it to him? If
he had told him of this love, had he not perhaps concealed the woman's
name? At the bottom of her heart there lurked a lively curiosity to
see this man who had awakened such a strong passion in Jeanne and had
disappeared from the world in such a strange manner. But she would have
liked to see him alone. It was terrifying to think of these two meeting
without any preparation. If she could only speak to the monk first, to
this Don Clemente, to make sure he knew, and to enlighten him if he did
not know; if she could only find out from him something of that other
man, the state of his mind, his intentions. "But enough!" she said to
herself as she entered the carriage. "Providence must provide! And may
Providence help this poor creature!" When they left the carriage where
the mule-path begins, Jeanne proposed timidly, and as one who expects a
refusal and knows it is justified, that she should go up to the convents
by herself, a small boy, who had run after the carriage all the way
from Subiaco, acting as guide. The refusal came indeed, and was most
emphatic. Such a thing was out of the question! What was she thinking
of? Then Jeanne begged at least to be left alone with him should she
find him. Noemi did not know what to answer.

"What if I went up before you?" said she. "If I asked for Padre
Clemente, and tried to find out from him what he is, what he is doing,
and what he thinks; this, your--"

Jeanne interrupted her, horrified.

"The Padre? Speak to the Padre?" she exclaimed, pressing both hands to
Noemi's face as though to silence her words. "Woe to you if you speak
to the Padre!"

They started slowly up the rocky mule-path, Jeanne often stopping,
seized with trembling, and vibrating like a taut cord in the wind. In
silence she stretched out her hands that Noemi might feel how cold they
were, and smiled. In the sea of clouds rushing towards the hills the
pale eye of the sun appeared; the sun, too, was curious.

* * * * *

Don Clemente said Mass at about seven o'clock, spoke with the Abbot,
and then went to the Ospizio where pilgrims were sheltered. He found
Benedetto asleep, his arms crossed upon his breast, his lips slightly
parted, his face reflecting an inward vision of beatitude. Don Clemente
stroked his hair, calling him softly. The young man started, raised his
head with a dazed look, and, springing out of bed, grasped and kissed
Don Clemente's hand. The monk withdrew it with an impulse of humility,
quickly checked by the purity of his soul, by his consciousness of the
dignity of his office.

"Well?" he said. "Did the Lord speak to you?"

"I am subject to His will," Benedetto replied, "as a leaf in the wind, a
leaf which knows nought."

The monk took his head between his hands, drawing him towards him, and
pressed his lips upon his hair, letting them rest there while their
souls silently communed.

"You must go to the Abbot," he said. "Afterwards you can come to me."

Benedetto fixed his gaze upon him, questioning him without words:
"Why this visit?" Don Clemente's eyes were veiled in silence, and the
disciple humbled himself in a mute but visible impulse of obedience.

"At once?" he inquired.

"At once."

"May I first go and wash in the torrent?"

The master smiled:

"Go, wash in the torrent." Bathing in the water which sometimes, after
heavy rains, sings in the Pucceia Valley to the east of the monastery,
and cuts in rivulets across the road to the Sacro Speco, below Santa
Crocella, was the only physical pleasure in which Benedetto allowed
himself to indulge. It was still sprinkling; mist smoked slowly in the
deep valley; the trembling shallow waters complained to Benedetto as
they hastened across the road, but rested quiet and content in the
hollow of his hands; and through his forehead, his eyes, his cheeks, his
neck, they infused deep into his heart a sense of the sweet chastity of
their soul, a sense of Divine bounty. Benedetto poured the water over
his head copiously, and the spirit of the water entered into his
thoughts. He felt that the Father was sending him forth upon new paths,
but that He would carry him in His mighty hand. He reverently blessed
the creature through which so much light of grace had come to him,
the most pure water! Then he bent his steps towards the Ospizio. Don
Clemente, who was waiting for him in the courtyard, started when he
caught sight of him, so transfigured did he appear. Under his thick,
damp hair his eyes shone with quiet celestial joy, and the fleshless
face, the colour of ivory, wore that expression of occult spirituality
which flowed from the brushes of the _Quattrocento_. How could that face
harmonise with peasant's attire? In his heart Don Clemente congratulated
himself upon a thought which he had conceived during the night, and had
already communicated to the Abbot, namely, to give Benedetto an old
lay-brother's habit. Before consenting or refusing the Abbot wished to
see Benedetto and speak with him.

