Title: The Saint
Author: Fogazzaro, Antonio
Language: English
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THE SAINT

By Antonio Fogazzaro


Since the condemnation of _The Saint_ by the Congregation of the Index,
the publishers of the authorized translation of this novel feel that, in
justice to its author, Senator Antonio Fogazzaro, they owe to the public
a word of explanation by way of making plain (what the author has in
more than one letter made plain to them) how it comes about that, in
spite of the decree of the Index, the Senator sanctions the appearance
of the book in America. The explanation is found in the fact that the
American publishers secured, before the sentence of the Congregation had
been passed, the sanction for the publication of their translation--a
sanction which the author, as a loyal Catholic, could not have given
later, but which, once it was given, he did not feel justified in
withdrawing.

NEW YORK, July, 1906.


NOTE:

_The Saint_, though it is independent of Fogazzaro’s earlier romances,
and though it explains itself completely when read in its entirety,
will perhaps be more readily understood and enjoyed, especially in the
opening chapters, if a few words are said with regard to certain of its
characters who have made an appearance in preceding stories by the
me author. All needful information of this kind is conveyed in the
following paragraph, for which we are indebted to Mrs. Crawford’s
article, “The Saint in Fiction,” which appeared in _The Fortnightly
Review_ for April, 1906:

“Readers of Fogazzaro’s earlier novels will recognise in Piero Maironi,
the Saint, the son of the Don Franco Maironi who, in the _Piccolo Mondo
Antico_, gives his life for the cause of freedom, while he himself is
the hero of the _Piccolo Mondo Moderno_. For those who have not read
the preceding volumes it should be explained that his wife being in a
lunatic asylum, Maironi, artist and dreamer, had fallen in love with
a beautiful woman separated from her husband, Jeanne Dessalle, who
professed agnostic opinions. Recalled to a sense of his faith and his
honour by an interview with his wife, who sent for him on her death-bed,
he was plunged in remorse, and disappeared wholly from the knowledge
of friends and relatives after depositing in the hands of a venerable
priest, Don Giuseppe Flores, a sealed paper describing a prophetic
vision concerning his life that had largely contributed to his
conversion. Three years are supposed to have passed between the close of
the _Piccolo Mondo Moderno_ and the opening of _Il Santo_, when Maironi
is revealed under the name of Benedetto, purified of his sins by a life
of prayer and emaciated by the severity of his mortifications, while
Jeanne Dessalle, listless and miserable, is wandering around Europe
with Noemi d’Arxel, sister to Maria Selva, hoping against hope for the
reappearance of her former lover.”



CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION (BY WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER)

CHAPTER

I.--LAC D’AMOUR

II.--DON CLEMENTE

III.--A NIGHT OF STORMS

IV.--FACE TO FACE

V.--THE SAINT

VI.--THREE LETTERS

VII.--IN THE WHIRLPOOL OF THE WORLD

VIII.--JEANNE

IX.--IN THE WHIRLWIND OF GOD



Introduction


By William Roscoe Thayer

Author of “The Dawn of Italian Independence”

ANTONIO FOGAZZARO AND HIS MASTERPIECE


I

Senator Fogazzaro, in _The Saint_, has confirmed the impression of
his five and twenty years’ career as a novelist, and now, through
the extraordinary power and pertinence of this crowning work, he has
suddenly become an international celebrity. The myopic censors of the
_Index_ have assured the widest circulation of his book by condemning it
as heretical. In the few months since its publication, it has been
read by hundreds of thousands of Italians; it has appeared in French
translation in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ and in German in the
_Hochland_; and it has been the storm centre of religious and literary
debate. Now it will be sought by a still wider circle, eager to see what
the doctrines are, written by the leading Catholic layman in Italy, at
which the Papal advisers have taken fright. Time was when it was the
books of the avowed enemies of the Church--of some mocking Voltaire,
some learned Renan, some impassioned Michelet--which they thrust on the
_Index_; now they pillory the Catholic layman with the largest following
in Italy, one who has never wavered in his devotion to the Church.
Whatever the political result of their action may be, they have made the
fortune of the book they hoped to suppress; and this is good, for _The
Saint_ is a real addition to literature.

Lovers of Italy have regretted that foreigners should judge her
contemporary ideals and literary achievements by the brilliant, but
obscene and degenerate books of Gabriele d’Annunzio. Such books, the
products of disease no matter what language they may be written in,
quickly circulate from country to country. Like epidemics they sweep
up and down the world, requiring no passports, respecting no frontiers,
while benefits travel slowly from people to people, and often lose much
in the passage. D’Annunzio, speaking the universal language--Sin,--has
been accepted as the typical Italian by foreigners who know Carducci
merely as a name and have perhaps never heard of Fogazzaro. Yet it is in
these men that the better genius of modern Italy has recently expressed
itself. Carducci’s international reputation as the foremost living poet
in Europe and a literary critic of the first class gains slowly, but
its future is secure. Thanks to the wider circulating medium of fiction,
Fogaz-* *zaro’s name is a household word in thousands of Italian
families, and he combines in his genius so many rare and important
strands that the durability of his literary renown cannot be questioned.


II

Antonio Fogazzaro, the most eminent Italian novelist since Manzoni, was
born at Vicenza on March 25th, 1842. He was happy in his parents, his
father, Mariano Fogazzaro, being a man of refined tastes and sound
learning, while his mother, Teresa Barrera, united feminine sweetness
with wit and a warm heart. From childhood they influenced all sides of
his nature, and when the proper time came they put him in charge of a
wise tutor, Professor Zanella, who seems to have divined his pupil’s
talents and the best way to cultivate them. Young Fogazzaro, having
completed his course in the classics went on to the study of the law,
which he pursued first in the University of Padua and then at Turin,
where his father had taken up a voluntary exile. For Vicenza, during the
forties and fifties, lay under Austrian subjection, and any Italian
who desired to breathe freely in Italy had to seek the liberal air of
Piedmont.

Fogazzaro received his diploma in due season, and began to practise as
advocate, but in that casual way common to young men who know that their
real leader is not Themis but Apollo. Erelong he abandoned the bar and
devoted himself with equal enthusiasm to music and poetry, for both of
which he had unusual aptitude. Down to 1881 he printed chiefly volumes
of verse which gave him a genuine, if not popular reputation. In that
year he brought out his first romance, _Malombra_, and from time to time
during the past quarter of a century he has followed it with _Daniele
Cortis_, _Il Mistero del Poeta_, _Piccolo Mondo Antico_, _Piccolo Mondo
Moderno_, and finally, in the autumn of 1905, _Il Santo_. This list by
no means exhausts his productivity, for he has worked in many fields,
but it includes the books by which, gradually at first, and with
triumphant strides of late, he has come into great fame in Italy and
has risen into the small group of living authors who write for a
cosmopolitan public.

For many years past Signor Fogazzaro has dwelt in his native Vicenza,
the most honoured of her citizens, round whom has grown up a band of
eager disciples, who look to him for guidance not merely in matters
intellectual or aesthetic, but in the conduct of life. He has conceived
of the career of man of letters as a great opportunity, not as a mere
trade. Nothing could show better his high seriousness than his waiting
until the age of thirty-nine before publishing his first novel, unless
it be the restraint which led him, after having embarked on the career
of novelist to devote four or five years on the average to his studies
in fiction. So his books are ripe, the fruits of a deliberate and rich
nature, and not the windfalls of a mere literary trick. And now the
publication of _The Saint_ confirms all his previous work, and entitles
him, at a little more than threescore years, to rank among the few
literary masters of the time.


III


Many elements in _The Saint_ testify to its importance; but these would
not make it a work of art. And after all it is as a work of art that it
first appeals to readers, who may care little for its religious purport.
It is a great novel--so great, that, after living with its characters,
we cease to regard it as a novel at all. It keeps our suspense on the
stretch through nearly five hundred pages. Will the Saint triumph--will
love victoriously claim its own? We hurry on, at the first reading,
for the solution; then we go back and discover in it another world of
profound interest. That is the true sign of a masterpiece.

In English we have only _John Inglesant_ and _Robert Elsmere_ to compare
it with; but such a comparison, though obviously imperfect, proves
at once how easily _The Saint_ surpasses them both, not merely by
the greater significance of its central theme, but by its subtler
psychology, its wider horizon, its more various contacts with life.
Benedetto, the Saint, is a new character in fiction, a mingling of St.
Francis and Dr. Dollinger, a man of to-day in intelligence, a medieval
in faith. Nothing could be finer than the way in which Signor Fogazzaro
depicts his zeal, his ecstasies, his visions, his depressions, his
doubts; shows the physical and mental reactions; gives us, in a word,
a study in religious morbid psychology--for, say what we will,
such abnormalities are morbid--without rival in fiction. We follow
Benedetto’s spiritual fortunes with as much eagerness as if they were a
love story.

And then there is the love story. Where shall one turn to find another
like it? Jeanne seldom appears in the foreground, but we feel from first
to last the magnetism of her presence. There is always the possibility
that at sight or thought of her Benedetto may be swept back from
his ascetic vows to the life of passion. Their first meeting in the
monastery chapel is a masterpiece of dramatic climax, and Benedetto’s
temptation in her carriage, after the feverish interview with the
cabinet officer, is a marvel of psychological subtlety. Both scenes
illustrate Signor Fogazzaro’s power to achieve the highest artistic
results without exaggeration. This naturalness is the more remarkable
because the character of a saint is unnatural according to our modern
point of view. We have a healthy distrust of ascetics, whose anxiety
over their soul’s condition we properly regard as a form of egotism;
and we know how easily the unco’ guid become prigs. Fogazzaro’s hero is
neither an egotist of the ordinary cloister variety, nor a prig.
That our sympathy goes out to Jeanne and not to him shows that we
instinctively resent the sacrifice of the deepest human cravings to
sacerdotal prescriptions. The highest ideal of holiness which medievals
could conceive does not satisfy us.

Why did Signor Fogazzaro in choosing his hero revert to that outworn
type? He sees very clearly how many of the Catholic practices are what
he calls “ossified organisms.” Why did he set up a lay monk as a model
for 20th century Christians who long to devote their lives to uplifting
their fellow-men? Did he not note the artificiality of asceticism--the
waste of energy that comes with fasts and mortification of the flesh and
morbidly pious excitement? When asked these questions by his followers
he replied that he did not mean to preach asceticism as a rule for all;
but that in individual cases like Benedetto’s, for instance, it was a
psychological necessity. Herein Signor Fogazzaro certainly discloses his
profound knowledge of the Italian heart--of that heart from which in
its early medieval vigour sprang the Roman religion, with its message
of renunciation. Even the Renaissance and the subsequent period of
scepticism have not blotted out those tendencies that date back more
than a thousand years: so that today, if an Italian is engulfed in a
passion of self-sacrifice, he naturally thinks first of asceticism as
the method. Among Northern races a similar religious experience does
not suggest hair shirts and debilitating pious orgies (except among
Puseyites and similar survivals from a different epoch); it suggests
active work, like that of General Booth of the Salvation Army.

No one can gainsay, however, the superb artistic effects which Signor
Fogazzaro attains through his Saint’s varied experiences. He causes to
pass before you all classes of society,--from the poorest peasant of
the Subiaco hills, to duchesses and the Pope himself,--some incredulous,
some mocking, some devout, some hesitating, some spell-bound, in the
presence of a holy man. The fashionable ladies wish to take him up and
make a lion of him; the superstitious kiss the hem of his garment and
believe that he can work miracles, or, in a sudden revulsion, they
jeer him and drive him away with stones. And what a panorama of
ecclesiastical life in Italy! What a collection of priests and monks and
prelates, and with what inevitableness one after another turns the cold
shoulder on the volunteer who dares to assert that the test of religion
is conduct! There is an air of mystery, of intrigue, of secret messages
passing to and fro--the atmosphere of craft which has hung round the
ecclesiastical institution so many, many centuries. Few scenes in modern
romance can match Benedetto’s interview with the Pope--he pathetic
figure who, you feel, is in sad truth a prisoner, not of the Italian
Government, but of the crafty, able, remorseless cabal of cardinals who
surround him, dog him with eavesdroppers, edit his briefs, check his
benign impulses, and effectually prevent the truth from penetrating to
his lonely study. Benedetto’s appeal to the Pope to heal the four wounds
from which the Church is languishing is a model of impassioned argument.
The four wounds, be it noted, are the “spirit of falsehood,” “the spirit
of clerical domination,” “the spirit of avarice,” and “the spirit of
immobility.” The Pope replies in a tone of resignation; he does not
disguise his powerlessness; he hopes to meet Benedetto again--in heaven!



IV


_The Saint_ may be considered under many aspects--indeed, the critics,
in their efforts to classify it, have already fallen out over its real
character. Some regard it as a thinly disguised statement of a creed;
others, as a novel pure and simple; others, as a campaign document (in
the broadest sense); others, as no novel at all, but a dramatic sort of
confession. The Jesuits have had it put on the _Index_; the Christian
Democrats have accepted it as their gospel: yet Jesuits and Christian
Democrats both profess to be Catholics. Such a divergence of opinion
proves conclusively that the book possesses unusual power and that it
is many-sided. Instead of pitching upon one of these views as right
and declaring all the rest to be wrong, it is more profitable to try to
discover in the book itself what grounds each class of critics finds to
justify its particular and exclusive verdict.

On the face of it what does the book say? This is what it says: That
Piero Maironi, a man of the world, cultivated far beyond his kind, after
having had a vehement love-affair is stricken with remorse, “experiences
religion,” becomes penitent, is filled with a strange zeal--an ineffable
comfort--and devotes himself, body, heart, and soul to the worship of
God and the succour of his fellow-men. As Benedetto, the lay brother, he
serves the peasant populations among the Sabine hills, or moves on his
errands of hope and mercy among the poor of Rome. Everybody recognises
him as a holy man--“a saint.” Perhaps, if he had restricted himself to
taking only soup or simple medicines to the hungry and sick, he would
have been unmolested in his philanthropy; but after his conversion, he
had devoured the Scriptures and studied the books of the Fathers, until
the spirit of the early, simple, untheological Church had poured into
him. It brought a message the truth of which so stirred him that
he could not rest until he imparted it to his fellows. He preached
righteousness,--the supremacy of conduct over ritual,--love as the test
and goal of life; but always with full acknowledgment of Mother
Church as the way of salvation. Indeed, he seems neither to doubt the
impregnability of the foundations of Christianity, nor the validity of
the Petrine corner-stone; taking these for granted he aims to live the
Christian life in every act, in every thought. The superstructure--the
practices of the Catholic Church to-day, the failures and sins of
clerical society, the rigid ecclesiasticism--these he must in loyalty
to fundamental truth, criticise, and if need be, condemn, where they
interfere with the exercise of pure religion. But Benedetto engages very
little in controversy; his method is to glorify the good, sure that the
good requires only to be revealed in all its beauty and charm in order
to draw irresistibly to itself souls that, for lack of vision, have been
pursuing the mediocre or the bad.

Yet these utterances, so natural to Benedetto, awaken the suspicions of
his superiors, who--we cannot say without cause--scent heresy in them.
Good works, righteous conduct--what are these in comparison with blind
subscription to orthodox formulas? Benedetto is persecuted not by an
obviously brutal or sanguinary persecution,--although it might have
come to that except for a catastrophe of another sort,--but by the
very finesse of persecution. The sagacious politicians of the Vatican,
inheritors of the accumulated craft of a thousand years, know too much
to break a butterfly on a wheel, to make a martyr of an inconvenient
person whom they can be rid of quietly. Therein lies the tragedy of
Benedetto’s experience, so far at least as we regard him, or as he
thought himself, an instrument for the regeneration of the Church.

On the face of it, therefore, _The Saint_ is the story of a man with a
passion for doing good, in the most direct and human way, who found the
Church in which he believed, the Church which existed ostensibly to do
good according to the direct and human ways of Jesus Christ, thwarting
him at every step. Here is a conflict, let us remark in passing, worthy
to be the theme of a great tragedy. Does not _Antigone_ rest on a
similar conflict between Antigone’s simple human way of showing her
sisterly affection and the rigid formalism of the orthodoxy of her day?


V

Or, look next at _The Saint_ as a campaign document, the aspect under
which it has been most hotly discussed in Italy. It has been accepted
as the platform, or even the gospel of the Christian Democrats. Who are
they? They are a body of the younger generation of Italians, among them
being a considerable number of religious, who yearn to put into practice
the concrete exhortations of the Evangelists. They are really carried
forward by that ethical wave which has swept over Western Europe and
America during the past generation, and has resulted in “slumming,”
 in practical social service, in all kinds of efforts to improve
the material and moral condition of the poor, quite irrespective of
sectarian or even Christian initiative. This great movement began,
indeed, outside of the churches, among men and women who felt grievously
the misery of their fellow-creatures and their own obligation to do what
they could to relieve it. From them, it has reached the churches,
and, last of all, the Catholic Church in Italy. No doubt the spread of
Socialism, with its superficial resemblance to some of the features
of primitive Christianity, has somewhat modified the character of this
ethical movement; so far, in fact, that the Italian Christian Democrats
have been confounded, by persons with only a blurred sense of outlines,
with the Socialists themselves. Whatever they may become, however,
they now profess views in regard to property which separate them by an
unbridgeable chasm from the Socialists.

In their zeal for their fellow-men, and especially for the poor
and down-trodden classes, they find the old agencies of charity
insufficient. To visit the sick, to comfort the dying, to dole out broth
at the convent gate, is well, but it offers no remedy for the cause
behind poverty and blind remediable suffering. Only through better
laws, strictly administered, can effectual help come. So the Christian
Democrats deemed it indispensable that they should be free to influence
legislation. At this point, however, the stubborn prohibition of the
Vatican confronted them. Since 1870, when the Italians entered Rome and
established there the capital of United Italy, the Vatican had forbidden
faithful Catholics to take part, either as electors or as candidates, in
any of the national elections, the fiction being that, were they to go
to the polls or to be elected to the Chamber of Deputies, they would
thereby recognise the Royal Government which had destroyed the temporal
power of the Pope. Then what would become of that other fiction--the
Pope’s prisonership in the Vatican--which was to prove for thirty years
the best paying asset among the Papal investments? So long as the Curia
maintained an irreconcilable attitude towards the Kingdom, it could
count on kindling by irritation the sympathy and zeal of Catholics all
over the world. In Italy itself many devout Catholics had long protested
that, as it was through the acquisition of temporal power that the
Church had become worldly and corrupt, so through the loss of temporal
power it would regain its spiritual health and efficiency. They urged
that the Holy Father could perform his religious functions best if he
were not involved in political intrigues and governmental perplexities.
No one would assert that Jesus could have better fulfilled his mission
if he had been king of Judea; why, then, should the Pope, the Vicar of
Jesus, require worldly pomp and power that his Master disdained?

Neither Pius IX nor Leo XIII, however, was open to arguments of this
kind. Incidentally, it was clear that if Catholics as such were kept
away from the polls, nobody could say precisely just how many they
numbered. The Vatican constantly asserted that its adherents were in a
majority--a claim which, if true, meant that the Kingdom of Italy rested
on a very precarious basis. But other Catholics sincerely deplored the
harm which the irreconcilable attitude of the Curia caused to religion.
They regretted to see an affair purely political treated as religious;
to have the belief in the Pope’s temporal power virtually set up as a
part of their creed. The Lord’s work was waiting to be done; yet they
who ought to be foremost in it were handicapped. Other agencies had
stepped in ahead of them. The Socialists were making converts by
myriads; skeptics and cynics were sowing hatred not of the Church
merely but of all religion. It was time to abandon “the prisoner of the
Vatican” humbug, time to permit zealous Catholics, whose orthodoxy no
one could question, to serve God and their fellow-men according to the
needs and methods of the present age.

At last, in the autumn of 1905, the new Pope, Pius X, gave the faithful
tacit permission, if he did not officially command them, to take part in
the elections. Various motives were assigned for this change of front.
Did even the Ultra-montanes realise that, since France had repealed the
Concordat, they could find their best support in Italy? Or were they
driven by the instinct of self-preservation to accept the constitutional
government as a bulwark against the incoming tide of Anarchism,
Socialism, and the other subversive forces? The Church is the most
conservative element in Christendom; in a new upheaval it will surely
rally to the side of any other element which promises to save society
from chaos. These motives have been cited to explain the recent action
of the Holy See, but there were high-minded Catholics who liked to
think that the controlling reason was religious--that the Pope and his
counsellors had at last been persuaded that the old policy of abstention
wrought irreparable harm to the religious life of millions of the
faithful in Italy.

However this may be, Senator Fogazzaro’s book, filled with the Liberal
and Christian spirit, has been eagerly caught up as the mouthpiece of
the Christian Democrats, and indeed of all intelligent Catholics
in Italy, who have always held that religion and patriotism are not
incompatible, and that the Church has most injured itself in prolonging
the antagonism. In this respect, _The Saint_, like _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_
and similar books which crystallise an entire series of ideals or sum
up a crisis, leaped immediately into importance, and seems certain to
enjoy, for a long time to come, the prestige that crowns such works.
Putting it on the _Index_ can only add to its power.


VI

But readers who imagine that this aspect measures the significance of
_The Saint_ have read the surface only. The probability of restoring
friendly relations between Church and State is a matter of concern to
everybody in Italy; but of even greater concern are the implications
which issue from Signor Fogazzaro’s thought. He is an evolutionist; he
respects the higher criticism; he knows that religions, like states and
secular institutions, have their birth and growth and inevitable decay.
So Catholicism must take its course in the human circuit, and expect
sooner or later to pass away. This would be the natural deduction to
draw from the premise of evolution. Signor Fogazzaro, however, does not
draw it. He conceives that Catholicism contains a final deposit of truth
which can neither be superseded, wasted, nor destroyed.

“My friends,” says Benedetto, “you say, ‘We have reposed in the shade of
this tree but now its bark cracks and dries; the tree will die; let us
go in search of other shade.’ The tree will not die. If you had ears,
you would hear the movement of the new bark forming, which will have its
period of life, will crack, will dry in its turn, because another bark
shall replace it. The tree does not die, the tree grows.”

Through this parable, Signor Fogazzaro reveals his attitude, which it
appears, does not differ from that proposed by many Anglicans and other
Protestants towards their respective churches. Herein his Saint takes on
the largest significance. He is a religious man who constantly praises
Reason, and urges his hearers to trust Reason; but who, at a given
moment, falls back on Faith, cleaves to Faith, insists that Faith alone
brings its own warrant. Hence arise paradoxes, hence contradictions
which elude a reasonable solution. For instance, in one discourse
Benedetto says: “The Catholic Church, which proclaims itself the
fountain of truth, opposes to-day the search for Truth when it is
carried on on its own foundations, on the holy books, on the dogmas,
on its asserted infallibility. For us this means that it has no longer
faith in itself. The Catholic Church which proclaims itself the minister
of Life, to-day shackles and stifles whatever lives youthfully within
it, and to-day it props itself on all its decadent and antiquated
usages.” Yet a little farther on he exclaims: “But what sort of faith
is yours, if you talk of leaving the Church because certain antiquated
doctrines of its heads, certain decrees of the Roman congregations,
certain ways in a pontiff’s government offend you? What sort of sons are
you who talk of renouncing your mother because she wears a garment which
does not please you? Is the mother’s heart changed by a garment? When,
bowed over her, weeping, you tell your infirmities to Christ and Christ
heals you, do you think about the authenticity of a passage in _St.
John_, about the real author of the Fourth Gospel or about the two
Isaiahs? When you commune with Christ in the sacrament do the decrees of
the _Index_ or the Holy Office disturb you? When, giving yourself up to
Mother Church, you enter the shadows of death, is the peace she breathes
in you less sweet because a Pope is opposed to Christian Democracy?”

So far, therefore, as Fogazzaro is the spokesman of loyal yet
intelligent Catholics, he shows that among them also the process of
theological solution has been going on. Like Protestants who still
profess creeds which they do not believe, these intelligent Catholics
have to resort to strange devices--to devices which to a looker-on
appear uncandid if not insincere,--in order to patch up a truce between
their reason and their faith. This insincerity is the blight of the
present age. It is far more serious than indifferentism, or than the
open mockery of the 18th century philosophers. So long as it lasts, no
deep, general religious regeneration will be possible. Be it remarked,
however, that Signor Fogazzaro himself is unaware of his ambiguous
position; being still many removes from Jowett, the typical Mr.
Facing-both-Ways of the epoch.


VII

In conclusion, we go back to the book as a work of art, meaning by art
not mere artifice, but that power which takes the fleeting facts of life
and endues them with permanence, with deeper purports, with order and
beauty. In this sense, Signor Fogazzaro is a great artist. He has the
gift of the masters which enables him to rise without effort to the
level of the tragic crises. He has also a vein of humour, without which
such a theme as his could hardly be successfully handled. And although
there is, by measure, much serious talk, yet so skilfully does he bring
in minor characters, with their transient sidelights, that the total
impression is that of a book in which much happens. No realist could
exceed the fidelity with which Signor Fogazzaro outlines a landscape, or
fixes a passing scene; yet being an idealist through and through, he has
produced a masterpiece in which the imagination is sovereign.

Such a book, sprung from “no vain or shallow thought,” holding in
solution the hopes of many earnest souls, spreading before us the mighty
spiritual conflict between Medievalism still triumphant and the young
undaunted Powers of Light, showing us with wonderful lifelikeness the
tragedy of man’s baffled endeavour to establish the Kingdom of God
on earth, and of woman’s unquenchable love, is a great fact in the
world-literature of our time.

Cambridge, Massachusetts,

April 25, 1906.



THE SAINT



CHAPTER I. LAC D’AMOUR

Jeanne was seated by the window with the book which she had been reading
open upon her lap. She gazed pensively into the oval sheet of leaden
water slumbering at her feet, at the passing clouds, casting their
ever-changing shadows on the little villa, on the deserted garden, the
trees of the opposite bank, the distant fields, on the bridge to
the left, and on the quiet roads, which lost themselves behind the
Béguinage, and on the slanting roofs of Bruges, grand, mysterious, dead.
Could it be that _l’Intruse_ of whom she had just been reading, that
fatal, unseen visitor, was even now crossing the sepulchral city; could
it be that the short ripples upon the face of the dark water were
her shadow, while she herself had reached the threshold of the villa,
bringing with her the coveted gift of eternal sleep! The church bells
chimed the hour of five. High, high up, near the white clouds, magic
voices of innumerable bells sang over the houses, the squares, the
streets of Bruges that melancholy incantation which renders its rest
eternal. Jeanne felt two cool hands upon her eyes, a wave of perfume
touched her cheek, a breath stirred her hair, whispering “_encore une
intruse_,” and then soft lips kissed her. She did not seem surprised;
and, raising her hand, caressed the face bending over her, saying:
“Welcome, Noemi. _Magari fossi tu l’Intruse_,” (Would that you were
_l’Intruse_.)

Noemi failed to understand.

“_Magari_,” she said. “Is that Italian? It sounds like Arabic. Explain
at once, please.”

Jeanne rose. “You would not understand any better if I did,” she said
with a smile. “Shall we have our Italian conversation lesson now?”

“Yes, with pleasure,” answered Noemi.

“Where did you go with my brother?”

“To the Hospital of St. John, to call on Memling.”

“That’s all right; let us talk about Memling. But first tell me whether
Carlino made you a declaration?”

The girl laughed. “Yes, he made me a declaration of war, and I did
likewise _to he_.”

“To him, you should say. I wish he would fall in love with you,” added
Jeanne seriously. The girl frowned.

“I do not,” she said.

“Why? Is he not charming, brilliant, cultured, and distinguished? He is
very wealthy too, you know. We may despise riches, but after all they
are very good in their way.”

Noemi d’Arxel placed her hands on her friend’s shoulders, and gazed
steadily into her eyes. The blue questioning eyes were grave and sad;
the brown eyes, thus scrutinised, bore the gaze with firmness, flashing
in turn defiance, embarrassment, and mirth.

“Well,” said the girl, “I enjoy seeing Memling with Signor Carlino,
playing classical music with him, discussing à Kempis with him,
although this affection he has recently developed for à Kempis seems
a profanation, when you consider that he believes in nothing. _Je suis
catholique autant qu’on peut l’être lorsqu’on ne l’est pas_, but when I
hear an unbeliever like your brother read à Kempis so feelingly, I very
nearly lose my faith in Christianity as well. I like him for one other
reason, dear, because he is your brother. But that is all! Oh! Jeanne
Dessalle says such strange things sometimes--such strange things! I do
not understand--I really do not understand. But _warte nur, du Räthsel_,
as my governess used to say.”

“What am I to wait for?”

Noemi threw her arm round her friend’s neck, “I will drag your soul with
so fine a net that it will bring beautiful great pearls to the surface,
perhaps some sea-weed as well, and a little mud from the bottom, or even
a very tiny _pioeuvre_.” “You do not know me,” answered Jeanne. “You are
the only one of my friends who does not know me.”

“Of course. You imagine that only those who adore you really know you?
Indeed, this belief that everybody adores you is a craze of yours.”

Jeanne made the little pouting grimace with which all her friends were
familiar.

“What a foolish girl,” she said; but at once softened the expression
with a kiss and a half-sad, half-quizzical smile.

“Women, as I have always told you, do adore me. Do you mean to say that
you do not?”

“_Mais point du tout_,” exclaimed Noemi. Jeanne’s eyes sparkled with
mischief and kindness.

“In Italian we say: _Si, di tutto cuore_,” she answered.

The Dessalles, brother and sister, had spent the preceding summer at
Maloja. Jeanne striving to make herself a pleasant companion, and hiding
as best she could her incurable wound; Carlino searching out traces
of Nietzsche in mystic hours round Sils Maria or in worldly moments
flitting like a butterfly from one woman to another, frequently dining
at St. Moritz, or at Pontresina, making music with a military attaché
of the German Embassy at Rome, or with Noemi d’Arxel, and discussing
religious questions with Noemi’s sister and brother-in-law. The two
d’Arxel sisters, orphans, were Belgian by birth, but of Dutch and
Protestant ancestry. The elder, Maria, after a peculiar and romantic
courtship, had married the old Italian philosopher Giovanni Selva, who
would be famous in his own country, did Italians take a deeper interest
in theological questions; for Selva is perhaps the truest representative
of progressive Catholicism in Italy. Maria had become a Roman Catholic
before her marriage. The Selvas spent the winter in Rome, the rest of
the year at Subiaco. Noemi, who had remained true to the faith of her
fathers, divided her time between Brussels and Italy. Only a month
before, at the end of March, at Brussels, death had claimed the old
governess, with whom she had lived. Neither Giovanni Selva nor his
wife had been able to come to Noemi at this great crisis, for Selva was
seriously ill at the time. Jeanne Dessalle, who had become much attached
to Noemi, persuaded her brother to undertake the journey to Belgium,
a country with which he was hitherto unacquainted, and then offered to
take the Selvas’ place in Brussels. It thus happened that towards the
end of April Noemi was with the Dessalles at Bruges. They occupied
a small villa on the shore of the little mirror of water called “Lac
d’Amour.” Carlino had fallen in love with Bruges and especially with the
Lac d’Amour, the name of which he contemplated giving to the novel
he dreamed of writing. As yet, however, the novel existed only in
his brain, while he lived in the pleasant anticipation of one day
astonishing the world with an exquisite and original work of art.

“_En tout cas_,” Noemi replied--“not with all my heart.”

“Why?”

“Because I am thinking of giving my heart to another person.”

“To whom?”

“To a monk.”

Jeanne shuddered, and Noemi, to whom her friend had confided the story
of her hopeless love for the man who had disappeared, buried in the
hidden solitude of a cloister, trembled lest she had erred in thus
lightly introducing a subject with which her mind was much occupied.

“By the way, what about Memling,” she said, colouring violently, “we
were going to talk about Memling.”

She spoke in French, and Jeanne answered gently:

“You know you must speak Italian.”

Her eyes were so sad and despairing that Noemi took no notice of her
reproof, and continued in French, saying many endearing things, and
begging for a loving word and a kiss. Both were willingly bestowed.
Noemi did not at once succeed in restoring her friend to her usual calm;
but Jeanne, smoothing back Noemi’s hair from her brow with both hands,
and following the caressing gesture with her eyes, begged her gently not
to be afraid that she had wounded her. Sad she was indeed, but that was
no new thing. True she was never gay. This Noemi admitted, but to-day
the cloud of sorrow seemed heavier than ever. Perhaps it was the fault
of _l’Intruse_. Jeanne said, “Indeed it must be so,” but with a look and
an accent that implied that _l’Intruse_ who had made her so sad was not
the imaginary being in Maeterlinck’s book but the terrible Reaper in
person.

“I have had a letter from Italy,” she said, after gently waving aside
Noemi’s pressing inquiries. “Don Giuseppe Flores is dead.”

“Flores? Who is he?” Noemi did not remember him, and Jeanne chided her
sharply, as if such forgetfulness rendered her unworthy of her position
of confidante. Don Giuseppe Flores was the old Venetian priest who had
brought a last message from Piero Maironi to Villa Diedo. Jeanne had
then believed that his counsels had decided her lover to renounce the
world, and, not satisfied with giving him an icy reception, had
wounded him with ironical allusions to his supposed attitude, which she
pronounced truly worthy of a servant of the Father of infinite mercy.
The old man had answered with such clear understanding, in language so
solemn and gentle and so full of spiritual wisdom--his fine face glowing
with a radiance from above--that she had ended by begging him not only
to forgive her, but to visit her from time to time. He had, in fact,
come twice, but on neither occasion had she been at home. She had
then sought him out In his solitary villa, and of this visit, of this
conversation with the old man so lofty of soul, so humble in heart,
so ardent in spirit, so modest and reticent, she had retained an
ineffaceable memory. He was dead, they wrote. He had passed away, bowing
gently and humbly to the Divine Will. Shortly before his death he had
dreamed continually during a long night, of the words addressed to the
faithful servant in the parable of the talents: _“Ecce superlucratus sum
alia quinque,”_ and his last words had been: _“Non fiat voluntas mea sed
tua.”_ Her correspondent was unaware that, in spite of many misgivings,
of certain yearning towards religion, Jeanne, stubborn ever, still
denied God and immortality as eternal illusions, and if from time to
time she went to Mass, it was only to avoid acquiring the undesirable
reputation of being a free-thinker.

She did not relate the particulars of Don Giuseppe’s death to Noemi, but
pondered them herself with a vague, deeply bitter consciousness of how
different her destiny might have been, had she been able to believe;
for at the bottom of Piero Maironi’s soul there had always lurked a
hereditary tendency to religion, and to-day she was convinced that when,
on the night of the eclipse, she had confessed her unbelief, she had
written her own condemnation in the book of destiny. Then her thoughts
dwelt on another painful passage in the letter from Italy which she had
not mentioned. But, in spite of her silence, her misery was evident.
Noemi pressed her lips to Jeanne’s forehead, and letting them rest there
in silence, touched by the secret sorrow which accepted her sympathy.
Then she slowly drew away from the long embrace as if fearful of
severing some delicate thread which bound their two souls together.

“Perhaps that good old man knew where--Do you think he was in
communication with ----” she murmured.

Jeanne shook her head in denial. During the September following that
sad July, Jeanne’s unfortunate husband had died in Venice of delirium
tremens. She had gone to the Villa Flores in October, and there in that
same garden where the Marchesa Scremin had once laid bare her poor,
suffering old heart to Don Giuseppe, had expressed a desire that Piero
should be told of her husband’s death, should realise that he might
henceforth think of her without a shadow of guilt, if indeed he still
wished to think of her at all. Don Giuseppe first gently urged her
not to abandon herself to this dream, and then avowed to her in all
sincerity that no tidings of Piero had reached him since the day of his
disappearance.

Fearing other questions, and unwilling any longer to expose her wound
to the touch of unskilled fingers, Jeanne sought to change the subject.
“Tell me about your monk,” she said. But just at that moment Carlino’s
voice was heard in the hall.

“Not now,” replied Noemi. “To-night.”

Carlino came in, a white silk muffler round his neck, grumbling at the
Lac d’Armour, which he pronounced a huge fraud, which only filled the
air with odious, poisonous, little creatures. “To be sure.” said he,
“love itself is no better.” Noemi would not allow him to talk of love.
Why should he discuss a subject which he did not understand? Carlino
thanked her. He had been on the point of falling in love with her; had
greatly feared such a catastrophe. Her words, coming as they did so
soon after her appearance in a certain offensive hat, with an ungraceful
feather, and after some rather bourgeois expressions of admiration for
that poor, tiresome devil Mendelssohn, had saved him _à jamais._ The
two sparred gaily for some time, and, in spite of his poisoned tonsils,
Carlino was in such high spirits that Noemi congratulated him on the
subject of his novel. “It must be making rapid progress,” she said.

“Nonsense,” answered the author. “It is not progressing at all.” He
was making no headway, but was, in fact, floundering hopelessly in
the shallows of a desperate situation. Two personages had stuck in
the author’s throat, and could move neither up nor down; one fat and
good-natured, the other thin and sarcastic, like Mademoiselle d’Arxel.
He felt like a certain unfortunate Tuscan peasant, who had lately
swallowed a fig with a bee upon it, and had died in consequence. The
“bee” understood that he really wanted to talk of his book; she stung
him again and again to such a degree that he actually did talk about it.
His story was founded on a curious case of spiritual infection. The hero
was a French priest, an octogenarian, pious, pure, and learned. French?
Why French? Simply because the character must be possessed of a certain
tinge of poetic fancy, a certain elasticity of sentiment, and according
to Carlino, not one Italian priest in a thousand was likely to possess
these exalted attributes. It happened one day that this priest received
the confession of a man of great intellect whose faith was assailed
by terrible doubts. His confession over, the penitent went his way
completely reassured, leaving the confessor shaken in his own faith.
Here would follow a long and minute analysis of the different phases
through which the old man’s conscience passed. He lived in daily
expectation of death with a feeling of dismay akin to that of the
schoolboy who waits his turn for examination in the ante-room, conscious
only of his empty head. The priest comes to Bruges. At this point the
hostile critic exclaimed:

“To Bruges? Why?”

“Because,” answered Carlino, “I send him wherever I wish. Because at
Bruges there is the silence of the ante-chamber of Eternity, and that
_carillon_ (which honestly is beginning to exasperate me) may pass for
the voices of summoning angels. Finally, because at Bruges there is a
dark young lady slight, tall, and whom we may also call intelligent,
although she speaks Italian badly, and does not understand music.”

Noemi pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose.

“What nonsense,” she said.

Carlino continued, saying he did not yet know how, but in some way or
another the brunette would become the penitent of the old priest. Noemi
protested, laughing. How? The girl could not be herself. A heretic go to
Confession? Carlino shrugged his shoulders, One Comedy of Errors more
or less, what did it matter? Protestantism and Roman Catholicism were,
after all, much the same thing. The priest would then regain his old
faith through contact with the simple, steadfast belief of the girl.
Here Carlino interrupted his story, avowing, in parenthesis, that he
really did not know what kind of belief Noemi held. She flushed,
and replied that she was a Protestant. Protestant, certainly; but a
Protestant pure and simple? Noemi lost her patience. “I am a Protestant,
that is enough,” she exclaimed; “and you need not trouble yourself about
my faith.”

Noemi was, in fact, true to her own faith, not so much from conviction
as from her reverent affection for the memory of her parents; and in her
heart she had disapproved of her sister’s conversion.

Carlino continued. A mystic, sexual influence induced the old man to
seek for a union of souls with the girl. “What rubbish!” said Noemi,
with her familiar pout. Carlino went on unmoved. The most subtle, the
most exquisite part of his book was the analysis of this recondite
influence of sex operating alike on the old priest and the girl.

“Carlino,” exclaimed Jeanne, “what are you thinking of? An old man of
eighty!” Carlino looked up as though he would exclaim to some superior,
invisible friend, “How dense they are!”

He had even thought of making his hero older still--say ninety; of
creating a sort of intermediary being between man and spirit, who should
have in his eyes the nebulous depths of the fast approaching things
of eternity. And the girl should have in her blood that mysterious
inclination towards old men, not unusual in her sex, which is the truest
mark of real feminine nobility, and by which the woman is differentiated
from the female. Carlino had in his mind some inspired thoughts to which
he would give utterance, concerning this mystic sense which attracts the
girl of four and twenty to the man of ninety; a priest, on the verge
of the grave, but upheld by an indomitable spirit--unconquered as often
happens by the ravages of time. But how is all this to end? Neither
Noemi nor Jeanne could imagine. Well, Carlino had said from the first
that the fig and the bee could neither get up nor down. One consolation,
however, there was--the idea that a book must have a fitting end was
a mere vulgar prejudice. What is there in the world that really has an
end? That is all very well, said the girls, but the book must certainly
have some ending. The last scene, one of ineffable beauty, should
describe a walk at night and by moonlight through the streets of Bruges,
when the souls of the priest and the maiden should be revealed to one
another, and they should commune half as lovers, half dreaming like
prophets. The two should find themselves at midnight beside the sleeping
waters of the Lac d’Amour, listening in silence to the weird notes of
the _carillon_ under the clouds, and then should come to them the vague
revelation of a sexuality of their souls, of a future of love in the
star Fomalhaut.

“But why especially in Fomalhaut?” exclaimed Noemi.

“You are really intolerable,” answered Carlino. “Because the name is so
delightful, it has the ring of a word congealed by German frost and then
melted by the Eastern sun.”

“Nonsense! You are talking chemistry! I prefer Algol.”

“You and your pastor may go to Algol.”

Noemi laughed, and Carlino appealed to Jeanne. Which star would she
prefer? Jeanne did not know; she had not been listening. Carlino was
greatly annoyed; he seemed to want to reprove her, not so much for her
inattention, as for the hidden thoughts which had caused it; and then,
fearing to say too much, he sent her away to meditate, to dream, to
write the philosophy of smoke and clouds. But when she, not in the least
annoyed, was about to leave the room, he called her back to inquire
whether she had heard how his novel was to end. Yes! she had heard; a
moonlight walk of the hero and heroine through the streets of Bruges.

“Well,” said Carlino, “as there will be a moon to-night, I should like
to walk with you and Noemi from ten to twelve and take some notes.”

“Shall I dress myself as a priest?” asked Jeanne as she went out. Noemi
wished to follow her, but Jeanne herself begged her to remain. She
stayed behind to tell Carlino that he was unworthy of such a sister.
Carlino went to the music portfolio to search for a small volume of
Bach, grumbling the while that she knew nothing--absolutely nothing.
They kept up their skirmish for some time, Bach himself failing to
soothe their ruffled feelings, and even while playing they continued
joking, first concerning Jeanne, and then about one another’s false
notes. At last, however, the clear stream of sound, which had been
ruffled by the eddies of their angry outbursts, conquered their
ill-humour, and flowed on smoothly, reflecting the heavens and idyllic
banks. Jeanne carried _“l’Intruse”_ to her room, but did not continue
her reading. The room looked out on the Lac d’Amour. She sat down by
the window. Beyond the bridge, beyond the rolling hilltops--destitute of
trees--which loomed between intervening houses, she could see the summit
of a lofty tower, shrouded fantastically in azure mists. She heard the
continuous peaceful flow of Bach, and thought of Don Giuseppe with that
feeling of melancholy which we experience when we catch a last glimpse
of some beloved home, turning at every step to look back until at length
some bend in the road hides the last corner, the last window from sight.
There was an element of anxiety in Jeanne’s grief. The letter told her
that among the papers of the dead man, a sealed packet had been found
with the following superscription In Don Giuseppe’s hand: “To be
consigned by my executor to Monsignor the Bishop.” The order had been
executed, and according to a rumour coming straight from the Episcopal
Palace, the packet contained a letter from Don Giuseppe to the Bishop,
and a sealed envelope bearing in another hand the words: “To be opened
after Piero Maironi’s death.” The Bishop was reported to have said: “Let
us hope that Piero Malroni, of whose abode we are ignorant, may reappear
to let us know of his death.”

Jeanne was unaware that previous to the night when he fled from home,
leaving no trace, Piero had entrusted to Don Giuseppe a written account
of a vision of his own life in the future and his death; a vision of
which she was ignorant, and which had come to Piero in the little church
adjoining the asylum where his wife lay dying. What did that sealed
envelope contain? Surely something he himself had written; but what? A
confession, probably of his sins. The conception of such an action, the
manner in which it had been carried out, would be in harmony with his
innate mysticism, with the predominance in him of imagination over
reason, with his intellectual physiognomy. Three years had passed since
the day at Vena di Fonte Alta, when Jeanne in despair had sworn to
herself to love Piero no longer, feeling that henceforward she could
love nothing else in the world. Nevertheless she always loved him;
still, as in the past, she judged him with her intellect independent
of her heart, an independence dear to her pride. She judged him with
severity in all his actions, all his attitudes, from the moment when he
had conquered her by sheer strength in the monastery of Praglia to the
moment when their lips had met near the basin of the Acqua Barbarena.
He had shown himself incapable of loving, incapable of decisive action,
irresolute, effeminate in the instability of his mind. Yes, he had been
effeminate until the last; effeminate, unfit to form any virile judgment
of his own hysterical mysticism. In this judgment there was perhaps an
imperfect sincerity, an excess of bitterness, a futile act of rebellion
against this all-powerful, invincible love.

If he had actually become a monk, Jeanne foresaw that he would regret
it. He was too sensual. The first period of sorrow and fervour passed,
his sensuality would reawaken, and lead him to rebel against a faith
that appeals rather to the sentiments and habits of youth than to the
intellect. But had he really become a monk? Jeanne imagined that the
colossal tower of Notre _Dame_, with its slender spire piercing the sky,
the gloomy walls of the Béguinage, the poor stagnant Lac d’Amour, and
even the solemn silence of the dead city, answered “Yes.” But it would
be superstitious to hearken to their voices.

“Where are we going?” asked Jeanne, at ten o’clock, putting on her
gloves, while Carlino, who had given Noemi an end of his interminable
muffler to hold, the other being fastened behind his neck, revolved like
a spindle on its axis, until his neck was bigger in circumference than
his head. “And am I really to be the priest of ninety?”

Carlino was annoyed because Noemi laughed, and did not hold the scarf
tight enough.

“You or she, no matter which,” he answered, when Noemi, having fastened
the muffler with a pin, at last set the swathed novelist at liberty. “Go
wherever you like, provided you go towards the centre of the town, and
return by the other side of the Lac d’Amour, and talk of something that
interests you particularly.”

“With you present?” said Noemi. “How can that be possible?”

Carlino explained that he would not walk with them, but would follow,
note-book and pencil in hand. They would be obliged to halt from time to
time according to his pleasure, and must be prepared to obey any other
orders he might see fit to issue. “Very well,” said Noemi, “first let us
go to the Quai du Rosaire to see the swans.”

They set forth in the direction of Notre Dame. Carlino twenty yards
behind his sister and Noemi. At first a lively altercation was kept up
through the deserted streets between the van and rearguard. The vanguard
walked too fast, and Carlino shouted: “At ninety? at ninety?” or they
laughed, and Carlino exclaimed: “What are you laughing at? Hush!” or
stopped to gaze at an ancient church, its gables, and pinnacles looming
weird in the moonlight, the cemetery nestling close by; Carlino, again
interrupting, would beg them to talk, converse, gesticulate. “Don’t
stare into space,” said he. A mutiny broke out in the vanguard, Noemi
being the more petulant. She turned on the _Dyver_, and stamping her
foot, protested that she would go home if this most tiresome novelist in
a muffler did not cease ordering and complaining. Jeanne then whispered:

“Tell me about your monk.” “The monk, oh yes,” answered Noemi, and
called to Carlino that they would try to satisfy him, but that he must
keep farther off.

From the Quai du Rosaire the swans were no longer visible. Noemi
had watched them in the morning, disporting themselves on the water,
blurring with their stately movements the still reflection of that pile
of houses and cottages that raise their long, big-eared faces out of
the water, like weird, glutted beasts, staring stupidly, some in one
direction, some in another, all herded together by the dominating tower
of the Halles. The moon shone across the houses, throwing shadows on
some glorifying roof-tree and pinnacle, the peaked cap of a Chaldean
magician which crowned a little turret, and above it all, stood out the
sublime octagonal diadem of the mighty tower. But no beam fell on the
dark waters. Nevertheless Jeanne and Noerni leaned for some time against
the parapet, gazing into the gloomy depths; Noemi talked incessantly.
They lingered so long that Carlino had time to fill three or four pages
of his note-book, and to sketch the frieze with which an ambitious
Bruges merchant had adorned his house, even introducing the memorable
date 1716, the year in which the sun, the moon, and the stars had first
beheld it.

The monk, said Noemi, was a Benedictine, by name Don Clemente, belonging
to the monastery of Santa Scolastica at Subiaco. He was an acquaintance
of the Selvas, and Giovanni had first met him near some ruins on the
path leading to Spello, and after having inquired the way, had entered
into conversation with him. He looked little over thirty, and was
of refined manner and bearing. They began to talk of the ruins; the
conversation then drifted on to monasteries and monastic rules, and
finally to religion. The very voice of the Benedictine seemed to breathe
an odour of sanctity; nevertheless it was evident at the same time that
his was a mind that hungered after knowledge and modern thought.
They had parted with a mutual desire for, and the promise of, another
meeting. The atmosphere surrounding the youthful monk, whose face seemed
illumined by the beauty of his soul, was a stimulus to Giovanni, and
the Benedictine had felt the fascination of his companion’s religious
culture, and of the horizons of thought which this brief conversation
had opened up to his faith, eager for rational light. Giovanni had heard
them speak, at Subiaco, of a young man of noble birth who had taken the
habit of the Benedictines at Santa Scolastica after the death of the
woman he loved. He had no doubt that this was he. He had questioned
other monks about him without gaining any information; but he and Don
Clemente had since met repeatedly and had had long talks together.
Giovanni had lent the young man books, and Don Clemente had been to
Selva’s house and made Maria’s acquaintance. He had shown himself a
musician, and had once played a _Psalm of the Dawn_ to them, which he
had composed for organ and voices after having heard Giovanni liken
the sun in its slow progress from the first mist-enveloped gleam to the
triumphal glory of noonday, to the manifestation of God, as displayed in
the lightning-torn cloud on the rocky summit of Sinai, to the triumphal
glory--not even yet perfectly developed--in the mind of man. On another
occasion Giovanni propounded a question to him which he had already
discussed with Noemi; whether, on leaving this world, human souls at
once acquire knowledge of their future destiny, Don Clemente’s answer
had been, that after death--

At this point in Noemi’s narrative, Carlino inquired whether he should
set up three tents that they might pass the night on the spot? His
sister and Noemi aroused themselves and started in the direction of the
Rue des Laines. “The answer,” continued Noemi, “was, that probably human
souls found themselves in a state and in surroundings regulated, as in
this life, by natural laws; where, as also in this life, the future can
be divined only by indications, and without certainty.”

A wayfarer, whom they met at the entrance of the narrow, dark street,
turned back, and on passing the ladies, scrutinised them closely. Jeanne
pretended to be afraid of the man; she stopped, and calling Carlino,
proposed to return home. Her voice really sounded different, but Carlino
could not believe she was afraid. Afraid of what? Did she not see there
before them only a few steps away, the lights of the Grande Place?
Moreover he knew the man, and was going to put him into his book. He was
the brother of the swan-necked Edith, a spirit of darkness, condemned
to wander at night in the streets of Bruges, as a penance for having
attempted to seduce St. Gunhild, sister of King Harold. Each time that
Carlino had ventured at night into the more lonely parts of Bruges he
had seen this sinister figure, wandering, as it seemed, aimlessly.

“That is a nice way to reassure people,” said Noemi.

Carlino shrugged his shoulders, and declared the meeting to have been
most fortunate, since it had suggested the name of Gunhild for his
heroine, Noemi being that of a mother-in-law.

In the black shadow of the enormous Halles, towering on the right of
the street, the sinister-looking man, who had retraced his steps, almost
brushed Jeanne’s side in passing, and this time she really shuddered.
At this moment, however, the innumerable bells rang out amid the clouds
above her head.

She pressed Noemi’s arm convulsively without speaking. In silence they
crossed the square. Carlino directed them to take a lonely street on the
left, brightly illumined by the moon, which hung just above the dark,
serrated house-tops. Jeanne whispered to her companion:

“Let us make haste and get home quickly.”

But Carlino, hearing the sound of dance-music issuing from the Hôtel de
Flandre, ordered them to stop and began writing in his note-book. Noemi
was saying something about the Hôtel de Flandre, where she had stayed
some years before, when Jeanne suddenly interrupted her:

“Did Maria write you that long story?”

Noemi answered, apprehensive rather than surprised.

“Yes, it was Maria.”

“I do not understand,” replied Jeanne, “why she should have taken all
that trouble.”

Noemi did not answer. Jeanne shook her arm which she still held. “Will
you not speak? What do you think?”

Although both now were silent, they did not hear Carlino call to them to
turn to the left. He came up angrily, and taking them by the shoulders,
turned them, fuming the while, in another direction. They obeyed without
noticing his voice or manner.

“Will you not answer?” Jeanne repeated, half aggrieved and half amazed.

Noemi in her turn pressed her friend’s arm.

“Wait until we get home,” she said.

Carlino shouted.

“Stop under those trees.”

But Jeanne, having reached an open space filled with small trees and
bathed in moonlight, under the great wall of the ancient cathedral,
stopped at once, and stretching out her arm, which had rested on
Noemi’s, seized her friend’s hand and said, trembling with agitation:

“Noemi, answer me at once; have you told your sister anything?”

Carlino called to them to stop there if they liked, but to pretend to be
engaged in an interesting conversation.

Noemi answered her friend with a “yes” so timid and soft that Jeanne
understood all. Maria Selva believed that her monk, this Don Clemente,
was Piero Maironi.

“Oh, God!” she exclaimed, tightly pressing Noemi’s hand. “But did she
really say so?”

“Say what?”

“What indeed!”

Good heavens! How difficult it was to make the girl speak out. Jeanne
freed herself from her, but Noemi, alarmed, at once seized her arm
again.

“Capital!” cried Carlino. “But don’t overdo it.”

“Forgive me,” Noemi pleaded. “It is only a supposition after all; only a
conjecture. She herself says so.”

“No,” Jeanne burst out, sweeping away doubt and conjecture. “No, it is
not he, it is not possible. He was never a musician.”

“No, no, it is not he, it is not,” Noemi hastened to reassure her,
speaking under her breath, for Carlino was approaching. He came, praised
their acting, and expressed a desire that they should move on slowly
among the trees.

In the shadow of the trees Jeanne complained almost indignantly, that
her friend had waited until then to make such a disclosure; she ought to
have spoken sooner, and at home. And once more she protested that this
Benedictine monk could not be Maironi, because Maironi had never been a
musician. Noemi tried to justify herself. She had intended to speak on
her return from the Hospital of St. John, from the visit to Memling, but
Jeanne had been so sad! Still she would have spoken had Carlino not come
in. And now while they had been walking she had not known how to parry
Jeanne’s questions. If, when they were standing near the Hôtel de
Flandre, Jeanne had not returned to the subject, she would not have
referred to it again; and she, Noemi, would not have made her disclosure
until they reached home.

“And your sister really believes?” said Jeanne.

Well, Maria was in doubt. It would seem that Giovanni was the more
certain. Giovanni was sure; at least Maria said so in her letter. At
receiving this reply Jeanne flared up. How could he be sure? what did he
know about it? Maironi could not play a single chord on the piano. Good
grounds for certainty indeed! Noemi observed submissively that he
might have learned in three years; that the monks had their reasons for
training brothers to play the organ.

“Then you believe it too?” exclaimed Jeanne. Noemi stammered “I do not
know” so hesitatingly that Jeanne, in great agitation, declared she must
leave at once for Subiaco, that she must know the truth. She had already
promised Maria Selva to bring her sister back. She would find some means
of persuading Carlino to start immediately. Noemi was frightened. For
her own peace of mind, as well as for Don Clemente’s, her brother-in-law
would not wish Jeanne Dessalle to return to Subiaco. It was Noemi’s
mission to convince her of the propriety of such a renunciation. Selva
was restored to health, and had himself offered to come and meet his
sister-in-law, would even come to Belgium, were it necessary. She now
tried to oppose the idea of immediate departure; but only succeeded
in irritating Jeanne, who repeatedly protested that the Selvas were
mistaken, but was unable to give any other reason for her violent
resistance. Carlino, having caught a sharp “That is enough” uttered by
his sister, drew nearer. Were they quarrelling, the priest and the girl?
Now, when the mystical tenderness ought to begin? “Do leave us alone,”
 said Noemi. “By this time your old priest of ninety would be dead ten
times over of fatigue. Don’t give us any more orders. I will lead
the way. I know Bruges better than you, and you keep a hundred paces
behind.” Carlino could find nothing to say but “Oh, oh--oh, oh--oh,
oh!” and Noemi carried Jeanne off with her, following the railing of
the little cemetery of Saint-Sauveur. It seemed the right moment for her
final revelation.

“I really believe Giovanni is right, you know,” said she. “This Don
Clemente comes from Brescia.”

Jeanne, overcome by an excess of misery, threw her arms round her
friend’s neck and burst into tears. Noemi, dismayed, implored her to
calm herself.

“For God’s sake, Jeanne!”

Between her sobs, she asked Noemi whether Carlino knew. Oh, no, but what
would he think now?

“He cannot see us here,” sobbed Jeanne. They were in the shadow of the
church. Noemi was surprised that Jeanne, in spite of her emotion, had
noticed the fact.

“For mercy’s sake, do not let him find out. For mercy’s sake!”

Noemi promised to be silent. Jeanne grew calmer little by little, and
was the first to move. Oh, to be alone! Alone in her own room! The sight
of the tower of Notre Dame piercing the sky with its pointed spire hurt
her, like the sight of some victorious and implacable foe. She now saw
clearly that for three years she had been deceiving herself in thinking
that she no longer hoped. This hope which she had thought dead, how it
still struggled and suffered, how it persisted in assailing her heart.
No, no, he has not become a monk, it is not he! In an access of longing,
she pressed Noemi’s arm. The reassuring voice was growing weaker, was
fading away. Probably it was he, probably all was really over for ever.
The silence of the night, the sadness of the moon, the gloom of the dead
streets, an icy breeze which had sprung up, were in harmony with her
thoughts.

Just a little beyond Notre Dame they again saw the sinister-looking
wayfarer gliding along close to the wall, on the dark side of the
street. Noemi hastened her steps, herself anxious to reach home.
Carlino, perceiving that his companions were going straight to the villa
instead of crossing the bridge, which leads to the opposite shore of the
Lac d’Amour, protested loudly. How was this? What about the last scene?
Had they forgotten? Noemi showed signs of rebellion, but Jeanne, fearing
lest Carlino should discover aught of her secret, begged her to yield.

“Stop a minute or two on the bridge,” Carlino called out.

They leaned against the parapet, gazing into the oval mirror of
motionless water. The moon was hidden behind the clouds.

“This absence of the moon is perfect for me,” said Carlino. “But now I
would give half my future glory if a little window could be opened in
the clouds with a tiny star shining in the middle and reflected in the
water. You cannot imagine what a success this last chapter is going to
be. Listen, on the Quai de Rosaire you looked at the swans.”

“But they were not there,” said Noemi, interrupting him.

“Never mind,” Carlino went on. “You looked at the swans in the
moonlight.”

“But the moon did not touch the water,” retorted Noemi.

“What does it matter?” replied Carlino, vexed. Noemi, having observed
that in that case it was useless to drag them about Bruges at such
an hour, he poetically compared his preparatory study, his almost
photographic notes, to the garlic which is useful in the kitchen, but
is not brought to table, and he continued to talk of the swans and the
moon.

“You compared the living purity with the dead purity. The old priest
utters this exquisite sentiment, that perhaps the living whiteness of
the girl’s soul irradiates his thoughts, bleached, like his hair, by
approaching death, while he now feels in his soul the dawn of a warm
purity. Then he murmurs to himself almost involuntarily: ‘Abishag.’ The
girl asks: ‘Who is Abishag?’ because she is ignorant like you two, who
do not know Abishag, my first love. The priest does not answer, but
proceeds with the girl down the Rue des Laines. She asks again who may
be Abishag, and still the old man is silent. Then appears that horrible
black shadow, which comes and goes and at last vanishes at the sound of
the twenty-four bells.”

“That is not correct,” murmured Noemi. Carlino was on the point of
saying, “Stupid!”

“The priest,” he continued, “likens the black shadow to an evil spirit,
which comes and goes round pure spirits (you do not understand the
connection, but there is a connection), eager to enter into them, to
dwell in them, he, with others worse than himself. Then--and here I have
not yet found the connection, but I shall find it--they are led to talk
of love. You have crossed the Grande Place. To-night there was no music,
but usually there is, and we will suppose that many amorous glances are
exchanged, as is everywhere the case. The old tower and the old priest
show a certain indulgence; the maiden, on the contrary, finds this phase
of love stupid. She scorns it. It is the love of the world, says the
priest; and here is the Hôtel de Flandre and the wedding dance-music.”

“What?” exclaimed Noemi. “Was there really a wedding dance?”

Carlino shrugged his shoulders and clenched his fists, gasping with
impatience. After a deep sigh he continued:

“The girl asks, ‘But is there a heavenly love?’ It was then I told you
to stop under the trees of Saint-Sauveur, and you, instead, stopped at
the entrance to the square. It makes no difference; the cathedral was in
sight, and that is enough. The priest answers: ‘Yes, there is a heavenly
love,’ The majesty of the ancient cathedral, of the night, of the
silence, inspires him. He speaks, I cannot now repeat his discourse,
it is rather confused in my mind; but at any rate the essence of it is
this, that even heavenly love has its birth, but never reaches maturity
on earth. The old man almost allows himself to be led into making a
confession. With, bursting heart and burning tongue he does confess
to not having felt any inclination towards individuals nor indeed any
inclination which could cause him shame, but an intellectual and moral
aspiration to unite himself with some incorporeal feminine spirit, that
should belong completely to his incorporeal being, at the same time
remaining sufficiently distant from it, to admit of the intervention of
love between the two.”

“Gracious!” murmured Noemi. Carlino was so excited, that he did not hear
her.

“The old man,” said he, “seems to perceive in this union a human trinity
similar to the Divine Trinity, and therefore finds it just, finds it a
holy thing, that man should aspire to it. At last he is silent, overcome
by the things he has said; and walks towards Notre Dame. The maiden
takes his arm. Here behold the evil one, the spirit of temptation. You
yourselves have seen him! Tell me now, is not all this well thought out,
is it not well arranged? The old man and the girl flee from the evil
spirit, but like the sky, so their hearts grow dark. Now I need the
little window in the clouds, with the tiny star in the centre. The old
priest and the girl should silently watch the star quivering in the Lac
d’Amour, and many secret workings of their minds should culminate
in this idea; perhaps, beyond the clouds of the earth, there in that
distant world!”

Jeanne had not spoken a single word, nor shown in any way that she was
listening to her brother’s story. Leaning over the parapet, she looked
into the dark water. At this point she started impetuously.

“But surely you do not believe this,” she exclaimed. “You know that
these are delusions--dreams. You would never wish me to believe such
things. You would be the first to drive me away from you if I did.”

“No,” protested Carlino.

“Yes! And for the sake of producing something beautiful in literature
you, also, take to nurturing these dreams, which are already enervating
humanity to such a degree, already diverting people from the actualities
of life! I do not like it at all. An unbeliever like you! One who is
convinced, as I myself am convinced, that we are merely soap-bubbles
which sparkle for a moment, and then return not into nothing, but into
_everything!_”

“I, convinced?” answered Carlino, in astonishment. “I am not convinced
of anything. I am a doubter. It is my system; you know that. If now some
one were to tell me that the true religion was that of the Kaffirs, or
that of the Redskins, I should say, It may well be! I do not know them,
I see the falsity of those I do know, and for that reason I should
certainly not wish you to become a believing Catholic. As to driving you
from home--”

“Perhaps I had better leave before being driven away?”

So saying, Jeanne took Noemi’s arm. Carlino begged them to walk round
the Lac d’Amour. Who knows, perhaps the little window in heaven would
open. He wished it would. Noemi, recalling the conversation of a few
hours before, expressed a doubt that Fomalhaut would be the star to
appear at the window.

“To be sure,” said Carlino thoughtfully. “I had forgotten Fomalhaut. If
it is not Fomalhaut now, it will be Fomalhaut then.”

But Noemi had other difficulties to suggest. What if no star appeared at
the window, either large or small? For this difficulty Carlino promptly
found a remedy. The star will be there. It may be minute, lost in an
immense profundity, but it will be there. The girl does not see it,
but the priest sees it with the long-sightedness of decrepitude. Later,
through faith, the girl discerns it also.

“And so the poor girl,” said Jeanne bitterly, “relying on the faith of
an old, dim-sighted priest, will see stars where there are none, will
lose her common-sense, her youth, her life, her all. I suppose you will
end by having her buried at the Béguinage?”

And she went on with Noemi without waiting for an answer.

They had now walked round the Lac d’Amour, and the two friends paused
for some time on the other bridge. But no little window opened in the
heavens. The great distant tower of the Halles, the enormous campanile
of Notre Dame, a squat tower near the pond, the pointed roofs of the
Béguinage stood outlined against the milky clouds, like a venerable
assembly of old men. Carlino, not knowing what better to do, began
discoursing in a loud voice on the most appropriate position for his
window.

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

“Saturday.”

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

“Don’t decide so suddenly. Think about it.”

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

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

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



CHAPTER II. DON CLEMENTE

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

“May I come in?”

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

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

“Shall we say our prayer?”

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

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

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

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

He thought:

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

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

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

Giovanni smiled,

“You never told me that,” said he.

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

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

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

“That is true.”

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

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

“That your hat was in disorder!”

“Oh, that is not true! Really not true!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, dear.”

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

“Yes, and it was then I made you cry.”

“Could you repeat those same words to-day?”

“Oh, no!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Abbé Marinier of Geneva. Don Paolo Faré of Varese, with whose name
you are already acquainted.”

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

“And Dane?” said he anxiously to Leynì, taking his arm, “And Professor
Minucci, and Father Salvati.”

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

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

“_Oh, c’est admirable!_”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Has Professor Dane not told you this?” he asked.

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

“We will discuss this again to-night.”

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

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

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

She spoke hastily of her three guests, particularly of the Abbé
Marinier, saying she was much annoyed on account of her husband, who
had such faith in this cherished idea of a Catholic association, and
who would now find himself confronted with an unexpected opposition. She
wished Don Clemente to know this that he might be prepared. She herself
had come to explain to him, because her husband could not leave his
guests at that moment. At the same time she would say good-night to Don
Clemente, as she did not intend to be present at the meeting, being a
woman and so ignorant. Perhaps she should meet him at the monastery in a
few days. Was not he the Padre who received visitors? She would probably
be going to Santa Scolastica in three or four days, with her sister--

At this point Signora Selva involuntarily raised the light to observe
her companion’s face more narrowly, but she at once repented of the
action, as if she had failed in respect towards that soul which was
surely holy, surely in harmony with the manly and virginal beauty of
the tall slender person, with the head habitually held erect, in a pose
almost military in its frank modesty; with the face so noble in its
spacious forehead, in its clear blue eyes, expressing at the same time
womanly sweetness and manly fire.

“There will also be an intimate friend of my sister’s, a certain Signora
Dessalle,” she added, in a low voice, as if ashamed.

Don Clemente turned his head away, starting violently, and Maria,
feeling the counter-shock, trembled. Then it was he? He at once turned
towards her again, his face slightly flushed, but composed.

“Pardon me,” said he, “what is the lady’s name?”

“Whose, Signora Dessalle’s?”

“Yes.”

“Her name is Jeanne.”

“About what age is she?”

“I do not know. I should say from thirty to thirty-five.”

Maria was now completely at a loss to understand. The Padre put these
questions with such indifference, such calmness! She herself risked a
question.

“Do you know her, Padre?”

Don Clemente made no answer. At this point poor, gouty Dane arrived,
having dragged himself up from the gate with great difficulty, leaning
on Professor Minucci’s arm. They were both intimate friends, and Signora
Selva welcomed them kindly, but in a somewhat absent manner.

       *       *       *       *       *

The meeting was held in Giovanni’s little study. It was very small and
as--out of regard for Dane and his rheums--the windows could not be
opened, the fiery Don Faré felt he should stifle, and said as much, in
his outspoken Lombard fashion. The others pretended not to have heard,
except Leynì who signed to him not to insist, and Giovanni, who opened
the door leading to the corridor, and the one beyond opening upon the
terrace. Dane at once perceived an odour of damp woods, and the doors
had to be closed again. An old petroleum lamp was burning on the
writing-desk. Professor Minucci, who had weak eyes, asked timidly for a
shade; which was looked for, found, and put in place. Don Paolo grumbled
under his breath: “This is an infirmary!” His friend Leynì, who also
thought these numerous petty cares should be set aside at such a moment,
experienced an unpleasant sensation of coldness. Giovanni experienced
the same sensation, but in a reflex manner, for he knew the impression
that those present, who were strangers to them, must receive of Dane and
perhaps also of Minucci. He himself knew them well. Dane, with all his
colds and his nerves and his sixty-two years, possessed, besides great
learning, an indomitable vigour of mind and a steadfast moral courage.
Andrea Minucci, in spite of his disordered fair hair, his spectacles,
and a certain awkwardness in his movements, which gave him the
appearance of a learned German, was a youthful and most ardent soul,
tried in the fire of life, not sparkling on the surface like the soul
of the Lombard, but enveloped in its own flame, severe, and, probably,
stronger.

Giovanni began speaking in a frank, open way. He thanked those present
for coming, and excused the absent ones, the monk and the priest, at the
same time expressing regret for their absence. He said that in any case
their adherence was insured, and he insisted upon the importance of
their adherence. He added, speaking louder and more slowly, and fixing
his eyes on the Abbé Marinier, that for the time being he deemed it
prudent not to divulge anything regarding either the meeting, or
any measures which might be adopted; and he begged all to consider
themselves bound in honour to silence. He then explained, rather more
fully than he had done at supper, the idea he had conceived, and the
object of the meeting,

“And now,” he concluded, “let each one express his opinion.”

A profound silence followed. The Abbé Marinier was about to speak when
Dane rose feebly to his feet. His pale, fleshless face, refined and full
of intellect, wore a look of solemn gravity. “I believe,” said he in
Italian, which sounded foreign and formal, but which was nevertheless
warm with feeling, “that finding ourselves, as we now do, united at the
beginning of a religious movement, we should at once do two things. The
first is to concentrate our souls in God, silently each in his own way,
until we feel the presence in us of God Himself, the desire of Him, His
very glory, in our hearts. I will now do this, and I beg you to do it
with me.”

So saying, Professor Dane crossed his arms over his breast, bent his
head, and closed his eyes. The others rose, and all save Abbé Marinier
clasped their hands. The Abbé, with a sweeping gesture which embraced
the air, brought them together on his breast. The soft complaining of
the lamp, a step on the floor below could be distinctly heard. Marinier
was the first to glance up furtively, to ascertain if the others still
prayed. Dane raised his head, and said:

“Amen.”

“The second thing!” he added. “We propose to ourselves to obey in all
things the legitimate ecclesiastical authority--”

Don Paolo Faré burst out, exclaiming: “That must depend!”

The vibration of sudden thought, the muffled rumbling of unspoken
words, shook all present. Dane said slowly: “Exercised according to just
principles.” The movement shrunk to a murmur of assent, and then ceased.
Dane went on: “And now one thing more! Let there never be hatred of any
one on our lips nor in our hearts!”

Don Paolo burst out again: “No, not hatred but indignation!
‘_Circumspiciens eos cum ira_!’”

“Yes,” said Don Clemente in his sweet, soft voice; “when we shall have
enthroned Christ within us; when we shall feel the wrath of pure love.”

Don Paolo, who was near him, made no answer; he looked at him, his eyes
suffused with tears, and, seizing his hand, carried it to his lips. The
Benedictine drew back, startled, his face aflame.

“And we shall not enthrone Christ within us,” said Giovanni, much moved,
and pleased with the mystic breath he seemed to feel passing over the
assembly, “If we do not purify our ideas of reform through love; if,
when the time comes to operate, we do not first purify our hands and
our instruments. This indignation, this wrath of which you, Don Paolo,
speak, is really a powerful snare which the evil one uses against
us; powerful precisely because it bears the semblance of virtue and
sometimes, as is the case with the saints really has the substance of
virtue. In us it is nearly always pure malevolence, because we do not
know how to love. The prayer I love best, after the _Pater Noster_, is
the prayer of Unity, which unites us all in the spirit of Christ, when
He prays thus to the Father: ‘_Ut et ipsi in nobis unum sint._’ The
desire and hope are always strong within us of a union in God with those
of our brothers whose beliefs separate them from us. Therefore say now
whether you accept my proposal to found this association. First discuss
the question, and then, if the proposal be accepted we will examine the
means of promoting it.”

Don Paolo exclaimed impetuously, that the principle needed no
discussion; and Minuccì observed, in a submissive tone, that the object
of the meeting was known to all before they came; therefore, by their
presence, they had implied their approval and their willingness to bind
themselves together in a common action; the question of ways and means
remaning still undecided. Abbé Marinier asked permission to speak. “I
am really very sorry,” he said smiling, “but I have not brought even the
smallest thread with which to bind myself. I also am one of those who
see many things going wrong in the Church. Still, when Signor Selva
carefully explained his views to me (first at supper and then here),
views which I had not clearly understood from my friend Professor
Dane’s explanation, certain objections, which I consider serious, forced
themselves upon me.”

“Exactly,” thought Minucci, who had heard how ambitious Marinier was;
“if you look for promotion, you must not join us;” and he added aloud:
“Let us hear them.”

“In the first place, gentlemen,” the clever Abbé said, “it seems to me
you have begun with the second meeting. I may say, with all due respect,
that you remind me of a party of good people who sit down to a game of
cards, and cannot get on because one holds Italian, one French, another
German cards, and therefore they cannot understand one another. I have
heard unanimity of opinions mentioned; but there exists perhaps among
us rather a unanimity of negative opinions. We are probably unanimous in
believing that the Catholic Church has grown to resemble a very ancient
temple, originally of great simplicity, of great spirituality, which
the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries have crowded with
superfluities. Perhaps the more malicious among you will say that only a
dead language may be spoken aloud in this temple, that living languages
may only be whispered there, and that the sun itself takes on false
colours when it shines through the windows. But I cannot believe we are
all of one mind as regards the quantity and quality of the remedies to
be applied. Therefore before initiating this catholic freemasonry, I
think it would be wiser to come to an understanding respecting these
reforms. I will go even farther; I believe that, were it possible
to establish perfect harmony of opinion among you, it would still be
inexpedient to bind yourselves together with visible fetters, as Signor
Selva proposes. My objection is of a most delicate nature. You doubtless
expect to be able to swim in safety, below the surface, like
wary fishes, and you do not reflect that the vigilant eye of the
Sovereign-Fisherman, or rather Vice-Fisherman, may very easily spy you
out, and spear you with a skilful thrust of the harpoon. Now I should
never advise the finest, most highly flavoured, most desirable fishes to
bind themselves together. You will easily understand what might happen
should one be caught and landed. Moreover, you know very well that the
great Fisherman of Galilee put the small fishes into his vivarium, but
the Great Fisherman of Rome fries them.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Don Paolo with a laugh. The others maintained a
frigid silence. The Abbé continued:

“Furthermore, I do not believe any good can be achieved through this
league. Associations may be useful in helping to raise salaries, they
may promote industries and commerce; but science and truth, never.
Reforms will surely be brought about some day, because ideas are
stronger than men, and are always pressing forward; but by arraying them
in armour, and marching them forward in companies, you expose them to a
terrible fire, which will check their progress for a long time to come.
Science and religion progress only through the individual, through the
Messiah. Have you a saint among you? Do you know where to look for one?
Then find him and let him march forward. Fiery language, broad charity,
two or three little miracles, and your Messiah alone will achieve more
than all of you together.”

The Abbé was silent, and Giovanni rose to speak.

“Perhaps the Abbé,” said he, “has not yet been able to form a true
conception of the value of the union we desire. We have just prayed
together, seeking to stand united in the Divine Presence. This is
sufficient to indicate the character of our union. In consideration of
the ills afflicting the Church--which in substance are the result of
discord between her mutable human element and her immutable element of
Divine Truth--we wish, in our desire that He may remove these discords,
to become one in the God of Truth; and we wish to feel ourselves united.
Such a union has no need of community of opinion on certain subjects,
although many of us hold many opinions in common. We do not propose
to create a collective movement, either public or private, in order to
bring about this or that reform. I am old enough to remember the time of
the Austrian domination. If the Lombard and Venetian patriots called us
together in those days to talk of politics, it was by no means always in
order to conspire, nor to determine revolutionary acts; it was to enable
us to communicate news, to become acquainted, to keep the flame of the
idea alive. This is what we wish to do in the religious field. The Abbé
Marinier may rest assured that that negative accord of which he spoke
will amply suffice. We must strive to widen it, that it may embrace
the majority of the intelligent faithful; that it may even reach
the Hierarchy. He will see that positive accord will ripen in it,
mysteriously, as the seed of life ripens in the decaying body of the
fruit. Yes, yes, the negative accord is sufficient. The feeling that the
Church of Christ is suffering is sufficient to unite us in the love of
our Mother, and to move us at least to pray for her, we and our brothers
who, like us, feel her sufferings! What is your answer, Abbé?”

The Abbé murmured with a faint smile:

“_C’est beau, mais ce n’est pas la logique_.”

Don Paolo started up:

“Logic has nothing to do with it.” “Ah!” Marinier replied, assuming a
contrite expression, “if you intend to forego logic----!”

Don Paolo, all on fire, wished to protest, but Professor Dane signed to
him to be calm.

“We do not intend to forego logic,” said he, “but it is not as easy to
measure the logical value of a conclusion in questions of sentiment, of
love of faith, as it is to measure the logical value of a conclusion
in geometrical problems. In the questions which interest us the logical
process is hidden. Surely my dear friend Marinier, one of the most
acute-minded men I know, when he answered my dear friend Selva, did
not intend to imply that when a person very dear to us falls ill, it
is necessary for us to decide what method of treatment to adopt before
hastening to his bedside together.”

“These are very fine figures,” said the Abbé Marinier with vehemence;
“but you are all aware that similes are not arguments!”

Don Clemente, standing in the corner between the door leading into the
corridor and the window, and Professor Minucci, seated near him, began
to speak at the same moment, but both stopped short; each wishing to
allow the other to speak first. Selva proposed that the monk be heard
first. All eyes were fixed on that noble face, the face of an archangel:
Don Clemente’s colour deepened, but he held his head erect. After a
moment of hesitation he spoke in his soft, modest voice. “The Abbé
Marinier made an observation which seemed to me very just. He said that
we need a saint. I also believe this, I do not despair of finding one,
for perhaps, even now, he exists. Who knows?”

“Himself,” murmured Don Paolo.

“Now,” Don Clemente went on, “I wish the Abbé Marinier to understand
this: that we are, in a manner, the prophets of this saint, of this
Messiah, preparing the way for him; which simply means that we point out
the necessity of a renovation of all that, in our religion, is outward
clothing, and not the body of truth, even should such a renovation cause
suffering to many consciences. _Ingemiscit et parturit!_ We must point
out this necessity, standing the while on absolutely Catholic ground,
looking for the new laws from the old authorities, bringing proofs that
if these garments which have been worn so long and in such stormy times,
be not changed, no decent person will come near us; and God forbid that
some among us should be driven to cast them off without permission, out
of a loathing not to be borne. I wish furthermore to say, if the Abbé
Marinier will permit me, that we have very few human fears.”

A murmur of hearty assent answered him, and Minucci started up, every
nerve vibrating. While the Abbé Marinier had been speaking, di Leynì
and Selva had watched Minucci, who was fuming, with knitted brows; and
Giovanni, knowing well the violent temper of this ascetic mystic, had
intended to give him time to control himself by requesting Don Clemente
to speak first. He now sprang up excitedly. His words did not flow
smoothly, their very impetus causing them to tremble and break, and,
broken, they poured from his lips in a torrent, precise, nevertheless,
and powerful, with their vigorous Roman accent.

“That is true! We have no human fears. We are striving for things too
great, and we desire them too intensely to feel human fears! We wish
to be united in the living Christ, all among us who feel that the
understanding of the Way, the Truth, and the Life--is--is--is--growing,
yes, is growing in our hearts, in our minds! And this understanding
bursts so many--what shall I call them?--so many bonds of ancient
formulas which press us, which suffocate us; which would suffocate
the Church were the Church mortal! We wish to be united in the living
Christ, all among us who thirst--who thirst, Abbé Marinier! who
thirst! thirst!--that our faith, if it lose in extent, may gain in
intensity--gain a hundredfold--for God’s glory! And may it irradiate
from us, and may it, I say, be as a purifying fire, purifying first
Catholic thought and then Catholic action! We wish to be united in the
living Christ, all among us who feel that He is preparing a slow
but tremendous reformation, through the prophets and the saints; a
transformation to be accomplished by sacrifice, by sorrow, by the
severing of affections; all who know that the prophets are consecrated
to suffering, and that these things are revealed to us not by flesh and
blood, but by God Himself, dwelling in our souls. We wish to be united,
all of us, from many lands, and to regulate our course of action.
Catholic freemasonry? Yes; the freemasonry of the Catacombs. You are
afraid, Abbé? You fear that many heads will fall at one blow? I answer.
Where is the sword mighty enough for such a blow? One at a time, all in
turn may be struck; to-day, for instance, Professor Dane; to-morrow, Don
Faré; the next day, this Padre here. But should the day come on which
Abbé Marinier’s fantastic harpoon should bring up, all bound by a common
cord, famous laymen, priests, monks, bishops, perhaps even cardinals,
what fisherman is there great or small, who would not be terrified,
and who would not cast back into the water harpoon and all the rest?
Moreover, I must beg you to pardon me, Abbé Marinier, if I ask you and
other prudent persons like you, where is your faith? Would you hesitate
to serve Christ from fear of Peter? Let us band together against the
fanaticism which crucified Him and which is now poisoning His Church;
and if suffering be our reward, let us give thanks to the Father:
_‘Beati estis cum persecuti vos fuerint et dixerint omne malum adversum
vos, mentientes, propter me_.’”

Don Paolo Faré started to his feet and embraced the orator. Di Leynì
fixed upon him eyes aflame with enthusiasm. Dane, Selva, Don Clemente,
and the other monk were silent and embarrassed, feeling--especially
the three ecclesiastics--that Minucci had gone too far, that his words
concerning the extent and intensity of faith, concerning the fear of
Peter, were not weighed; that the whole tone of his discourse was too
aggressive, and not in harmony with Dane’s mystical exhortation, or with
the language Selva had used in delineating the character of the proposed
association. The Genevese abbé had never for a moment removed his small
bright eyes from Minucci’s face while he was speaking. He watched Don
Paolo’s demonstration with an expression of mingled irony and pity; then
he rose:

“Very well,” he said; “I do not know whether my friend Dane, in
particular, shares this gentleman’s views. Indeed, I am inclined to
doubt it. The speaker mentioned Peter. In truth it seems to me the
present company is preparing to leave Peter’s bark, in the hope perhaps
of being able to walk upon the waves. I humbly declare that my faith
is not sufficient, and I should sink at once. I intend to remain in the
bark, at the most plying a small oar, according to my light, for, as
this gentleman says, I am very timid. It is therefore necessary for us
to part, and it only remains for me to beg you to pardon my coming. I
feel the need of a stroll to aid my digestion. Dear friend,” said he
addressing Dane, “we shall meet at the Aniene.” He approached Selva to
bid him good-night, his hand extended. At once the entire company, with
the exception of Don Paolo and Minucci, gathered round him, urging him
to remain. He insisted quietly, checking his over-zealous assailants
with a cold smile, a delicately sarcastic phrase, or a graceful gesture.
Di Leynì turned to Faré, motioning to him to join the others; but the
fiery Don Paolo responded only by an emphatic shrug and a scowl of
irritation. In the meantime, a Tuscan voice was heard above the clamour
of Marinier’s assailants.

“_Stia bono!_” it said. “As yet nothing has been decided! Wait! I have
not yet spoken!”

The speaker was Father Salvati, a _Scolopio,_ and an old man with snowy
hair, a florid complexion, and bright eyes.

“Nothing has as yet been decided,” he repeated. “I, for one, approve of
uniting, but I have one special end in view, while the discourses I have
heard seem to me to favour a very different end. Intellectual progress
is good, renovation of the formulas according to the spirit of the
times is also good, a Catholic reform is excellent. I hold with
Rafaello Lambruschini, who was a great man; with the _‘Pensieri di un
solitario’_; but it appears to me that Professor Minucci is advocating a
reform of an eminently intellectual nattire, and that----”

Here Dane lifted his small, white, refined hand,

“Allow me, Father,” he said. “My dear friend Marinier sees that the
discussion is reopened. I beg him to resume his seat.” The Abbé raised
his eyebrows slightly, but obeyed. The others also sat down, quite
satisfied. They had little faith in the Abbé’s discretion, and it would
have been a great misfortune had he left _ab irato_. Father Salvati
resumed his discourse.

He was opposed to giving an eminently intellectual character to the
movement of reform, not so much on account of the danger from Rome as of
the danger of troubling the simple faith of a multitude of quiet souls.
He wished the Union to set itself first of all a great moral task, that
of bringing back the faithful to the practice of gospel teachings. To
illumine hearts was, in his eyes, the first duty of those who aspired
to illumine minds. Speaking with all due respect, it was obviously
less important to transform Catholic faith in the Bible, than to render
Catholic faith in the word of Christ efficacious. It must be shown that,
in general, the faithful praise Christ with their lips, but that the
heart of the people is far from Him; it must further be shown how much
egoism enters into a certain form of fervent piety which many believed
to be a source of sanctification.

Here Don Paolo and Minucci protested, grumbling: “This has nothing to do
with the question.”

Salvati exclaimed that it had much to do with it, and he begged them to
listen to him patiently. He continued, alluding to a general perversion
of the sense of Christian duty as regards the desire for, and the use
of, riches; a perversion it would be very difficult to eradicate, it
having--In the course of centuries, and with the full sanction of the
clergy--taken deep root in the human conscience.

“The times, gentlemen,” the old monk exclaimed, “demand a Franciscan
movement. Now I see no signs of such a movement. I see ancient religious
orders which no longer have power to influence society. I see Christian
democracy, both administrative and political, which is not in the spirit
of St. Francis; which does not love holy poverty. I see a society for
the study of Franciscan thought--simply an intellectual pastime! I
believe that we should promote a Franciscan movement; that is, if we
desire Catholic reform..”

“But how?” Faré demanded, while Minucci, much vexed, grumbled: “It’s not
that at all!”