The Abbot, while waiting for Benedetto, was strumming with his knuckles
a piece of his own composition, accompanying the sound with horrible
contortions of lips, nostrils and eyebrows. Upon hearing a gentle knock
at the door, he neither answered nor stopped playing. Having finished
the piece he began it again, and played it a second time from beginning
to end. Then he stopped and listened. Another knock was heard, more
gentle than the first. The Abbot exclaimed.

"_Seccatore_! Some bore!"

After some angry chords he began playing chromatic scales. From
chromatic scales he passed to broken chords. Then he listened again for
three or four minutes. Hearing nothing more he went to open the door,
and perceived Benedetto, who fell upon his knees.

"Who are you?" he demanded roughly.

"My name is Piero Maironi," Benedetto answered; "but here at the
monastery they call me Benedetto."

And he made a movement to take the Abbot's hand and kiss it.

"One moment," said the Abbot, frowning, withdrawing and raising his
hand. "What are you doing here?"

"I work in the kitchen garden," Benedetto replied.

"Fool!" exclaimed the Abbot. "I ask what you are doing here outside my
door?"

"I was coming to see you, Padre."

"Who told you to come to me?"

"Don Clemente."

The Abbot was silent, and studied the kneeling man for some time; then
he grumbled something incomprehensible, and offered him his hand to
kiss.

"Rise!" said he, still sharply. "Come in. Close the door."

When Benedetto had entered the Abbot appeared to forget him. He put on
his glasses and began turning over the leaves of a book and glancing
through the papers on his desk. In an attitude of soldierly respect,
holding himself very erect, Benedetto stood, waiting for him to speak.

"Maironi of Brescia?" said the Abbot, in the same unfriendly tone as
before, and without turning round.

Having received an answer he continued to turn the pages and read.
Finally he removed his glasses and turned round.

"What did you come here to Santa Scolastica for?" said he.

"I was a great sinner," Benedetto answered, "God called me to withdraw
from the world, and I withdrew from It."

The Abbot was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed upon the young man,
and then he said with ironical gentleness:

"No, my friend!"

He took out his snuff-box, shook it, repeating "No, no, no," rapidly and
almost under his breath; he examined the snuff, dipped his fingers into
it, raised his eyes once more to Benedetto's face, and, emphasising each
word, said:

"That is not true!"

Grasping the pinch with his thumb, his forefinger, and his middle
finger, he raised his hand swiftly, as though about to throw the snuff
into the air, and, with his arm suspended, continued to speak.

"It is probably true enough that you were a great sinner, but it is not
true that you withdrew from the world. You are neither in it nor out of
it."

He took his pinch of snuff with a loud noise, and went on:

"Neither in it nor out of it!"

Benedetto looked at him without answering. In those eyes there was
something so serious and so sweet, that the Abbot lowered his to the
open snuff-box, once more dipping his fingers into it and toying with
the snuff.

"I do not understand you," he said.

"You are of the world, and still you are not of it. You are in the
monastery, and still you are not in the monastery. I fear your head
serves you no better than your great-grandfather's, your grandfather's,
and your father's served them. Fine heads, those!"

Benedetto's ivory face flushed slightly.

"They are souls with God," he said, "better than we are, and your words
offend against one of God's commandments."

"Silence!" the Abbot exclaimed. "You say you have renounced the world,
and you are full of worldly pride. If you really wished to renounce the
world, you should have tried to become a novice! Why did you not attempt
this? You wished to come here _in villeggiatura_, for an outing, that is
the truth of the matter. Or perhaps you were under certain obligations
at home, there were certain troublesome matters--you know what I mean!
_Nec nominentur in nobis_. And you wished to rid yourself of these
troubles, only to get yourself into fresh ones. You tell stories to that
simple-minded Don Clemente; you usurp the place of a poor pilgrim; and
perhaps--eh?--you hoped with prayers and sacraments to throw dust in the
eyes of the monks, which is an easy matter enough, and even in the eyes
of the Almighty Himself, which is a far more difficult matter. You do
not deny this!"

The slight flush had vanished from the ivory face; the lips, which at
one moment had parted, ready to utter, words of calm severity, were now
motionless; the penetrating eyes were fixed upon the Abbot with the same
sweedy grave look as before. And this calm silence seemed to exasperate
the Abbot.

"Speak then!" said he. "Confess! Have you not also boasted of special
gifts, of visions, of miracles even, for all I know? You have been a
great sinner? Prove that you are one no longer! Exonerate yourself if
you can. Say how you have lived; explain this pretension of yours that
God has called you; justify yourself for coming here to eat the monk's
bread for nothing; for you did not wish to become a monk, and as to
work, you have done little enough of that."