Selva felt that the souls which had been united by a first impulse were
drifting apart again. He felt that Dane, Minucci, and probably also
Faré, wished, as did he himself, to initiate an intellectual movement,
and that this Franciscan flash had come out of season and was out of
place. It was all the more inopportune in that it was hot with living
truth. For undoubtedly there was much truth in Padre Salvati’s words: he
recognised this, he, who had often debated in his own mind if it had
not been wiser and for the greater good of the Church to promote a moral
agitation rather than an intellectual one. But he himself did not feel
qualified for this Franciscan apostolate, nor could he discover the
necessary qualifications in any of his friends; not even in the most
zealous of all, Luigi Minucci, a recluse, an ascetic, shunning the world
like Selva himself. Salvati’s arguments served to demolish, but not to
build up. Giovanni secretly felt the irony of applying them either to
Marinier or to Dane, of whom it was well known that their tastes were
anything but Franciscan, that their palates were fastidious, their
nerves delicate, and their affections lavished on parrots and little
dogs. If anything was to be achieved, a line of defence must at once be
adopted.

“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 abbé 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 Leynì, and Faré, 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 Leynì 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 Abbé 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 Leynì’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 Leynì 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, Abbé Marinier?”

“Ah! my friend! St. Paul, St. Paul--”

By this unfinished sentence the Abbé Marinier probably meant to convey
that St. Paul was St. Paul. Di Leynì, 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 Faré, on the contrary, was convinced that he would be a Sovereign
Pontiff. The Abbé 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 Abbé 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,
Faré, di Leynì, 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 attempted 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 Rancé, 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!

“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 Signor 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,
  Però 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 Signor 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 Abbé. 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.

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, Benedé!” 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 ça_!” 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?”

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 anæmia,
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
sweaty 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.

“You are glad?” said Benedetto, almost plaintively,

Oh, glad! How could the master explain what he felt? His beloved
disciple was leaving him, leaving him for ever, after three years of
spiritual union; but then the hidden Will had made itself manifest; God
was taking him from the monastery, setting his feet in other ways. Glad!
Yes; afflicted and glad, but he could not communicate the cause of his
gladness to Benedetto, The Divine Word would have no value for Benedetto
did he not interpret it for himself.

“Not glad,” he said, “but at peace. We understand each other, do we not?
And now prepare yourself to listen to my last words, which I hope you
will cherish.”

Don Clemente’s whole face flushed as he spoke thus, in low tones.

Benedetto bowed his head, and Don Clemente laid his hands upon it with
gentle dignity.

“Do you desire to surrender your whole being to Supreme Truth, to His
Church, visible and invisible?” said the low, manly voice.

As though he had expected both the action and the question, Benedetto
answered at once, and in a firm voice:

“Yes.”

The low voice:

“Do you promise, as from man to man, to remain unwed and poor, until I
shall absolve you from your promise?”

The firm voice

“Yes.”

The low voice:

“Do you promise to be obedient always to the authority of the Holy
Church, administered according to her laws?”

The firm voice:

“Yes.”

Don Clemente drew his disciple’s head towards him, and said, his lips
almost touching Benedetto’s forehead:

“I asked the Abbot to allow me to give you the habit of a lay-brother,
that on leaving here you might, at least, carry with you the sign of
a humble religious office. The Abbot wished to speak with you before
deciding.”

Here Don Clemente kissed his disciple on the forehead, thus intimating
what the Abbot’s decision had been after their meeting; and into the
kiss he put silent words of praise which his fatherly character and the
humility of his disciple would not permit him to utter.

He did not notice that the disciple was trembling from head to foot.

“Here is what the Abbot wrote after talking with you,” said he.

He showed Benedetto the sheet of paper, upon which the Abbot had
written:

“I consent. Send him away at once, that I may not be tempted to detain
him!”

Benedetto embraced his master impulsively, and rested his forehead
against his shoulder without speaking. Don Clemente murmured: “Are you
glad? Now it is I who ask you!”

He repeated his question twice without obtaining an answer. At last he
heard a whisper:

“May I be allowed not to answer? May I pray a moment?”

“Yes, _caro_, yes!”

Beside the monk’s narrow bed, and high above the kneeling-desk, a great
bare cross proclaimed: “Christ is risen; now nail thy soul to me!” In
fact some one, perhaps Don Clemente, perhaps one of his predecessors,
had written, below it: “_Omnes superbiae motus ligno crucis affigat_.”
 Benedetto prostrated himself on the floor, and placed his forehead where
the knees should rest. Through the open window of the cell, the pale
light of the rainy sky fell obliquely upon the backs of the prostrate
man and of the man standing erect, his face raised towards the great
cross. The murmur of the rain, the rumble of the deep Anio, would have
meant to Jeanne the distressed lament of all that lives and loves in the
world; to Don Clemente they meant the pious union of inferior creatures
with the creature supplicating the common Father. Benedetto himself did
not notice them.

He rose, his face composed, and, in obedience to his master’s gesture,
put on the robe of a lay-brother, which was spread out upon the bed,
and fastened the leathern girdle. When he was dressed he opened wide his
arms and displayed himself, smiling to his master, who was gratified to
see how dignified, how spiritually beautiful he was in that habit.

“You did not understand?” said Benedetto. “You were not reminded of
something?”

No, Don Clemente had thought that Benedetto’s intense emotion had been
caused by his humility. Now he understood that he should have recalled
something; but what?

“Ah!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Was it perhaps your vision?”

Yes, surely. Benedetto had seen himself dying on the bare ground, in the
shade of a great tree, and wearing the habit of the Benedictines; and
one argument against believing in the vision--in accordance with the
advice of Don Giuseppe Flores and of Don Clemente--had been the seeming
contradiction between this detail and his repugnance to the monastic
vows, which had been ever increasing since his withdrawal from the
world. Now this contradiction seemed to be vanishing, and therefore the
credibility of the prophetic nature of the vision was reappearing. Don
Clemente was aware of this part of the vision, and should have been able
to read in Benedetto’s heart, his awe at being once more confronted with
a mysterious, divine purpose concerning him, and his fear of falling
into the sin of pride. Of this, he had not thought.

“Do not you think of it, either,” said he, and he hastened to change the
subject. He gave Benedetto some books and a letter for the parish-priest
at Jenne, whose guest he would be for the present. Whether or no he
should remain at Jenne, and in case he did not, whether he should return
to Subiaco or go elsewhere, that Divine Providence must point out to
him.

“_Padre mio_,” Benedetto said, “truly I do not think of what may happen
to me to-morrow. I think only of the words: _‘Magister adest et vocat
me!’_ but not as being spoken by a supernatural voice. I was wrong not
to understand that the Master is always present, and always calling me,
you, every one! If only our soul be hushed, we may hear His voice!”

A faint ray of sunshine glinted into the cell. Don Clemente reflected
at once that should the rain cease, Signora Dessalle would very probably
come to visit the monastery. He said nothing, but his inward anxiety
betrayed itself by a slight shudder, by a glance at the sky which told
Benedetto it was time to leave. He begged the privilege of praying,
first in the Church of Santa Scolastica, and then at the Sacro Speco.
The sun disappeared, and it began to rain again. Master and disciple
descended to the church together, and there, kneeling side by side,
they lingered in prayer. That was their only farewell. At nine o’clock
Benedetto took the road to the Sacro Speco. He left the monastery
unobserved, while Fra Antonio was confabulating with Giovanni Selva’s
messenger. At that moment the rays of the returning sun suddenly lit
up the old walls, the road, the hill itself; shrill cries of gladness,
swift wings of tiny birds broke through the green on all sides, and to
his lips the words rose spontaneously:

“I am coming!”



III.
Jeanne and Noemi reached the monastery at ten o’clock. A few paces from
the gate Jeanne was seized with a violent palpitation. She would have
liked to visit the garden before the convent, the urchin from
Subiaco having told her that the monks of Santa Scolastica had a fine
kitchen-garden, and that some people belonging to them worked in it--an
old man from Subiaco and a young stranger. Now, it was out of the
question. Pale, exhausted, and leaning on Noemi’s arm, she, with
difficulty, dragged herself as far as the door, where a beggar stood,
waiting for his bowl of soup. Fortunately Fra Antonio opened the door
before Noemi had time to ring, and she entreated him to bring a chair
and a glass of water for her friend, who was feeling unwell. Frightened
at the sight of Jeanne, so deathly pale, and drooping against her
companion’s shoulder, the humble old lay-brother placed the bowl of soup
he had brought for the beggar in Noemi’s hands, and hastened away in
search of the chair and the water. Thanks partly to the droll spectacle
the astonished Noemi presented, as she stood holding the bowl of
soup, partly to the rest--the water, the sight of the ancient cloister
sleeping so peacefully, and the reassertion of her own will--a few
minutes sufficed to restore Jeanne sufficiently. Fra Antonio went to
call the _Padre foresterario_, to act as guide to the visitors.

“Tell him we are the two ladies staying at Signor Selva’s house,” said
Noemi.

Don Clemente appeared, blushing in the virginal purity of his soul
because Jeanne was unaware that he knew her story, as he might have
blushed had he been committing some fraud. He mistook Noemi, who came
forward first, for Signora Dessalle. Tall, slim, and elegant, Noemi
might well pass for a siren; she did not, however, look a day over five
and twenty, and therefore could not be the woman of whose adventures
Benedetto had told him. But the Benedictine was incapable of such
calculations, and Noemi was anxious to satisfy herself that Fra Antonio
had fulfilled his mission faithfully.

“Good morning, Padre,” she said in her pretty voice, to which the
foreign accent lent additional charm. “We met last night. You were just
leaving Signor Selva’s house.”

Don Clemente bent his head slightly. Noemi had really hardly had a
glimpse of him, but she had been struck by his beauty, and had reflected
that if he were Signor Maironi she could understand Jeanne’s passion.
Conscious of her fresh and youthful appearance, it never entered
her head that her twenty-five years could be mistaken for Jeanne’s
thirty-two. Jeanne, in the meantime, was wondering how she could turn
her dilemma to the best account.

“You were not expected last night,” said Don Clemente to Noemi. “You
come from the Veneto, I believe?”

“The Veneto?” Noemi seemed surprised.

“The Selvas told me you lived in the Veneto,” the Padre added.

Then Noemi understood. She smiled, and murmured a monosyllable which was
neither “yes” nor “no”; she also was determined to take advantage of
her position, and, thanks to this misunderstanding, obtain a private
interview with Don Clemente, and warn him if necessary. It was moreover
most amusing to talk to this handsome monk, who believed her to be
Jeanne. By a look she cautioned Jeanne, who, much embarrassed, was
glancing from her to the monk, doubtful whether to speak or remain
silent.

“Of course my friend knows Santa Scolastica already,” she said, “but I
have never been here before.”

She turned to Jeanne.

“If the Padre will be kind enough to accompany me, it seems to me you
might remain here, as you are not feeling well,” she said.

Jeanne consented so readily that Noemi suspected she had some secret
plan, and wondered if she had not made a mistake in proposing this.
However, it was too late now. Don Clemente, not over-pleased at having
to accompany one lady alone, suggested they should wait; perhaps her
friend would feel stronger presently. Jeanne protested. No, they must
not wait; she was glad to remain there.

While passing from the first to the second cloister, Noemi once more
reminded the Padre of their meeting on the previous night.

“You had a companion?” she said, and immediately felt ashamed of her
deceit, and of not having cleared up the mistake under which the monk
was labouring. Don Clemente answered almost under his breath:

“Yes, signora, a kitchen-gardener from the monastery.”

Both their faces were crimson, but they did not look at one another, and
each was conscious only of his and her own blush.

“Do you know who we are?” Noemi continued.

Don Clemente replied that he believed he knew. They must be the two
ladies Signora Selva expected. He thought she had mentioned her sister
and Signora Dessalle.

“Oh! you heard of us from my sister?”

At Noemi’s words Don Clemente could not refrain from exclaiming:

“Then you are not Signora Dessalle?”

Noemi saw that the man knew. Therefore he had surely taken precautions,
and an unexpected meeting was not possible. She breathed freely again,
and in her feminine heart curiosity took the place of the anxiety of
which she was now relieved.

Don Clemente spoke to her of the tower, of the ancient arcades, of the
frescoes near the door of the church, while she wondered how he could be
brought to speak of Maironi. When he was showing her the procession of
little stone monks, she interrupted him thoughtlessly, to ask if souls,
tired of the world, disappointed and desirous of giving themselves to
God, often came to the monastery.

“I am a Protestant,” she said. “This interests me greatly.”

In his heart Don Clemente thought that if this really interested her
greatly, it was not on account of her Protestantism, but on account of
her friendship for Signora Dessalle.

“Not often,” he answered; “sometimes. Such souls usually prefer other
Orders. So you are a Protestant? But you will have no objection to
entering our church? I do not mean the Catholic Church,” he added,
smiling and blushing, “I mean the church of our monastery.”

And he told her about a Protestant Englishman, who was in love with
St. Benedict, and made long stays at Subiaco, frequently visiting Santa
Scolastica and the Sacro Speco.

“He has a most beautiful soul,” he said.

But Noemi wished to return to the first subject; to know if--urged by
a spirit of penitence--any one ever came from the world to serve in
the cloister without wearing the habit. She received no answer, for
Don Clemente, seeing a colossal monk enter the cloister, begged to be
excused one minute, and went to speak to him, returning presently with
his majestic companion, whom he introduced as Don Leone, a guide
far superior to himself, both as to the amount and the depths of his
knowledge. Then, to her great chagrin, he himself withdrew.

When she was alone Jeanne had another attack of violent palpitation.
_Dio!_ how the past came back to her! How Praglia came back! And
to think that he came and went through that entrance, through those
cloisters, who knows how many times a day; that he must often think
of Praglia, of that hour fixed by fate, of that water spilled, of the
ecstasy, the tightly clasped hands, under cover of the fur cloak, on the
way home. To think he was now free, and she also was free! How feverish
she felt, how feverish!

Fra Antonio, who had at first been terrified at finding this breathless
woman left there on his hands, was presently amazed by the rapid words
and questions with which she suddenly assailed him.--Was there not a
kitchen-garden near the monastery?--Yes, very near, on the west side;
there was only a narrow lane intervening.--And who cultivated it?--A
kitchen-gardener.--Young? Old? From Subiaco? A stranger?--Old. From
Subiaco.--And no one else?--Yes, Benedetto.--Benedetto? Who was
Benedetto?--A young man from the _Padre foresterario’s_
native town.--And what was the _Padre foresterario’s_ native
town?--Brescia.--And this young man was called Benedetto?--Every one
called him Benedetto, but Fra Antonio could not say if that was his real
name.--But what sort of man was he?--Ah! that Fra Antonio could say.
He was almost more holy than the monks themselves. You could see by his
face that he came of a good family, yet he was housed like a dog; he ate
only bread, fruit, and herbs; he spent whole nights, in prayer probably,
out on the mountains. He tilled the soil, and he also studied in the
library with the _Padre foresterario_. And such a heart! Such a great
heart! Many times he had given the scanty dole of food he received
from the monastery to the poor.--And where could one find him at this
hour?--Oh! surely in the garden; Fra Antonio fancied he would be busy
sprinkling the grape vines with sulphate of copper.

Jeanne’s heart beats so violently that her sight becomes dim. She sits
silent and motionless. Fra Antonio thinks she has forgotten Benedetto.
“Ah! signora,” he says, “Santa Scolastica is a fine monastery, but you
should see Praglia!” For Fra Antonio passed several years at Praglia in
his youth, before the abbey was suppressed, and he speaks of it as of a
venerable mother. “Ah! the church at Praglia! The cloisters! The
hanging cloister, the refectory!” At these unexpected words Jeanne grows
excited. They seem to say to her: “Go, go, go at once!” She starts from
her chair.

“And this garden? In which direction is it?”

Fra Antonio, somewhat astonished, answered that it might be reached
through the monastery, or by skirting the outside. Jeanne went out;
absorbed in her burning thoughts she passed the gate, turned to the
right, entered the gallery below the library, where she paused a moment,
pressing her hands to her heart, and walked on again.

The herder belonging to the convent, standing at the entrance to the
courtyard where the Ospizio, which shelters pilgrims, is located,
pointed out the door of the garden on the opposite side of the narrow
lane, running between two walls. She asked him if she would find a
certain Benedetto in the garden. In spite of her efforts to control
herself, her voice trembled in anticipation of an affirmative answer.
The herder replied that he did not know, and offered to go and see.
Knocking several times, he called: “Benedè! Benedè!”

A step at last! Jeanne was leaning against the door-post to keep herself
from falling. O God! if it be Piero, what shall she say to him? The door
opens; it is not Piero but an old man. Jeanne breathes freely again,
glad for the moment. The old man looks at her, astonished, and says to
the herder:

“Benedetto is not here.”

Her gladness had already vanished; she felt icy cold; the two men looked
at her curiously, in silence.

“Is this the lady who is looking for Benedetto?” said the old man.

Jeanne did not reply; the herder answered for her, and then he told how
Benedetto had spent the night out of doors; that he had found him at
daybreak, in the grove of the Sacro Speco, wet to the skin. He had
offered him some milk and Benedetto had drunk like a dying man to whom
life is returning.

“Listen, Giovacchino,” the herder added, growing suddenly grave. “When
he had drunk he embraced me like this. I was feeling ill; I had not
slept, my head ached, all my bones ached. Well, as he held me in his
arms slight shivers seemed to come from them and creep over me, and then
I felt a sort of comforting heat; and I was content, and as comfortable
all over as if I had had two mouthfuls of the very best spirits in
my stomach! The headache was gone, the pains in the bones were gone,
everything was gone. Then I said to myself: ‘By St. Catherine, this man
is a saint!’ And a saint he certainly is!”

While he was speaking a poor cripple passed, a beggar from Subiaco.
Seeing a lady, he stopped and held out his hat. Jeanne, completely
absorbed in what the herder was saying, did not notice him, nor did she
hear him when--the herder having ceased speaking--he begged for alms,
for the love of God. She asked the gardener where this Benedetto was to
be found. The man scratched his head, doubtful how to answer. Then the
beggar groaned out in a mournful voice:

“You are seeking Benedetto? He is at the Sacro Speco.”

Jeanne turned eagerly towards him.

“At the Sacro Speco?” said she; and the gardener asked the beggar if he
himself had seen him there.

The cripple, more tearful than ever, told how more than an hour ago he
had been on the road to the Sacro Speco, beyond the grove of evergreen
oaks, only a few steps from the convent. He was carrying a bundle of
fagots, and had fallen badly, and could not rise again with his burden.

“God and St. Benedict sent a monk that way,” he continued. “This monk
lifted me up, comforted me, gave me his arm, and took me to the convent,
where the other monks restored me. Then I came away, but the monk stayed
at the Sacro Speco.”

“And what has all this to do with it?” the gardener exclaimed.

“Simply this, that dressed as he was I did not at once know him; but
afterwards I did. It was he.”

“Whom do you mean by _he_?”

“Benedetto.”

“Who was Benedetto?”

“The monk.”

“You are mad! You idiot!” the two men exclaimed together.

Jeanne gave the cripple a silver piece.

“Think well,” she said. “Tell the truth!”

The cripple overflowed with benedictions, mingling with them such humble
expressions as: “Just as you please, just as you please! I may have
been mistaken, I may have been mistaken,” and with his string of pious
mumblings he took himself off. Jeanne again questioned the herder
and the gardener. Was it possible that Benedetto had taken the
habit?--Impossible! The beggar was only a poor fool.

Presently the herder left, and Jeanne, entering the kitchen-garden, sat
down tinder an olive tree, reflecting that Noemi could easily learn from
the door-keeper where to find her. The old gardener, whose curiosity
was aroused, asked, with many apologies, if she was a relative of
Benedetto’s,

“For it is known that he is a gentleman, a rich man!” said he.

Jeanne did not answer his question. She wished rather to find out why
this belief in Piero’s riches prevailed.--Well, you could see by his
manners and by his face; he really had the face of a gentleman.--And
he had not become a monk?--Well, no.--And why had he not become a
monk?--That was not known for a certainty, There were many tales told.
It was even said he had a wife, and that his wife had played him what
the gardener called “a mean trick.” Jeanne was silent, and it suddenly
struck the gardener that she might be the wife, the woman who had played
the “mean trick.” She had perhaps repented, and was come to ask his
forgiveness.

“If this story about the wife is true,” he added, “I don’t say she may
not have had her reasons; but as far as goodness goes, she surely did
not find a better man. You see, signora, these fathers are holy men,
that is undeniable; but there is no one so holy as he, either at Santa
Scolastica or at the Sacro Speco. That I will swear to! Not even Don
Clemente, who is most holy! Still he is not equal to Benedetto. No, no!”

The beggar’s words suddenly sounded in Jeanne’s heart. Benedetto a monk!
But why? It was discouraging to have them thus return, without a reason,
to her heart. Had not the two men said it was nonsense; that the cripple
was a fool? Yes, nonsense, she could see that herself; yes, a fool, he
had impressed her as such; but still the stupid words beat and throbbed
in her heart, as gruesome as masqueraders in comic masks would be should
they knock at your door at any other time save during Carnival!

“If you will wait, signora, in less than half an hour he is sure to be
here. _Che_! What am I saying? In a quarter of an hour. Perhaps he is in
the library studying with Don Clemente, or perhaps he is in the church.”

The library, which runs across the narrow lane, communicates directly
with the kitchen-garden.

“There he is now!” the old man exclaimed.

Jeanne started to her feet. The door leading from the library to the
garden opened slowly. Instead of Piero, Noemi appeared, followed by
the big monk. Noemi perceived her friend among the olives, and stopped
suddenly, greatly surprised. Jeanne in the garden? Was it possible
that--? No, the old man beside her could not be Maironi, and there was
no one else with her. She smiled and shook her finger at her. Don Leone
took leave of Noemi upon learning that this was the friend who--as she
had told him during the visit to the monastery--had remained at the
door-keeper’s lodge. Of course the ladies would go up to the other
convent, and his great size was no longer adapted to the climb to the
Sacro Speco.

It was nearly eleven o’clock; they had ordered the carriage to meet them
where they had left it at half-past twelve, for dinner was at one at the
Selvas’; if Jeanne wished to see the Sacro Speco there was no time to
lose, provided her indisposition had disappeared, as would seem to be
the case. Noemi encouraged her going, and did not stop to ask, in the
presence of the gardener, why she had left Fra Antonio to run off and
explore the garden. She merely whispered: “You were making believe, eh?”
 Jeanne said that Noemi must certainly start for the Sacro Speco at
once, but that she herself intended to wait for her in the garden. Noemi
suspected another plot.

“No, no!” she exclaimed, “either you come to the Sacro Speco or--if you
do not feel well enough--we will go down to Subiaco at once.”

Jeanne objected that it would be useless to go down now, for they would
not find the carriage; but Noemi was determined not to yield. They
could walk down very slowly, and be ready for the carriage as soon as it
arrived. Jeanne refused again, more emphatically than before, having
no other argument to set forth. Then Noemi looked searchingly into her
eyes, silently trying to read her hidden purpose there. In that moment
of silence Jeanne’s heart was again assailed by the beggar’s words.
Impulsively she seized her friend’s arm.

“You wish me to go to the Sacro Speco?” she said. “Very well, let us go
then. You believe something and you do not know! Let Fate decide!”

But before moving a step she dropped her friend’s arm, and while Noemi,
completely bewildered, stood watching her she wrote in her notebook: “I
am at the Sacro Speco. For the sake of Don Giuseppe Flores wait for me!”
 She did not sign her name, but tearing out the tiny page gave it to
the gardener. “For that man, should he return.” Then once more taking
Noemi’s arm, she exclaimed:

“Let us go!”

The sun’s burning rays, smiting the steaming, rocky hillside, brought
out damp odours of herbs and of stone, silvered the puffs of mist
creeping along the sides of the narrow, wild valley, as far as the
enormous mass resting there, in the background, like a cap on the
heights of Jenne, while the mighty voice of the Anio filled the
solitude. Jeanne climbed upwards in silence, without replying to Noemi’s
questions. Noemi was becoming more and more alarmed by her silence, by
her pallor, by the nervous twitching of her arm, by the sight of her
lips pressed tightly together, to keep back her sobs. Why was she thus
moved? During the night and, indeed, until they had reached the entrance
to Santa Scolastica, the poor creature had wavered between fear and
hope, in a fever of expectancy. Now her fever was of a different nature;
at least it seemed so to Noemi. She thought Jeanne must have heard
something there in the garden, something of which she did not wish to
speak, something painful, frightful! What could it be? The tragic lament
of the invisible water, the silent trembling of the blades of grass on
the rocky slope, even the burning heat, made the heart shrink. A few
paces from the arch which, standing rigid there, holds in check the
black crowd of evergreen oaks, Noemi was relieved to hear human voices.
They belonged to Dane on horseback and to Marinier and the Abbot on
foot, who were coming down together from the Sacro Speco,

Dane showed great pleasure at this meeting; he stopped his horse,
presented the ladies to the Abbot, and spoke of the Sacro Speco in
enthusiastic language. Jeanne, after exchanging a few words with the
Abbot, asked him if any one had recently pronounced the solemn vows or
perhaps taken the habit. The Abbot replied that he had been at Santa
Scolastica only a few days, and was not, at that moment, in a position
to answer her question; but he did not believe any one had made the
solemn profession or assumed the habit of a novice at Santa Scolastica
for at least a year. Jeanne was radiant with joy. Now she understood;
she had been a fool to believe it possible, even for a single moment,
that in twelve hours Piero the peasant had become Piero the monk. She
longed to return at once to the garden at Santa Scolastica; but how
could she manage it? what pretext could she invent? She pressed forward,
anxious to be done with the Sacro Speco as soon as possible. Noemi
proposed resting a few minutes in the shade of the evergreen oaks,
which, there on the path of those souls agitated by Divine Love,
themselves seem twisted by an inward ascetic fury, by a frantic effort
to tear themselves from the earth, and to dart their arms into the sky.
Jeanne refused impatiently. The colour had returned to her face, and
the light to her eyes. She started rapidly up the narrow stair where the
short walk comes to an end, and in spite of the protests of Noemi (who
could not understand the cause of this change) would not stop to
take breath at the head of the stairs where, suddenly, the dark, deep
spectacle of the valley reveals itself. High up on the left looms the
terrible crag, dear to falcons and crows, bulging out above the dreary
walls, pierced by unadorned openings which are incrusted upon the bare
slope, running crosswise along its face, and form the monastery of the
Sacro Speco. In the depths below the convent hangs the rose garden of
St. Benedict, and below the rose garden hang the kitchen-garden and the
olive groves, sloping to the open bed of the roaring Anio. The mass of
cloud which had rested on the heights of Jenne was rising and invading
the sky. A wave of shadow passed over the enormous crag, over the
monastery, over the parapet upon which Noemi had rested her elbows, lost
in contemplation.

“This is magnificent!” she said. “Let us stop here a few seconds at
least, now that it is shady,”

But at that moment the little door of the monastery, not two steps from
them, opened and a party of visitors, men and women, came out. The monk
who had acted as guide, seeing Noemi and Jeanne, held the door open,
expecting them to enter. Jeanne hastened to do so, and Noemi, much
against her will, followed her,

“Thirteenth century frescoes,” said the Benedictine, in the dark
entrance-hall, in an indifferent tone, as he passed on. Noemi stopped,
curiously regarding the ancient paintings. Jeanne followed the
Benedictine, looking neither to right nor left, distracted, tormented by
a doubt. What if the Abbot had been mistaken, if the beggar had told
the truth? She recalled in fancy the happy meeting in the courtyard at
Praglia, the intense pallor of his face, the “Thank you!” which had made
her tremble with joy. A shiver ran through her blood, and, as though
with a sudden pull at the reins of her imagination, she turned to Noemi:
“Come!” she said.

She followed the monk, hearing nothing that he said, observing
nothing that he pointed out. Noemi found it difficult to hide her own
uneasiness, for she had a presentiment of evil on their return. The
dangerous point was the garden at Santa Scolastica, which, judging by
what she had said to the old gardener, Jeanne intended to revisit. She
no longer wished to see this famous Maironi; she longed only to get
Jeanne safely back to the Selvas’, without any meetings, and she
intended to tarry as long as possible at the Sacro Speco, that they
might not have time to stop at Santa Scolastica. She therefore pretended
to take a lively interest in the precious interior of this monastery,
which has such a bare and dreary exterior, while all the while her
one wish was to revisit it more peacefully with her sister or her
brother-in-law.

Upon descending into that mine of holiness, neither of them understood
what road they were following, surrounded as they were by the lifeless,
cold atmosphere, the mystic shadows, the yellowish lights falling from
above, the odours of damp stone, of smoking wicks, of musty draperies;
bewildered by visions of chapels, of grottos, of crosses at the foot of
dark stairs; losing themselves in their flight down towards the lower
caverns, keeping on a level with their own pointed vaults; of marbles
the colour of blood, the colour of the night, the colour of snow; of
stiff, pious groups with Byzantine features, crowding the walls, the
drums of the arches; of little monks and little friars, standing in the
window niches, on the pinnacles of the vaults, along the line of the
entablatures, each with his venerable aureole. The visitors did not know
what path they were following, and Jeanne hardly felt the reality of it
all.

While descending the Scala Santa--the Holy Staircase--the monk leading
and Jeanne following closely, while Noemi came last, some five or six
steps behind, Jeanne, suddenly throwing out her hands, clutched
the guide’s shoulder, and then, ashamed of her involuntary action,
immediately withdrew them, while the monk, who was greatly astonished,
stopped, and turned his head towards her.

“Pardon me!” she said. “Who is that father?”

Between two landings of the Scala, behind a projection of the left wall,
a figure, all black in the habit of the Benedictines, stood, erect and
still, in the dark corner, its forehead resting against the marble,
Jeanne had passed it by four or five steps without having perceived
it, then she had chanced to look round, and had seen it, while an
instinctive suspicion flashed through her trembling heart.

The monk answered:

“He is not a father, signora.”

He bent down to unlock the low gate of a chapel.

“What is the matter?” Noemi inquired, drawing near. “He is not a
father?” Jeanne repeated.

Noemi trembled at the strange ring in her friend’s voice. She herself
had not noticed the figure standing erect in the shadow of the wall.

“Who?” she asked.

The monk, who, in the meantime, had opened the gate, misunderstood her,
and thought she referred to something that had been said before.

“No,” he answered. “The authentic portrait of St. Francis is not here.
Lower down there is a St. Francis painted by the Cavalier Manente. You
will see it presently. Please come in.”

“What is it?” Noemi said softly to Jeanne. Her friend having answered
in a calmer voice, “Nothing,” she passed her, entering the chapel, and
listened to the monk’s explanations. Then the black figure moved away
from the wall. Jeanne saw it slowly mounting in the dim light, under the
pointed arches. On the upper landing the figure turned to the right,
and disappeared, to reappear almost immediately on an arm of the stair,
crossing the slanting background of the scene, and brilliant in the
light of an invisible window. The figure mounted slowly, almost wearily.
Before it vanished behind the enormous flank of an arch, it bent its
head and looked down. Jeanne recognised the face!

On the instant, as if in obedience to a lightning will impelling her,
as if borne along by the rush of her destiny, pale, resolute, without
knowing what she would say, what she would do, she started upwards.
Having crossed the upper landing, she was about to place her foot on
the lighter stairway, when she stumbled and fell, remaining for a moment
prostrate. Thus Noemi, on leaving the chapel, did not see her, and
concluded she had gone down in search of the portrait of St. Francis,
Jeanne rose and started forward; she was a poor creature torn by
passions, to whom the images of celestial peace, grown rigid on the
sacred walls, called in vain. All before her was silence and void. She
was following paths unknown to her, swiftly, securely, as one in an
hypnotic trance. She passed through dark and narrow places, through
light and broad places, never hesitating, never looking to right
or left, all her senses sharpened and concentrated in her hearing,
following little sounds of distant whisperings, the faint complaining
of one door, the breath of wind from another, the brushing of a robe
against the frame. Thus, through the wide-open wings of the last door
she passed rapidly, and found herself face to face with _him_.

He also had recognised her, at the last moment, on the Scala Santa. He
felt almost certain he himself had not been recognised, nevertheless he
had sought to avoid the path usually followed by visitors. Upon hearing
a swift rustle of woman’s drapery approaching that mysterious hall, he
understood all, and, facing the entrance, he waited. She perceived him
and stopped suddenly, in the very act of entering, standing as though
turned to stone, between the wings of the door; her eyes fixed on his
eyes, which no longer wore the look of Piero Maironi.

He was transfigured. His form, owing perhaps to the black habit,
appeared slighter. His pale, fleshless face, his brow, which seemed
to have become higher, expressed a dignity, a gravity, a sad sweetness
which Jeanne had never known in him. And the eyes were totally different
eyes; in them shone a something ineffable and divine, much humility,
much power, the power of a transcendent love, springing not from his
heart, but from a mystic fount within his heart; a love reaching beyond
her heart, but seeking her in the inner, mysterious regions of the soul,
regions unknown to her. Slowly, slowly she clasped her hands and sank
upon her knees.

Benedetto carried the forefinger of his left hand to his lips, while
with his other hand he pointed to the wall facing the balcony, which
opens to the hornbeams of the Francolano hill and to the roar of the
river far below. In the centre of the wall, showing black and large, was
the word

     SILENTIUM.

For centuries, ever since the word had been written there, no human
voice had been heard in this place. Jeanne did not look, did not see.
That finger at Piero’s lips was enough to seal her own. But it was not
enough to check the sob in her throat. She gazed at him intently, her
lips pressed tightly together, while great, silent tears rolled down her
face. Immovable, his arms hanging close to his sides, Benedetto slightly
bent his head and closed his eyes, absorbed in prayer. The great, black,
imperious word, big with shadows and with death, triumphed over these
two human souls, while from the shining balcony the fierce souls of the
Anio and of the wind roared in protest.

Suddenly, a few seconds after Benedetto’s eyes had closed to her gaze,
she was shaken and rent from shoulder to knee by a great sob, a sob
bitter with all the bitterness of her fate. He opened his eyes and
looked tenderly at her, while she drank in his look thirstily, sobbing
twice, as in sorrowful gratitude. And because this man, her beloved,
again raised his finger to his lips she bowed her head in assent. Yes,
yes, she would be silent, she would be calm! Still in obedience to his
gesture, to his look, she rose to her feet and drew back, allowing him
to pass out through the open door; then she followed him humbly, her
hope dead in her breast, so many sweet phantoms dead in her heart, her
love turned to fear and veneration.

She followed him to the chapel which they call the upper church. There,
opposite the three small pointed arches inclosing deep shadows through
which an altar looms, and where a silver cross shines against the dark
phantoms of ancient paintings, Jeanne, upon a sign from him, knelt
on the _prie-dieu_ placed on the right side of the great arch, which
follows the line of the pointed vault, while he knelt on the one placed
on the left. On the drum of the arch a fourteenth century painter had
depicted the Great Sorrow. Through a high window on the left, the light
fell upon the Mother of Sorrows--the _Dolorosa_; Benedetto was in the
shadow.

His voice murmured in a scarcely audible tone:

“Still without faith?”

Softly, as he himself had spoken, and without turning her head, she
answered:

“Yes.”

He was silent for a time, then he continued, in the same tone:

“Do you long for it? Could you regulate your actions as if you believed
in God?”

“Yes, if I be not forced to lie.”

“Will you promise to live for the poor and the afflicted, as if each one
of these were a part of the soul that you love?”

Jeanne did not answer. She was too far-seeing, too honest to declare
that she could.

“Will you promise this,” Benedetto continued, “if I promise to call you
to my side at a certain hour in the future?”

She did not know of what solemn and not far distant hour he was
thinking, as he spoke thus. She answered, quivering:

“Yes, yes!” “In that hour I will call you,” said the voice out of the
shadow, “But until I call you, you must never seek to see me again.”

Jeanne pressed her hands to her eyes, and answered “No” in a smothered
tone. It seemed to her she was whirling in the vortex of such agonising
dreams as accompany a raging fever, Piero had ceased speaking. Two or
three minutes slipped by. She withdrew her hands from her tearful eyes,
and fixed her gaze upon the cross, which shone there in front of
her, beyond the pointed arches, against the dark phantoms of ancient
paintings. She murmured:

“Do you know that Don Giuseppe Flores is dead?”

Silence.

Jeanne turned her head. The church was empty.



CHAPTER V. THE SAINT

I. The moon had already set, and in the wind of late evening the
Anio discoursed, now noisily, now softly, as one who in animated
conversation, from time to time, reminds his interlocutor of something
which others must not hear. Perhaps the only person who, in all the
lovely shell in which Subiaco lies, was listening to this discourse,
was Giovanni Selva. Seated on the terrace, near the parapet, on which
he rested his elbows, he was gazing silently into the sounding darkness.
Maria and Noemi, who had also come out to enjoy the freshness and
the wild odours of the night wind, stood at a little distance. Maria
whispered a word in her sister’s ear, and Noemi withdrew. When she was
alone, Maria approached her husband very softly, and dropped a kiss upon
his hair.

“Giovanni,” said she. How often, oppressed by the intensity of her
love, had she not given him her soul, her whole being, in that one word,
spoken under her breath, all others seeming to her inadequate, or worn
by too many lips! Giovanni answered sadly, wearily:

“Maria.”

No longer feeling her face on his hair he feared he had spoken coldly to
her.

“Dearest!” he said.

She was silent for a moment, then placing both hands on his head, began,
caressing it slowly, saying:

“Blessed are they who suffer for Truth’s sake.”

He turned round, smiling, with a thrill of affection. Having assured
himself by a glance that Noemi was no longer present, he raised his arm
and drew the dear face down to his lips.

“I need you so much,” he said. “I need your strength!”

“That is why I am yours,” Maria answered. “I am strong only because you
love me.”

He took her hand and kissed it reverently.

“Do you understand?” he presently exclaimed, raising his head. “Perhaps
you do not know how deep my suffering really is, for it is a dark point
even to me, who am old, and yet do not know myself. I was thinking of
this just now. I reflected that when we suffer from a wound the cause of
our suffering is visible, but when we suffer from a fever the cause is
hidden, as in this case, and we never succeed in becoming thoroughly
acquainted with it.”

A month had not yet elapsed since the meeting at which a league among
progressive Catholics had been talked of. No league had sprung from
it, but to nothing else could the origin of a series of strange and
unpleasant events be attributed. Professor Dane had been recalled to
Ireland by his Archbishop. He had immediately called upon an English
Cardinal attached to the Papal Court, in order to acquaint him with the
unsatisfactory condition of his health, and to solicit his support of a
petition to the Archbishop for an extension of his leave. His Eminence
had opened Dane’s eyes. The blow had come from Rome, where he was looked
upon with the greatest disapproval. Only out of consideration for the
Cardinal himself, who was known to be his friend, and above all out of
consideration for the English Government, had the authorities refrained
from satisfying those who wished to see his writings placed on the
Index, and Dane himself constrained to resign his professorship. The
Cardinal advised him to leave Rome, where the heat was beginning to be
unpleasant, and to become a little more seriously ill at Montecatini
or Salsomaggiore, where he would be left in peace. Don Clemente had not
again appeared. Giovanni had sought him out at Santa Scolastica, where
the monk had signified to him, with tears in his eyes, that their
friendship must be buried like a treasure in times of war. Upon Don
Paolo Faré, who had been giving a course of religious instruction for
adults at Pavia, silence had been enjoined. Young di Leynì had been
reached through his family. His excellent and pious mother had besought
him with tears and in the name of his dead father, to break with those
dangerous acquaintances, the Selvas; and he believed that this step had
been suggested by her confessor. He had resisted, but at the cost of
his domestic peace. Finally, a clerical periodical had published three
articles on Giovanni’s complete works, summing up some partial and
grudging praise, and some equally partial and biting censure in a very
severe judgment on the character of the works themselves, which the
critic pronounced rationalistic, and on the intolerable audacity of the
author, who, equipped solely with worldly learning, had dared to publish
writings in which the lack of theological knowledge was painfully
evident. In substance these three articles were a terrible and
prohibitive condemnation of the very book Giovanni was then engaged
upon, dealing with the rational foundations of Christian morality, and,
in the opinion of the initiated, it predicted the Index for his other
works.

“Are you in doubt concerning your own views?” Maria asked.

The question was insincere. Notwithstanding her great love for him, she
had a deep and clear knowledge of her husband’s soul. She believed he
was, in his heart, suffering from the presentiment of an ecclesiastical
condemnation. Giovanni might speak lightly of certain sentences passed
by the Congregation of the Index, but his conscience, more respectful
towards the authorities than he himself realised, was troubled, so Maria
thought, more deeply than he wished it to be by the threatened blow.
And Maria, fearing to wound him by the question, “Are you afraid?”
 had insinuated this other doubt, in order to prepare the way for a
spontaneous confession of the truth. Giovanni’s answer astonished her.

“Yes,” said he. “I doubt myself. Not, however, in the way you suppose.
I fear I am a purely intellectual being, and that I exaggerate the
importance my views may have in the sight of God. I fear I do not live
up to my views. I fear my indignation is too great against those who do
not share them, against my persecutors, against that Swiss Abbé who came
here with Dane, and probably talked of what was then said in our midst
as he should not have done, and in places where he should have kept
silent. I fear my life is one of too great inactivity, of too great
ease, of too much pleasure, for to me study is a delight. I even doubt
my love of God, because I feel too lightly the love of my neighbour. I
am often reminded that the mystic pleasures may lull my conscience on
this point. You, Maria, you live your faith; you visit the sick, work
for the poor, you comfort, you instruct. I do nothing.”

“I am one with you,” Maria whispered. “You made me what I am. Besides,
you distribute the alms of the intellect.”

“No, no! Those words applied to me are presumptuous!” Maria knew that
the loving sense of human fraternity was not strong in Glovanni.
She felt--and she was loath to confess it even to herself--that this
deficiency incapacitated her husband for the successful fulfilment of
that great religious apostolate which should have resulted from his
intellectual powers, and that deep and enlightened faith, which in him
was more the fruit of genius, of study, of love of the divine, than of
tradition or habit. She reproached herself for having sometimes rejoiced
at Giovanni’s coldness towards his fellows, for it lent a precious
flavour to the treasures of affection he lavished upon herself.
Nevertheless he was conscious of the fraternal obligations, and she had
never known him turn a deaf ear to an appeal, or seen him insensible to
the grief of others. He did not feel, and therefore did not love God in
man, which is the most sublime flame of charity; he felt and loved man
in God, which is a cold love, as would be the love of one who was kind
to his brother solely to please their father. But this last is the
temper common to even the best of human hearts. Giovanni’s heart was
tempered thus; he could not give out that sublime charity of which he
humbly and sadly acknowledged himself to be void. Maria, caressing his
hair with infinite tenderness, dreamed that sweet, divine, indulgence
flowed out upon that head through her heart and her hands.

“Listen,” said she. “I am going to propose to you at once an act of
charity in which there is much merit. Noemi has received a letter from
her friend Jeanne Dessalle, and says she is in need of your help.”

“Call her,” said he.

Noemi came. A slight cloud had gathered that day between Giovanni and
herself. As rarely happened, they had conversed on religion. Noemi clung
blindly to her own religion, and disliked discussions. Notwithstanding
her tenderness for Maria, and her affectionate respect for Giovanni,
she feared she should lean more towards the scepticism of Jeanne than
towards the liberal and progressive Catholicism of the Selvas, if
she stopped to examine the reasons and nature of her own belief. This
Catholicism appeared to her a hybrid thing, and she had perhaps learned
from Jeanne to consider it such; for Jeanne, in moments of nervous
irritability, defended her own scepticism with acrimony against that
faith which, because it shone with spirituality and truth, might prove
formidable to her. Noemi was always suspicious, not of her sister, but
of Giovanni, fearing he would attempt to convert her, and her suspicion
had that day been apparent when, discussing the confessional, she had
several times answered him very sharply. Then Giovanni had reminded her,
gently and gravely, that error harboured unconsciously, in the sincere
and pure desire of truth, is innocent in the eyes of God, but that if
a sentiment foreign to that desire have any part in the repulsion of
truth, then sin alone is the outcome. This argument wounded Noemi more
deeply still. She had been on the point of asking her brother-in-law by
what right he was acting as vice-divine judge. She controlled herself,
however, and let the discussion drop.

Upon thinking it over afterwards, she regretted her sullen silence, not
so much because Giovanni’s words had affected her views, as because she
was aware of the sorrow the religious opinions he professed brought him,
and because she saw how depressed his spirits were. This was one reason
why--when she was called to him, and entreated by her sister to show him
much affection--she resolved, for once, to be unfaithful to Jeanne. Of
what Jeanne had written to her under the seal of secrecy she had told
Maria only as much as was absolutely necessary. Jeanne, still suffering
both physically and mentally, had heard of the “Saint of Jenne,” who was
healing bodies and souls, and she besought Noemi to go to Jenne and see
this Saint, and then to write to her about him. Now Noemi could not
go to Jenne alone, she must ask Giovanni to accompany her. Her first
confidence had stopped here. Now she broke all the seals of secrecy her
friend had imposed, and spoke freely.

Poor Jeanne Dessalle was more unhappy than ever. During her short visit
at Subiaco she had met her former lover. An exclamation from Giovanni!
Then it was Don Clemente, after all? No, it was the man who came to the
villa with the Padre the night of Jeanne’s arrival, the under-gardener
from Santa Scolastica--he who was no longer at the monastery--of whom
all the valley of the Anio was talking, and who was known, even at Rome,
as the “Saint of Jenne.” Noemi begged them to forgive her for not having
told them at the time. Woe to her if Jeanne had discovered her breach
of confidence, after her many admonitions. Besides it would have done no
good. Giovanni took his wife’s hand almost stealthily, and raised it to
his lips, Maria understood, and smiled. Then both assailed Noemi with
questions.

Yes, Jeanne had recognised him the night of their arrival, and now
Maria and Giovanni could understand the reason of the faintness she had
experienced. Their meeting had taken place the following day at Sacro
Speco. Concerning the meeting Noemi knew only this much, that Jeanne’s
hopes had been dashed to the ground, that he was clad as a monk, and
had spoken as one who has given himself to God for ever; that she had
promised him to dedicate her life to good works, and that no direct
correspondence between them was any longer possible.

Jeanne now wrote from Villa Diedo, the home in the Veneto where she had
gone with her brother from Rome, two days after leaving Subiaco. She
wrote in a moment of most bitter despondency. Her brother, surprised at
her devoting so much time to the poor, was irritated by this innovation
in her mode of thought and of life. She might give money, if she
pleased, and as much as she pleased, but to bring a string of beggars
into the house, to visit them in their hovels, that he would not allow!
It was foolish, it was a bore, it was ridiculous, it was eccentric, it
was clerical. There were other difficulties, She would have liked to
join the women’s charitable associations of the town, but they drew
back, shrinking into themselves like sensitive plants at the touch of
this woman, who had been the subject of so much gossip on account of
Maironi, and who, though she did sometimes go to church of a Sunday, did
not fulfil her Easter duties. And finally her habits, which were those
of a woman of leisure, were reforming their ranks after the first
defeat, and delaying her progress on the new road, ever more
successfully as the road became more difficult. She felt she must
succumb if no word of counsel reached her, no help from him. She could
not see him, she dared not write, for certainly he had intended to
forbid that also; and she would rather die than do anything to displease
him, if she could avoid it. She had read an article in the _Corriére_ on
the “Saint of Jenne,” in which it was stated that the Saint was young,
and had been a day-labourer in the kitchen-garden at Santa Scolastica.
Therefore it must be he! She entreated Noemi to go to Jenne, and beg a
word of comfort for her, for the sake of charity! Noemi was determined
to go. Would Giovanni accompany her? In the humble tone in which she
asked this favour, Giovanni heard a tacit petition for forgiveness and
peace; he held out his hand:

“With all my heart,” he said.

Maria offered to join them, and they decided to go the following
morning, starting on foot, at five o’ clock, in order to avoid the
blazing sun on the slope of Jenne. Then they spoke of the Saint.

The whole valley was talking about him. The article Jeanne had seen said
that a great number of people were flocking to Jenne to see and hear the
Saint; that miraculous cures were being announced as his work; that the
Benedictines told with admiration of the life of penance and of prayer
he had led for three years at Santa Scolastica, working in the garden.
At Subiaco still more wonderful reports were circulating. A certain
forester called Torquato, a most worthy man and a relative of the
Selvas’ servant, told her he had been to Jenne with a stranger, a sort
of poet, who had come all the way from Rome to talk with the Saint. On
the way there and back, they had met perhaps fifty people--real ladies
and gentlemen they were, too; and on the hillside of Jenne they had met
a procession of women singing the litanies. At Jenne he had heard the
whole story. One night the parish priest had dreamed that a globe of
fire rested on the great cross planted on the summit of the hill; this
blazing globe had set the cross itself on fire, and it was burning and
glowing without being consumed, while all the mountains and the valley
were illumined by it. The next day there had appeared before him a young
man, in the habit of a Benedictine lay-brother, who was the bearer of a
letter to him. This letter was from the Abbot of Santa Scolastica, and
said: “I send you an angel whose fire burns clear, through whom Jenne
will become renowned throughout the universe!” It was also written that
this young man was, by birth, a mighty prince, of royal blood, but
that in order to serve God, in all humility he had laboured as
kitchen-gardener at Santa Scolastica for three years. The parish priest
had gone half crazy from the emotion caused by the fire seen in his
dream, and the fire that had come to him, and had been seized by a
raging fever. The next day was a _festa_--a holy-day--and of the two
other priests who live at Jenne, one was ill, and the other had gone
to Filettino two days before to see his sick mother. In the village
the priest’s servant had told all about this Benedictine, all about
the dream, had told, in fact, the whole story. The villagers flocked to
church, to hear the Benedictine say Mass; for they had seen him enter,
and would not believe he was not going to officiate. They demanded that
he should preach, at least, although he assured them he had no right to
preach in church; and, keeping him in their midst, they pressed him so
hard, that he finally signed to them with his hand to leave the church,
promising those nearest him to speak outside. And he had spoken outside!
What he had really said the servant could not tell Maria, nor
could Maria herself gather much from Torquatof; but by dint of much
questioning, and with the aid of her own imagination, she succeeded in
reconstructing his discourse somewhat as follows:

Are you fit to enter the church? Are you at peace with your neighbour?
Do you know what the Lord Jesus means, when He says to you that no man
may approach the altar if he be not at peace with his neighbour? Do
you know that you may not enter the church if you have sinned against
charity or justice, and have not made amends, or have not repented when
it was impossible to make amends? Do you know that you may not enter the
church, not only if you bear ill-will against your neighbour, but
also if you have injured him in any manner whatsoever, either in your
dealings with him, or in his honour, if you have slandered him, or
harbour in your heart wicked desires against his body or his soul? Do
you know that all the Masses, all the Benedictions, all the Rosaries,
and all the Litanies, count for less than nothing, if you do not first
purify your hearts, according to the word of Jesus? Are you unclean with
hatred, or with any impurity whatsoever? Then go! Jesus will not
have you in the church! “_Ma che_!” said Torquato, “The discourse was
nothing, it was the face, the voice, the eyes!”

The worthy man spoke as if he himself had been present, telling how the
crowd had thrown themselves upon their knees and wept, and how certain
women, who were enemies, had embraced each other. In fact there had been
only women and old men present, for the men of Jenne are all shepherds
at Nettuno and Anzio, and do not return to the hills before the end of
June. The Saint seeing them so penitent, had said: “Enter and kneel. God
is within you. Worship Him in silence.” Then the crowd had entered, a
perfect multitude! They had fallen upon their knees, all of them, and
for a quarter of an hour--according to Torquato--you could have heard
a fly winging in the great church. The Saint had then intoned the “Our
Father” in a loud voice, and, the crowd lifting their voices and joining
in, he had gone through it, stopping at each verse. Torquato told how
the parish priest, having heard all this, kissed his guest, and as
he kissed him he was cured of his fever! Then the people came to the
canonica--the priest’s house--bringing the sick, that the Saint might
bless and heal them. He would not do this, but all those who succeeded
in touching his habit, even by stealth were healed. And many had come to
him for advice. Then there had been a great miracle concerning a mule,
which turned ugly on the steep path down the slope, and which was about
to throw its rider upon the rocks. The Saint, who was present, being on
his way up from the Infernillo with water, had stretched out his hand,
and the mule had become quiet on the instant!

Maria told the story as she had heard it from the forester.

“I wonder if it is all as true as the part about the prince of royal
blood!” said Noemi.

“To-morrow we shall know,” Giovanni answered, rising.


II. They started at about six o’clock; the sky was cloudy; and a cool breeze
was blowing, fragrant with the odours of the woods and the hills, alive
with the tiny, gay voices of birds, purifying to the soul itself. At the
Baths of Nero they took the mule-path which leads into the narrow, green
ravine, winding upwards on the right of the Anio. High up on the left
they saw Santa Scolastica, the Sacro Speco, and the House of the Blessed
Lawrence, all white below the rocks, which are the colour of iron. They
left the bridge of the Scalilla on the right--only a log, thrown across
to the wild left bank of the turbulent little torrent. On the way they
talked much of the strange Saint. Giovanni wondered that Don Clemente
had never in the past told him anything of the character of this
under-gardener. He approved of the little sermon in the open air. He
had once mentioned the subject of it to Don Clemente, pointing out to
Mm that those words of Christ are neither properly observed, nor
taught; even the best of Christians apply them only to the use of
the sacraments. If the faithful realised that they must not enter the
church, bringing an impure heart, the Christian peoples would indeed
become examples to the world, and no one would then dare affirm that
morality is much the same everywhere, and has nothing to do with
religious beliefs.

He also highly approved of thus reciting “Our Father” in church, but he
did not approve of the miracles. He suspected weakness in a man who did
not know how to break resolutely with popular superstition when it was
flattering to himself.

What could Noemi say about this man’s character? What opinion had she
formed of him from Jeanne’s confidences? Noemi was embarrassed. All that
Jeanne had told her about him convinced her that Maironi had behaved
very badly to her friend, that he had never really loved her and at the
same time awoke in Noemi an intellectual curiosity, which, though she
struggled against it, was always returning--a curiosity to know if that
man would have loved her better than Jeanne. She replied that Maironi’s
character was an enigma to her. And his intellect? His culture? She
could say nothing concerning either his intellect or his culture, but
if such a woman as Jeanne Dessalle had loved him so devotedly, he must
certainly be both intelligent and cultured. And his former religious
views? To this last question Noemi’s answer was that from some facts
Jeanne had mentioned, from the decisive influence which the religious
traditions of his family had had upon him at a crisis in their love,
she judged him to have been a Catholic of the old school, not a Catholic
like--Here Noemi broke off blushing and smiling. Giovanni smiled also,
but Maria looked slightly annoyed. The subject was at once dropped.

They proceeded for some time in silence, exchanging only now and then a
word of greeting with some mountaineer on his way down to the mills at
Subiaco, mounted on his mule, laden with grain.

They stopped to rest in the field of San Giovanni, which divides the
territory of Subiaco from that of Jenne. The Blessed Lawrence, now left
far behind, all white under the rocks which are the colour of iron,
looked down upon them from on high. Rays of sunshine, breaking through
the clouds, gilded the hills, and the little party, remembering the arid
hillside of Jenne, had just started forward again, when they met the
doctor from Jenne, who recognised Maria, having seen her some time
before at the house of his colleague at Subiaco. He bowed, and smiling,
reined in his mule.

“You are on the way to Jenne? Are you going to see the Saint? You will
find many people there to-day.” Many people! This was disappointing to
Noemi, who feared she would not be able to speak quietly with Maironi.
The Selvas were curious to know all about it. Why so many people?
Because they want the Saint at Filettino, they want him at Vallepietra,
they want him at Trevi, and the women of Jenne intend to keep him for
themselves.

“And all to give me a rest!” the doctor added. “And to give the chemist
a rest also, for now the Benedictine is the doctor, and his tunic is the
chemist!”

He told them that to-day people were coming from Filettino, from
Vallepietra, and from Trevi, to treat with Jenne concerning some means
of dividing the Saint among all those towns, “Who knows but what they
may come to blows!” At any rate the _carabinieri_ were already stationed
at Jenne.

“You call him ‘the Saint’ also?” said Maria.

“Oh, yes!” the doctor answered, laughing. “They all call him that, all
save those who call him ‘the Devil,’ for at Jenne some do so already!”

How astonishing! This was news to them! Who called him “the Devil,” and
why?

“Ah!” and the doctor put on the knowing look of one who is well
informed, but does not intend to tell all he knows. “Well,” said he,
“there are two priests from Rome staying at Jenne for a holiday, two
priests, two priests--! They are very clever! They have not told me what
they think of the Saint, but, at any rate, the parish priest’s ardour
has cooled considerably, and it has been the same with others. Those
priests are workers. You do not see it, but they are at work all the
time. They are insects--I say it without intending to speak ill of them,
indeed in this case their action may even be praiseworthy! They are
insects, which, when they wish to kill a plant, do not touch the fruit,
the flowers, the leaves, or the roots I may even say, for there a
poisonous draught might reach them, or a spade reveal their presence,
and they do not wish to be reached, do not wish to be seen. They bore
into the marrow. These two have already reached the marrow. Perhaps it
may not be for a month, perhaps not for two months; but the plant is
doomed to wither, and wither it must!”

“But what do you yourself think about it?” Maria inquired. “Does this
man really pretend to be a saint? Is he pleased that these superstitious
people quarrel about him in this way? Is it true he has healed the
sick?”

The doctor continued to laugh while she was speaking.

“I laugh,” he answered. “It is a ease of contagious, mystic psychopathy!
But you must excuse me now, for I am due at Subiaco at eight o’clock. I
hope you will enjoy yourselves. May your visit divert you,”

With this malicious thrust, he shook the reins on the mule’s neck, and
rode on, fearing he might be obliged to give proofs of what he asserted.
Noemi, who was the most agitated of the party at the prospect of seeing
the man Jeanne loved, began to feel weary. They halted a second time
at the foot of the slope of Jenne, on the gravel across which shallow
rivulets streak, flowing down to the river from the grotto of the
Infernillo. Someone was approaching them from behind. What a surprise!
What a pleasure! Don Clemente! The Padre’s fine face lit up also. He
loved and respected Giovanni for a true Christian, and sometimes had to
struggle against the temptation to judge his superior, the Abbot, who
had forbidden him to visit Giovanni, to struggle against the temptation
to appeal to Someone greater than abbots, greater than pontiffs, in his
own soul. This Someone was saying to him now: “The meeting is My gift!”
 and so the monk joined his friends joyfully. Maria presented him to
Noemi, and he blushed again on recognising the woman he had mistaken for
Benedetto’s temptress.

“And your friend?” he inquired, trembling lest he be informed of her
presence there. Upon being reassured a look of relief flashed across
his face. Noemi smiled at this, and he, noticing her smile, was greatly
embarrassed. The others smiled also, but no one spoke. Giovanni was the
first to break the silence. Surely Don Clemente was, like themselves,
on his way to Jenne? Perhaps he was going there for the same purpose,
to see the same person, the gardener, eh? the gardener of that famous
evening? Ah! Don Clemente, Don Clemente! Yes, Don Clemente was also
going to Jenne, was going to see Benedetto. And as to the gardener,
there had been no deception, only a desire to bring the two
souls together in the most natural way, without violence, without
recommendations and previous explanations.

They started up the hill together, talking of Benedetto.

Noemi, forgetting her weariness, hung upon the Padre’s lips, and the
Padre, precisely on this account, said so little and was so circumspect
that she trembled with impatience, and presently felt tired again.
She took Maria’s arm, and allowed Don Clemente to go on with her
brother-in-law. Then Don Clemente confided to Giovanni that his mission
at Jenne was of a painful nature. It seemed some one at Jenne had
written to Rome, speaking in hostile language of Benedetto, accusing
him of preaching what was not perfectly orthodox, of pretending to be
a miracle worker, and of wearing a religious habit to which he had no
right: this greatly enhancing the gravity of the scandal. Certainly they
had written to the Abbot from Rome, for he had ordered Don Clemente to
go to Jenne, and demand of Benedetto the restitution of the habit. Don
Clemente had tried in vain to dissuade the old abbot, who had waved the
matter aside with a jest. “Read the Gospel--the Passion according to St.
Mark. He who follows Christ after all others have forsaken Him must part
with his cloak. It is a mark of holiness.” Therefore, as some one must
carry this message to Jenne, Don Clemente preferred to do it himself.
He had, moreover, received a strange letter from the parish priest of
Jenne. This priest, a good man, but timid, had written that Benedetto
was, to his mind, a most pious Christian, but that he talked too much of
religion to the people, and that his discourses sometimes had a flavour
of quietism and of rationalism, that there were those who accused him
of employing a demoniacal power for the furtherance of his not
over-orthodox views, that this accusation was certainly false, but that,
nevertheless, prudence forbade the writer to keep Benedetto with him
any longer. Perhaps the wisest course for him would be to retire to some
town where he was not known, and to live quietly there.

Their conversation was here interrupted by a call from Maria.
Noemi, overpowered by the heat of the burning sun, and seized with
palpitations, must rest again. The sisters had seated themselves in the
shadow of a rock.

Don Clemente took leave of them. They would meet later at Jenne. Maria
was greatly distressed about her sister, and secretly reproached herself
for having allowed her to come on foot. She and Giovanni stood silently
watching Noemi, who, though very pale, smiled at them bravely. Upon that
wilderness of mountains, devoid of beauty, upon those sun-baked rocks,
the silence hung with a mortal weight! It was a relief to all three to
hear the voices of some wayfarers who were coming up. There were six
or seven in the party, and they had two mules with them. As they toiled
upwards they sang the Rosary. When the procession had drawn nearer, a
girl and a man could be seen riding the mules; both were emaciated
and almost cadaverous in appearance. The girl opened her eyes wide on
perceiving the Selvas, but the man kept his closed. The others looked
at them with a rapt expression, continuing their prayers. The monotonous
chant and the beat of the mule’s hoofs grew fainter, and at last died
away among the heights above. Soon after this sad procession had passed,
a party of young men from the city appeared, laughing merrily, and
talking of Quirites who were on the lookout rather for Sabine women
than for saints. On perceiving Giovanni and his companions they became
silent, but when they had passed them they again began to laugh and
jest; they jested about Giovanni, who, they said, might be the Saint
between two temptresses.

A great cloud with silver edges, the first of a whole fleet, sailing
towards the west, hid the sun. Noemi, greatly refreshed, proposed that
they should take advantage of the shade, and go forward. A few steps
below the cross of which, according to Torquato, the parish priest had
dreamed, they met a _bourgeons_ dressed in black, who was coming down,
riding a mule.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, addressing the ladles and reining in his
mule, “but is either of you Her Excellency the Duchess di Civitella?”

On receiving an answer he apologised, saying that a friend of his--a,
senator--had recommended this duchess to his care; that he himself did
not know her, but that she was coming to Jenne to see the Saint.

“Indeed, perhaps you, gentlemen, have come for the same purpose!” he
said smiling. “Everyone comes for that now. Once upon a time they came
to see a pope! Certainly! There was a pope at Jenne once--Alexander IV,
You will see the inscription: ‘_Colores æstivos vitandi caussa.’_ Now
they come for a saint. He ought to be more than a pope, but I fear he
is less. Did you see the two sick people? did you see the students
from Rome? Ah! you will see other astonishing things, other astonishing
things! But, after all, I am afraid he is less than a pope! A pleasant
journey to you!”

Beyond the cross, they ascended with the open sky before them, between
the green ridges, which slope downward, forming the lonely hollow of
Jenne, which is crowned on the opposite side with that wretched herd of
poor dwellings, dominated by the campanile. Giovanni had been to Jenne
before, but it did not seem to him in any way changed because a saint
now lived there, and miracles were performed there. It impressed his
wife, who now saw it for the first time, as a spot which might inspire
religious contemplation, by that sense of altitude, not suggested by
distant views, by that deep sky behind the village, by its solitude, its
silence. Noemi was thinking with profound pity of poor far-away Jeanne.


III. The innkeeper at Jenne was a worthy, gravely courteous man, in
spectacles, who, having been to America, could be said to know the
world, but who seemed to have escaped its corrupting influences. To the
new-comers he spoke of Benedetto favourably, on the whole, but with a
certain diplomatic reserve. He did not call him “the Saint,” he called
him “Fra Benedetto.” The Selvas learned from him that Benedetto occupied
a cabin belonging to the innkeeper himself, in payment of which he
tilled a small piece of ground. Those who wished to see him must
wait until eleven o’clock. Now he was mowing the grass. His life was
regulated in the following manner: At dawn he went to hear the parish
priest say Mass, then he worked until eleven. He ate only bread, herbs,
and fruit and drank only water. In the afternoon he worked in the fields
of widows and orphans. In the evening, seated before his door, he talked
of religion.

At half-past eleven, the Selvas and Noemi accompanied by the innkeeper’s
wife--a fine, big woman, very neat, very simple, and gay in a quiet
way--went to visit Sant’ Andrea, the church of Jenne. Coming out into
the open square from the maze of narrow lanes, where stands the inn,
they found a large assemblage of women, strangers, so the hostess said.
She could distinguish them by their corselets, their fustian skirts,
their foot-gear. Those were from Trevi, those from Filettino, and those
others from Vallepietra. The hostess went into a bakehouse on the
right of the church, where several women of Jenne were having their
_stiacciati_ [1] baked, each having brought her own.

[Footnote 1: _Stiacciati_ a sort of very large, round cake, common
in all parts of Italy. It is made of cornflour, of wheatflour, or of
chestnut-flour, and in some places of vegetables. It is mixed with, oil,
and baked in a flat pan.--_Translators Note_.]

“Strangers, who wish to talk with our Saint,” she said to Maria. She did
not, like her husband, say “Fra Benedetto,” she called him “the Saint.”

“But not to his face,” she declared, crimsoning, “because it vexes him.”
 “No, he does not really get angry, because he is a saint, but he begs
very earnestly not to be called thus.”

In the large, dilapidated church--which, “one Sunday or another, will
crush us all, like so many rats,” the hostess said--there were only the
two invalids and their party. The sick man and girl had been laid on the
floor exactly in the centre of the church, with two pillows under their
heads. Their companions, on their knees, were singing psalms, and,
without looking at the new-comers, continued their devotions. “Probably
they have brought them to be blessed by the Saint,” said the hostess
under her breath. “That is painful to him; he does not wish it. Perhaps
they will try to touch his habit by stealth, but even that is difficult
now.”

The poor people stopped singing, and a woman came to ask the hostess if
it had already struck eleven o’clock? Maria answered, telling her it was
only a quarter to eleven, and then inquired about the two sick ones. The
man had been ill with fever for two years, and the girl, his sister, had
heart disease. They had come from the lowlands of Arcinazzo, a journey
of several hours, to be healed by the Saint of Jenne. A woman from
Arcinazzo, who had heart disease, had been cured some days before by
simply touching his habit. Maria and Noemi spoke to the sufferers. The
girl was confident, but the man, who was shaking with fever, seemed to
have come simply to satisfy his people, to give this a trial also. He
had suffered greatly on the journey.

“These roads lead me into the next world,” he said. “I shall be healed
in that way.”

A woman, his mother perhaps, burst into tears, and besought him to
pray, to commend himself to Jesus, to Mary. The two sisters withdrew,
in obedience to a summons from Giovanni; for a quarrel had broken out in
the square, between the women and the students who had passed the
Selvas on the Jenne hillside. The students had probably jested broadly
concerning the devotion of the women to the Saint, and this had enraged
them. The women of Jenne came rushing out of the bakehouse, while the
plumes of a couple of _carabinieri_ appeared in the opposite direction.
Noemi and Maria mingled with the women, trying to pacify them. Giovanni
harangued the students, who swaggered and laughed, and might possibly do
worse. Chanting was heard in the church, muffled at first and then loud,
as the door was thrown open:

“_Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis_.”

The two sufferers appeared. The girl, supported on either side, was
walking; the man, as limp as a corpse, was being borne along, some
women carrying his shoulders, others his feet; and the bearers were also
chanting, with solemn faces:

“_Sancta Virgo virginum, ora pro nobis_.”

The women in the square all fell on their knees, the astonished
_carabinieri_ standing in their midst. The students were silent, while
a party of ladies and gentlemen, about to enter the square from the Val
d’Aniene mule-path, stopped their mules. First Maria, then Noemi, knelt,
drawn towards the earth by an impulse which made them tremble with
emotion. Giovanni hesitated. This was not his faith. It seemed to him
an offence to the Creator, the Giver of reason, to allow a sick man to
journey a long distance on a mule, that he might be miraculously healed
by an image, a relic, or a man. Still it was faith. It was--enclosed in
a rough envelope of frail ignorance--that sense denied, to proud minds,
of the hidden truth which is life; that mysterious radium within the
mass of impure ore. It was faith, it was guiltless error, it was love,
it was suffering, it was a visible something belonging to the union of
the highest mysteries of the Universe. The ground itself, the great
sad face of the church, and the small humble faces of the little houses
surrounding the square, seem to understand, to reverence it. In his
mind’s eye Giovanni saw the image of a dead woman who had been dear to
him, and who had believed thus; a cold wave flowed through his blood,
his knees bent under him. The little band with the sufferers passed on,
singing, their faces uplifted:

“_Mater Christi_.” The kneeling women answered with bowed heads:

“_Ora pro nobis_.”

Then they rose, and followed the procession, while three or four women
of Jenne said aloud:

“He does not wish it, he does not wish it!”

One of them explained to Maria that the Saint did not wish the sick
brought to him. Their words were not heeded, so they also joined the
procession, anxious to see what would happen.

Maria and Giovanni also, who, at first, had been loath to do so, started
on, following the eager Noemi. Behind them, at a proper distance to
indicate that they were spectators and not participants, came
the students. Alone, and at a much greater distance, walked the
_carabinieri_, forming the end of this winding, snake-like line of
people, which slipped into a crack between the dilapidated houses,
huddled together opposite the church, and disappeared.

It disappeared, writhing through dark lanes, with pompous names, which
lead to another side of the village, the most miserable, the most
deformed part. Here, on the steep and rocky hillside, loosely fastened
to projections, to slabs of rock, the hovels, piled one above the other,
slide downwards among the stones. The small black windows, like empty
sockets in a skull, stare into the silence of the deep and narrow
valley. The doors pour out crazy flights of stairs upon the slope, most
of them reduced to three or four splintered steps, while some of
the doors are entirely widowed of their steps. When one has, with
difficulty, succeeded in climbing in at one of these doors, one finds a
cave without light or air.

“_So mali passi, vigoli cattivi_! [Bad walking, bad lanes!]” said a
smiling old woman, standing in her doorway, as the ladies passed.

One of these caves, so difficult of access, was Benedetto’s abode. Two
streams of people--the crowd had split coming down the hill--met below
the open door. Some women came out of a neighbouring bakehouse to say
that Benedetto was not there. The crowd surged round the invalids, and
groans were heard. Anxious questions were asked, rumours were carried
up through the two streams of people, to the very end of the procession,
where the cause of those groans was not understood, and all, eager to
see, were struggling downwards. Perhaps the sufferers had become worse,
there in the blazing sun. Three students slid down among the women, and
were received with grunts and imprecations. Now a woman of the town has
spoken:

“Take the poor creatures inside.”

Yes, yes! Inside, inside! Into the Saint’s house!

The crowd already expects a miracle from the walls between which
he dwells, from the floor his foot presses, from all these objects
saturated with his holiness. On the Saint’s bed! On the Saint’s bed!
Some boards are laid upon the broken slabs of stone which lead up to
Benedetto’s door, and the two invalids are half pushed, half carried up,
by the surging crowd. There they lie, crosswise upon the Saint’s pallet.
The crowd fills the cave. All fall upon their knees in prayer.

It is indeed a cave. One whole side of it is a wall of yellowish rock,
hewn obliquely. The bare, uneven earth forms the floor. Near the couch,
raised about two spans, is a fireplace. There are no windows, but a
ray of sunshine, falling through the chimney, strikes--like a celestial
flame--on the stones of the hearth where there is no trace of ashes. A
brown blanket is spread over the couch. A cross is roughly carved on
the face of the rock, near the entrance. In one corner appear--the only
luxuries--a large pail full of water, a green basin, a bottle, and a
glass. Some books are piled on a rickety cane-seated chair; and a second
chair bears a plate of beans and some bread. The place indicates extreme
poverty, but is clean and orderly.

The feverish man complains of the cold, of the dampness, of the dark. He
says he is worse, that they have brought him here to die. They beseech
him to calm himself, to hope. But his young sister, with the diseased
heart, begins to feel relief almost as soon as they have placed her on
the bed. She proclaims this at once, announces that she is being healed.
Pressing around her they laugh and cry, and praise the Lord all at the
same moment. They kiss her garments, as if she herself had become holy;
the news is shouted to those outside. Joyous voices answer, more people
press into the den, with glowing faces, with eager eyes. But at that
moment some one who has gone farther down the hill in search of the
Saint, cries from afar: “The Saint is coming! The Saint is coming!” Then
the cave pours out a stream of people upon the slope; a din of voices
and a rush of feet flow downwards, and in a second the Selvas and the
three or four students stand alone, below the door of the cabin. Many of
the women of Jenne have gone back to their work in the bakehouse, while
others are looking on from the doorway. Maria exchanges a few words with
the latter. Are they all strangers, those who have gone down? _Eh, si_!
Not all, but most of them. People from Vallepietra, for the most part.
It would be better if water came to us from Vallepietra. And what do
they want? To take the Saint away from Jenne with them? Yes, they have
said that; they talked about doing great things. And you of Jenne? We of
Jenne know he does not wish to go. And besides--Her companions call
out something from within; the woman turns away; a quarrel is going on.
Giovanni, Maria, and the students go in to see the girl who has been
miraculously healed. Noemi remains outside. She is impatient to see
Benedetto; she trembles, without knowing why; in her heart she calls
herself a fool; but she does not move.

Two Benedictine habits are crossing the small field in the distance
below. Above the second the blade of a scythe flashes from time to time.
Hearing the hubbub of voices, and steps descending from above, Benedetto
turned to his companion with a smile:

“_Padre mio!_”

Upon reaching Jenne, Don Clemente had immediately joined Benedetto in
the small field he was mowing. He had given him the painful message,
and after a long discussion, had promised to say certain things which
Benedetto wished said, to those who called him a saint. He also heard
the hubbub of the crowd which was coming down; the cry of “The Saint!
The Saint!” And when Benedetto said to him, smiling: “_Padre mio!_” his
face paled, but he made a gesture of acquiescence, and stepped forward.
Benedetto dropped his scythe and went a few steps away from the path.
He sat down behind a rock and a great apple tree covered with blossoms,
which hid him from those who were approaching. Don Clemente faced the
crowd alone.

On perceiving him they stopped. Several voices said. “It is not he!”
 Other voices answered “He is behind!” While others in the rear-guard
called out “Press forward!” The column moved on.

Then Don Clemente raised his hand and said:

“Listen!”

This man who could not speak to two strangers without blushing was
now very pale. His soft, sweet voice hardly made itself heard, but
the gesture was seen. The beautiful, peaceful face, the tall figure,
inspired reverence.

“You seek Benedetto,” said he. “You call him a saint. By this you cause
him great grief. Since the day of his arrival at Jenne he has repeatedly
stated that he was a great sinner, brought by the grace of God to
repentance. Now he wishes me to confirm this to you. I do confirm it; it
is the truth. He was a great sinner. To-morrow he may fall again. If he
believed you, for one moment only, when you call him a saint, God would
depart from him. Do not again call him thus, and above all do not ask
him to perform miracles.”

“Padre!” Coming forward, his arms spread wide, an old man, tall, thin,
toothless, with the profile of the eagle, interrupted him in a solemn
voice. “Padre, we do not ask for a miracle, the miracle is already
performed. The woman was healed when she touched the man’s dwelling, and
we say to you that the man is saintly, and that if there are those in
Jenne who speak differently, they are worthy to burn in the very bottom
of hell! _Padre_, we kiss your hands, but we say this.”

“There is another to be healed, another to be healed!” ten, twenty
voices cried. “Let the Saint come!”

Among the students forming the rear-guard voices shouted: “Bring the
Saint forward! Let the Saint speak!”

“What actions are these?” the old man exclaimed, turning round with
the indignation of the popular orator who finds himself deposed. “What
actions are these?”

A rumble of angry voices drowned his words, and the students continued
to shout louder than ever:

“The Saint! Let the Saint speak! Away with the priest! Away with him!”

The women turned threateningly:

“Away with you, yourselves! Away with you!”

Up above, among the hovels perched on the hillside, the plumes of the
_carabinieri_ appeared. Then Benedetto rose, and came out into the open.

As soon as the people perceived him, they greeted him with a great,
joyous clamour. The Selvas went to the door of the cave and looked down.
Noemi ran swiftly down the hill. In a second Benedetto found himself
surrounded by people kissing his habit, and pouring out blessings upon
him. Many were weeping, on their knees. Noemi, who had rushed down alone
behind the students, pressed forward, and saw the man, at last!

Jeanne had shown her several photographs of him, telling her at the same
time that no one of them was entirely satisfactory. In Piero Maironi’s
winning face Noemi had noticed a shade of sadness; Benedetto’s face
shone with extraordinary vivacity. Two days before he had had his
hair and beard shaved, because he had heard a woman murmur: “He is as
beautiful as Jesus Himself!” The expression of the dominating soul in
him had become more marked; the nose had grown more prominent through
his increased fleshlessness, there were great dark rings under his eyes.
The eyes had an ineffable fascination. They still wore an expression of
sadness, but of sweet sadness, full of vigour, of peace, and of mystic
devotion. Standing there, under the little white cloud of the flowering
apple tree, in the midst of the prostrate crowd, surrounded by sunshine
and moving shadows he seemed an apparition such as visited the old
masters. Noemi stood as if turned to stone, a great sob in her throat.
Near her, several women were weeping for the joy of having seen him,
and influenced by reciprocal hypnotism. One, who was ill and weary,
had seated herself on the edge of the path, where she could not see the
Saint, and was weeping from excitement, without knowing why. Some late
arrivals came forward, an old man and three women from Vallepietra. The
three women immediately mistook Don Clemente for Benedetto, and burst
out sobbing and exclaiming: “How beautiful he is, how beautiful!”

In the meantime Benedetto, standing under the little white cloud of
the flowering apple tree, had succeeded, with words of sorrow, of
supplication, of reproach, in repulsing the assault of the adoring
throng, and in bringing the people to their feet. A cry went up from the
group of students: “Speak!” Just at that moment the bells of Jenne, far
up above them, solemnly announced the hour of noon to the village, to
the solitudes, to Monte Leo, to Monte Sant’ Antonio, to Monte Altuino,
and to the clouds, sailing westwards. Benedetto laid his finger on his
lips, the bells alone spoke. He glanced at Don Clemente, and his look
seemed to convey a tacit invitation. Don Clemente bared his head,
and began to recite the _Angelus Domini_. Benedetto, erect, his hands
clasped, said it with him, and, as long as the bells continued to ring,
kept his gaze fixed on the young man who had shouted to him to speak;
his eyes were full of sadness, of mystic sweetness. That ineffable look,
the pealing of the solemn-voiced bells, the trembling of the grass, the
gentle waving in the breeze of the flowery branches, the rapt expression
of so many tearful faces, all turned towards this one face, were blended
for Noemi into a single word, which thrilled her while it evaded her,
as the soul is tormented by the longing for that occult word which
underlies a tragic procession of harmonious chords. The bells ceased,
and Benedetto said gently to those nearest him:

“Who are you, and what has happened that you come to me as if I were
that which I am not?”

Several voices answered at once; he was informed of the miracle, and of
how he was wanted in this village and in that.

“You exalt me,” said he, “because you are blind. If this girl is healed,
not I have healed her, but her faith has made her whole. This power
of faith, which has caused her to rise up and walk, is in God’s world,
everywhere and always, like the power of terror, which causes us to
tremble and fall down. It is a power in the soul, like the powers which
are in water, and in fire. Therefore, if the girl is healed, it is
because God has put this great power into His world; praise God for it,
and not me. And now listen! You offend God by believing His strength
and bounty to be greater in miracles. His strength and bounty are
everywhere, and always infinite. It is difficult to understand how faith
can heal, but it is impossible to understand how these flowers can grow.
The Lord would be no less powerful, no less good, if this girl had
not been healed. It is well to pray for health, but pray still more
fervently to understand this great thing of which I have just told you;
pray to be able to adore the Lord’s will, when it gives you death, as
when it gives you life. There are men in the world who think they do not
believe in God, and when sickness comes to their homes they say: ‘It
is the law, it is nature, it is the economy of the Universe; we bow our
heads, we accept without a murmur, we march on in the path of duty.’
Have a care that such men do not pass before you in the kingdom of
Heaven! And reflect also on the manner of miracles you demand. You come
to be healed of the ills of the body, and for this you wish me to
visit your villages. Have faith, and you will be healed without me. But
remember that your faith may be used to better purpose, according to the
will of God. Are you, all of you, perfectly healthy in your souls? No,
you are not; and what can it profit you that the skin be whole, if
the wine be spoiled? You love yourselves and your families better than
truth, better than justice, better than divine law. You are always
dwelling upon what is due to you and yours, and you seldom dwell upon
what is due to others. You believe your souls will be saved by the great
number of your prayers, and you do not even know how to pray. You pray
in the same manner to the saints, who are the servants, and to God, who
is the Master; when you do not do still worse! You do not reflect that
the Master cares little for many words. He desires rather that you serve
Him faithfully in silence, your minds fixed always on His will. And you
do not understand the nature of your own ills; you are like the dying
man who says: ‘I am well!’ Perhaps some one of you is thinking at this
moment. ‘If I do not understand that I am doing wrong, then God will not
condemn me.’ But the Lord does not judge as do the judges of this world.
He who takes poison unwittingly must fall, as he who takes it wittingly
must fall. He who is without the white robe may not come to the Lord’s
supper, though he be not aware the robe is necessary. He who loves
himself above all things, be he ignorant of conscious of his sin, cannot
pass through the gate of the kingdom of Heaven; as the bride’s finger,
if it be doubled up, cannot pass through the ring the bridegroom offers.
Know the infirmities of your souls, and pray with faith to be freed from
them. In the name of Christ, I say to you, that you will be freed from
them. The healing of your body is good for you, for your family, for the
animals and plants you tend; but the healing of your soul--believe this,
though you do not understand it!--the healing of your soul is good for
all the poor souls of the living, which are being tossed between good
and evil, is good for all the poor souls of the dead, which by toil and
suffering are being purified, as the victory of a soldier is good for
the whole nation. It is also good for the angels, who, Jesus has told
us, feel immense joy at the healing of a soul. Joy enhances their power;
and do you think their power is for the darkness or for the light, for
death or for life? Ask with faith, first for the healing of the soul,
and then for the healing of the body!” From the steep hillside a sea of
faces looked down on him; those highest up, where only the sound of his
voice could be heard, were eager, and tear-stained. Of those nearest
him, some were astonished, some enthusiastic, some doubtful. The tears
were pouring down Noemi’s pale face also. The students had put off their
air of raillery. When Benedetto ceased, one of them came forward to
speak, resolute and serious. At the same moment the old man exclaimed:

“Heal our souls, heal our souls!”

Other voices repeated anxiously:

“Heal our souls, heal our souls!”

In an instant the contagion had spread throughout the vanguard; they
flung themselves on their knees, stretching out imploring arms:

“Heal our souls, heal our souls!”

Benedetto sprang forward, his hands clenched in his hair, exclaiming:

“What are you doing again? What are you doing again?”

A shout rang out from above: _“La miracolata!_ The girl who is healed!”
 The girl who had felt health returning to her, as she lay on Benedetto’s
bed, was coming down in search of him, leaning on the arm of an elder
sister. He heeded neither the cry nor the movement among those up above,
who parted, allowing the two women to pass. Being unable to persuade
the crowd to rise, he himself fell upon his knees. Then those around
him rose, and the excited movement and the cry of _“La_ _miracolata, la
miracolata!”_ having reached them, they forced him to rise also; he did
not seem to have heard. _“La miracolata!”_ each one repeated to
him. _“La miracolata!”_ And they searched his face for a trace of
satisfaction at the miracle, with eyes that called out “She is coming
to you! You have healed her!” They acted as if he had not spoken to them
only a few minutes before.

The young girl was coming down, as pale and sallow as the stony,
sun-baked path, her gentle, sad, little face, resting against her
sister’s arm. And the sister looked sad also. The crowd parted before
them, and Benedetto, stepping aside sought refuge behind Don Clemente;
an involuntary action, which however, seemed premeditated. Every one was
trembling and smiling, in the anticipation of another miracle. The two
women were not deceived; they passed Don Clemente without so much as a
glance, turned to Benedetto, and the elder said firmly:

“Holy man of God! You have healed this one, now heal the other also!”

Benedetto replied, almost under his breath, trembling violently:

“I am not a holy man; I did not heal this one, and for the other one of
whom you speak, I can only pray.”

When they had told him that the sick man was their brother, that he was
in the hut, stretched on the bed, and suffering greatly, Benedetto said
to Don Clemente: “Let us go and care for him!”

And he started forward with his master. Behind them the divided stream
of people flowed together again, noisily. Benedetto turned, and forbade
them to follow him; he ordered the women to attend to the young girl,
who must not climb the steep hill on foot, under the burning rays of the
sun. He ordered them to take her to the inn, put her to bed and refresh
her with food and wine. Those who were following stopped, and the others
stepped aside, allowing him to pass. The student who had once before
asked to speak, approached him respectfully, and inquired if he and some
of his friends might speak a few words with him alone, later on.

“Oh yes!” Benedetto answered, consenting with manly warmth and
eagerness. Noemi, who was standing near, took heart.

“I also must ask for five minutes,” she said in French, blushing; and
then it immediately occurred to her she had thus shown that she knew
him to be a man of culture; her face was aflame, as she repeated her
petition in Italian.

Almost involuntarily Don Clemente pressed Benedetto’s arm gently.
Benedetto replied courteously, but somewhat drily:

“Do you wish to do a kind action? Care for that poor girl.”

And he passed on.

He and Don Clemente entered the hovel alone. No one had followed them.
An old woman, the sick man’s mother, seeing him enter, threw herself
weeping at his feet, repeating her daughter’s words:

“Are you the holy man? Are you he? You have healed one of my children,
now heal this one also.”

At first, coming from the sunlight into that darkness, Benedetto could
not distinguish anything, but presently he saw the man stretched on the
bed; he was breathing hard, groaning and crying, and cursing the Saints,
women, the village of Jenne, and his own unhappy fate. On her knees
beside the bed, Maria Selva was wiping the sweat from his brow with
a handkerchief. There was no one else in the cave. Near the luminous
entrance the great cross, carved unevenly on the wall of yellowish
stone, was repeating at that moment a dark and solemn word.