"Padre," Benedetto replied (and the severe tone of his voice, the
austere dignity of his face, accorded ill with the humble gentleness of
his words), "this is good for me, a sinner, who for three years have
lived the life of the spirit, in ease and delights, in peace, in the
affection of saintly men, in an atmosphere full of God Himself. Your
words are good, and sweet unto my soul, they are a blessing from the
Lord; their sting has made me feel how much pride there is in me still,
of which I was ignorant, for it was a joy to me to despise myself. But
as a servant of holy Truth, I say to you that harshness is not good,
even when used towards one who deceives, because gentleness might
perhaps bring him to repent of his deceit; and I say also, Padre, that
in your words there is not the spirit of our true and; only Father, to
whom be all glory!"

At the words "to whom be all glory" Benedetto fell upon his knees, his
face glowing with intense fervour.

"Is it for you, miserable sinner, to play the part of teacher?" the
Abbot exclaimed.

"You are right, you are right!" Benedetto replied impulsively, with
laboured breath and clasped hands. "Now I will confess my sin to you. I
desired illicit love; I was happy in the passion of a woman who was not
free, as I myself was not free, and I accepted this passion. I abandoned
all religious practices and heeded not the scandal I gave. This woman
did not believe in God, and I dishonoured God in her company, my faith
being dead, and showing myself sensual, selfish, weak, and false. God
called me back with the voices of my dead, the voices of my father and
mother. Then I left the woman who loved me, but I was without strength
of purpose, wavering in my heart between good and evil. Soon I returned
to her, all aflame with sin, knowing I should lose myself, even
determined to lose myself. There was no longer an atom of grace in my
soul when a dying hand, dear and saintly, seized me and saved me."

"Look me in the eyes," said the Abbot, without allowing him to rise.
"Have you ever let any one know you were here?"

"I have never let any one know." The Abbot answered drily:

"I do not believe you!"

Benedetto did not flinch.

"You know why I do not believe you?" the Abbot continued.

"I can imagine why," Benedetto answered, dropping his eyes. "_Peccatum
meum contra me est semper_."

"Rise!" the Abbot commanded, still inflexible. "I expel you from the
monastery. You will now go and take leave of Don Clemente, in his cell,
and then you will depart, never to return. Do you understand?"

Benedetto bowed his head in assent, and was about to bend his knee to
pay homage in the usual way, when the Abbot stopped him with a gesture.

"Wait," said he.

Putting on his glasses he took a sheet of paper, upon which he traced
some words, standing the while,

"What will you do, when you have left?" he asked still writing.

Benedetto answered softly:

"Does the sleeping child that his father lifts in his arms know what his
father will do with him?"

The Abbot made no answer; his writing finished, he placed the paper in
an envelope, closed it, and without turning his head, held it out to
Benedetto, who was standing behind him.

"Take this to Don Clemente," he said. Benedetto begged permission to
kiss his hand.

"No, no, go away, go away!"

The Abbot's voice trembled with anger. Benedetto obeyed. Hardly had
he reached the corridor when he heard the angry man thundering on the
piano.

* * * * *

Before entering Don Clemente's little cell, Benedetto stopped before the
great window at the end of the corridor. Here, a few hours earlier, the
master himself had lingered, contemplating the lights of Subiaco, and
thinking of the enemy, the creature of beauty, of genius, of natural
kindliness, who was perhaps come to strive with him for possession of
his spiritual son, to strive with God Himself. Now the spiritual son
felt a mysterious certainty that the woman he had loved so ill, during
the time of his blind and ardent leaning towards inferior things, had
discovered his presence in the monastery, and would come in search of
him. Seeking deep in his own heart for the Spirit which dwelt there,
he gained from it a pious sense of the Divine, which was surely in her
also, hidden even from herself; and he felt a mystic hope that, by some
dark way, she also would one day reach the sea of eternal truth and
love, which awaits so many poor wandering souls.

Don Clemente had heard him coming, and had set his door ajar. Benedetto
entered, and offered him the Abbot's letter. "I must leave the
monastery," he said, very calmly. "At once, and for ever."

Don Clemente did not answer, but opened the letter. When he had read
it he observed, smiling, that Benedetto's departure for Jenne had been
decided upon the night before. True, but the Abbot had said never to
return, Don Clemente's eyes were full of tears, but he still smiled.

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