“Hope in God!” Benedetto answered the old woman gently. He went to the
bed, bent over the sick man and felt his pulse. The old woman stopped
crying, the sufferer stopped cursing and groaning. The buzzing of flies
in the light fireplace could be heard.

“Have you sent for the doctor?” Benedetto whispered.

The old woman began to sob again,

“You heal him! You heal him! in the name of Jesus and Mary!”

Again the sick man’s groans were heard. Maria Selva said softly to
Benedetto:

“The doctor is in Subiaco. Signor Selva, whom you perhaps know, has gone
to the chemist’s. I am his wife.”

At this point Giovanni returned, out of breath and worried. The
chemist’s shop was closed, the chemist absent. The parish priest had
given him some Marsala, and some tourists from Rome, who had brought
plenty of provisions, had given him brandy and coffee. Benedetto
beckoned Don Clemente to his side, and whispered to him to bring the
parish priest, for the man was dying. He would go for him himself, but
it seemed cruel to the poor mother to leave them. Don Clemente went out
without a word. A few steps from the hut, the party of smart people
who had come from Rome out of curiosity about the Saint of Jenne, were
holding a consultation; the party consisted of three ladies and four
gentlemen, and was under the guidance of the citizen of Jenne, whom the
Selvas had met on the hillside. On perceiving the Benedictine they spoke
together rapidly, in an undertone, and then one of their number, a very
fashionably dressed young man, screwed his eyeglass into his eye,
and came towards Don Clemente, at whom the ladies were looking with
admiration, and also with disappointment, their guide having informed
them that he was not the Saint.

These people also wished for an interview with Benedetto. The ladies
were especially anxious to speak with him. The young man added, with a
derisive smile, that for his part, he did not consider himself worthy,
Don Clemente answered very shortly, that for the present it was
impossible to speak with Benedetto and he walked away. The young man
informed the ladies that the Saint was in the tabernacle, under lock and
key!

In the meantime Benedetto--although the distracted mother implored
him not to use medicines, but to perform a miracle--was comforting the
prostrate man with a few mouthfuls of the cordial Giovanni Selva had
brought, but still more comforting were his gentle caresses, and the
promise of other saving words, which would soon be brought to him. And
the pitying voice, tender and grave, worked a miracle of peace. The sick
man breathed with great difficulty, and still groaned, but he no longer
cursed. The mother, wild with hope, murmured tearfully, with clasped
hands.

“The miracle, the miracle, the miracle!”

“_Caro_ [dear one],” Benedetto said, “you are in God’s hand, and
you feel its might. Give yourself up to Him, and you will feel its
gentleness. Let His hand place you once more in the ocean of life, or
place you in heaven, or place you where it will, but give yourself up,
do not think of that. When you were a little child your mother carried
you, and you asked neither how, nor when, nor why; you were in her
arms, you were in her love, you asked nothing more. It is the same now,
_caro_. I, who speak to you, have done much evil in my life, perhaps
you also have done a little evil; perhaps you remember it. Weep, weep,
resting thus on the bosom of the Father who is calling you, who longs to
pardon, who longs to forget it all. Presently the priest will come, and
you will tell him everything, all the evil you have done, just as you
remember it, without anguish. And then, do you know who will come to you
in the great mystery? Do you know, _caro_, what love, what pity, what
joy, what life will come?”

Struggling in the shadow of death, his glassy eyes fixed on Benedetto,
eyes which shone with an intense longing, and with the fear of
being unable to express it, the poor young man who had misunderstood
Benedetto’s words, and thought he must confess to him, began telling
him of his sins. The mother, who, while Benedetto had been speaking, had
flung herself on her knees in front of the wall of rock, and kept her
lips pressed to the cross expecting a miracle, started up at the strange
ring in that voice, sprang to the bedside and--understanding--gave a
cry of despair, flinging her hands towards heaven, while Benedetto,
terrified, exclaimed: “No, _caro_, not to me, not to me!” But the sick
man did not hear; he put his arm round Benedetto’s neck, drawing him to
him, and continued his sorrowful confession, Benedetto repeating over
and over again “My God, my God!” and making a mighty effort not to
hear, but lacking the courage to tear himself away from the dying man’s
embrace. And, in fact, he did not hear, nor would it have been easy to
do so, for the words came so slowly, so brokenly, so confusedly. Still
the parish priest did not appear, and Don Clemente did not return.
Subdued voices and steps could be heard outside, and, sometimes a
curious face peered in at the door, but no one entered. The dying man’s
words lost themselves in a confusion of weak sounds, and at last he was
silent.

“Is there any one outside?” Benedetto inquired. “Let some one go to the
parish priest, and bid him hasten.”

Giovanni and Maria were attending to the mother, who, quite beside
herself, was tossed between grief and anger. After having believed in
the miracle, she would not now believe that her son had been reduced to
this desperate condition by natural causes; at one moment she wept
for him, and at the next cursed the medicines Benedetto had given him,
although the Selvas assured her they were not medicines. Maria had put
her arms round her, partly to comfort her and partly to hold her. She
signed to Giovanni to go for the priest and Giovanni hurried away. The
glistening eyes of the dying man were full of supplication. Benedetto
said to him:

“My son, do you long for Christ?”

With an indescribable groan, he bowed his head feebly in assent.
Benedetto kissed him and kissed him again, tenderly.

“Christ tells me that your sins are forgiven, and that you may depart in
peace.”

The glistening eyes lighted up with joy. Benedetto called the mother,
who, escaping from Maria’s open arms, threw herself upon her son. At
that moment Don Clemente entered, looking exhausted; Giovanni and the
parish priest were with him.

       *       *       *       *       *

At the priest’s house Don Clemente had found an ecclesiastic whom he did
not know, arguing with the parish priest. According to what he said, a
crowd of fanatics were about to carry the girl who had been healed by a
miracle to the church of Sant’ Andrea, to return thanks to God. It was
the priest’s duty to prevent such a scandal. If the healing of this
girl were not an imposture, neither was it a fact. The would-be
miracle-worker had also preached much rank heresy concerning miracles
and eternal salvation. He had spoken of faith as being a natural virtue;
he had even criticised Christ, who healed the sick. At present he was
preparing another miracle with a second unfortunate victim. A stop must
be put to this! Put a stop to it, indeed! The poor priest who already
perceived the odour of the Holy Office, reflected that it was easy
enough to say “put a stop to it,” but how was it to be accomplished? Don
Clemente’s arrival at that point gave him a moment of relief. “Now,” he
told himself, “he will help me.” But, on the contrary, things were worse
than ever. When he had heard Don Clemente’s sad message the strange
priest exclaimed:

“You see! That is how these miracles end. You must not enter that
heretic’s house with the holy viaticum, unless he has first left it, and
left it never to return.”

Don Clemente’s face flushed.

“He is not a heretic,” said he. “He is a man of God!”

“You say so!” the other retorted.

“And you, consider well!” he added, turning to the parish priest. “But,
after all, you are free to act as you please. It is none of my business.
_A rivederla_!”

Having bowed to Don Clemente, he slipped out of the room, without
another word.

“And now? And now?” groaned the unhappy priest, pressing his hands
to his temples. “That is a terrible man, but I must not betray the
Almighty! Tell me what to do! Tell me what to do!”

Indeed the parish priest had a holy fear of God, but he was also not
without a certain fear (half holy, half human), of Don Clemente, of the
austere conscience which would judge him. At that decisive moment the
wisest course to pursue became suddenly clear to Don Clemente.

“Arrange for the viaticum,” said he, “and come with me at once, to hear
this poor young man’s confession. Benedetto will show whether he be a
heretic or a man of God!”

The servant came to say a gentleman begged the priest to make haste, for
the sick man was dying.

Don Clemente, much exhausted, entered the hut, with Giovanni and the
parish priest. He called Benedetto to him, standing near the door and
spoke to him in an undertone. The rattling had begun in the sick man’s
throat. Benedetto listened with bowed head to the painful words which
demanded of him a saintly humiliation; he knelt, without answering,
before the cross he had carved on the rock and kissed it eagerly at the
point where the tragic arms meet, as if to draw into himself from the
furrow in the stone, the symbol of sacrifice, its love, its blessedness,
its strength its life and then, rising, he went forth for ever.

       *       *       *       *       *

The sun was disappearing in a whirling mass of smoke-like clouds rising,
in the north, behind the village. The places which, only a short time
before, had been astir with people, were now colourless and deserted.
From the turnings of stony lanes, from behind half-open doors, round the
corners of poor houses, women were peering. When Benedetto came in sight
they all withdrew. He felt that Jenne knew of the agony of the sick
man who had come to him in search of health, he felt that the hour of
triumph had come for his adversaries. Don Clemente, the Master, the
friend, had first asked him to lay aside his habit, and now asked him to
go forth from his house, to go forth from Jenne. It is true he had asked
in grief and love, still he had asked. Partly because of the bitterness
of it all, partly because of his long fast, he had not been able to eat
his mid-day meal of beans and bread--he felt ready to faint, and his
sight was troubled. He sank down on the decayed threshold of a small,
closed door, at the entrance to the little lane called _della Corte_. A
long peal of thunder sounded above his head.

Little by little, as he rested, he recovered. He thought of the man who
was dying in the desire of Christ, and a wave of sweetness swept
his soul. He was filled with remorse that he had, for a few moments
forgotten the Lord’s great gift; that he had ceased to love the cross,
as soon as he had drawn life and joy from it. He hid his face in his
hands and wept silently. A slight noise above of a shutter being opened;
something soft fell upon his head. With a start, he removed his hands
from his eyes; at his feet lay a tiny wild rose. He shivered! For
several days--either on returning to his hut at night, or on leaving
it in the morning--he had found flowers on his threshold. He had never
removed them. He simply placed them on one side upon a stone, that they
might not be stepped on, that was all. Neither had he ever tried to
discover what hand laid them there. Surely this tiny wild rose had
fallen from the same hand. He did not raise his head, but he understood
that even if he did not lift the rose, or make any movement towards it,
he must, nevertheless, leave the spot. He tried to rise, but his limbs
could, as yet, hardly support him, and he tarried a moment before moving
away. The thunder rumbled again louder and longer. A small door was
pushed open, and a young girl, dressed in black, looked out. She was
fair, and as white as wax; her blue eyes were full of despair and
of tears. Benedetto could not help turning his face towards her. He
recognised the village schoolmistress, whom he had once seen for
a moment at the priest’s house. He was already moving away without
greeting her, when she moaned softly: “Hear me!” Stepping back into the
passage she fell upon her knees, stretched out beseeching hands to him,
and dropped her head upon her breast.

Benedetto stopped. He hesitated a moment and then said, with dignified
gravity:

“What do you want of me?”

It had become almost dark. The lightning flashed, the noise of the
thunder filled the miserable little lane, and prevented the two from
hearing each other. Benedetto approached the door.

“I have been told,” the young girl answered, without raising her head,
and pausing when the thunder crashed forth, “that you will perhaps be
obliged to leave Jenne. A word spoken by you has given me life, but your
departure will kill me. Repeat that word to me; say it for _me_, for me
alone.”

“What word?”

“You were with the _Signor Arciprete_, the parish priest, I was in the
next room with the servant, and the door was open. You said that a
man may deny the existence of God without really being an atheist or
deserving eternal death, if that God, whose existence he denies, be
placed before him in a shape repugnant to his intellect, and if he love
Truth, Virtue, and his fellow-men, and by his life give proof of his
love.”

Benedetto was silent. Yes, he had said this, but to a priest, and not
knowing another person (perhaps one not capable of understanding) was
listening. She guessed the cause of his silence.

“I am not the person in question,” she said. “I believe; I am a
Catholic. It was my father, who lived and died thus; and--only think of
it--they have persuaded even my mother that he cannot be saved.”

While she was speaking, amidst the lightning and the thunder, large,
slow drops began to beat upon the road, making great spots in the dust,
hissing through the air, lashing against the walls. But Benedetto did
not seek shelter inside the door, nor did she invite him to do so; and
this was the only confession on her part, of the profound sentiment,
which covered itself with a cloak of mysticism and filial piety.

“Tell me, tell me!” she begged, raising her eyes at last. “Say that my
father is saved, that I shall meet him in Paradise!”

Benedetto answered:

“Pray!”

“My God! Only that?”

“Do we pray for the pardon of such as may not be pardoned? Pray!”

“Oh! Thank you!--Are you ill?” These last words were whispered so softly
that it was possible Benedetto did not hear them. He made a gesture of
farewell, and started on, in the driving rain, that lashed and pushed
the little dead, wild rose away, into the mud.

Either from a window, or from the door of the inn, where she was, with
the sick girl of Arcinazzo, Noemi saw him pass. She borrowed an umbrella
from the innkeeper, and followed him, braving the wind and the rain.

She followed him, distressed at seeing him bareheaded and without an
umbrella, and reflecting that if he were not a Saint, one would think
him insane. On entering the square where the church stands, she saw a
door on the right open a little way; a tall, thin priest looked out. She
believed the priest would invite Benedetto to come in, but, to Noemi’s
great vexation, when Benedetto was quite near him, the priest closed the
door noisily. Benedetto entered the church of Sant’ Andrea; she went in
also. He approached the high altar and knelt down, while she remained
near the door. The sacristan, who was dozing, seated on the steps of
an altar, heard them enter, and, rising, went towards Benedetto. But
he belonged to the Roman priest’s party, and, recognising the heretic,
turned back, and asked the foreign signorina if she could tell him
anything about the sick man from Arcinazzo, who had been brought to
the church that morning, when the sacristan had also seen her there.
He added that his reason for inquiring was, that he had been ordered to
wait for the parish priest, who was going to carry the viaticum to the
man. Noemi knew that the young man from Arcinazzo was dying, but that
was all.

“I see,” said the sacristan, raising his voice intentionally. “He
probably does not wish for Christ. These are their fine miracles! Thank
God for the thunder and lightning, for had it not been for the storm,
they would have brought the girl here!”

Then he went back to rest and doze on the steps.

Noemi could not turn her eyes away from Benedetto. It was not a
fascination in the true sense of the word, nor was it the passionate
sentiment of the young schoolmistress. She saw him sway, rest his hands
on the steps and then turn with difficulty and sit down; and she did
not ask herself if he were suffering. She gazed at him, but was more
absorbed in herself than in him, absorbed in a gradual change which was
taking place within her, and which was making her different, making her
irrecognisable to herself; a still confused and blind sense of immense
truth, which was being borne in upon her, in mysterious ways, and
which strained painfully at the innermost fibres of her heart. Her
brother-in-law’s religious arguments might have troubled her mind, but
they had never touched her heart. Why was it touched now? And how? What
had that pale, emaciated man said, after all? Ah I but the look, the
voice, the-what else? Something it was impossible to grasp. Perhaps a
presentiment--But of what? _Ma! Chi sá?_ Who knows? A presentiment of
some future bond between this man and herself. She had followed him, had
entered the church that she might not lose the opportunity of speaking
to him, and now she was almost afraid of him. And then to talk to him of
Jeanne! Had Jeanne understood him? How had Jeanne, loving him, been able
to resist the current of higher thought which was in him, which perhaps,
at that time, was latent, but which a Jeanne should have felt? What had
she loved? The lower man? If she, Noemi, spoke with him, she would speak
not only of Jeanne, but of religion also. She would ask him what his
own religion really was. And then what if he should answer something
foolish, something commonplace? For this reason she was almost afraid to
speak to him.

A dash of rain splashed through a broken window upon the pavement.
It seemed to Noemi she could never forget that hour, that great empty
church, that dark sky, that dash of rain like falling tears, that
world’s outcast on the steps of the high altar, absorbed in what sublime
thoughts God alone knew, and the sacristan, his enemy, who had gone
to sleep on the steps of another altar, with the easy familiarity of a
colleague of the Almighty. Some time elapsed, perhaps an hour, perhaps
more. The church grew lighter; the rain seemed to be stopping. It struck
four o’clock. Don Clemente entered the church, followed by Maria and
Giovanni who were glad to find Noemi there, for they had not known where
she was. The sacristan, who knew Don Clemente, came forward.

“_Dunque_? The viaticum?”

The viaticum? Alas, the man was dead; they had thought of the viaticum
too late! The Padre inquired for Benedetto, and Noemi pointed to where
he sat. They spoke of the interview which Noemi desired. Don Clemente
blushed and hesitated, but could not refuse to ask for it, and he went
to join Benedetto.

While the two conversed, Giovanni and Maria related to Noemi all that
had taken place. After the arrival of the parish priest, the sick man
had not spoken again. Confession had not been possible. Meanwhile the
storm had burst with such violence as to render it impossible for the
priest to go for the holy oil. They had thought the sick man would live
some hours longer, but at three o’clock he had expired. As soon as the
torrents of rain would permit, Don Clemente and the priest had gone out,
but Giovanni and Maria had remained with the mother until the arrival
of the dead man’s elder sister; the mother seemed to have quite lost her
senses. Then they also had left, to go in search of Noemi. Not finding
her at the inn, they had started for the church. In the square they had
met the Padre, coming out of one of the best houses. They did not
know what errand had taken him there. Maria spoke enthusiastically of
Benedetto, of his spiritual ministrations to the dying man. She and her
husband were very indignant at the war which had been waged against him
by people who would now find no difficulty in turning the whole town
against him. They censured the parish priest’s weakness, and were not
satisfied with Don Clemente himself. He should not have aided in driving
his disciple away. Why had he been the one to tell him to leave, when
the parish priest came? His first mistake had been in bringing the
Abbot’s message. Noemi knew nothing of this message. When she heard that
Benedetto was to be deprived of his habit her indignation burst forth:
Benedetto must not obey.

Meanwhile the Padre and his disciple were approaching the door.
Benedetto stood apart while the Padre came to tell the Selvas and Noemi
that as several persons wished to speak with Benedetto, he had arranged
that they should see him at the house of a gentleman of the town. He
must now take Benedetto there, but in a few minutes he would return to
the church for them.

       *       *       *       *       *

The gentleman was the same person the Selvas had met on the hillside of
Jenne, where he was awaiting the Duchess di Civitella. The Duchess had
arrived shortly after, with two other ladies and several gentlemen,
among them a journalist, and the young man of the eye-glass. The
citizen, of Jenne was beside himself with satisfaction; on that day he
was in a truly ducal state of graciousness and magnificence! Therefore,
when Don Clemente--following the parish priest’s advice--appealed to
him, he had no difficulty in obtaining from him the promise of an
old suit of black, a black tie, and a broad brimmed black hat, for
Benedetto.

In the room where the secular clothes were spread out, the disciple,
having removed his habit, began to put them on in silence, and his
master, who was standing at the window, could not repress a sob.
Presently Benedetto called softly to him.

“_Padre mio_,” said he, “look at me!”

Arrayed in the new clothes, which were too long and too large for
him, he smiled, showing himself at peace. The Padre seized his hand,
intending to kiss it, but Benedetto caught it hastily away, and opening
his arms, pressed to his breast the man who now seemed the younger, the
son, the penitent instrument of shameful human persecutions, which,
upon that heart, beating with divine fire, turned to dust, to ashes, and
vanished! They stood a long time thus, locked in a silent embrace.

“I did it, for your sake,” Don Clemente murmured at last. “I myself
brought the humiliating message, that I might see the grace of the Lord
shine, in this humble dress, even brighter than in the habit.”

Benedetto interrupted him. “No, no!” said he. “Do not tempt me, do
not tempt me! Let us rather thank God, who is chastening me for that
presumptuous joy I experienced at Santa Scolastica, when you offered
me the Benedictine habit, and I reflected that in my vision, I had seen
myself dying in that dress. My heart was uplifted as if crying out: ‘I
am beloved indeed of God!’ And now--”

“Ah! but--!” the Padre exclaimed, and then stopped suddenly, his face
suffused with colour. Benedetto believed he understood what was in his
mind: “It is not said that you may not sometime resume the habit you
have just laid aside! It is not said that the vision may not yet come
true!” He had not wished to utter this thought, either from prudence, or
in order not to allude to Benedetto’s death. He smiled and embraced his
master. The Padre hastened to speak of other things; he apologised for
the parish priest, who was much grieved by what was happening, and would
not have sent Benedetto away, had he not feared his superiors. He was
not a Don Abbondio [1]; he did not fear for himself, but dreaded scandal
of a conflict with the authorities.

[Footnote: Don Abbondio-a priest in Mazzoni’s work _I Promessi Sposi_.
(Translator’s Note.)]

“I forgive him,” said Benedetto, “and I pray God to forgive him, but
this lack of moral courage is a great evil in the Church. Many, rather
than contend against their superiors, will contend against God Himself.
And they rid themselves of all responsibility by substituting their
superiors’ conscience to their own wherein God speaks. They do not
comprehend that by striving against what is good, or by refraining from
striving against what is evil, in obedience to superiors, they give
scandal to the world, they stain the Christian character in the eyes of
the world. They do not comprehend that both their duty toward God and
their duty toward their superiors may be fulfilled, by never striving
against what is good, by never refraining from striving against what
is evil, by never judging their superiors, by obeying them with perfect
obedience in everything that is neither opposed to what is good nor in
favour of what is evil, by laying even life itself at their feet,
but not their conscience; their conscience, never! Thus the Inferior,
stripped of everything save conscience and just obedience, becomes a
pure grain of the salt of the earth, and where many such grains are
united, that to which they adhere will be saved from corruption, and
that to which they do not adhere, will rot and fall to pieces!”

As he talked Benedetto became transfigured. With the last words he rose
to his feet. His eyes flashed, his brow shone with the august light of
the spirit of Truth. He placed his hands on Don Clemente’s shoulders.

“Dear Master,” he said, his face softening, “I am leaving the roof, the
bread, the habit which were offered me, but while I have life, I will
not cease telling of Christ, who is the Truth! I go forth, but not to
remain silent. Do you remember giving me the letter to read, that St.
Peter Damian wrote to a layman, who preached? That man preached in the
church. I will not preach in the church, but if Christ wish me to speak
in the dwellings of the poor, I will speak in the dwellings of the poor;
if He wish me to speak in the palace, I will speak in the palace; if He
wish me to speak in the cubicles, I will speak in the cubicles; if He
wish me to speak on the housetops, I will speak on the housetops. Think
of the man who laboured in Christ’s name, and was forbidden to do so by
the disciples. Christ said: ‘Forbid him not.’ Shall we obey the disciple
or shall we obey Christ?”

“You are right about the man in the Gospel, _caro_,” Don Clemente
replied, “but remember that one may mistake what is really Christ’s
will.”

Don Clemente’s heart did not speak precisely thus, but the heart’s
imprudent, undisciplined words were not allowed to pass his lips.

“After all, _Padre mio_,” Benedetto continued, “believe me, I am not
banished because I preached the Gospel to the people. There are two
things you must know. The first is this. A proposal was made to me here
in Jenne by a person whom I never saw again after that interview, to
take holy orders, that I might become a missionary. I replied that I did
not feel called to that work. The second incident is this. On one of the
first days after my arrival at Jenne, while talking religion with the
parish priest, I spoke of the eternal vitality of Catholic doctrine, of
the power which the soul of Catholic doctrine possesses, of continually
transforming its own body, increasing its strength and beauty
unlimitedly. You know _Padre mio_, from whom--through you--these
thoughts came to me. The parish priest must have repeated my words,
which pleased him. The next day he asked me whether I had met Selva at
Subiaco, and had read his books. He said he had not read them himself,
but he knew they were to be avoided. _Padre mio_, you will understand
now. It is on account of Signor Selva, and of your friendship for him,
that I am leaving Jenne thus. I have never loved you as I love you now.
I do not know whither I shall wander, but wherever the Lord may send me,
be it far or near, do not let your soul forsake me!”

As he spoke these words, his voice shaking with sorrow and love,
Benedetto again threw himself into the arms of his master, who--himself
torn by a tempest of conflicting emotions--knew not whether to ask his
forgiveness, or promise him glory, the true glory, and could only say,
with laboured breath:

“You do not know it, but I, too, have need that your soul should not
forsake me!”

Touching it with careful, reverent hands; Don Clemente made the habit
his disciple had laid aside into a bundle. When it was folded he
told Benedetto that he could not offer him the hospitality of Santa
Scolastica; he had intended asking Signor Selva to take him in, but he
now doubted if it would be opportune and in the interests of his mission
for Benedetto to put himself so openly under the protection of Signor
Giovanni.

Benedetto smiled.

“Oh! certainly not!” said he. “Shall we fear the darkness more than we
love the light? But I must pray God to make His will known to me, if it
be possible. Perhaps He desires that, perhaps something else. And now
will you send me some food and a little wine? And then let those come
in, who wish to speak with me.”

Don Clemente was secretly astonished that Benedetto should ask him for
wine, but he did not allow his astonishment to appear. He said he would
also send him the young girl who was with the Selvas. Benedetto looked
at him questioningly. He remembered that when the girl, whom he had
seen later in the church, had asked for an interview, Don Clemente had
pressed his arm, as if silently warning him to be on his guard. Don
Clemente grew very red while he explained his action. He had seen the
young girl at Santa Scolastica with another person. His movement had
been involuntary. The other person was now far away. “We shall not
meet again,” said he, “because as soon as I have sent you the food, and
spoken to these people, I must start for Santa Scolastica.”

In speaking of going to Subiaco or elsewhere, Benedetto had said
“perhaps that, perhaps something else,” with an accent so full of
meaning that, when Don Clemente bade him farewell, he murmured:

“Are you thinking of Rome?”

Instead of answering, Benedetto gently took from his hands the bundle
containing the poor tunic, which had been bestowed and then withdrawn,
and with trembling hands raised it to his lips, pressing them to it; he
let them rest there a long time.

Was it regret for the days of peace, of labour, of prayer, of gospel
words? Was it the anticipation of a luminous hour in the future?

He gave the bundle back into his master’s hands.

“Farewell!” said he.

Don Clemente hastened away.

The room the master of the house had set apart for Benedetto’s use
contained a large sofa, a small square table, covered with a yellowish
cloth; over which a blue floral pattern sprawled; a few shaky chairs;
one or two armchairs, their stuffing showing through the rents in
the old and faded leather; and two portraits of bewigged ancestors in
tarnished frames. It had two windows, one almost blinded by a grey wall,
the other open to the fields, to a lovely, peaceful hill, to the sky.
Before receiving his visitors Benedetto approached this window to take a
last farewell of the fields, the hill, and the poor town itself. Seized
with sudden weakness, he leaned against the sill. It was a gentle,
pleasant weakness. He was hardly conscious of the weight of his body,
and his heart was flooded with mystic beatitude. Little by little, as
his thoughts became vague and objectless he was moved by a sense of the
quiet, innocent, external life; the drops falling from the roofs, the
air laden with odours of the hills, stirring mysteriously at that hour
and in that place. The memory of distant hours of his early youth came
back to him, of a time when he was still unmarried and had no thought of
marriage. He recalled the close of a thunder storm in the upper Valsolda
on the crest of the Pian Biscagno. How different his fate would have
been had his parents lived thirty or even twenty years longer! At least
one of them! In his mind’s eye he saw the stone in the cemetery at Oria:

  TO FRANCO
  IN GOD
  HIS LUISA;

and his eyes filled with tears. Then came the violent reaction of his
will against this soft langour of the intellect, this temptation of
weakness.

“No, no, no!” he murmured, half aloud. A voice behind him answered:

“You do not wish to listen to us?”

Benedetto turned round, surprised. Three young men stood before him.
He had not heard them enter. The one who appeared to be the eldest, a
fine-looking young fellow, short of stature, dark, with eyes speaking
knowledge of many things, asked him boldly why he had laid aside the
clerical dress. Benedetto did not reply.

“You do not wish to say?” the other exclaimed.

“It does not matter, but listen to us. We are students from the
University of Rome, men of little faith, that I confess openly and at
once. We are enjoying and making the most of our youth, that I will also
confess at once.”

One of his companions pulled a fold of the spokesman’s coat.

“Be quiet!” said the leader. “It is true there is one among us who,
though he has no great faith in the saints, is very pure. He, however,
is not here before you. There are others missing also, who are playing
cards at the tavern. The ‘Most Pure’ would not come with us. He says he
will find a way of speaking with you alone. We are what I have told
you. We came from Rome for an excursion, and, if possible, to witness a
miracle; in fact, we came to have some fun!”

His companions interrupted him, protesting. “Yes, yes!” he repeated,
“to have some fun! Excuse me, I speak frankly. Indeed our fun came near
costing us too dear. We joked a little and they wanted to knock us down,
you know; and all to your honour and glory! But then we heard the little
speech you made to that crowd of fanatics. ‘By the Lord Harry,’
we thought, ‘this is a new style of language for a priestly or
half-priestly mouth! This is a saint who suits us better than the
others!’ Forgive my familiarity! So we at once decided to ask you for an
interview; because even if we be rather sceptical, and fond of worldly
pleasures, we are also more or less intellectual, and certain religious
truths interest us. I myself, for instance, shall perhaps very shortly
become a Neo-Buddhist.”

His companions laughed, and he turned upon them angrily.

“Yes indeed! I shall not be a practical Buddhist, but Buddhism interests
me more than Christianity!”

Then ensued an altercation among the three students, on account of
this inopportune sally, and a second spokesman, tall, thin, and wearing
spectacles, took the place of the first. This man spoke nervously,
with frequent spasmodic movements of the head and stiff forearms. His
discourse was to the following effect. He and his companions had often
discussed the question of the vitality of Catholicism. They were
all convinced that it was exhausted, and that speedy death could
be prevented only by radical reform. Some considered such a reform
possible, while others did not. They were anxious to have the opinion of
an intelligent and modern-spirited Catholic such as Benedetto had shown
himself. They had many questions to ask him.

At this point the third ambassador of the party of students, feeling
that his turn had come, poured out upon Benedetto a disordered stream of
questions.

Did he feel disposed to become the champion of a reform in the Church?
Did he believe in the infallibility of the Pope, of the Council? Did
he approve of the worship of the Virgin Mary and of the saints in
its present form? Was he a Christian Democrat? What were his views
concerning the desired reform? They had seen Giovanni Selva at Jenne.
Was Benedetto acquainted with his works? Did he approve of cardinals
being forbidden to go out on foot, and of priests not being allowed
to ride a bicycle? What was his opinion of the Bible, and what did he
believe concerning its inspiration?

Before answering, Benedetto looked steadily and severely at his young
interlocutor.

“A physician,” he began at last, “was reputed to be able to cure all
diseases. A man, who did not believe in medicine, went to him out of
curiosity, to question him about his art, his studies, his opinions. The
physician let him talk on for some time; then he took his wrist, thus.”
 Benedetto took the wrist of the one who had spoken first, and continued.

“He took it, and held it a moment in silence; then he said to him, ‘My
friend, your heart is affected. I read it first in your face, and now I
feel the hammering of the carpenter who is making your coffin!”

The young man whose pulse he was pressing could not refrain from
wincing.

“I do not mean you,” said Benedetto. “The physician was speaking to the
man who does not believe in medicine. And he continued, thus: ‘Do you
come to me for health and life? I will give you both. Are you not come
for that? Then I have no time for you!’ The man, who had always believed
himself to be well, turned pale, and said. ‘Master, I place myself in
your hands; give me life!’”

The three students stood for a moment dum-founded. When they showed
signs of coming to their senses, and of wishing to answer, Benedetto
continued:

“If three blind men ask me for my lamp of truth what shall I reply? I
shall reply, ‘First go and prepare your eyes for it, because, should I
give it unto your hands now, you would receive no light from it, and you
would only break it.’”

“I hope,” said the tall, lean, bespectacled student, “that in order to
see your lamp of truth it may not be necessary to shut out the light of
the sun. But, after all, I can easily understand that you do not wish to
explain yourself to us, whom you believe to be reporters. To-day we are
not--or at least I am not--in the state of mind you desire. I may be
blind, but I do not feel inclined to ask the Pope for light, or a Luther
either. Nevertheless, if you come to Rome, you will find young men
better disposed than I am, than we are. Come, speak, let us also listen
to you! To-day it is curiosity with us, to-morrow, who knows? we may
feel the right spirit. Come to Rome!”

“Give me your name,” said Benedetto.

The other offered him his card. His name was Elia Viterbo. Benedetto
looked at him curiously.

“Yes, indeed,” he said, “I am a Jew; but these two baptised ones are no
better Christians than I am. I have, moreover, no religious prejudices.”

The interview was over. As they were leaving, the youngest of the party,
the man of the stream of questions, made a last onslaught.

“Tell us, at least, if you believe Catholics should vote on political
questions?”

Benedetto was silent. The other insisted:

“Will you not answer even that question?”

Benedetto smiled.

“_Non expedit_,” said he.

There were steps in the ante-room; two gentle taps at the door; the
Selvas entered with Noemi. Maria Selva came in first, and seeing
Benedetto dressed thus, could not restrain a movement of indignation, of
regret, and a soft laugh; then she blushed and wished to speak a word
of protest, but could not find the right one. The tears came to Noemi’s
eyes. All four were silent for a moment and understood each other. Then
Giovanni murmured:

  “‘_Non fu dal vel del cuor giawmai disciolto_’”[*1*];

and pressed the hand of him who in his awkward garments still appeared
august to him.

“But you must not wear these things!” exclaimed Maria, less mystic than
her husband.

Benedetto made a gesture which said, “Let us not speak of that,”
 and looked at the master of his master with eyes full of longing and
reverence.

“Are you aware,” said he, “how much truth and how much good have come to
me from you?”

Giovanni did not know how strongly he had influenced this man through
Don Clemente. He supposed he had read his books. He was moved, and
in his heart thanked God, who was thus gently showing him that he had
worked some real good in a soul.

“How happy I should have been,” Benedetto continued, “to have worked in  your garden,

     [FN 1: “Of the heart’s veil she never was divested.”
       DANTE’S _Paradiso_, Canto iii.

     (Longfellow’s translation) ] have sometimes seen you, to
     have heard you speak!”

A stifled exclamation escaped Noemi when reminded of that evening full
of memories she could not express. Giovanni took this opportunity of
offering hospitality to Benedetto, Don Clemente having told him he
intended leaving Jenne that night. They could leave together, if he
wished, after the interview which he was going to grant Giovanni’s
sister-in-law. Noemi, very pale, looked fixedly at Benedetto for the
first time, awaiting his answer.

“I thank you,” said he. “If I knock at your door, you will throw it open
to me. I can say no more at present.”

Giovanni and his wife prepared to leave. Benedetto begged them to
remain. Surely the _Signorina_ had no secrets from them; at least not
from her sister, if perhaps from her brother-in-law. Even this
indirect appeal to Maria was of no avail, for Noemi remarked, with much
embarrassment, that these secrets were not her own. The Selvas withdrew.

Benedetto remained standing, and did not invite Noemi to be seated. He
was aware that a friend of Jeanne’s stood before him, and he foresaw
what was coming--a message from Jeanne.

“_Signorina_?” said he.

His manner was not discourteous, but signified clearly, “The quicker the
better.”

Noemi understood. She would have been offended had another person acted
thus; but with Benedetto she was not offended. With him she felt humble.

“I have been requested to ask you,” she began, “whether you know
anything about a person with whom you must have been intimately
acquainted, whom, I believe, you also loved very dearly? I am not sure
I pronounce the name correctly, I am not an Italian. It is Don Giuseppe
Flores.”

Benedetto started. He had not expected this.

“No!” he exclaimed anxiously, “I know nothing.”

Nomei gazed at him a moment in silence. Before continuing she would have
liked to ask his forgiveness for the pain she was about to cause him.
She said sadly and in a low tone:

“Some one has written to me to tell you that he is no longer of this
world.”

Benedetto bowed his head, and hid his face in his hands. Don Giuseppe,
dear Don Giuseppe; dear, great, pure soul; dear luminous brow, dear
eyes, full of God, dear, kind voice! Softly came two tears, which Noemi
did not see; then he heard Don Giuseppe’s voice saying within him,
“Do you not feel that I am here, that I am with you, that I am in your
heart?”

After a long silence Noemi said softly:

“Forgive me! I am sorry I was obliged to cause you so much pain.”

Benedetto raised his head.

“Pain, and still not pain,” said he. Noemi maintained a reverent
silence. Benedetto asked if she knew when this person had passed away.

Towards the end of April, she believed. She was absent from Italy at the
time. She was in Belgium, at Bruges, with a friend to whom the news had
been sent. She had understood from her friend that that person--a sense
of delicacy prevented Noemi from pronouncing the name--had died a very
holy death. She had also been asked to say that his papers had been
entrusted to the bishop of the city. Benedetto made a gesture of
approval which might also serve to close the interview. Noemi did not
move.

“I have not yet finished,” she said, and hastened to add:

“I have a Catholic friend--I myself am not a Catholic, I am a
Protestant--who has lost her faith in God. She has been advised to
devote herself to deeds of charity. She lives with her brother, who is
very hostile to all religions. This innovation, the fact that his sister
interests herself in charities, that she associates with people who
promote good works from religious principles, is most displeasing to
him. At present he is ill; he becomes irritated, excited, protests
against these virtuous bigots, does not wish his sister to visit the
poor, to protect young girls, or to provide for abandoned children. He
says all these things are clericalism, are utopianism, that the world
wags in its own way, and that it must be allowed to wag in its own way,
that all this associating with the lower classes only serves to put
false and dangerous ideas into their heads. Now, my friend has been told
that she must either leave her brother, or lie to him, by doing secretly
what she has hitherto done openly. She is in sore need of sound advice!
She writes to me to ask you for it. She has read in the newspapers that
you are helping so many here in these hills, and she hopes you will not
refuse.”

“As her brother is ill, both bodily and mentally,” Benedetto answered,
“does she not find deeds of charity to perform in her own house? Will
she arrive at a knowledge of God by becoming a bad sister? Let her
give up her works of charity and devote herself to her brother; let
her attend to his bodily ills, and to his moral ills, with all the
affection”--he was going to say “which she bears him,” but he corrected
himself, that he might not thus clearly admit a knowledge of the
person--“with all the affection of which she is capable; let her make
herself precious to him; let her win him by degrees, without sermons,
by her goodness alone. It will do her much good also, this striving to
incarnate in herself true goodness, active, untiring, patient, prudent
goodness. And she will win him, little by little, without words; she
will persuade him that all she does is well done. Then she can take up
her works of charity again, take them up alone, and she will succeed
better. Now she performs them because she has been advised to do so, and
perhaps she does not succeed very well. Then she will be prompted by the
habit of goodness, acquired with her brother, and she will have better
success.”

“I thank you!” said Noemi. “I thank you for my friend, and also for
myself, for I am much pleased with what you have said. And may I repeat
your advice, your words of encouragement, in your name?”

The question seemed superfluous, because the words of encouragement and
advice had been spoken by Benedetto in direct answer to the friend. But
Benedetto was troubled. It was an explicit message which Noemi asked of
him for Jeanne.

“Who am I?” he said. “What authority do I possess? Tell her I will
pray!”

Noemi was trembling inwardly. It would have been so easy now to speak
to him of religion! And she did not dare. Ah! but to lose such an
opportunity! No, she must speak; but she could not reflect a quarter
of an hour upon what she should say. She said the first thing that came
into her head.

“I beg your pardon, but as you speak of praying, I should like to ask
you if you really approve of all my brother-in-law’s religious views?”

As soon as she had uttered the question, it seemed to her so
impertinent, so awkward, that she was ashamed. She hastened to
add, conscious she was saying something still more foolish, but,
nevertheless, feeling impelled to say it. “Because my brother-in-law
is a Catholic, and I am a Protestant, and I should like to know what to
believe.”

“_Signorina,_” Benedetto answered, “the day will come when all shall
worship the Father in spirit and in truth, upon the hilltops; to-day it
is best to worship Him in the shadows, in figures, from deep Valleys.
Many there are who can rise, some higher than others, towards the spirit
and the truth; but many cannot. There are plants which bear no fruit
above a certain altitude, and if carried still higher, they die. It
would be folly to remove them from the climate which suits them. I do
not know you, and I cannot say if your brother-in-law’s religious views,
planted without preparation in you, would bear good fruit. But I advise
you to study Catholicism carefully, with Signor Selva’s help; for there
is not one conscientious Protestant who knows it well.”

“You will not come to Subiaco?” Noemi inquired timidly.

A note of hidden melancholy rang in her voice, and aroused in
Benedetto’s heart a sense of sweet pain, which at once turned to fear,
so new was it.

“No,” said he, “I think not.”

Noemi wished, and still did not wish to say she was sorry. She
pronounced some confused words.

They heard some one in the ante-room. Noemi bowed, and Benedetto doing
the same, the interview came to an end, without any further leave
taking.

The Duchess also was anxious to speak with Benedetto. She brought her
companions, both male and female, with her. No longer young, but still
frivolous, half superstitious, half sceptical, egotistical but not
heartless, she was devoted to the consumptive daughter of her old
coachman, Having heard of the Saint of Jenne and his miracles, she had
arranged this excursion, partly for amusement, partly to satisfy her
curiosity, and she wished to ascertain if it would be wiser to have
the Saint come to Rome, or to send the girl to him. At the house of a
cardinal, her cousin, she had become acquainted with one of the priests
now staying at Jenne, This man, having met her, had given her his own
opinion of the Saint, announcing the downfall of his reputation. But, as
the Duchess had little confidence in any priest, and was curious to
know a man to whom such a romantic past was attributed, and as her
companions--one woman in particular--shared her curiosity she resolved,
at any cost, to find a means of approaching him.

An elderly, English gentlewoman was of her party; a lady famous for her
wealth and her peculiar _toilettes_, for her theosophic and Christian
mysticism, metaphysically in love with the Pope and also with the
Duchess who laughed at her friends. These friends, on beholding
Benedetto in that strange outfit, exchanged glances and smiles which
very nearly became giggles; but the elderly Englishwoman forestalling
them all constituted herself their spokeswoman. She said, in bad French,
that she was aware she was speaking to a man of culture, that she, with
her friends, of both sexes and of all nationalities, was working to
unite all Christian Churches under the Pope, reforming Catholicism
in certain particulars which were really too absurd, and which no
one honestly believed were of any further use, such particulars as
ecclesiastical celibacy and the dogma of hell. She needed a saint to
accomplish these reforms. Benedetto would be that saint, because a
spirit (she herself was not a spiritualist, but a friend of hers was),
the Spirit of the Countess Blavatzky herself, had revealed this fact.
It was therefore necessary that he should come to Rome, and there his
saintly gifts would also enable him to render a service to the Duchess
di Civitella, here present. She ended her discourse thus:

_“Nous vous attendons absolument, monsieur! Quittez ce vilain trou!
Quittez-le bientôt! Bientôt!”_

Having let his stern gaze wander rapidly round the circle of mocking
or stolid faces, from the Duchess’s _lorgnon_ to the journalist’s
eye-glass, Benedetto replied:

_“À l’instant, madame!”_

And he left the room.

He left the room and the house, crossed the square, walking awkwardly in
his ill-fitting clothes, and, without looking to right or left, took the
road leading down the slope, impelled by his spirit rather than by the
weakened powers of his body. He intended to pass the night under some
tree, and, on the morrow, go to Subiaco; from there, with Don Clemente’s
aid, he would go to Tivoli, where he knew a good old priest, who was in
the habit of coming to Santa Scolastica from time to time. He no longer
thought of accepting the Selvas’ hospitality, which would have been
precious to him. His heart was pure and at peace, but he could not
forget that the young foreign girl’s sweet voice, and the tone of
sadness in which she had said “You will not come to Subiaco?” had
awakened strange echoes within him, and that in that one second the
thought had flashed across his mind: “Had Jeanne been like this, I
should not have left her!” The mystics were right; penance and fasting
were of no avail. But it had all disappeared now. Only the humiliating
sense of a frailty essentially human remained, which, though it may have
come forth triumphant from hard trials, may also reappear unexpectedly,
and be overthrown by a breath. The little town was deserted. The storm
over, the people from Trevi, Filettino, and Vallepietra had started
homeward, discussing the events of the morning, the case of doubtful
healing, and that in which the healing had not been effected, the
warnings which had been swiftly sown by hidden hands against the
corrupter of the people, the false Catholic. On leaving the town
Benedetto was seen by two or three women of Jenne. The secular garments
filled them with amazement; they concluded he had been excommunicated
and allowed him to pass in silence.

A few steps beyond, some one who was running overtook him. It was a
slender, fair lad, with blue eyes full of intelligence.

“Are you going to Rome, Signor Maironi?” he said.

“I beg you not to call me by that name!” Benedetto answered, ill-pleased
to find that his name, who knows by what means, had been revealed. “I do
not yet know whether I go to Rome.”

“I shall follow you,” the young man said, impulsively.

“You will follow me? But why should you follow me?”

In reply the young man took his hand, and, in spite of Benedetto’s
resistance and protests, raised it to his lips.

“Why?” said he. “Because I am sick of the world, and could not find
God, and to-day it Seems to me that, through you, I have been born to
happiness! Please, please, let me follow you!

“_Caro_ [dear one];” Benedetto replied, greatly moved, “I myself do not
know whither I shall go!”

The young man entreated him to say, at least, when he should see him
again, and exclaimed, seeing Benedetto really did not know what to
answer:

“Oh! I shall see you in Rome! You will surely go to Rome!”

Benedetto smiled:

“In Rome? And how will you find me there?”

The lad answered that he would certainly be talked of in Rome, that
every one would know where to find him.

“If it be God’s will!” said Benedetto, with an affectionate gesture of
farewell.

The lad detained him a moment, holding his hand.

“I am a Lombard also,” said he. “I am Alberti, from Milan. Do not forget
me!”

And his intense gaze followed Benedetto until he disappeared at a bend
of the mule-path.

       *       *       *       *       *

At sight of the cross with its great arms, rising on the brow of the
hill, Benedetto suddenly shuddered with emotion, and was obliged to
stop. When he once more started forward he was seized with giddiness.
Swaying, he stepped aside a few yards, leaving the way free for
passers-by, and sank upon the grass, In a hollow of the field. Then,
closing his eyes, he realised that this was no passing disturbance, but
something far more serious. He did not become entirely unconscious, but
he lost the sense of hearing and of touch, his memory, and all account
of time. When he first recovered his senses, the feeling on the backs of
his hands, of the coarse cloth, different from that of his usual habit,
filled him with a curiosity, rather amused than troubled, concerning his
own identity. He felt his breast, the buttons, the button-holes, without
understanding. He thought. A boy from Jenne, who passed near him in the
field, ran to the town and reported excitedly that the Saint was lying
dead on the grass, near the cross.

Benedetto reflected, with that shade of cloudy reason which governs us
when we sleep and when we first awake. These were not his clothes. They
were Piero Maironi’s clothes. He was still Piero Maironi. This thought
terrified him, and he recovered his senses completely. He rose to a
sitting posture, looked at himself, looked about him at the field and
the hills, veiled in the shades of evening. At sight of the great cross,
his mind regained its composure. He felt ill, very ill. He tried to
rise to his feet, but found it difficult to do so. Directing his
steps towards the mulepath, he asked himself what he should do in that
condition. Some one coming swiftly down the path from Jenne stopped
before him; he heard the exclamation: “Oh! my God! it is you!” He
recognised the voice of the woman who had spoken so passionately to
him while the storm was raging. She alone of all those at Jenne who
had heard the boy’s story had come to him. The others had either not
believed or not wished to believe. She had come running, and mad with
grief. Now she had stopped suddenly, and stood speechless, not two steps
from him. He, not suspecting she had come on his account, wished her
good-night and passed on. She did not return his salutation, for, after
the first moment of joy, she was distressed to see him walk with such
difficulty, and she did not dare to follow him. She saw him stop and
speak to a man riding a mule, who was coming up. She rushed forward to
hear what was said. The man was a muleteer, sent by the Selvas to look
for Benedetto. The Selvas, with two mules for the ladies, had left Jenne
soon after him, thinking to overtake him on the hillside. Reaching the
Anio without having seen him, they questioned a passer-by coming from
Sublaco. He could give them no news of Benedetto. Noemi, who was to
take the last train for Tivoli, went on with Giovanni, hiding her
disappointment. The muleteer had been sent back to Jenne to look for
Benedetto, and to fetch a parasol which had been forgotten at the inn.
Maria was awaiting his return among the rocks of the Infernillo. The
young school-mistress heard Benedetto ask the muleteer to bring him a
little water from Jenne, for the sake of charity. The two men were still
talking, but she sped away, without waiting to hear more.

After a brief consultation with the muleteer, Benedetto had consented
to ride down to where Signora Selva was waiting. Left alone, he seated
himself near the cross, and waited for the man to return with the water
and the parasol. The crescent moon was rising, gilding the bright sky,
above the hills of Arcinazzo; the evening was warm and breathless.
Benedetto felt his temples throb and burn; his breath came quick and
short, but he suffered no pain. The sweet-scented grass of the field,
the scattered trees, the great shadowy hills, all, to him, was alive,
was filled with religion; all was sweet with a mystery of adoring love
which bent even the crescent moon towards the heights in the opalescent
sky. Don Giuseppe Flores whispered in his heart that it would be sweet
to die thus with the day, praying in unison with the innocent things.

Hurried steps were heard in the direction of Jenne. They stopped a short
distance from him. A little girl came towards Benedetto, timidly offered
him a bottle of water and a glass, and then turned and fled. Benedetto,
astonished, called her to him. She came slowly, shyly, and did not
answer when he asked her name, her parents’ name. A voice said:

“She is the innkeeper’s child.”

Benedetto recognised the voice and the person also, though the moonlight
was pale; she had remained at a distance, prompted by the same sense of
delicacy which had moved her to bring the child with her.

“I thank you,” said he. She came a little nearer, holding the child by
the hand, and asked softly:

“Do you know the priests have been talking to the dead man’s mother? Do
you know the woman now accuses you of killing her son?”

Benedetto replied with some severity in his tone:

“Why do you tell me this?”

She saw she had displeased him by repeating this accusation, and
exclaimed in distress;

“Oh! forgive me!”

Presently she added:

“May I ask you a question?”

“Speak.”

“Shall you never return to Jenne?”

“Never.”

The woman was silent. They could hear steps approaching in the distance;
it was the muleteer and his mule. She said in a lower tone:

“For pity’s sake, one word more! How do you picture to yourself the
future life? Do you believe we shall meet those we have known in this
life?”

If the moonlight had not been so pale, Benedetto would have seen two
great tears rolling down the young girl’s face.

“I believe,” he replied, “that until the death of our planet, our future
life will be one of labour upon it, and that all those minds which
aspire to truth, to unity, will meet there, and labour together.” The
muleteer’s hobnailed shoes, which grated among the pebbles, could be
heard very near them. The woman said:

“_Addio_! Farewell!”

The tears sounded in her voice now. Benedetto answered:

“_A Dio_! God be with you!”

Mounted on the mule, he goes down into the shadows of the valley. He is
burning with fever. He is going to Casa Selva, after all. He knows, for
the muleteer has told him, that he will not see Noemi there; but that
is indifferent to him, he does not fear her, does not even remember the
moment of gentle emotion. Another feverish thought is stirring in his
soul. There is a whirl of words spoken by Don Clemente, by the lad
Alberti, by the elderly Englishwoman, while fragments of the Vision
flash like pictures before his mind’s eye. Yes, he will go to Casa
Selva, but only for a short time. As he ascends, the mighty voice of the
Anio roars louder, ever louder, out of the depths:

“Rome! Rome! Rome!”



CHAPTER VI. THREE LETTERS


JEANNE TO NOEMI. VENA DI FONTE ALTA, July 4,----

Forgive me if I write to you in pencil. I have just reread your letter
here, at a point half an hour distant from the hotel, seated on the
edge of a stone basin where the flocks come to drink. The tiny stream of
water which trickles into the basin from a small wooden pipe reminds me,
with its gentle voice, of something which makes my heart ache; a walk
with him across fields and through woods in the mist; a halt by this
very spring, painful words, a few tears, something written in the water,
a moment of happiness--the last. I made a great sacrifice for Carlino’s
sake when I returned to Vena after an absence of three years. I have
always loved him, but the message from Jenne would make me face far
greater sacrifices than this for him, make me face them willingly,
though conscious of having lost all merit in them.

I am not satisfied with your letters; I will tell you why sometime, but
not now. It is too difficult to write here. The mist is rolling down
from the uplands high above the spring, and a cold west wind is blowing.
I must be careful of my health on Carlino’s account, and this is another
sacrifice, for I hate my health!


_Later_.

Noemi, could you not contrive to let the enclosed half-sheet of paper,
upon which I have written in pencil, fall into _his_ hands? You hesitate
to tell him how obedient I am; could you not, at least, help me to let
him know it in this way?

I am not satisfied with your letters, first of all because they are too
short. You know how eager I am to hear all about him. He is a guest in
the same house with you; at Subiaco he can surely not know how to
employ his time, and you sum up everything in two or three words!--He
is better. He reads a great deal. He has been working in the
kitchen-garden. Perhaps he will spend the summer with us. He
writes.--And you have never yet told me what malady he is really
suffering from, what he reads, where he will go if he does not spend the
summer with you, whether he writes letters or books, and what you talk
about together, for it is not possible that you never talk together. Do
not repeat your excuse that the less you speak of him, the better it
is for me. That is a convenient excuse you have invented, but it is
foolish, because, whether you talk to me of him or not, it is all the
same. My hopes are quite dead; they will not revive. Then write me long
letters, I am sure he wishes to convert you, that you have very serious
talks together, and that is why you tell me so little about him. It
would not be a very glorious achievement to convert _you_, for you are
sentimental in matters of religion; you do not possess that clear, cold,
and positive insight which is, unfortunately, natural to me, and which I
wish _I_ did not possess.

When do you intend to return to Belgium? Do not your affairs there
need your attention? You once mentioned an agent in whom you had little
confidence. We shall probably travel in August. At least, that is what
Carlino says at present, but he changes his mind very easily. I should
like to visit Holland with you, in September. Good-bye! Please write.
If he reads much you might get him to lend you a book, and leave the
half-sheet of paper in it as a book-mark, At any rate, find some way.
That or something else; you are a woman! Contrive some means, if you
love me! But I really believe you no longer love me at all! You would
confess it if you told the truth! However, there is a lady at this hotel
who is in love with me! Laugh, if you like, but it is true. She lives in
Rome. Her husband is Under-Secretary of State. She is determined that I
shall spend next winter in Rome. It will depend upon Carlino. This lady
lays siege to him; he lets himself be besieged, and neither resists nor
capitulates. Good-bye. Write, write, and again write!


NOEMI TO JEANNE (_from the French_)

I did still better! In my presence, my brother-in-law cited from memory
a Latin passage which impressed _him_, concerning certain monks of
ancient times, before Christ. He begged Giovanni to write it down for
him. We were in the olive-grove above the villetta, seated on the grass.
I immediately passed a pencil to Giovanni, and the half-sheet of paper,
with the blank side uppermost. He wrote, and Maironi took the paper,
read the Latin passage, and put the sheet into his pocket, without
looking at the other side. It was an act of treason, and I have been
guilty of treason for love of you. Will you ever doubt me again?

What can I tell you about his illness which I have not told you already?
He was troubled with fever for about two weeks. One day the physician
would pronounce it typhoid, and the next he would say it was not. At
last the fever left him, but his strength has not returned completely;
he is very thin; he seems to have some persistent, internal ailment; the
doctor is very particular about the quality of his food; he has changed
his way of living, eats meat and drinks a little wine. Yesterday a
friend of Giovanni’s came from Rome to see him; the famous Professor
Mayda, Giovanni begged him to examine Maironi, and to advise him. He
recommended some waters, which Maironi will certainly not take. I feel
I know him well enough to be sure of that. However, during the last week
he has improved rapidly. In the morning and evening he works a little in
the kitchen-garden. This morning he rose very early, and what should he
do but take it into his head to wash down the stairs! Yesterday Maria
scolded the old servant because the stairs were not clean. When the
old woman, who sleeps at Subiaco, arrived at seven o’clock, she found
Maironi had done the work for her. My sister and my brother-in-law
reproached him; Giovanni was almost severe, perhaps because he is so
different from Maironi, and would never think of touching a broom, even
if he lived in a cloud of cobwebs! What does Maironi read? He has never
but once spoken to me of what he reads, and then only for a moment, as I
shall tell you later. I wrote you that perhaps he would spend the
summer with us, for I know Maria and Giovanni wish it. I now have a
presentiment that he will not stay, but will go to Rome. This, however,
is only my impression; I have no positive knowledge.

As to his wishing to convert me, I do not know whether it would be an
easy task or not, or whether Maironi thinks anything about it. You will
notice that I call him Maironi in writing to you; in speaking to him I
call him simply Benedetto, for that is his wish. I am sure Giovanni once
thought of converting me. He found it so easy that he never speaks of it
to me now. I should not think the same of Maironi. I believe that to him
Christianity means, above all things, actions and life according to the
spirit of Christ, of the risen Christ who lives for ever among us, of
whom we have, as he puts it, the experience. It seems to me that the
object of his religious mission is, not the placing of the creed of one
Christian Church before another, although there is no doubt the holiness
of the life he leads is strictly Catholic. Whenever I have heard
him speak of dogmas, with Giovanni, it has never been to discuss the
difference between Church and Church, but rather to expound certain
formulas of faith, and to show what a strong light emanates from
them when they are expounded in a certain way. Giovanni himself is
past-master at this, but when Giovanni speaks you are impressed above
all, by the immense store of knowledge his mind contains; when Maironi
speaks you feel that the living Christ is in his heart, the risen
Christ, and he fires you! In order to be perfectly, scrupulously
sincere, I will tell you that although I do not think he intends to
convert me, still I am not very sure of this. One day we were in the
olive-grove. He and Giovanni were discussing a German book on the
essence of Christianity, which, it seems, has made a stir, and was
written by a Protestant theologian. Maironi observed that, when
this Protestant speaks of Catholicism, he does so with a most honest
intention of being impartial, but that, in reality, he does not know the
Catholic religion. His opinion is that no Protestant does really
know it; they are all of them full of prejudices, and believe certain
external and remediable abuses in its practices to be essential to
Catholicism. There was a basket of apricots standing near, and he chose
one which had been very fine, but which was beginning to rot. “Here,”
 said he, “is an apricot, which is slightly rotten. If I offer this
apricot to one who does not know, but who wishes to be amiable, he
will tell me that part of it is indeed firm and good, but that,
unfortunately, part of it is diseased, and therefore, though he much
regrets it, he cannot accept it. Thus this illustrious Protestant speaks
of Catholicism. But if I offer my apricot to one who knows, he will
accept it even if it be entirely rotten; and he will plant the immortal
seed in his own garden, in the hope of raising fine, healthy fruit.”
 These remarks he addressed to Giovanni, but his eyes sought mine
continually. I must add that at Jenne also, he told me to learn to
understand Catholicism. At any rate, if I remain a Protestant, it will
not be because I do or do not understand, but rather in obedience to my
most sacred feelings.

My dear Jeanne, there is something else I must tell you plainly. I
have a suspicion that you are jealous, I believe you do not realise the
inexpressible grief you would cause me, if this were really the case. I
fear you do not realise the immense gravity of the offence it would be,
first to him and then to me. Now I am going to open my heart to you. I
should reproach myself if I did not do so, dear friend, reproach myself
on your account, on his, and on my own. As to him, he is kind and gentle
to all with whom he comes in contact, especially to the humble, and you
might even be jealous of the old woman who comes from Subiaco to do the
rough work in the house. With Maria and myself he shows his kindness and
gentleness silently rather than in words. With us he is quiet, simple,
and affable; he does not appear to wish to avoid us, but it has never
happened that he has remained alone with either of us. In his eyes I
am a soul, and souls are to him exactly what the tiniest plants in my
father’s great garden were to him; he would have liked to protect them
from frost with the warmth of his own heart, and make then grow and
flower by communicating his own vitality to them. But I am a soul like
any other soul, the only difference perhaps being, that he deems me
further removed from the truth, and consequently more exposed to frost.
But this is not apparent in his bearing.

As to myself, dearest, I certainly have a deep feeling for him, but it
would be abominable to say that this feeling in the least resembles what
men call by the familiar name. This sentiment is one of reverence, of
a kind of devout fear, of awe; I feel his person is surrounded by
something like a magic circle, into which I should never dare to
penetrate. My heart beats no faster in his presence. I think, indeed,
it beats more slowly but of this I am not sure. Dear Jeanne, I could not
possibly speak more honestly than I have done, therefore I beg you, I
entreat you, not to imagine anything different!

For the present I am not thinking of going to Belgium. I may possibly
go there for a short time, later on. My kind regards to your brother. I
should like to know if he has sent the old priest and the young woman to
Formalhaut at last! I myself sometimes think of his Formalhaut! Tell
him that if you and he come to Rome this winter, we will make music
together. Good-bye I embrace you!

BENEDETTO TO DON CLEMENTE

_(Never sent)_

_Padre mio_, the Lord has departed from my soul, not, indeed, giving me
up to sin, but He has taken from me all sense of His presence, and the
despairing cry of Jesus Christ on the cross thrills, at times, through
my whole being. If I strive to concentrate all my thoughts in the one
thought of the Divine Presence, all my senses in an act of submission to
the Divine Will, I derive only pain and discouragement from it. I feel
like the beast of burden which falls under its load, and which, at the
first cut of the whip, makes an effort to rise, and falls again; at
a second blow, at a third, or a fourth, it only shivers, and does not
attempt to rise. If I open the Gospels or the _Imitation_, I find no
flavour in them. If I recite prayers, weariness overpowers me, and I am
silent. If I prostrate myself upon the ground, the ground freezes me. If
I make complaint to God at being treated thus, His silence seems to grow
more hostile. If, on the authority of the great mystics, I say to myself
that I am wrong to feel such affection for spiritual joys, to suffer
thus when deprived of them, I answer myself that the mystics err, that
in the state of conscious grace one walks safely, but that in this
starless night of spiritual darkness one cannot see the way; there is no
other rule than to withdraw one’s foot when it touches the soft grass,
and that is not sufficient, for there is also the danger of setting the
foot in empty space. Father, _Padre mio_, open your arms to me, that I
may feel the warmth of your breast, filled with God! There are a hundred
reasons why I should not go to Santa Scolastica, and in any case I
should prefer to write. You are here present with me more than in the
body; I can become one with you, can mingle with you more easily than if
you stood before me; and I need to mingle with you in thought, I need
to force my soul into yours. Perhaps I shall send you this letter, but
perhaps I shall not send it. Father, father! it does me more good to
write to you than to speak to you! I could not speak with the fire which
now rushes to my pen, and which would not rush to my lips. Writing, I
speak, I cry out to the immortal in you, I divest you of all that is
mortal even in your soul, and which in your presence would extinguish
my fire. I divest you of the mortality of an incomplete knowledge of
things, of prudence, which would prompt you to veil your thoughts. No,
I will not send this letter, but nevertheless it will reach you. I will
burn it, but still it will reach you; for it is not possible that my
silent cry should not come to you, perhaps now, in the darkness of
the night, while you sleep, perhaps in two hours’ time, still in the
darkness of the night, while you pray with the brothers, in the dear
church, where we worshipped so often together.

I know why I am wretched, I know why God has forsaken me. Always when
God forsakes me, when all the living springs of my soul are dry, and the
living germs are parched, and my heart becomes as a dead sea, I know the
reason why. It is because I have heard sweet music behind me, and have
looked back; or because the wind has brought me the scent of blossoming
fields beside my path, and I have paused; or because the mist has risen
before me, and I have been afraid; or because a thorn has pierced my
foot, and I have felt vexation. Moments, flashes, but in that moment the
door opens, an evil breath enters! It is always thus: an earnest glance,
a word of praise enjoyed, an image lingered over, an offence recalled,
any one of these suffices; the evil breath has time to enter.

And now all of these causes are joined together! Darkness descended upon
my path; I set my foot in the soft grass, I felt it; I withdrew my
foot, but not at once. Why do I speak in figures? Write, write the naked
truth, cowardly hand! Write that this house is a nest of ease, and that,
if I have enjoyed the soft bed, the fine linen, the odour of lavender, I
have delighted still more in the conversation of Giovanni Selva, in the
readings, which have filled me with the joys of the intellect, in the
presence of two young and pure women, cultured and full of grace, in
their secret admiration, in the perfume of a sentiment which I believe
one of them harbours, in the vision of a life of retirement in this
nest, with these beings, far from all that is vulgar, all that is low,
unclean, and loathsome.

I have felt the sin of the world with the repulsion which shrinks from
it, and not with the fiery sorrow which braves it and wrests souls from
its clutches. Moments, flashes; I took refuge, as in times past, in
the embrace of the cross; but, little by little, the cross turned to
unfeeling, dead wood in my arms, and this was not as in times past! I
told myself, “Spirits of evil, strong and cunning powers of the air, are
conspiring against me, against my mission.” I answered myself, “Pride,
be gone!” And then the first idea took possession of me once more. In
this sad manner I rocked to and fro, every day, and all day long. And
because I did not allow any part of all this to transpire, because
I understood that Signor Giovanni and the ladies did not doubt I was
inwardly as calm, as pure as I was externally; I despised myself at
certain moments for a hypocrite, only to tell myself the next moment
that, on the contrary, my pure and calm exterior helped me to live--I
allude to the spiritual life--that by appearing strong, I was forced to
be strong. I compared myself to a tree whose marrow has been destroyed
by worms, whose wood is rotten, but which still lives through its bark,
by means of which it produces leaves and flowers, and can spread welcome
shade. Then I told myself that this was good reasoning before men; but
was it good reasoning before God, before God? And again I told myself
that God could heal me, for though the tree may not be healed yet a man
may be made whole. Again my mind was tormented, because I was incapable
of doing what God would demand of me, in order that my will might once
more work in unison with His. He would order me to flee, to flee! God is
in the voice of the Anio, which, since the evening of my departure
from Jenne, has been saying: “Rome, Rome, Rome!” And God is also in the
strength of the invisible worms, which have gnawed the vital virtues of
my body. Am I then to blame? Am I then to blame? Lord, hear my groan,
which asks for justice!

I have said many times that I will leave as soon as I am strong enough,
but they wish to keep me here, and how can I say to them “My friends,
you are my enemies?” Behold my cowardice! Why can I not say so? Why
should I not say so?

One day I read in the young Protestant girl’s glance the question: “If
you go, what will become of my soul? Should you not desire to lead me to
your faith? I will not yet allow myself to be led.” No, I cannot, I must
not write all. How can I write the meaning of a glance, the accent of
a word, commonplace in itself? They are not such glances as drove
St. Jerome to plunge into icy water, or at least my emotion does not
resemble his. Icy water is of no avail against a glance which is all
sweet purity. Only fire can prevail against it, the fire of the Supreme
Love! Ah! who will free me from my mortal heart, whose faintest throb
thrills all the fibres of my body? Who will set free the immortal heart
which is within it, like the germ of a fruit, preparing for itself a
celestial body? I cannot, I must not write all, but this, indeed, I will
write: The Lord seeks to ensnare me, to entrap me! When I shall have
fallen, He will deride me! Why did it happen that I wrote the Latin
quotation about those who live and do penance between the Dead Sea and
the desert, _“Sine pecunia, sine ulla femina, omni venere abdicata socia
palmarum_,” on that piece of paper, which on the other side bore words
from J. D., words still hot concerning my past sin and hers, words
reminding me of the most terrible moments? How did a person so timid
dare to force a secret communication upon me?

The wind has blown my window open. Oh! Anio, Anio! will you never tire
of your commanding? I must start now, at once? Impossible, the doors
are locked. Moreover, it would be shame to leave thus. I should be
dishonouring God; they would say “what ungrateful, what mad servants has
the Lord!” Come, spirit of my master, come, come! Speak to me; I will
listen. What have you to say to me? What have you to say to me? Ah! you
smile at my tempest; you tell me to leave, yes, but to leave honourably,
to announce that the Lord Himself commands my departure. You tell me
to obey the voice of God in the Anio. Now the wind is ceasing; as if
satisfied, it seems to be growing quiet. Yes, yes, yes, with tears!
To-morrow, to-morrow morning! I will announce it. And I know to whom I
shall go in Rome. Oh! light, oh! peace, oh! springs burst forth again
in my soul: oh! dead sea, swelling with a wave of warmth! Yes, yes,
yes, with tears! I return thanks! I return thanks! Glory be to Thee, our
Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come: Thy
will be done!



CHAPTER VII. IN THE WHIRLPOOL OF THE WORLD

It was already growing dark when a private carriage stopped at the door
of a house in Via della Vite in Rome. Two ladies alighted, and quickly
disappeared within the gloomy entrance, while the carriage drove away.
Presently another carriage arrived, deposited two more ladies before the
same gloomy door, and in its turn rolled away. Thus, within a quarter of
an hour, five carriages drove up, and no less than twelve female figures
were engulfed by the dark portal. The narrow street then relapsed into
its usual quiet. In about half an hour groups of men began to appear,
coming from the Corso. They paused before the same door, read the number
by the light of a neighbouring street-lamp, and then entered. In this
manner about forty persons more were engulfed by the gloomy portal The
last arrivals were two priests. The one who tried to read the number
was near-sighted, and could not make it out. His companion said to him,
laughing:

“Go in, go in! There is an odour of Luther in the air; it must be here!”
 The first priest entered the evil-smelling darkness. By a black and
dirty stair they mounted up, up, towards a small oil lamp, burning on
the fourth floor. On reaching the third floor they struck a match to
read the names upon the door-plates. A voice called out from above:

“Here, gentlemen, here!”

An affable young man in a dark morning suit came down to meet them. He
showed them great deference, said the others were waiting for them, and
conducted them through an ante-room and a passage almost as dark as the
stairway itself, to a large room, full of people, and dimly lighted by
four candles and two old oil lamps. The young man apologised for the
darkness, saying his parents would tolerate neither the electric light,
nor gas, nor petroleum. All the men who had arrived in groups were
assembled here. Three or four wore clerical dress. The others, with the
exception of an old man with a red face and a white beard, seemed to be
students. There were no women present. All were standing save the old
man, who was evidently an important personage. Conversation was being
carried on in low tones. The room was full of whisperings, like the
murmur of tiny rivulets and falling drops in a cave. When the two
priests had entered the young host said:

“We are ready!”

Those forming, the central group fell back in a circle, and Benedetto
appeared in their midst. A small table with two candles upon it, and a
chair, had been prepared for his use. He begged that the candles might
be removed. Then he was dissatisfied with the table. Saying he was
weary, he asked to be allowed to speak seated on the sofa, beside the
old man with the flushed face and the white beard. Benedetto was dressed
in black, and was paler and thinner than at Jenne. His hair had receded
from his forehead, which had acquired something of the solemn aspect of
the brow of Don Giuseppe Flores. His eyes had become a still brighter
blue. Many of the faces turned eagerly towards him seemed more
fascinated by those eyes and that brow than anxious to hear his words.
Making no gestures, his hands resting on his knees, be began speaking as
follows:

“I must first state to whom I speak, for not all here present are of one
mind concerning Christ and the Church. I do not address my remarks to
the ecclesiastics; I believe and hope they are not in need of my words.
Neither do I speak to this gentleman seated beside me, for I know he
does not need my words. I speak to no one who is firmly grounded in the
Catholic faith. I address myself solely to those young men who wrote to
me in the following terms.”

He took out a letter and read:

“‘We were educated in the Catholic faith, and on attaining manhood
we--by an act of our own free will--accepted its most arduous mysteries;
we have laboured in the faith, both in the administrative and social
field; but now another mystery rises in our way, and our faith falters
before it. The Catholic Church, calling herself the fountain of truth,
to-day opposes the research of truth, when her foundations, the sacred
books, the formulae of her dogmas, her alleged infallibility, become
objects of research. To us this signifies that she no longer has faith
in herself. The Catholic Church, which proclaims herself the channel of
life, to-day chains and stifles all that lives youthfully within her,
to-day seeks to prop all that is tottering and aged within her, To us
these things mean death, distant, but inevitable death. The Catholic
Church, claiming to wish to renew all things through Christ, is hostile
to us, who strive to wrest the direction of social progress from the
enemies of Christ. This fact, with many others, signifies to us, that
she has Christ on her lips but not in her heart. Such is the Catholic
Church to-day. Can God desire our obedience to her to continue? We come
to you with this question. What shall we do? You who profess to be a
Catholic, who preach Catholicism, who have the reputation----’”

Here Benedetto broke off, saying;

“Only some unimportant words follow.”

And he continued his discourse.

“I answer those who wrote to me, thus: Tell me, why have you appealed to
me who profess to be a Catholic? Do you perhaps think me a superior of
the superiors in the Church? Will you, perhaps for that reason, rest in
peace upon my word, if my word be different from what you call the word
of the Church? Listen to this allegory. Thirsty pilgrims draw near to a
famous fountain. They find its basin full of stagnant water, disgusting
to the taste. The living spring is at the bottom of the basin; they
do not find it. Sadly they turn for aid to a quarryman, working in
a neighbouring quarry. The quarryman offers them living water. They
inquire the name of the spring. ‘It is the same as the water in the
basin,’ he replies. ‘Underground it is all one and the same stream. He
who digs will find it.’ You are the thirsty pilgrims, I am the humble
quarryman, and Catholic truth is the hidden, underground current. The
basin is not the Church; the Church is the whole field through which the
living waters flow. You have appealed to me because you unconsciously
recognise that the Church is not the hierarchy alone, but the universal
assemblage of all the faithful, _gens sancta;_ that from the bottom of
any Christian heart the living waters of the spring itself, of truth
itself, may rush forth. Unconscious recognition, for were it not
unconscious you would not say, the Church opposes this, the Church
stifles that, the Church is growing old, the Church has Christ on her
lips and not in her heart.

“Understand me well. I do not pass judgment upon the hierarchy; I
respect the authority of the hierarchy; I simply say that the Church
does not consist of the hierarchy alone. Listen to another example.
In the thoughts of every man there is a species of hierarchy. Take
the upright man. With him certain ideas, certain aims, are dominant
thoughts, and control his actions. They are these: to fulfil his
religious, moral, and civil duties. To these various duties he gives
the traditional interpretations which have been taught him. Yet this
hierarchy of firmly grounded opinions does not constitute the whole man.
Below it there are in him a multitude of other thoughts, a multitude
of other ideas, which are continually being changed and modified by the
impressions and experiences of life. And below these thoughts there is
another region of the soul, there is the subconsciousness, where occult
faculties work at an occult task, where the mysterious contact with God
comes to pass. The dominant ideas exercise authority over the will
of the upright man, but all that other world of thought is of vast
importance as well, because it is continually deriving truth from the
experience of what is real externally, and from the experience of what
is Divine internally, and therefore seems to rectify the superior ideas,
the dominant ideas, in that in which their traditional element is not in
perfect harmony with truth. And to them, it is a perennial fountain of
fresh life which renews them, a source of legitimate authority, derived
rather from the nature of things, from the true value of ideas, than
from the decrees of men. The Church is the whole man, not one separate
group of exalted and dominant ideas; the Church is the hierarchy, with
its traditional views, and the laity, with its continual derivations
from reality, its continual reaction upon tradition; the Church is
official theology, and she is the inexhaustible treasure of Divine
Truth, which reacts upon official theology; the Church does not die; the
Church does not grow old; the Church has the living Christ in her heart
rather than on her lips; the Church is a laboratory of truth, which is
in continual action, and God commands you to remain in the Church, to
become the Church fountains of living water.”

Like a gust of wind, a feeling of emotion and of admiration swept over
the audience. Benedetto, whose voice had been growing louder and louder,
rose to his feet.

“But what manner of faith is yours!” he exclaimed excitedly, “if you
talk of deserting the Church because you are displeased with certain
antiquated doctrines of her rulers, with certain decrees of the Roman
congregations, with certain tendencies in the government of a Pontiff?
What manner of sons are you who talk of denying your mother because her
dress is not to your taste? Can a dress change the maternal bosom? When
resting there, you tearfully confess your infirmities to Christ, and
Christ heals you, do you speculate concerning the authenticity of a
passage in St. John, the true author of the Fourth Gospel, or the two
Isaiahs? When, gathered there, you unite yourselves to Christ in the
sacrament, are you disturbed by the decrees of the Index, or of the Holy
Office? When, lying there, you pass into the shadows of death, is the
peace it sheds about you any less sweet because a Pope is opposed to
Christian Democracy?

“My friends, you say ‘We have rested in the shade of this tree, but now
its bark is splitting, is being dried up, the tree will die; let us seek
another tree.’ The tree will not die. If you had ears you would hear the
movement of the new bark which is forming, which will have its span of
life, which will crack, will be dried up in its turn only to be replaced
by another coat of bark. The tree does not perish, the tree grows.”

Benedetto sat down, exhausted, and was silent. There was a movement
among the audience like the shuddering of waves surging towards him.
Raising his hands, he stopped them.

“Friends,” he said, in a weary, sweet voice, “listen to me once more.
Scribes and Pharisees, elders and princes among priests, have striven in
all times against innovations, as they strive to-day. It is not for me
to speak to you of them; God will judge them. We pray for all those who
know not what they do. But perhaps those of the other Catholic camp, the
militant camp, are not entirely without sin. In the other camp they
are intoxicated with the idea of modernity. Modernity is good, but the
eternal is better. I fear that there they do not esteem the eternal at
its just value. It is expected that the Church of Christ will
derive much strength from united Catholic action in the fields of
administration and politics, action resulting in strife, through which
the Father will suffer insult at the hands of men, while not enough
reliance is placed on the strength to be derived from the light shed
by the good deeds of each individual Christian, through which light the
Father is glorified. The supreme object of humanity is to glorify the
Father. Now men glorify the Father of such as possess the spirit of
charity, of peace, of wisdom, of purity, of fortitude, who give their
vital strength for the good of others. One such just man, who professes
and practises Catholicism, contributes more largely to the glory of the
Father, of Christ, of the Church, than many congresses, many clubs, many
Catholic victories in politics.

“A moment ago I heard some one murmur: ‘And what about the social
action?’ The social action, my friends, is certainly salutary, as a work
of justice, of fraternisation; but like the Socialists, some Catholics
put upon it the seal of their own religious and political opinions, and
refuse to admit well-intentioned men, if they do not accept that seal;
they repulse the good Samaritan, and this is an abomination in the
eyes of God. They also set the seal of Catholicism upon works which are
instruments of gain, and this again is an abomination in the eyes of
God. They preach the just distribution of riches, and that is well; but
they too often forget to preach also poverty of the heart, and if they
are deterred from doing this by mercenary motives, then this is
another abomination in the eyes of God. Purge your actions of these
abominations. Call all well-intentioned men to help, especially in works
of justice and of love, satisfied yourselves to have initiated these
labours. By your words and by your example preach poverty of the heart
to rich and poor alike.”

The audience swayed confusedly, drawn in different directions. Benedetto
covered his face with his hands, while he collected his thoughts.

“You ask me what you are to do?” he said uncovering his face.

He reflected a moment longer and then continued:

“I see, In the future, Catholic laymen striving zealously for Christ
and for truth, and finding a means of instituting unions different from
those of the present. They will one day take arms as knights of the Holy
Spirit, banding together for the united defence of God and of Christian
morality in the scientific, artistic, civil, and social fields; for the
united defence of legitimate liberty in the religious field. They
shall be under certain special obligations, not however of community of
living, or of celibacy, integrating the office of the Catholic clergy,
to which they will not belong as an Order but only as persons, in the
individual practice of Catholicism. Pray that God’s will may be made
manifest concerning this work in the souls of those who contemplate it.
Pray that these souls may willingly strip themselves of all pride
in having conceived this work, and of all hope of witnessing its
completion, should God manifest disapproval of it. If God manifest His
approval of it, then pray that men may be taught to organise its every
detail to His greater glory, and to the greater glory of the Church.
Amen!”

He had finished, but no one moved. All eyes were fixed upon him, anxious
and eager for other words to follow these last, unexpected ones, which
had sounded so mysterious and grand. Many would have liked to break
the silence, but no one ventured to do so. When Benedetto rose, and all
gathered round him in a respectful circle, the old gentleman with the
red face and the white hair rose also, and said, his voice shaking with
emotion.

“You will suffer insult and blows; you will be crowned with thorns
and given gall to drink; you will be derided by the Pharisees and the
heathen; you will not see the future you long for, but the future is
yours; the disciples of your disciples will see it!”

He embraced Benedetto and kissed him on the brow. Two or three of those
nearest him clapped their hands timidly, and then a burst of applause
swept through the room. Benedetto, greatly agitated, signed to a
fair-haired young man, who had come to the house with him, and who now
hastened to his side, his face radiant with emotion and joy. Some one
whispered:

“A disciple!”

Some one else added, softly:

“Yes, and the favourite!”

The master of the house almost prostrated himself before Benedetto,
pouring out words of deference and gratitude. Then one of the priests
ventured to come forward, and said in a tremulous voice:

“Master, have you no word of counsel for us?”

“Do not call me master!” Benedetto replied, still much agitated. “Pray
that light may be shed upon these young men, upon our shepherds, and
also upon me!”

When he had left the room, a crackle of voices arose, some resonant,
others short and hoarse, for astonishment still held these agitated
minds in check. Presently, here and there, the intense excitement burst
forth, and spread in every direction. Exclamations of admiration broke
from all lips, some praising this or that expression the speaker had
used, this or that thought he had uttered, while others remarked upon
his glance, his accent, or marvelled at the spirit of holiness which
shone in his face, and which seemed to emanate from his very hands.
Soon, however, the master of the house dismissed the guests, and though
his apologies were profuse, and his words very gracious, still his
haste was such as to be almost discourteous. As soon as he was alone he
unlocked the door, and, pushing it open, stood bowing on the threshold.

“Ladies!” said he, and threw the door wide open.

A swarm of ladies fluttered into the empty hall. A middle-aged spinster
literally flung herself towards the young man, and, clasping her hands,
exclaimed:

“Oh! how grateful we are to you! Oh! what a saint! I don’t know what
prevented us from rushing in and embracing him!”

“_Cara!_ My good creature!” said another with the quiet irony of the
Venetian, her fine large eyes sparkling. “It was probably because the
door was locked, fortunately for him!”

The ladies were twelve in number. The master of the house, Professor
Guarnacci, son of the general-agent of one of them--the Marchesa Fermi,
a Roman--had spoken to her about the meeting which was to take place
at his house, and had mentioned the discourse to be pronounced by that
strange personage about whom all Rome was already talking, knowing him
as an enthusiastic religious agitator and miracle worker, most popular
in the Testaccio district. The Marchesa was determined to hear him
without being seen. She had arranged everything with Guarnacci, and had
admitted three or four friends into the conspiracy, each in her turn
obtaining permission to introduce others. They appeared a strangely
assorted company. Many were in evening _toilettes_, two were dressed
precisely like Friends, while only one lady wore black.

The two Friends, who were foreigners, seemed quite beside themselves
with enthusiasm, and were highly incensed against the Marchesa, a
sceptical, very sarcastic old woman, who remarked calmly:

“Yes, yes, he spoke very well; but I should have liked to see his face
while he was speaking.”

Declaring she could judge men far better by their faces than by their
words, the old Marchesa reproached Guarnacci for not having made a hole
in the door, or at least left the key in the lock.

“You are too holy,” she said. “You do not understand women!”

Guarnacci laughed, apologising with all the consideration due to his
father’s employer, and assured her that Benedetto was as beautiful as an
angel. A rather insipid young woman who had come, “Goodness only knows
why!” the two Friends thought angrily, announced, in quiet tones, that
she had seen him twice, and that he was ugly.

“That is, of course, according to _your_ idea of beauty, signora!” one
of the Friends remarked sourly, while the other added in a low tone,
intended to enhance its sting, a poisonous _“Naturellement!”_

The insipid young woman, her colour deepening with embarrassment
and vexation, replied that he was pale and thin, and the two Friends
exchanged glances and smiles of tacit contempt. But where had she seen
him? Two other insipid young women were curious to know this.

“Why, on both occasions in my sister-in-law’s garden,” she answered.

“He is always in the garden!” the Marchesa exclaimed. “Does the angel
grow in a flower-bed or in a pot?”

The insipid young woman laughed, and the Friends shot furious glances at
the Marchesa.

Tea, which had been included in Guarnacci’s invitation, was then brought
in.

“A delightful conversation, is it not?” Signora Albacina, wife of the
Honourable Albacina, Undersecretary of the Home Office, said softly to
the lady in black, who had not once spoken. She now smiled sadly without
answering.

Tea was served by the Professor and his sister, and put an end to
conversation for a few moments. It soon burst forth again, however,
the topic being Benedetto’s discourse. There ensued such a confusion
of senseless remarks, of worthless opinions, of would-be wise sayings
devoid of wisdom that the lady in black proposed to Signora Albacina, in
whose company she had come, that they should take their departure. But
at that point the Marchesa Fermi, having discovered a small bell on the
mantel-shelf, began ringing it, to obtain silence. “I should like to
hear about this garden,” she said.

The Friends and the middle-aged spinster, engaged in a warm discussion
of Benedetto’s Catholic orthodoxy, would not have left off for ten
bells, had not the spinster’s curiosity been roused by the word
“garden.” It now burst forth unchecked! Garden indeed! The Professor
must tell them all he knew about this Father Hecker, who was an
Italian and a layman. Partly to display her knowledge, partly from
thoughtlessness, she had already bestowed this title upon Benedetto.
The insipid young woman consulted her watch. Her carriage must be at the
door. Little Signorina Guarnacci said there were already four or five
carriages at the door. The insipid young woman was anxious to reach the
Valle in time for the third act of the comedy, and two other ladies, who
had engagements, left at the same time. The Marchesa Fermi remained.

“Make haste, Professor,” she said, “for my daughter is expecting me this
evening, with those other ladies whose shoulders are on view!”

“Do make haste, then!” said the middle-aged spinster, contemptuously.
“Afterwards you can speak for the benefit of the poor creatures who do
not show their shoulders!”

A fair-haired, extremely handsome foreigner, in a very low gown, cast a
withering glance at the poor, lean, carefully covered little shoulders
of the contemptuous spinster, who, greatly vexed, grew as red as a
lobster.

“Well, then,” the Professor began, “as the Marchesa, and probably the
other ladies who are in such a hurry, already know as much as I do
myself about the Saint of Jenne, before he left Jenne, I will omit
that part of the story. A month ago, then, in October, I did not
even remember having read in the papers, in June or July, about this
Benedetto, who was preaching and performing miracles at Jenne. Well, one
day, coming out of San Marcello, I met a certain Porretti, who used to
write for the _Osservatore_, but does so no longer. This Porretti walked
on with me, and we spoke of the condemnation of Giovanni Selva’s works
which is expected from day to day, and which--by the way--has not yet
been pronounced. Porretti told me there was a friend of Selva’s in Rome
at present who would be even more talked of than Selva himself. ‘Who is
he?’ I inquired. ‘The Saint of Jenne,’ he replied, and proceeded to
tell me the following story. Two priests, well known in Rome as terrible
Pharisees, caused this man to be driven away from Jenne. He retired to
Subiaco, stayed with the Selvas, who were spending the summer there, and
fell seriously ill. Upon his recovery he came to Rome--about the middle
of July. Professor Mayda, another friend of Selva’s, engaged him
as under-gardener at the villa which he built two years ago on the
Aventine, below Sant’ Anselmo. The new under-gardener, who wished to be
called simply Benedetto, as at Jenne, soon became popular in the whole
Testaccio quarter. He distributes his bread among the poor, comforts the
sick, and, it seems, has really healed one or two by the laying on of
hands and by prayer. He has, in fact, become so popular that Professor
Mayda’s daughter-in-law, notwithstanding her faith and piety, would
gladly dismiss him, on account of the annoyance his many visitors cause.
But her father-in-law treats him with the greatest consideration. If he
allows him to rake the paths and water the flowers, it is only because
he respects his saintly ideals, and he limits the hours of work, making
them as short as possible. He wishes to leave him perfectly free to
fulfil his religious mission. Mayda himself often goes into the garden
to talk of religion with his under-gardener. To please him Benedetto has
abandoned the diet he observed at Jenne, where he ate nothing but bread
and herbs, and drank only water; he now eats meat and drinks wine.
To please Benedetto, the Professor distributes these things in large
quantities among the sick of the district. Many people laugh at
Benedetto and insult him, but the populace venerates him as did the
people of Jenne in the beginning. His deeds of charity to the soul are
even greater than his deeds of charity to the body. He has freed certain
families from moral disorders, and for this his life was threatened by
a woman of evil repute; he has persuaded some to go to church who, since
their childhood, have never set foot inside a church. The Benedictines
of Sant’ Anselmo are well aware of these things. Then, two or three
times a week, in the evening, he speaks in the Catacombs.”

The middle-aged spinister gasped!

“In the Catacombs?”

She leaned, shuddering, towards the speaker, while one of the Friends
murmured: “_Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu_!” and another voice, laden with reverent
surprise, said:

“How terrifying!”

“Well,” the young man continued, smiling, “Porretti said ‘in the
Catacombs,’ but he meant in a secret place, known to few. At present I
myself know its whereabouts.”

“Ah!” ejaculated the spinister. “You know? Where is it?”

Guarnacci did not answer, and, perceiving her indiscretion, she added
hastily.

“I beg your pardon! I beg your pardon!”

“We shall find out, we shall find out!” said the Marchesa. “But tell me,
my dear boy, is not this saint of yours, who preaches in secret, a kind
of heresiarch? What do the priests say to him?”

“To-night you might have seen three or four here who went away perfectly
satisfied.”

“They must be very unpriestly priests, badly baked priests, counterfeit
priests. But what do the others say? Mark my words, sooner or later, the
others will apply the _torcibudella_, the ‘entrail twister,’ to him.”

With this pleasing prophecy the Marchesa departed, followed by all the
bare shoulders.

The middle-aged spinister and the Friends, glad to be rid of that
contemptible, mundane bevy, assailed the Professor with questions. Must
he really not tell where the modern Catacombs were? How many people met
there? Women also? What were the subjects of his discourses? What did
the monks of Sant’ Anselmo say? And was anything known concerning this
man’s previous career? The Professor parried the questions as best he
might, and simply repeated to them the words of one of the fathers at
Sant’ Anselmo: “If there were a Benedetto for every parish in Rome,
Rome would indeed become the Holy City.” But when--all the others having
left--he found himself alone with Signora Albacina and the silent lady,
who were waiting for their carriage, he intimated to the former--to whom
he was bound by ties of friendship--that he would willingly tell more,
but that he was embarrassed by the presence of a stranger, and he begged
to be presented to her. Signora Albacina had forgotten to perform this
ceremony. “Professor Guarnacci,” said she, “Signora Dessalle, a dear
friend of mine.”

The “Catacombs” meant the very hall they were in at the present moment.
At first the meetings had been held at the Selvas’ apartment, in Via
Arenula. There were several reasons why that place had not seemed quite
suitable. Guarnacci, becoming a disciple, had offered his own house.
The meetings were held there twice a week. Among those who attended them
were the Selvas, Signora Selva’s sister, a few priests, the Venetian
lady who had just left, some young men--among these he might mention a
certain Alberti, a favourite with the Master, who this evening had come
and gone with him, and a Jew, whose name was Viterbo, and who was soon
to become a Catholic; of him the Master expected great things. Besides
these a journeyman printer, several artists, and even two members of
Parliament came regularly. The object of these meetings was to acquaint
such as are drawn to Christ, but who shrink from Catholicism, with
what Catholicism really is, the vital and indestructible essence of
the Catholic religion, and to show the purely human character of those
different forms, which are what render it repugnant to many, but which
are changeable, are changing, and will continue to change, through the
elaboration of the inner, divine element, combined with the external
influences, the influences of science and of the public conscience.
Benedetto was very particular about granting admission to the meetings,
for no one was more skilled than he in the delicate task of dealing with
souls, respecting their purity, bringing himself down to the small ones,
soaring with the high ones, and using with timid souls that careful
language which instructs without troubling.

“The Marchesa,” continued the Professor, “says he must be an heresiarch,
and the priests who follow him heretics. No, With Benedetto there is no
danger of heresies or schisms. At the very last meeting he demonstrated
that schisms and heresies, besides being blameworthy in themselves, are
fatal to the Church, not only because they deprive her of souls, but
because they deprive her of elements of progress as well; for if the
innovators remained subject to the Church, their errors would perish,
and that element of truth, that element of goodness, which--in a certain
measure--is nearly always united to error would become vital in the body
of the Church.”

Signora Albacina observed that all this was very beautiful, and if that
was how matters really stood, certainly the Marchesa’s prophecy would
not be fulfilled.

“The prophecy about the _tordbudella_, the ‘entrail twister?’ Ah no!”
 said the Professor, laughing. “Such things are not done now, and I do
not believe they ever were done. It is all calumny! Only the Marchesa
and certain others like her in Rome believe these things. A Roman
priest, a _priest_, you understand, dared to warn Benedetto, to advise
him to be cautious. But Benedetto let him see he must not speak to him
of caution again. Therefore it will not be the _torcibudella_--no--but
persecution it will be! Yes, indeed!--Those two Roman priests who were
at Jenne have not been asleep. I did not wish to say so before, because
the Marchesa is not the person to tell such things to, but there is
much trouble brewing. Benedetto’s every step has been watched; Professor
Mayda’s daughter-in-law has been made use of, through the confessional,
to obtain information concerning his language, and they have found out
about the meetings. The presence of Selva is enough to give them the
character these people abhor, and as they are powerless against a
layman, it seems they are trying to obtain the help of the civil law
against Benedetto; they are appealing to the police and to the judges.
You are surprised? But it is so. As yet nothing has been decided,
nothing has been done, but they are plotting. We were informed of this
by a foreign ecclesiastic, who chattered foolishly on a former occasion;
but this time he has chattered to good purpose. Materials for a penal
action are being prepared and invented.”

The silent lady shuddered, and opened her lips at last.

“How can that be possible?” she said.

“My dear lady,” said the Professor, “you little know of what some of
these _intransigenti_, these non-concessionists in priestly robes, are
capable. The secular non-concessionists are lambs compared to them. They
are going to make use of an unfortunate accident which took place at
Jenne. Now, however, we are greatly encouraged by a fresh incident, of
which it would not be wise to speak to many, without discriminating, but
which is most important.”

The Professor paused a moment, enjoying the lively curiosity he had
awakened, and which, though they did not speak, shone in the eager eyes
of the two ladies.

“The other day,” he continued, “Cardinal----‘s secretary, a young German
priest, went to Sant’ Anselmo to confer with the monks. In consequence
of this visit Benedetto was summoned to Sant’ Anselmo, where the
Benedictines hold him in great affection and esteem. He was asked if he
did not intend to pay homage to His Holiness, and beg for an audience.
He replied that he had come to Rome with this desire in his heart; that
he had waited for a sign from Divine Providence, and that now the sign
had come. Then he was informed that His Holiness would certainly receive
him most willingly, and he asked for an audience. This was disclosed to
Giovanni Selva by a German Benedictine.”

“And when is he to go?” Signora Albacina asked.

“The day after to-morrow in the evening.”

The Professor added that the Vatican was maintaining the strictest
secrecy in regard to this matter, that Benedetto had been forbidden to
mention it to any one, and that nothing would have transpired had it not
been for the German monk’s indiscretion. Benedetto’s friends hoped much
good would come of this visit. Signora Albacina asked what Benedetto
intended to say to the Pontiff. The Professor smiled. Benedetto had not
taken any one into his confidence, and no one had ventured to question
him. The Professor fancied he would speak in favour of Selva, would beg
that his books might not be placed on the Index.

“That would be very little,” said Signora Albacina in a low tone.

Jeanne uttered a low murmur of assent.

“Very little indeed!” she exclaimed, almost as if the Professor were to
blame. He appeared much surprised at this sudden outburst, after such a
long silence. He apologised, saying he had not intended to assert that
Benedetto would not speak to the Pope of other matters. He had simply
meant to say that he believed he would certainly mention that subject.
Signora Albacina could not understand this desire of the Pope’s to see
Benedetto. How did his friends explain it? What did Selva think about
it? Ah! no one could explain it, neither Selva nor any one else.

“I can explain it!” said Jeanne eagerly, pleased to be able to
understand what puzzled all others. “Was not the Pope once Bishop of
Brescia?”

Guarnacci’s smile was half admiring, half ironical, as he answered. Ah!
the Signora was well informed concerning Benedetto’s past. The Signora
knew certain things to be facts, things which were whispered in Rome,
but which nevertheless, were doubted by many. Of one fact, however, she
was ignorant. The Pope had never been Bishop of Brescia. He had occupied
two episcopal chairs in the south. Jeanne did not answer; she was vexed
with herself, and mortified at having so nearly betrayed her secret.
Signora Albacina wished to know what opinion Benedetto had of the Pope.

“Oh, in the Pope he sees and venerates the office alone,” said the
Professor. “At least, I believe so. I have never heard him speak of the
man, but I have heard him speak of the office. He made it the subject
of a magnificent discourse one evening, comparing Catholicism and
Protestantism, and exposing his ideal of the government of the Church:
a principality and just liberty. As to the new Pope, little is known of
him as yet. He is said to be saintly, intelligent, sickly, and weak.”

While accompanying the ladies down the dark stairs to their carriage,
the Professor remarked:

“What is greatly feared is that Benedetto will not live. Mayda at least
fears this.”

Signora Albacina, who was descending the stairs leaning on the
Professor’s arm, exclaimed, without pausing:

“Oh! poor fellow! What is the matter with him?” “_Ma_! Who can say?”
 the Professor replied. “Some incurable disease, it would seem, the
consequence of typhoid fever, which he had at Subiaco, but above all, of
the life of hardship he led, a life of penance and fasting.”

And they continued their long descent in silence.

It was only on reaching the foot of the stairs that they perceived their
companion had remained behind. The Professor hastily retraced his
steps, and found Jeanne standing on the second landing, clinging to
the banisters. At first she neither spoke nor moved; but presently she
murmured:

“I cannot see!”

Guarnacci, not knowing, did not notice that moment of silence, or the
low and uncertain tone of her voice. He offered her his arm, and led her
down, apologising for the darkness, and explaining that the proprietor’s
avarice was to blame for it. Jeanne entered Signora Albacina’s carriage,
which was to take her to the Grand Hôtel. On the way Signora Albacina
spoke with regret of what Guarnacci had just told her. Jeanne did not
open her lips. Her silence troubled her friend.

“Were you not pleased with the discourse?” she said. She was in complete
ignorance of Jeanne’s religious opinions.

“Yes,” her companion answered. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing! I thought you seemed dissatisfied. Then you are not sorry
you came?”

Signora Albacina was greatly astonished when Jeanne seized her hand and
replied: “I am so grateful to you!”

The voice was low and quiet, the pressure of the hand almost violent.

“Indeed! indeed!” thought Signora Albacina. “This is one of the future
‘Ladies of the Holy Spirit’!”

“For my part,” she said aloud, “I am sure I shall keep to my old
religion, the religion of the non-concessionists. They may be Pharisees
or anything else you like, but I fear that if this old religion is
subjected to so much retouching and restoring, it will tumble down, and
nothing will be left standing. Besides, if we followed these Benedettos,
too many things would have to be changed. No, no! However, the man
interests me extremely. Now we must try to see him. We must see him!
Especially as he seems doomed to speedy death. Don’t you think so? How
can we manage it? Let us think!”

“I have no wish to see him,” Jeanne said hastily.

“Really?” her friend exclaimed. “But how is that? Explain this riddle!”

“It is quite simple. I have no desire to see him.”

“Curious!” thought Signora Albacina. The carriage drew up before the
entrance to the Grand Hôtel.

In the hall Jeanne met Noemi and her brother-in-law, who were coming
out. “At last!” said Noemi. “Run, make haste, Your brother is furious
with this Jeanne, who stays away so long! We have just left him, because
the doctor has arrived.”

The Dessalles had been in Rome a fortnight. Cold, damp weather at the
beginning of October, a projected essay on Bernini, which had succeeded
the projected novel, had persuaded Carlino to satisfy Signora Albacina
sooner than he had intended, by leaving Villa Diedo before winter set in
for the milder climate of Rome. This to the great joy of his sister. Two
or three days after his arrival he had a slight attack of bronchitis.
He declared he was in consumption, shut himself up in his room, with the
intention of remaining there all winter, wished to see the doctor twice
a day, and tyrannised over Jeanne with merciless egotism, even numbering
her moments of freedom. She made herself his slave; she seemed to
delight in this unreasonable extra burden, of sacrifice which overflowed
the measure of her sisterly affection. In her heart she offered it, with
sweet eagerness, to Benedetto. She often saw the Selvas and Noemi;
not at their home, but at the Grand Hôtel. The Selvas themselves were
captivated by the fascination of this woman, so superior, so beautiful,
so gentle and sad. All she had heard from Guarnacci concerning Benedetto
she had already heard from Noemi. But she had not been aware of
Professor Mayda’s sad opinion. Partly from kindness, but partly also
that her own emotion might not be revealed, Noemi had hidden it from
her,

       *       *       *       *       *

Carlino received her unkindly. The doctor, who had found his pulse
rather frequent, concluded at once that it was an angry pulse. He jested
a few minutes about the serious nature of the illness, and then took his
departure. Carlino inquired roughly where Jeanne had been, so long,
and she did not hesitate to tell him. She did not, however, mention
Benedetto’s real name.

“Were you not ashamed,” said he, “to be eavesdropping like that?”

Without giving her time to answer, he began protesting against the new
tendencies he had discovered in her.

“Tomorrow you will be going to confession, and the day after you will be
reciting the rosary!”

Underneath his usually tolerant and courteous language, and the liking
he displayed for not a few priests, lurked a real anti-religious mania.
The idea that his sister might, some day, draw near to the priests, to
faith, to acts of piety, nearly drove him out of his senses.

Jeanne did not answer, but meekly asked if she should read to him, as
she was in the habit of doing in the evening. Carlino declared shortly
that he did not wish to be read to, and, pretending to feel draughts,
kept her for at least a quarter of an hour, inspecting the doors, the
windows, the walls, and the floor itself, with a lighted candle in her
hand. Then he sent her to bed.

But when Jeanne reached her own room she thought neither of sleeping nor
of undressing. She put out the light, and sat down on the bed.

Carriages rumbled in the street, steps sounded, and women’s dresses
rustled in the corridor; sitting motionless there in the dark she did
not hear. She had put out the light that she might think, that she might
see only her own thoughts, only that idea which had taken possession
of her while coming down-stairs at Casa Guarnacci leaning on the
Professor’s arm, after she had heard those terrible words: “We fear he
will not live!” and had almost lost consciousness. In the carriage with
Signora Albacina, in the room with her brother, even while obliged
to talk with one or the other, to pay attention to so many different
things, this idea, this proposal, which the burning heart was making to
the will, had been continually flashing within her. Now it flashed no
longer. Jeanne contemplated it lying quiet within her. In that
figure sitting motionless on the bed, in the darkness, two souls were
confronting each other in silence. A humble Jeanne, passionate, sure of
being able to sacrifice all to love, was measuring her strength against
a Jeanne unconsciously haughty, and sure of possessing a hard and cold
truth. The rumbling of the carriages was dying out in the street; the
steps and the rustlings were less frequent in the corridor. Suddenly the
two Jeannes seemed to mingle once more and become one, who thought:

“When they announce his death to me, I shall be able to say to myself:
At least, you did that!”

She rose, turned on the light, seated herself at the writing-table,
chose a sheet of paper, and wrote:

“To Piero Maironi, the night of October 29,----

“I believe.

“JEANNE DESSALLE.”

When she had written, she gazed a long, long time at the solemn words.

The longer she gazed, the farther the two Jeannes seemed to draw apart.
The unconsciously proud Jeanne overpowered and crushed the other almost
without a struggle. Filled with a mortal bitterness, she tore the sheet,
stained with the word it was impossible to maintain, impossible even
to write honestly. The light once more extinguished, she accused the
Almighty--if, indeed, He existed--of cruelty, and wept in this darkness
of her own making, wept unrestrainedly.

The clock of St. Peter’s struck eight. Benedetto left a little group of
people at the corner of Via di Porta Angelica, and turned, alone, into
Bernini’s colonnade, his steps directed towards the bronze portal. He
paused to listen to the roar of the fountains, to gaze at the clustered
lights of the four candelabra round the obelisk, and--tremulous, opaque
against the moon’s face--the mighty jet of the fountain on the left. In
five minutes, or, perhaps, in fifteen minutes, he would find himself in
the presence of the Pope. His mind was concentrated on this culminating
point, and vibrated there as did the sparkling, ever-rising water at the
apex of the mighty jet. The square was empty. No one would see him enter
the Vatican save that spectral diadem of saints standing rigid over
there on the summit of the opposite colonnade. The saints and the
fountains were saying to him with one voice, that he believed he was
passing through a solemn hour, but that this atom of time, he himself
and the Pontiff, would soon pass away, would be lost for ever in the
kingdom of forgetfulness, while the fountains continued their monotonous
lament, and the saints their silent contemplation. But he, on the
contrary, felt that the word of truth is the word of eternal life, and,
concentrating his thoughts once more within himself, he closed his eyes
and prayed with intense fervour, as for two days he had prayed that the
Spirit might awaken this word in his breast, might bring it to his lips
when he should stand before the Pope.

He had expected some one between eight o’clock and a quarter past. The
quarter had already struck, and no one had appeared. He turned and gazed
at the bronze portal. Only one wing of it was open, and he could see
lights beyond. From time to time small groups of dwarfish figures passed
into it, as tiny, heedless moths might fly into the yawning jaws of a
lion. At last a priest approached the portal from within and beckoned.
Benedetto drew near. The priest said:

“You have come about Sant’ Anselmo?”

That was the question which had been agreed upon. When Benedetto had
assented, the priest signed to him to enter.

“Please come this way,” said he.

Benedetto followed him. They passed between the pontifical guards, who
gave the priest the military salute. Turning to the right they mounted
the Scala Pia. At the entrance to the courtyard of San Damaso there were
other guards, other salutes, and an order given by the priest in a low
tone; Benedetto did not hear it. They crossed the courtyard, leaving
the entrance to the library on their left and on their right the door
by which the Pope’s apartments are reached. High above them the glass of
the Logge shone in the moonlight. Benedetto, recalling an audience the
late Pontiff had granted him, was astonished at being conducted by this
strange way. Having crossed the courtyard in a straight line, the priest
entered the narrow passage leading to the small stairway called “dei
Mosaici,” and stopped before the door opening on the right, where the
stairway called “del Triangolo” descends. “Are you acquainted with the
Vatican?” he inquired.

“I am acquainted with the Museums and the Logge,” Benedetto replied.
“The predecessor of the present Pontiff once received me in his private
apartment; but I am not acquainted with any other parts.”

“You have never been here?”

“Never.”

The priest preceded him up the stair, which was dimly illuminated
by small electric lights. Suddenly, where the first flight reaches a
landing, the lights went out. Benedetto, pausing with one foot on the
landing, heard his guide run rapidly up some stairs on the right. Then
all was silence. He supposed the light had gone out by accident, and
that the priest had gone to turn it on again. He waited. No light, no
footfall, no voice. He stepped on to the landing; stretching out his
hands in the darkness, he touched a wall on the left; he went forward
towards the right, feeling his way. By touching them with his foot he
became aware of two flights of stairs which branched from the landing.
He waited again, never doubting the priest would return.

Five minutes, ten minutes passed and the priest did not come. What could
have happened. Had they wished to deceive him, to make sport of him? But
why? Benedetto would not allow himself to dwell upon a suspicion about
which it was useless to speculate. He reflected rather upon what it was
best to do. It did not seem reasonable to wait any longer. Had he better
turn back? Had he better go up still higher? In that case, which stair
should he choose? He looked into himself, questioning the Ever-Present
One.

No, he would not turn back. The idea was displeasing to him. He
started up one of the flights, without choosing--the one leading to
the servants’ rooms. It was short; presently Benedetto found himself on
another landing. Now, he had heard the priest run up many stairs rapidly
and without stopping, and the noise of his steps had been lost far, far
above. He came down again, and tried the other flight. It was longer.
The priest must have mounted this one. He decided to follow the priest.

On reaching the top he passed through a low door, and found himself upon
the Loggia, illumined by the moon. He looked about him. Near at hand,
on the right, a gateway divided this Loggia from another one, the two
meeting there and forming a right angle. Far away, on the left, the
Loggia terminated at a closed door. The full moon shone through the
great, glazed spaces, upon the pavement; showed the sides of the
courtyard of San Damaso: and in the background, between the two enormous
black wings of the Palace, humble roofs, the trees of Villa Cesi and the
lights of Sant’ Onofrio were visible. Both the door on the left, and the
gateway on the right appeared to be closed. Again and again Benedetto
looked from right to left. Little by little he began to recall former
impressions. Yes, he had been in that Loggia before, he had seen that
gateway when on his way to visit the Gallery of Inscriptions--the Via
Appia of the Vatican--with an acquaintance of his, a reader in the
“Vaticana.” Yes, now he remembered quite well. The door on the left
at the end of the Loggia, must lead to the apartments of the Cardinal
Secretary of State. The Loggia beyond the gateway was that of Giovanni
da Udine; the great barred windows opening on to it were the windows of
the Borgia apartment, and the entrance to the Gallery of Inscriptions
must be precisely in the angle. On that former occasion a Swiss guard
had stood by the gate. Now there was no one there. The place was quite
deserted; on the right and on the left silence reigned.

To try the door of the Cardinal Secretary of State’s apartment was not
to be thought of. Benedetto pushed the gate. It was open. He paused,
finding himself before the entrance to the Gallery of Inscriptions.
Again he listened. Profound silence. An inward voice seemed to say to
him: “Mount the steps. Enter!” Fearlessly he mounted the five steps.

The Via Appia of the Vatican, as broad, perhaps, as the ancient way,
contained not a single lamp. At regular intervals pale streaks of light
lay across the pavement, falling through the windows, which, from among
the tombstones, the cippi, and the pagan sarcophagi, look down upon
Rome. No light fell through the windows of the Christian wall, which
overlook the courtyard of the Belvedere. The distant end of the Gallery,
towards the Chiaramonti Museum, was shrouded in complete darkness.
Then, realising that he was in the very heart of the immense Vatican,
Benedetto was seized with a terror mingled with awe. He approached
a great window, from whence he could see Castel Sant’ Angelo and the
innumerable tiny lights dotted over the lower city, while higher up, and
more brilliant, those of the Quirinal shone against the horizon. Not
the sight of illumined Rome, but the sight of a low and narrow bench,
running along below the cippi and the sarcophagi, calmed his spirit.
Then, in the dim light, he distinguished a canopy, which was already
half demolished. What could it mean? Along the opposite wall ran a
second bench, exactly like the first. Proceeding, he stumbled against
something which proved to be a large armchair. Now terror had given
place to a fixed purpose. The imperious, inward voice, which had already
commanded him to enter, said to him, “Go forward!” The voice was so
clear, so loud, that a sudden flash illumined his memory.

He smote his forehead. In the Vision he had seen himself in conversation
with the Pope. This he had never been able to forget. But he had
forgotten--and now the memory of it had flashed back to him--that a
spirit had led him through the Vatican to the Pope. He moved along the
left-hand wall, near which he had stumbled against the great chair. He
was convinced that at the end of the Gallery he should find an exit, and
light at last. He did remember that, at the end, was the gateway leading
to the Chiaramonti Museum. He went on, often pressing his hand against
the wall, against the tombstones. Suddenly he became aware that what he
was touching was neither marble nor stone. Gently, he beat upon the wall
with his fist. It was wood--a door! Involuntarily he stopped and waited.
He heard a step behind the door; a key turned in the lock; a blade of
light slanted across the Gallery and broadened; a black figure appeared;
the priest who had abandoned Benedetto on the stairs! He came out,
moving rapidly, closed the door behind him, and said to Benedetto, as if
nothing strange had taken place:

“You are about to find yourself in the presence of His Holiness.”

He signed to Benedetto to enter, and again closed the door, he himself
remaining outside.

On entering, Benedetto could distinguish only a small table, a little
lamp with a green shade, and a white figure seated behind the table,
and, facing him. He sank upon his knees.

The white figure stretched out its arm, and said: “Rise. How did you
come?”

The singularly sweet face, framed in grey hair, wore an expression of
astonishment. The voice, with its southern ring, betrayed emotion:

Benedetto rose, and answered:

“From the bronze portal as far as a spot which I cannot locate, I was
accompanied by the priest who was here with Your Holiness; from thence I
came alone.”

“Were you familiar with the Vatican? Did they tell you, you would find
me here?”

When Benedetto had answered that, years ago, he had paid a single
visit to the museums of the Vatican, the Logge, and the Gallery of
Inscriptions; that on that occasion he had not reached the Logge from
the courtyard of San Damaso; that he had had no idea where he should
find the Sovereign Pontiff, the Pope was silent for a moment; absorbed
in thought. Presently he said, tenderly, affectionately, pointing to a
chair opposite him:

“Be seated, my son.”

Had Benedetto not been absorbed in contemplation of the Pope’s ascetic
and gentle face, he would have looked about him not without surprise,
while his august interlocutor was engaged in gathering together some
papers which were scattered upon the little table. This was indeed a
strange reception-room, a dusty chaos of old pictures, old books, old
furniture. One would have pronounced it the ante-room of some library,
of some museum, which was being rearranged. But he was lost in
contemplation of the Pope’s face, that thin, waxen face, which wore an
ineffable expression of purity and of kindliness. He drew nearer, bent
his knee, and kissed the hand which the Holy Father extended to him,
saying, with sweet dignity:

“_Non mihi, sed Petro._”

Then Benedetto sat down. The Pope passed him a sheet of paper, and
pushed the little lamp nearer to him.

“Look,” said he. “Do you know that writing?”

Benedetto looked and shuddered, and could not check an exclamation of
reverent sorrow.

“Yes,” he replied. “It is the writing of a holy priest, whom I dearly
loved, who is dead, and whose name was Don Giuseppe Flores.”

His Holiness continued:

“Now read. Read aloud.”

Benedetto read:

“Monsignore,--

“I entrust to my Bishop the sealed packet enclosed, with this note,
in an envelope bearing your address. It was left with me, to be opened
after his death, by Signor Piero Maironi, who was well known to you
before his disappearance from the world. I know not if he be still
alive or if he no longer be among the living, and I have no means of
ascertaining. I believe the packet contains an account of a vision of a
supernatural nature which visited Maironi when he returned to God out of
the fire of a sinful passion. I hoped at that time that the Almighty had
chosen him as the instrument of some special work of His own. I hoped
that the holiness of the work would be confirmed, after Maironi’s death,
by the perusal of this document, which might come to be looked upon in
the light of a prophecy. I hoped this, although I was at great pains to
prudently hide my secret hopes from Maironi.

“Two years have elapsed since the day of his disappearance, and nothing
has since been heard of him. Monsignore, when you read these words, I
also shall have disappeared. I beg you to take my place in this pious
stewardship. You will act as your conscience may dictate, as you may
deem best.

“And pray for the soul of

Your poor

DON GIUSEPPE FLORES.”


Benedetto laid the paper down, and gazed into the Pontiff’s face,
waiting.

“Are you Piero Maironi?” he said.

“Yes, your Holiness.”

The Pontiff smiled pleasantly.

“First of all, I am glad you are alive,” he said. “That Bishop believed
you were dead; he opened the packet, and deemed it his duty to entrust
it to the Vicar of Christ. This happened about six months ago, while
my saintly predecessor was still living. He mentioned it to several
cardinals and to me also. Then it was discovered that you were still
alive, and we knew where you lived and how. Now I must ask you a few
questions, and I exhort you to answer with perfect truth.”

The Pontiff looked with serious eyes into Benedetto’s eyes; Benedetto
bowed his head slightly. “You have written here,” the Pontiff began,
“that when you were in that little church in the Veneto, you had a
vision of yourself in the Vatican, conversing with the Pope. What can
you recall concerning that part of your vision?”

“My vision,” Benedetto answered, “grew more and more indistinct in
my memory during the time I spent at Santa Scolastica--about three
years--partly because my spiritual director there, as well as poor Don
Giuseppe Flores, always counselled me not to dwell upon it. Certain
parts remained clear to me, others became indistinct. The fact that I
had seen myself in the Vatican, face to face with the Sovereign Pontiff,
remained fixed in my mind; but only the bare fact. A few moments ago,
however, there in the dark gallery from whence I entered this room, I
suddenly remembered that in the vision I was guided to the Pontiff by a
spirit. I recalled this when I found myself alone in the night, in the
darkness, in a place unknown to me, or practically unknown, for I had
been there only once, many years before, when, having no idea what
direction to take, I was about to retrace my steps, and an inward voice,
very clear, very loud, commanded me to press forward.”

“And when you knocked at the door,” the Pope inquired, “did you know you
would find me here? Did you know you were knocking at the door of the
library?”

“No, Your Holiness. I did not even intend to knock. I was in the dark; I
could see nothing, I was simply touching, the wall with my hand.”

The Pope was silent for some time, lost in thought; then he remarked
that the manuscript contained the words: “At first a man dressed in
black guided me.” Benedetto did not remember this.

“You know,” the Pope continued, “that prophecy alone is not sufficient
proof of saintliness. You know there are such things (such cases have
been met with) as prophetic visions which were the work of-well, perhaps
not of malign spirits, we know too little of these matters to assert
that--but of occult powers, of powers innate in human nature, or of
powers superior to human nature, but which most certainly have nothing
to do with holiness. Can you describe to me the state of your soul when
you had the vision?”

“I was feeling most bitter sorrow at having drawn away from God, at
having been deaf to His calls, an infinite gratitude for His patient
kindness, and an infinite desire of Christ. In my mind I had just seen,
really seen, shining clear and white against a dark background, those
words of the Gospel, which long ago, in the time of goodness had been
so dear to me: _‘Magister adest et vocat te.’_ Don Giuseppe Flores was
officiating, and Mass was nearly over, when, as I prayed, my face buried
in my hands, the vision came to me. It was instantaneous; like a flash!”

Benedetto’s chest heaved, so violent was this revulsion of memory.

“It may have been a delusion,” he said; “but it was not the work of
malign spirits.”

“The evil spirits,” the Pontiff said, “do sometimes masquerade as angels
of light. Perhaps, at that time, they were striving against the spirit
of goodness which was within you. Did you take pride in this vision,
later on?”

Benedetto bowed his head, and reflected for some time.

“Perhaps--on one occasion,” said he, “for one moment, at Santa
Scolastica, when my master, in the Abbot’s name, offered me the habit of
a lay-brother, that habit which was afterwards taken from me at Jenne.
Then I thought for a moment that this unexpected offer confirmed the
last part of my vision, and I felt a wave of satisfaction, deeming
myself the object of divine favour. I immediately entreated God to
pardon me, as I now entreat Your Holiness to pardon me.”

The Pontiff did not speak, but he raised his hand with wide-spread
fingers, and lowered it again, in an act of absolution.

Then he began to examine the different papers lying on the little table,
seeming to consult more than one attentively, as he turned them over.
He laid them down, arranged them in a packet, which he pushed aside, and
once more broke the silence:

“My son,” he said, “I must ask you other questions. You have mentioned
Jenne. I was not even aware of the existence of this Jenne. It has been
described to me. To tell the truth, I cannot understand why you ever
went to Jenne.”

Benedetto smiled quietly, but did not attempt to justify himself, not
wishing to interrupt the Pope, who continued:

“It was an unfortunate idea, for who can say what is really going on at
Jenne? Do you know there are those up there, who look on you with little
favour?”

In reply Benedetto only prayed His Holiness not to oblige him to answer.

“I understand,” the Pope said, “and, I must confess, your prayer is most
Christian. You need not speak; but I cannot hide the fact that you have
been accused of many things. Are you aware of this?”

Benedetto was aware of, or rather suspected, one accusation only. The
Pope seemed the more embarrassed. He himself was calm.

“You are accused of having pretended at Jenne to be a miracle-worker,
and by this boasting of yours, to have caused the death in your own
house of an unfortunate man. They even assert that he died of certain
drinks you gave him. You are accused of having preached to the people
more as a Protestant than as a Catholic, and also----”

The Holy Father hesitated. His virginal purity recoiled from alluding to
certain things.

“Of having been over-intimate with the village schoolmistress. What can
you answer, my son?”

“Holy Father,” Benedetto said calmly, “the Spirit is answering for me in
your heart.”

The Pontiff fixed his eyes on him, in great astonishment; but he was not
only astonished, he was also much troubled; for it was as if Benedetto
had read in his soul. A slight flush coloured his face.

“Explain your meaning,” he said.

“God has allowed me to read in your heart that you do not believe any of
these accusations.”

At these words of Benedetto’s, the Pope knit his brows slightly.

“Now Your Holiness is thinking that I arrogate to myself a miraculous
clairvoyance. No. It I is something which I see in your face, which I
hear in your voice; poor, common, man that I am!”

“Perhaps you know who has recently visited me?” the Pope exclaimed.

He had summoned to Rome the parish priest of Jenne, and had questioned
him concerning Benedetto. The priest, finding a Pope to his liking, a
Pope who differed vastly from those two zealots who had intimidated him
at Jenne, had seized the opportunity of thus easily making his peace
with his own conscience, and had shown his remorse by praising and
re-praising. Benedetto knew naught of this.

“No,” he answered, “I do not know.”

The Pontiff was silent; but his face, his hands, his whole person
betrayed lively anxiety. Presently he leaned back in his great chair,
let his head sink upon his breast, stretched out his arms, and rested
his hands, side by side, on the little table. He was reflecting.

While he reflected, sitting motionless there, his eyes staring into
space, the flame of the tiny petroleum lamp rose, red and smoky, in the
tube. He did not notice it at once. When he did, he regulated it, and
then broke the silence.

“Do you believe,” said he, “that you really have a mission?”

Benedetto answered with, an expression of humble fervour.

“Yes, I do believe it.”

“And why do you believe it?”

“Holy Father, because every one comes into the world with a mission
written in his nature. Had I never had this vision, or received other
extraordinary signs, my nature, which is eminently religious, would
still have made religious action incumbent upon me. How can I say it?
But I will say it”--here Benedetto’s voice trembled with emotion--“as I
have said it to no one else, I believe, I know that God is the Father of
us all; but I feel His paternity in my nature. Mine is hardly a sense of
duty, it is a sense of sonship.”

“And do you believe it is your duty to exercise the religious action
here and now?”

Benedetto clasped his hands, as if already imploring attention.

“Yes,” said he, “here also, and now.”

When he had spoken he fell upon his knees, his hands still clasped.

“Rise,” said the Holy Father. “Utter freely what the Spirit shall
dictate.”

Benedetto did not rise.

“Forgive me,” he said, “my message is to the Pontiff alone, and here I
am not heard by the Pontiff only.”

The Pope started, and gave him a questioning glance, full of severity.

Benedetto, looking towards a door behind the Pope, raised his eyebrows,
and slightly lifted his chin.

His Holiness seized a silver bell which stood on the table, commanded
Benedetto by a gesture to rise, and then rang the bell. The same priest
as before appeared at the door of the Gallery. The Pope ordered him to
summon Don Teofilo to the Gallery; Don Teofilo was the faithful valet
whom he had brought with him from his archbishopric in the South. Upon
his arrival the priest himself was to await His Holiness in the halls
of the Library. “You will pass through this room, on your way back,” he
said.

Several minutes elapsed. They awaited the priest’s return in silence.
The Pontiff, lost in thought, never raised his eyes from the little
table. Benedetto, standing, kept his eyes closed. He opened them when
the priest reappeared. When he had passed out through the suspicious
door, the Pope made a sign with his hand, and Benedetto spoke in a low
voice. The Pontiff listened, grasping the arms of his chair, his body
bent forward, his head bowed.

“Holy Father,” Benedetto said, “the Church is diseased. Four evil
spirits have entered into her body, to wage war against the Holy
Spirit. One is the spirit of falsehood. And the spirit of falsehood
has transformed itself into an angel of light, and many shepherds, many
teachers in the Church, many pious and virtuous ones among the faithful,
listen devoutly to this spirit of falsehood, believing they are
listening to an angel. Christ said: ‘I am the Truth.’ But many in the
Church, even good and pious souls, separate truth in their hearts, have
no reverence for that truth which they do not call ‘religious,’ fear
that truth will destroy truth; they oppose God to God, prefer darkness
to light, and thus also do they train men. They call themselves the
faithful, and do not understand how weak, how cowardly is their faith,
how foreign to them is the spirit of the apostle, which probes all
things. Worshippers of the letter, they wish to force grown men to exist
upon a diet fit for infants, which diet grown men refuse. They do
not understand that though God be infinite and unchangeable, man’s
conception, of Him grows ever grander from century to century, and that
the same may be said of all Divine Truth. They are responsible for a
fatal perversion of the Faith which corrupts the entire religious life;
for the Christian, who by an effort, has bent his will to accept what
they accept, to refuse what they refuse, believes he has accomplished
the greatest thing in God’s service, whereas he has I accomplished less
than nothing, and it remains for him to live his faith in the word
of Christ, in the teachings of Christ; it remains for him to live the
_‘fiat voluntas tua’_ which is everything. Holy Father, to-day few
Christians know that religion does not consist chiefly in the clinging
of the intellect to formulas of truth, but rather in actions, and a
manner of life in conformity with this truth, and that the fulfilment
of negative religious duties, and the recognition of obligations towards
the ecclesiastical authority, do not alone correspond to true Faith. And
those who know this, those who do not separate truth in their hearts,
those who worship the God of truth, who are on fire with a fearless
faith in Christ, in the Church and in truth--I know such men, Holy
Father--those are striven against with acrimony, are branded as
heretics, are forced to remain silent, and all this is the work of
the spirit of falsehood, which for centuries has been weaving, in the
Church, a web of traditional deceit, by means of which those who to-day
are its servants believe they are serving God, as did those who first
persecuted the Christians. Your Holiness--”

Here Benedetto sank upon one knee. The Pope did not move. His head
seemed to have drooped still lower. The white skull-cap was almost
entirely within the radius of the little lamp.

“I have read this very day, great words you spoke to your former
parishioners concerning the many revelations of the God of truth in
Faith, and in Science and also directly and mysteriously in the human
soul. Holy Father the hearts of many, of very many, priests and laymen
belong to the Holy Spirit; the spirit of falsehood has not been able to
enter into them, not even in the garb of an angel. Speak one word, Holy
Father, perform one action which shall lift up those hearts, devoted to
the Holy See of the Roman Pontiff! Before the whole Church honour some
of these men, some of these ecclesiastics, against whom the spirit of
falsehood is striving. Raise some to the episcopal chair, some to
the Holy College! This also, Holy Father! If it be necessary, counsel
expounders and theologians to advance prudently, for science, in order
to progress, must be prudent; but do not allow the Index or the Holy
Office to condemn, because they are bold to excess, men who are an
honour to the Church, whose minds are full of truth, whose hearts are
full of Christ, who fight in defence of the Catholic faith! And as Your
Holiness has said that God reveals His truths even in the secret souls
of men, do not allow external devotions to multiply, their number
is already sufficient, but recommend to the pastors the practice and
teaching of inward prayer!”

Benedetto paused a moment, exhausted. The Pope raised his head,
and looked at the kneeling man, who was gazing fixedly at him with
sorrowful, luminous eyes, under knitted brows, the trembling of his
hands betraying the effort of the spirit. The Pope’s face bore traces of
intense emotion. He wished to tell Benedetto to rise; but he would not
speak, fearing his very voice would reveal his emotion. He insisted by
gestures, and at last Benedetto rose. Drawing the chair towards him,
he rested his hands, still tightly clasped, on its back, and once more
began to speak.

“If the clergy neglect to teach the people to pray inwardly--and this
is as salutary to the soul as certain superstitions are contaminating to
it--it is the work of the second spirit of evil, disguised as an angel
of light, which infests the Church. This is the spirit of domination
of the clergy. Those priests who have the spirit of domination are
ill-pleased when souls communicate directly and in the natural way with
God, going to Him for counsel and direction. Their aim is righteous!
Thus does the evil one deceive their conscience, which in its turn
deceives; their aim is righteous. But they themselves wish to direct
these souls, in the character of mediator, and the souls grow weary,
timid, servile. Perhaps there are not many such; the worst crimes of the
spirit of domination are of a different nature. It has suppressed the
ancient and holy Catholic liberty. It seeks to place obedience first
among the virtues, even where it is not exacted by the laws. It desires
to impose submission even where it is not obligatory, retractions which
offend the conscience; wherever a group of men assemble for good works,
it wishes to take the command, and if they decline to submit to this
command, all support is withdrawn from them. It even strives to carry
religious authority outside the sphere of religion. Holy Father, Italy
knows this! But what is Italy? It is not for her that I speak, but for
the whole Catholic world. Holy Father, you may not yet have experienced
it, but this spirit of domination will strive to exert its influence
over you, yourself. Do not yield, Holy Father! You are the Governor of
the Church; do not allow others to govern you; do not allow your power
to become as a glove for the invisible hands of others. Have public
counsellors; let the bishops be summoned often to national councils; let
the people take part in the elections of bishops, choosing men who are
beloved and respected by the people; and let the bishops mingle with
the masses, not only to pass tinder triumphal arches, to be saluted by
clanging bells, but to become acquainted with the masses, to encourage
them in the imitation of Christ. Let them do these things rather than
shut themselves up in the episcopal palaces, like princes of the Orient,
as so many now do. And give them all the authority which is compatible
with that of Peter.

“May I continue, Your Holiness?”

The Pope, who while Benedetto had been speaking had kept his eyes fixed
on his face, now bowed his head slightly, in answer.

“The third evil spirit which is corrupting the Church does not disguise
itself as an angel of light, for it well knows it cannot deceive; it is
satisfied with the garb of common, human honesty. This is the spirit of
avarice. The Vicar of Christ dwells in this royal palace as he dwelt
in his episcopal palace, with the pure heart of poverty. Many venerable
pastors dwell in the Church with the same heart, but the spirit of
poverty is not preached sufficiently, not preached as Christ preached
it. The lips of Christ’s ministers are too often over-complaisant to
those who seek riches. There are those among them who bow the head
respectfully before the man who has much, simply because he has much;
there are those who let their tongues flatter the greedy, and too many
preachers of the word and of the example of Christ deem it just for them
to revel in the pomp and honours attending on riches, to cleave with
their souls to the luxury riches bring. Father, exhort the clergy to
show those greedy for gain, be they rich or poor, more of that charity
which admonishes, which threatens, which rebukes. Holy Father!----”

Benedetto ceased speaking. There was an expression, of fervent appeal in
the gaze fixed upon the Pope.

“Well?” the Pontiff murmured.

Benedetto spread wide his arms, and continued:

“The Spirit urges me to say more. It is not the work of a day, but let
us prepare for the day--not leaving this task to the enemies of God and
of the Church--let us prepare for the day on which the priests of Christ
shall set the example of true poverty; when it shall be their duty to
live in poverty, as it is their duty to live in chastity; and let the
words of Christ to the Seventy-two serve them as a guide in this. Then
the Lord will surround the least of them with such honours, with such
reverence as does not to-day exist in the hearts of the people for the
princes of the Church. They will be few in number, but they will be the
light of the world. Holy Father, are they that to-day? Some among them
are, but the majority shed neither light nor darkness.”

At this point the Pontiff for the first time bowed his head in sorrowful
acquiescence.

“The fourth spirit of evil,” Benedetto continued “is the spirit of
immobility. This is disguised as an angel of light. Catholics, both
ecclesiastics and laymen, who are dominated by the spirit of immobility
believe they are pleasing God, as did those zealous Jews who caused
Christ to be crucified. All the clericals, Your Holiness, all the
religious men even, who to-day oppose progressive Catholicism, would, in
all good faith, have caused Christ to be crucified in Moses’ name. They
are worshippers of the past; they wish everything to remain unalterable
in the Church, even to the style of the pontifical language, even to the
great fans of peacocks’ feathers which offend Your Holiness’ priestly
heart, even to those senseless traditions which forbid a cardinal to go
out on foot, and make it scandalous for him to visit the poor in their
houses. It is the spirit of immobility which, by straining to preserve
what it is impossible to preserve, exposes us to the derision of
unbelievers; and this is a great sin in the eyes of God.”

The oil in the lamp was almost exhausted, the ring of shadows was
closing in, was growing deeper around and above the small circle of
light in which the two figures were outlined, confronting each other:
the white figure of the Pontiff in his chair, and Benedetto’s dark
figure standing erect.

“In opposition to this spirit of immobility,” said Benedetto, “I entreat
you not to allow Giovanni Selva’s books to be placed on the Index.”

Then, pushing the chair aside, he once more fell upon his knees, and
stretching out his hands towards the Pontiff, spoke more eagerly, more
excitedly.

“Vicar of Christ, I ask for something else. I am a sinner, unworthy to
be compared to the saints, but the Spirit of God may speak even through
the vilest mouth. As a woman once conjured the Pope to come to Rome, so
I now conjure Your Holiness to come forth from the Vatican. Come forth,
Holy Father; but the first time, at least the first time, come forth on
an errand connected with your office. Lazarus suffers and dies day by
day; go and visit Lazarus! Christ calls out for succour in all poor,
suffering human beings. From the Gallery of Inscriptions I saw the
lights shining before another palace here in Rome. If human suffering
call out in the name of Christ, there they may perhaps answer: ‘nay,’
but they go. From the Vatican the answer to Christ is: ‘yea,’ but they
do not go. What will Christ say at the terrible hour, Holy Father? These
words of mine, could the world hear them, would bring vituperation upon
me, from those who profess the greatest devotion to the Vatican; but
though they hurl vituperation and thunderbolts against me, not until the
hour of my death will I cease crying aloud: What will Christ say? What
will Christ say? To Him I appeal!”

The lamp’s tiny flame grew smaller and smaller; in the narrow circle of
pale light upon which the shadows were creeping little of Benedetto was
visible save his outstretched hands, little of the Pope was visible save
his right hand grasping the silver bell. As soon as Benedetto ceased,
the Holy Father ordered him to rise; then he rang the bell twice. The
door of the Gallery was thrown open; the trusted valet entered who had
already become popular in the Vatican, and was known as Don Teofilo.

“Teofilo,” said the Pope, “is the light turned on once more in the
Gallery?”

“Yes, Your Holiness.”

“Then go into the library, where you will find Monsignore. Request him
to come in here, and wait for me. And see that another lamp is brought.”

When he had finished speaking, His Holiness rose. He moved towards the
door of the Gallery, signing to Benedetto to follow him. Don Teofilo
passed out by the opposite door. Sad omen! In the dark room, where so
many flaming words, inspired by the Spirit, had flashed, only the little
dying lamp remained.

That part of the Gallery of Inscriptions where the Pope and Benedetto
now found themselves was in semi-darkness. But at one end a great lamp,
with a reflector, shed its light upon the commemorative inscription
on the right of the door leading to the Loggia of Giovanni da Udine.
Between the long lines of inscriptions, which ran from one end of the
gallery to the other, and watched this dark conflict of two living
souls, like dumb witnesses well acquainted with the mysteries of that
which is beyond the grave and of the last judgment, the Pope advanced
slowly, silently, Benedetto following on his left, but a few paces
behind him. He paused a moment near the torso representing the river
Orontes, and gazed out of the window. Benedetto wondered if he were
looking at the lights of the Quirinal, and his heart beat faster as he
waited for a word. The word did not come. The Pope continued his slow,
silent walk, his hands clasped behind his back and his chin resting on
his breast. He paused again near the end of the gallery, in the light of
the great lamp, and seemed undecided whether to turn back or to proceed.
On the left of the lamp the door of the gallery opened upon a background
of night, of moonlight, columns, glass, and marble pavement. The Pope
turned in this direction, and descended the five steps. The moonlight
fell slanting upon the pavement, streaked with the black shadows of the
columns, and upon the end of the Loggia, cut off by the oblique profile
of the deeper shadow, within which the bust of Giovanni was barely
distinguishable.

The Pope walked on till he reached this shadow and paused in it, while
Benedetto, who had stopped several paces behind that he might not seem
to press him irreverently in his anxiety for an answer, was gazing at
the moon, sailing midst the great clouds above Rome. As he gazed thus
at the orb he asked himself, asked some Invisible One who might be near
him, asked even the grave, sad face of the moon herself, whether he had
dared too much, dared in the wrong way. But he repented of this doubt
immediately. Was it he himself who had spoken? No, the words had come
unsought to his lips, the Spirit had spoken. He closed his eyes in an
effort of silent prayer, his face still raised towards the moon, as
a blind man lifts his sightless eyes towards the silver splendour he
divines.

A hand touched him gently on the shoulder. He started and opened his
eyes. It was the Pope, and the expression of his face told him that at
last words had matured in his mind which satisfied it. Benedetto bent
his head respectfully, ready to listen.

“My son,” His Holiness began, “many of these things the Lord had spoken
of in my heart long ago. You--God bless you--have to deal with the Lord
alone; I have to deal also with the men the Lord has placed around me,
among whom I have to steer my course according to charity and prudence,
and above all, I must adapt my counsels, my commands, to the different
capacities, the different states of mind, of so many millions of men. I
am like a poor schoolmaster who, out of seventy scholars, has twenty who
are below the average, forty of ordinary ability, and only ten who are
really brilliant. He cannot carry on the school for the benefit of the
ten brilliant pupils alone, and I cannot govern the Church for you alone
and for those who are like you. Consider this for instance. Christ paid
tribute to the State, and I--not as the Pontiff, but as a citizen--would
gladly pay my tribute of homage, there in that palace whose lights you
saw shining, did I not fear by so doing to offend the sixty scholars, to
lose even one of those souls which are as precious to me as the others.
And it would be the same if I caused certain books to be removed from
the Index, if I called to the Sacred College certain men who have the
reputation of not being strictly orthodox, if, during an epidemic, I
should go--_ex abrupto_--to visit the hospitals of Rome.”

“Oh, Your Holiness!” Benedetto exclaimed, “forgive me, but it is not
certain that those souls, so ready to be scandalised by the Vicar of
Christ for such causes as these, will be saved at last, whereas it is
certain that very many other souls would be secured which otherwise
cannot be won over.”

“And then,” the Pope continued, as if he had not heard him, “I am old;
I am weary; the cardinals do not know whom they have placed here. I did
not wish it. I am ill also, and I know by certain signs that I must soon
appear before my Judge. I feel, my son, that you are moved by the right
spirit; but the Lord cannot exact of a poor old man like me the things
you have spoken of, things which even a young and vigorous Pontiff could
not accomplish! Still, there are some which even I, with His help, may
be able to bring about; if not the great things, at least the lesser
ones. Let us pray God to raise up at the right moment one capable of
dealing with the weightier matters, and those who may be able to help
him in the work. My son, if I were to begin to-night to transform and
rebuild the Vatican, where should I find a Raphael to adorn it with his
paintings? or even a Giovanni? Still, I do not say I can do nothing.”

Benedetto was about to reply, but the Pontiff, perhaps not wishing to
give any further explanations, afforded him neither time nor opportunity
to do so, and at once asked him a very welcome question.

“You know Selva?” said he. “What manner of man is he in private life?”

“He is a just man!” Benedetto hastened to answer. “A most just man. His
books have been denounced to the Congregation of the Index. They may,
perhaps, contain some bold opinions, but there is no comparison between
the deep, burning piety of Selva’s works and the cold and meagre
formalism of certain other books, which are more often found in the
hands of the clergy than the Gospels themselves. Holy Father, the
condemnation of Selva would be a blow directed against the most active
and vital energies of Catholicism. The Church tolerates thousands of
stupid, ascetic books which unworthily diminish the idea of God in the
human mind; let her not condemn those which magnify it!” The hour struck
in the distance; half-past nine. Silently His Holiness took Benedetto’s
hand, held it between his own, and communicated to him through that mute
pressure an understanding and approval which his prudent lips might not
utter.

He pressed the hand, shook it, caressed it, and pressed it again. At
last he said, in a stifled voice:

“Pray for me, pray that the Lord may enlighten me!”

A tear trembled in each of the beautiful, gentle eyes of the old man,
who had never wilfully soiled himself with an impure thought, who was
full of the sweetness of charity. Benedetto was so deeply moved that he
could not speak.

“Come again,” the Pope said, “We must converse together again.”

“When, Your Holiness?”

“Soon, I will summon you.”

Meanwhile the advancing shadows had engulfed the white figure and the
black one. His Holiness placed his hand on Benedetto’s shoulder and
asked him softly, almost hesitatingly:

“Do you remember the end of your vision?”

Benedetto, bowing his head, answered, also in a low tone:

“_Nescio diem, neque horam_.”

“The words are not in the manuscript,” His Holiness continued; “but do
you remember?”

Benedetto murmured:

“In the Benedictine habit, on the bare earth, in the shade of a tree.”
 “Should it happen thus,” the Holy Father said gently, “I would wish to
bless you in that moment. Then I shall be awaiting you in Heaven.”

Benedetto knelt down. The Pope’s voice sounded very solemn in the
darkness:

“_Benedico te in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti_.”

The Pontiff rapidly ascended the five steps, and disappeared.

Benedetto remained upon his knees, wrapt in that benediction which, it
seemed to him, had come from Christ Himself. On hearing steps in the
gallery he rose. A few moments later he was returning to the bronze
portal, accompanied by Don Teofilo.



III.
The room on the fourth floor was hardly decent. An iron bedstead, a
pedestal, a writing-desk, with a few torn and dilapidated books, a deal
chest of drawers, an iron washstand, and a few straw-bottomed chairs,
were all it contained. A suit of grey clothes was hanging from one nail,
a broad-brimmed black hat from another. Frequent flashes of lightning
could be seen through the open window; breaths of the dark, stormy night
blew in, causing the flame of the petroleum lamp on the pedestal to
flare and the light and the shadows to tremble, as they fell upon the
not too clean sheets, the two fleshless hands, the cluster of roses
lying loose between them, on the flannel shirt of the sick man, who had
pulled himself up into a sitting position, and on his deeply lined, thin
face, greyish with a month-old beard. On the other side of the poor bed
in the gloaming stood Benedetto. The sick man gazed at the flowers in
silence. His hands and his lips trembled.

He had been a monk. At thirty he had thrown off the cowl and married.
A man of little culture, of few talents, he had managed to make a poor
living for his wife and two daughters, working as a copyist. The wife
was dead, the daughters had been led astray, and now he himself was
dying slowly, there in that fourth-floor room, in Via della Marmorata,
near the corner of Via Manuzio, wasted by misery, by disease, by the
bitterness of his soul.

A sob he could not check broke from his lips. He opened his arms,
encircled Benedetto’s neck, and drew his head towards him in an embrace.
Then, suddenly, he pushed him away, and covered his face with his hands.

“I am not worthy! I am not worthy!” said he.

But now Benedetto in his turn encircled the man’s neck, kissed him, and
answered:

“Nor am I worthy of this blessing the Lord has sent me!”

“What blessing?” the sufferer inquired.

“That you weep with me!”

Having spoken these words, Benedetto drew away from the embrace, but
his gaze lingered affectionately on the old man, who stared at him
in astonishment as if asking the question: “You know all?” Benedetto
silently and gently bowed his head in assent.

The man had no suspicion that the story of his past life was known. He
had lived here three years. A neighbour, older than he, a poor little
hunchbacked woman, very charitable and pious, rendered him many
services, tended him in illness, and managed to assist him out of the
pension of two lire a day which was all she possessed. She had learned
from the concierge that the man was an unfrocked monk, and seeing how
sad, humble, and grateful he was, she prayed night and morning to the
Madonna and to all the Saints of Paradise, that they might intercede
with Jesus on his behalf, that this man might be pardoned and brought
back into the fold of the Church. She told her hopes and her fears to
other pious old women, saying:

“I myself do not dare to pray to Jesus for him; that unhappy man has
committed too great a sin against Him. He needs the prayers of some
powerful personage!”

That day the old man had said to her several times that he would be
so happy if he could have a few roses. Then the little hunchback had
thought:

“There is the holy man of whom every one is talking,--he works as a
gardener. I will go to him and tell him the whole story. I will ask him
to bring some roses, and who knows what may come of it!” Such were her
thoughts, but at once she said to herself:

“If that thought did not come to me from the Madonna, it certainly came
from St. Anthony!”

In her simple, pure heart she had felt a wave of sweetness and joy.
Without losing any time she had started for Villa Mayda, the elegant
Pompeian villa, standing out white on the Aventine, among the beautiful
palms, almost opposite the window of the old unfrocked monk. Benedetto
was about to go to bed, in obedience to the orders of the Professor,
who had found him feverish. It was the low, insidious fever which, for
several weeks, had been consuming his strength without otherwise causing
any suffering. When he had heard what the cripple had to tell, he had
come at once with the roses.

       *       *       *       *       *

The old man still kept his face hidden, for he was ashamed. Presently,
without looking at Benedetto, he spoke of the roses, and explained his
longing for them. He was the son of a gardener and had himself intended
to become a gardener; but he was also fond of going to church, and all
his toys had been copies of sacred objects: little altars, candelabra,
small busts of bishops wearing mitres. His employers--very religious
people--had intimated to his parents that, if he showed a vocation for
the ecclesiastical career, they would have him educated at their own
expense. Thereupon his parents had promptly determined that he should
adopt that career. He soon discovered that his strength was not
sufficient to enable him to remain faithful to the priestly vows, but he
lacked the courage to take a step which would have caused his family the
greatest distress. Instead of that he imagined he might be safe if
he withdrew completely from the world, and so, listening to imprudent
counsellors, he entered the monastery from which he was to come forth
again later in disgrace. In after years he would sometimes allude to his
order, when jesting covertly with his friends, and say “When I was in
the regiment!” but he did not repeat that now. As a boy he had loved
flowers, but, after entering the seminary, he had thought no more about
them--thought no more about them for forty years. The night before
Benedetto’s visit he had dreamed of the big rose garden in which his
childhood had been spent. The white roses were all bending towards him,
and gazing at him in the dream-world, as pious souls gaze with curiosity
on a pilgrim in the world of shadows. They said to him: “Where are you
going? where are you going, poor friend? Why do you not return to us?”
 On waking he had felt a longing for roses, a tender longing that moved
him to tears. And how many roses now lay on his bed, all through the
kindness of a saintly person, how many beautiful, sweet-smelling roses!
He was silent, gazing fixedly at Benedetto, his lips parted, his eyes
shining with a painful question: “You know, you understand, what do you
think of me? Do you believe there is hope of pardon for me?”

Benedetto, bending over the sick man, began to talk to him and caress
him. The stream of gentle words flowed on and on in a varying tone,
sometimes of joy, sometimes of pain. Now the old man seemed comforted,
now anxious questions broke from his lips; then, all of a sudden, the
gentle stream of words restored the happy look to his face. Meanwhile,
the little crippled woman came and went between her own room and her
neighbour’s door, clasping her rosary, and divided between her anxiety
at that decisive moment to get in as many _Ave Marias_ as possible,
and the desire to hear if they were talking in there and what they were
saying.

But down below, in the street, a crowd had begun to gather of people
who, regardless of the bad weather, were anxious to see the Saint of
Jenne. A woman who kept a little shop had seen him enter with his roses,
accompanied by the little hunchback. In an instant about fifty persons
were standing around the door, women for the most part, some wishing
only to see him, others eager for a word from him. They waited
patiently, speaking in low tones as if they had been in church; speaking
of Benedetto, of the miracles he performed, of the blessings they were
going to implore him to grant. A cyclist rode up, got off his machine,
and, having inquired why these people were assembled there, made them
tell him exactly where the Saint of Jenne was. Then he mounted his
bicycle once more and started off at full speed. Shortly afterwards a
close carriage--a so-called “_botte_”--followed by the same cyclist,
stopped before the door. A gentleman got out, pushed his way through the
crowd, and entered the house. The cyclist remained near the carriage.
The gentleman exchanged a few words with the concierge, whom he desired
to accompany him as far as the door, where the little hunchback stood,
trembling, and clasping her rosary. He knocked, regardless of her silent
gesticulations, as she implored the Madonna to send this intruder away.
It was Benedetto who came to open the door.

“I beg your pardon,” said the stranger, politely, “are you Signor
Maironi?”

“I no longer bear that name,” Benedetto replied, quietly, “but I once
bore it.”

“I am sorry to trouble you. I should be greatly obliged if you would
kindly come with me. I will tell you where presently.”

The sick man heard the stranger’s words, and groaned:

“No, holy man, for the love of God, do not go away!”

Benedetto replied:

“Please tell me your name, and why you wish me to go with you.”

The other seemed embarrassed.

“Well,” said he, “I am a _delegato_, an officer of the police.” The
invalid exclaimed _“Gesummaria!”_ while the terrified hunchback dropped
her rosary and stared at Benedetto, who had not been able to check a
movement of surprise.

The police officer hastened to add, smiling, that his visit was not of a
terrible nature, that he was not come to arrest any one, that he was not
giving an order, but simply an invitation.

The invitations of the police being of a special nature, Benedetto did
not think of refusing this one. He asked to be allowed to remain alone
with the sick man and the woman for five minutes, whispered something
to the man, who appeared to consent with tears in his voice, and then
taking the little hunchback aside, he told her the invalid was now
willing to see a priest, but that he could not tell when he himself
would be free to bring one to him. The poor little creature was
trembling from head to foot, partly with fear, partly with joy, and she
could only repeat over and over again: “Blessed Jesus! Holy Virgin!”
 Benedetto sought to reassure her, promised to return as soon as
possible, and, having said good-bye, went down-stairs with the
_delegato_.

In the street the crowd had increased in size, and the people were
pressing noisily and threateningly round the cyclist, who had remained
near the carriage, and in whom they had recognised a policeman in
plain clothes. He would not tell them why he had come first to gather
information, and had then returned with the other individual. They tried
to force the cabman to drive away, and even talked of unharnessing the
horse. When the _delegato_ appeared with Benedetto they surrounded him,
crying: “Away with the ruffian!--Away with him!--Down with him!--Leave
that man alone!--Look out for the thieves, _per Dio!_ You take God’s
servants, and let the thieves run free!--Away with you!--Down with you!”
 Benedetto came forward, motioned to them with both hands to be quiet,
and begged them over and over again to go away peacefully, for no one
wished to hurt him; he had not been arrested, but was going with this
gentleman of his own free-will. At the same moment thunder pealed in the
sky, a heavy shower began to beat on the pavement. The crowd swayed,
and rapidly dispersed. The _delegato_ gave an order to the cyclist, and
entered the carriage with Benedetto.

They started in the direction of the Tiber, in the midst of thunder,
lightning, and heavy rain. Very quietly Benedetto asked the _delegato_
what was wanted of him at the police station. He replied that it was not
a question of the station. The person who wished to speak with Signor
Maironi was a far more important functionary than the chief of police.

“Perhaps I should not have told you that,” he added, “but at any rate he
himself will tell you so.”

Then he informed Benedetto that he had sought for him in vain at Villa
Mayda, and said how vexed he would have been not to have found him soon.
Benedetto ventured to inquire if he knew the reason of this call. In
reality the delegate did not know, but he feigned a diplomatic silence,
and drew back into his corner as if to avoid the gusts of rain. A
street lamp showed Benedetto the yellow river, the great black barges of
Ripagrande; another showed him the temple of Vesta. Beyond that he could
no longer see where they were going; it seemed as if they were passing
through an unknown necropolis, a maze of funereal streets, where
sepulchral lamps were burning. At last the carriage rattled into a
courtyard, and drew up at the foot of a broad and dark stairway, flanked
with columns. Benedetto went up with the _delegato_ as far as the second
landing, on to which two doors opened. The one on the left was closed,
the one on the right looked down on the stairs through a shining
bull’s-eye window. The _delegato_ pushed it open, and he and Benedetto
entered a stuffy den, evidently a sort of anteroom. An usher, who was
dozing there, rose wearily. The _delegato_ left Benedetto, and went into
the next room. Then the usher bent down as if to pick up something, and
said to Benedetto, offering him a letter:

“See! you have dropped this paper!”

Benedetto was astonished and the usher insisted:

“You have come from the Testaccio, have you not? Well, you will find
that this belongs to you. Make haste.”

Make haste? Benedetto stared at the man, who had resumed his seat. He
stared back and confirmed his advice with a short nod which meant: You
suspect there is a mystery here, and indeed there is!

Benedetto examined the envelope. It bore the following address:

“For the Under-Gardener at Villa Mayda.” And below, in larger letters:

“IMMEDIATE.”

It was in a woman’s hand, but Benedetto did not recognize it. He opened
the letter and read:

“This is to inform you that the Director-General of Police will do his
best to induce you to leave Rome of your own free-will. Refuse. You can
read what follows at your leisure.”

Benedetto hurriedly replaced the letter, but as no one appeared, and
everything around him seemed to be asleep, he took it out again and read
on. It ran thus:

“Since your visits to the Vatican there has been much dissatisfaction
with the Holy Father. Among other things, he has withdrawn the Selva
affair from the Congregation of the Index. You can have no idea of the
intrigues which are being set on foot against you, of the calumnies
concerning you which are communicated even to your friends, and all
with the object of compelling you to leave Rome and preventing you from
seeing the Pontiff again. This conspiracy has obtained the support
of the Government by means of a promise, in return, not to ratify the
proposed nomination to the Archiepiscopal See of Turin of a person very
obnoxious to the Quirinal. Do not yield. Do not abandon the Holy Father
and your mission. The threat concerning the affair at Jenne is not
serious; it would not be possible to proceed against you, and they know
it. The person who may not write to you discovered all this, and has
asked me to write this note; she will make sure that it reaches you.

“NOEMI D’ARXEL.”

Involuntarily Benedetto looked towards the usher, as if he had suspected
him of knowing the contents of this letter which had passed through his
hands. But the usher was dozing again, and was only roused by the return
of the _delegato_, who ordered him to conduct Benedetto to the Signor
Commendatore. [Footnote: Commendatore: a title borne by those upon whom
certain Italian orders have been conferred.--_Translator’s Note_.]

Benedetto was introduced into a spacious apartment, all dark save in
one corner, where a gentleman about fifty years of age sat reading the
_Tribuna_ by the light of an electric lamp, which shone upon his bald
head, upon the newspaper, and upon the table, littered with documents.
Above him, in the dim light, a large portrait of the King was dimly
visible.

He did not at once raise his head--heavy with conscious power--from
the newspaper. He raised it when he felt inclined to do so, and looked
carelessly at this atom of the people who stood before him.

“Be seated,” he said in a frigid tone.

Benedetto obeyed.

“You are Signor Maironi?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I am sorry to have troubled you, but it was necessary.”

There was harshness and sarcasm underlying the Signor Commendatore’s
courteous words.

“By the way,” he said, “why are you not called by your real name?”

Benedetto did not answer this unexpected question at once.

“Well, well,” his interlocutor continued. “It is not of much importance
at present. We are not in a court of justice. I hold that if one is
going to do good, it is best to do it in one’s own name. But then I do
not go to church, and my views differ from yours. However, as I said
before, it is of no importance. Do you know who I am? Did the _delegato_
tell you?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well, then; I am a functionary of the State, who takes some
interest in the public security, and who has a certain amount of
power--yes, a certain amount of power. Now I am going to prove to you
that I take an interest in you also. I regret to say, you are in a
critical position, my dear Signor Maironi, or Signor Benedetto, at your
choice. An accusation of a really serious nature has been lodged
against you with the judicial authorities, and I see that not only your
reputation for saintliness is in danger, but also your personal liberty,
and hence your preaching, at least for several years.”

A flame spread over Benedetto’s face, and his eyes flashed.

“Leave the saintliness and the reputation alone,” said he.

The august functionary of the State continued, unmoved:

“I have wounded you. But you must know that your reputation for
saintliness is threatened by other dangers. Other things are said about
you which have nothing to do with the penal code,--you may be quite
easy on that score--but which are not in perfect harmony with Catholic
morals. I assure you these things are believed by many. I am simply
stating the facts; it is really no business of mine. After all,
saintliness is never a reality; it is always more or less an
idealisation of the image by the mirror. If there is saintliness
anywhere, it is in the mirror, in the people who believe in the saints.
I myself do not believe in them. But let us come to serious matters. I
was obliged to say some unpleasant things to you, I even wounded you;
now I will apply the remedy. I am not a believer, but, nevertheless, I
appreciate the religious principle as an element of public order, and
this is also the view taken by my superiors and the view taken by
the Government itself. Therefore the Government cannot approve of
proceedings of such a scandalous nature against one whom the people
regard as a saint, proceedings which might possibly stir up disorder.
But that is not all! We know that you stand in high favour with the
Pope, who sees you often. Now the ‘powers that be’ have no desire to
cause the Pope any personal annoyance. They have the good intention to
spare him this unpleasantness if possible. And it will be possible on
one condition. Here in Rome you have active enemies--not on our side,
not on the Liberal side, you know!--who are scheming to ruin you
completely, to rob you of your reputation and everything. If you wish to
know my opinion exactly, I will tell you that I think, from a Catholic
point of view, they are right. I modify somewhat, for my use and for
theirs, the famous motto of the Jesuits, _‘Aut sint ut sunt,’_ and I
make it, _‘Aut non erunt.’_ They tell me you are a Liberal Catholic.
That simply means that you are not a Catholic. But let us proceed. Your
enemies have denounced you to the Public Prosecutor, and it would be
our duty to send the _carabinieri_ to arrest Signor Pietro Maironi,
condemned, in his absence, by the Assize Court at Brescia, for having
failed to serve on a jury when summoned. But that is a slight matter.
You imagine you healed some people at Jenne, and you are accused not
only of practising medicine unlawfully, but even of having poisoned
a patient--nothing less! Now we have the means of saving you. We will
manage to hush up this accusation. But if you remain in Rome, your
enemies here will make so much noise that it will be impossible for us
to feign deafness. You must go away to some distant place, and go at
once! It would be better to go out of Italy. Try France, where there is
a famine of saintliness. Or, at least--do you not own a house on Lake
Lugano? There are some sisters in it now, are there not? Sisters and
saints go extremely well together. Join the sisters, and let this storm
blow over.”

The Commendatore spoke very slowly, very seriously, hiding his irony
under an indifference which was even more insolent.

Benedetto rose, resolute and severe.

“I was with a sick man,” he said, “who needed my illegal medicine. It
would have been better to leave me at my post. You and the Government
are my worst enemies if you offer me the means to fly from justice.
Perform your duty by sending the _carabinieri_ to arrest me for not
serving on the jury. I will prove that it was impossible for me to
have received the summons. Let the Public Prosecutor do his duty by
proceeding against me on the strength of the affair at Jenne; you will
always find me at Villa Mayda. Tell your superiors this: tell them that
I shall not stir from Rome, that I fear only one Judge, and let them
fear Him also in their false hearts, for He will be more terrible
against falseness of heart than against honest violence!”

The Commendatore, who had not been prepared for this blow, grew livid
with impotent rage, and was about to burst into a torrent of angry words
when the dull rumble of a carriage was heard entering the courtyard. He
looked away from Benedetto and listened. Benedetto grasped the back
of his chair that he might not be tempted to turn his back on him. The
other man roused himself; the angry light, which for a moment had died
down, blazed forth again in his eyes. He threw aside the newspaper which
he had held in his hand all the time, and bringing his fist down heavily
upon the table, he exclaimed:

“What are you doing? Do not dare to move!”

The two men looked at each other fixedly for a few seconds in silence,
one with a look of majestic authority, the other stern and forbidding.
The official continued violently:

“Shall I have you arrested here?”

Benedetto was still looking at him in silence; at length he answered:

“I am waiting. Do as you please.”

An usher, who had knocked several times in vain, now appeared on
the threshold and bowed to the Commendatore without speaking. The
Commendatore answered at once: “I am coming,” and, rising hastily,
left the room with a strange expression on his face, where anger was
disappearing, and obsequiousness was dawning.

The usher returned immediately, and told Benedetto to wait.

A quarter of an hour passed. Benedetto, shivering, his heart in a
tumult, his head on fire, excited and exhausted by fever, had once
more sunk upon his chair, while the most disconnected thoughts whirled
through his brain. May God forgive this man! Forgive them all! What joy
if the Pontiff should forbid the condemnation of Selva! How does the
person who may not write to me know? And now, why are they keeping me
waiting? What more can they want with me? Oh! what if with this fever I
should no longer be master of my thoughts or of my words? How terrible!
My God, my God, do not permit that! But what horrible baseness there is
in the world, what shameful, hidden fornication between these people
of the Church and of the State, who hate each other, who despise each
other! Why, why dost Thou permit it, Lord? Still no one comes! This
fever! My God, my God! let me remain master of my thoughts, of my words.
God of Truth! Thy servant is in the hands of his conspiring enemies:
give him strength to glorify Thee, even in the burning fire! Those two
persons are thinking of me now. I must not think of them! They are not
sleeping, but thinking of me! I am not ungrateful, not ungrateful; but
I must not think of them! I will think of thee, venerable Saint of the
Vatican, who sleepest and knowest not! Ah! those narrow stairs which
I shall never more ascend! That sweet face, full of the Holy Spirit, I
shall never see again! Still--God be praised!--I did not behold it in
vain! What am I doing here? Why do I not go away? But could I go away?
Oh! this fever!

He rose, and tried to read the hour on the round face of a clock which
showed white in the darkness. It was five minutes to eleven. Outside,
the thunder-storm still raged. The power of the maddened elements, the
power of time which was pushing the tiny hands there on the face of the
clock, seemed friendly to Benedetto, in their indifferent predominance
over the human power, in whose stronghold he was, and which held him at
its mercy. But the fever, the ever-increasing fever! He was burning with
thirst. If only he could open a window, hold out his mouth to the waters
of heaven!

An electric bell sounded, and at last he hears steps in the anteroom.
Here is the Commendatore, in his hat and overcoat. He closes the door
behind him, gathers up the papers lying on the table, and says to
Benedetto, with a disdainful air:

“Mark this. We give you three days in which to leave Rome. Do you
understand?” Without even waiting for an answer, he pressed a bell. The
usher entered, and he commanded:

“Show him out!”

       *       *       *       *       *

On reaching the great stairway with his guide, Benedetto, believing
himself free to descend, begged for a little water.

“Water?” the usher replied. “I cannot go for it now. His Excellency is
waiting. Please step this way.”

To Benedetto’s’ great astonishment, he invited him to enter the lift.

“Both their Excellencies,” said the usher, correcting himself, and, as
the lift ascended to the second floor, he looked at Benedetto as at one
about to receive a great honour which he does not appear to deserve.
When they reached the second floor, the two traversed an immense hall
dimly lighted. From this hall Benedetto was shown into an apartment so
brilliantly illumined as to cause him discomfort and suffering, and he
was nearly blinded.

Two men, seated in the two corners of a large sofa, were waiting for
him, each in a different attitude, the younger with his hands in his
pockets, his legs crossed, and his head leaning against the back of the
couch; the elder with his body bent forward, and continuously stroking
his grey beard, first with one hand and then with the other. The
first individual had a sarcastic expression, the second a searching,
melancholy, kindly one. The latter, who evidently possessed the greater
authority of the two, invited Benedetto to be seated in an easy-chair,
opposite to him.

“You must not think, dear Signor Maironi,” said he in a voice both
harmonious and deep, and which seemed, in a way, to correspond with the
melancholy look in his eyes, “you must not think that we are here as two
powerful arms of the State. We are here, at the present moment, as
two individuals of a very rare species, two statesmen who know
their business well, and who despise it still more. We are two great
idealists, who know how to lie in a most ideal manner to those who
deserve nothing better, and who also know how to adore Truth; two
democrats, but nevertheless two adorers of that recondite Truth which
has never been touched by the dirty hands of old Demos.”

Having spoken thus, the man of the flowing grey beard once more began to
stroke it, first with one hand, then with the other, and, puckering his
eyes, which sparkled with a shrewd smile, for he was pleased with his
own words, watched for surprise on Benedetto’s face.

“We are, moreover, believers also,” he continued.

The other personage, without raising his head from the back of the
couch, lifted his open hands, and said, almost solemnly:

“Steady!” “Let the word pass, my dear friend,” the first speaker said,
without looking towards him. “We are both believers, but in different
ways. I believe in God with all my might, and my might is great, and
I shall have Him with me always, You believe in God, with all your
weaknesses, and they are few, and you will not have Him with you until
you are upon your death-bed.”

Another shrewd and self-complacent smile, another pause. The friend
shook his head, raising his eyebrows as if he had heard a jest deserving
only of commiseration, but not of an answer.

“I, for my part,” the deep and harmonious voice went on, “am also a
Christian. Not a Catholic, but a Christian. Indeed, because I am a
Christian am an anti-Catholic. My heart is Christian, and my brain
is Protestant. It is with joy that I see in Catholicism signs, not of
decrepitude, but of putrefaction. Charity is being dissolved in the most
sincerely Catholic hearts into a dark mud, full of the worms of hatred.
I see Catholicism cracking in many places, and I see the ancient
idolatry upon which it has raised itself bursting forth through the
cracks. What few youthful, healthy, and vital energies appear within it,
all tend to separate from it. I know that you are a radical Catholic,
that you are the friend of a man who is really sound and strong, and
who calls himself a Catholic, but who is pronounced a heretic by true
Catholics; and a heretic he certainly is. I have been told you are a
pupil of this noble heretic, who labours for reforms and who, at the
same time, tries to influence the Pontiff. Now, I myself am looking
for a great reformer, but he must be an antipope; not antipope in the
narrow, historical sense, but an antipope in the Lutheran sense of the
word. Curiosity pricks us to know in what way you believe it possible to
rejuvenate this poor old Papacy, of which we laymen are ahead not only
in the conquest of civilisation, but also in the science of God, even in
the science of Christ, this Papacy which follows us at a great distance,
panting and stopping by the way every now and then, hanging back like an
animal which smells the shambles, and then, when it is pulled very hard,
jumping forward, only to stop again until the rope is twitched once
more. Explain your idea of Catholic reform to us. Let us hear it.”

Benedetto remained silent.

“Speak,” continued the unknown deity who appeared to reign in that
place. “My friend is not Herod, nor am I Pilate. We might perhaps both
become apostles of your idea.”

His friend once more extended his wide-open hands, without raising his
head from the sofa-back, and said again, with a stronger accent on the
first syllable:

“Steady!”

Benedetto was silent.

“It appears to me, _caro mio_,” said the friend, turning his head alone
towards his colleague, “that this promises to be the first time your
eloquence has failed you. Here the model of the _nihil respondit_ is
taken very seriously.”

Benedetto shuddered, horrified at this allusion to the Divine Master,
and the fear of seeming a presumptuous imitator. At that moment he
ceased to feel his illness--the fever, the thirst, the heaviness of his
head.

“Oh, no!” he exclaimed, “now I will answer! You say you are not Pilate.
But the truth is that I am the least of Christ’s servants, because
I have been unfaithful to Him, and you repeat to me Pilate’s very
words:--_Quid est veritas?_ Now you are not disposed to receive truth,
as Pilate was not disposed to receive it.”

“Oh!” his interlocutor exclaimed. “And why not?”

His friend laughed noisily.

“Because,” Benedetto replied, “he who performs deeds of darkness is
surrounded by darkness, and the light cannot reach him. You perform
deeds of darkness. It is not difficult to understand; you are the
Minister of the Interior--I know you by reputation. You were not born
to perform deeds of darkness; there has been much light in some of your
deeds, there is much light in your soul, much light of truth and of
kindness; but at this moment you are performing a deed of darkness. I am
here to-night because you have entered into a shameful bargain. You say
you adore Truth, and you ask a brother if he possess Truth, while you
hide the fact that you have already sold him!”

During Benedetto’s speech, the Minister’s friend--himself an Excellency,
but of lower rank--had raised his head from the couch at last. He seemed
to be only now beginning to consider the man and what he was saying
worthy of attention. He also seemed amused at the lesson his chief had
received. He admired his friend’s great genius, but scoffed in his heart
at his passing fits of idealism. The chief was at first amazed; then he
started to his feet, shouting like a madman:

“You are a liar! You are insolent! You do not deserve my kindness! I
have not sold you, you are not worth anything; I will give you away! Go!
Go away!”

He looked for the button of the electric bell, and not finding it in the
blindness of his rage, he shrieked:

“Usher! Usher!”

The Under-Secretary of State, who was used to these scenes--they were
nothing worse than “fires of straw,” for the Minister had a heart of
gold--at first laughed in his sleeve. When, however, he heard his friend
call the usher in that tone, knowing well the indiscretion of ushers
and how much dangerous gossip might arise from this incident, reflecting
ridicule also on himself, he resolutely restrained the Minister, almost
commanding him to calm himself. Then he said sharply to Benedetto:

“Go, at once!” The Minister began to walk up and down the room in
silence, his head bowed, with short, hurried steps, struggling to
conquer the child in him, which would have liked to stamp its feet.

Benedetto did not obey. Erect and severe, glowing with the invisible
rays of a dominating spirit, which kept the Under-Secretary of State at
a distance, he forced the other, through this magnetic power, to turn
towards him, to stop and to look him in the face.

“_Signor Ministro_,” he said. “I am about to leave not only this palace,
but very soon, I believe, this world also. I shall not see you again;
listen to me for the last time. You are not now disposed to receive
the Truth; nevertheless, the Truth is at your door, and the hour will
come--it is not far distant, for your life is on the wane--when night
will fall upon you, upon all your power, all your honours, all your
ambitions. Then you will hear Truth calling out in the night. You can
answer ‘Begone’--and you will never meet her again. You can answer
‘Enter’--and you will see her appear, veiled, and breathing sweetness
through her veil. You do not now know what you will answer, nor do I
know, nor does any one in the world. Prepare yourself, by good works, to
give the right answer. Whatever your errors may be there is religion in
your soul. God has given you much power in this world; use it to good
purpose. You who were born a Catholic say you are a Protestant. Perhaps
you do not know Catholicism well enough to understand that Protestantism
is being shattered upon the dead Christ, while Catholicism evolves by
virtue of the living Christ. But now I speak to the statesman, not,
indeed, to implore him to protect the Catholic Church, which would be
a misfortune, but to tell him that though the State may not be either
Catholic or Protestant, neither may it ignore God, and you dare to
ignore Him in more than one of your schools, in those you call high, and
this in the name of freedom of science, which you confound with freedom
of thought and of speech; for thought and speech are free to deny God,
but the negation of God neither partakes nor can partake of the nature
of science, and you are bound to teach science alone. You are well
acquainted with that petty statesmanship which forces you to a private
compromise with your conscience, in order to obtain in secret some
favour from the Vatican, in which you do not believe, but you are ill
acquainted with that grand statesmanship which upholds the authority
of Him who is the eternal principle of all justice. You work harder to
destroy it than the atheistic professors themselves; for, after all, the
atheistic professors have but little power; you statesmen, who sometimes
talk of your belief in God, you undermine His authority far more deeply
than those professors, by the bad example of your practical atheism.
You who imagine you believe in the Godhead of Christ are, in reality,
prophets and priests of the false gods. You serve them, as the
idolatrous Hebrew princes served them, in high places, in the presence
of the people. You serve, in the high places, the gods of all earthly
lusts.”

“_Bravo_!” interrupted the Minister, who was well known for the
austerity of his life, his domestic virtues, and his carelessness
concerning money. “You amuse me!”

And he added, turning to his friend:

“It was really not worth while.”

“Understand me well!” Benedetto continued. “Yes, you also are one of
these priests. Do I then speak of ordinary revellers? I speak of you and
of others like you, who esteem yourselves honest men because you do not
plunge your hands into the coffers of the State, who esteem yourselves
moral men because you do not give yourselves up to the pleasures of the
senses. I will tell you two things: All the while you are worshipping
pleasures which are still more sinful. You make false gods of yourselves
unto yourselves; you worship the pleasure of contemplating yourselves in
all your power, in all your honours, in the admiration of the world.
To your false gods you wickedly sacrifice many human victims, and the
integrity of your own character. There is a compact among you by which
each is bound to respect his colleague’s false god, and promote its
worship. The purest among you are at least guilty of this complicity.
You look away when there is a suggestion of foul conspiracies with vile
aims, or of the shameful intrigues of factions which crawl in the dark,
letting them go by in silence. You regard yourselves as incorrupt, and
you corrupt others! You distribute the public money regularly to people
who sell you their honour and the probity of their consciences. You
despise and you nurture this infamy, which goes on under the shadow of
your authority. It is more sinful to buy votes and flattery than to
sell them! You are the most corrupt of all! Your second sin is that you
consider lying a necessity of your position; you lie as you would drink
water. You lie to the people, lie to the Parliament, lie to the Crown,
lie to your adversaries, lie to your friends. I know--some of you do not
personally indulge in the general prevarication, but you tolerate it in
your colleagues. Many of you shrink from assuming this on entering the
seat of government, as, upon entering a mine, we put on a dirty dress to
protect our own and, on coming out, lay it down joyfully. But can
these, who are the best, call themselves faithful servants of Truth? You
believe in God, and perhaps on your death-bed you will believe you have
offended God most seriously, as statesmen, by your acts of violence
against the Church, in the name of the State. No, these will not be your
greatest sins. If men go into Parliament, and through Parliament into
the Government, who profess, as philosophers, not to know God, but who
rise up in the name of Truth against this arbitrary tyranny of Untruth,
they are serving God better than you and will be more pleasing to God
than you, who believe in Him as an idol and not as the Spirit of Truth,
than you who dare to talk of the putrefaction of Catholicism, you who
stink of falsity. Yes, who stink of it! You make the air of the heights
so impure, so contrary to what it should be, that it is difficult to
breathe it. You have a devout heart, _Signor Ministro_; do not tell me
that in this palace one cannot serve God.”

“Do you know--” the Minister exclaimed angrily, crossing his arms
upon his breast, while the Under-Secretary of State extended his hand
graciously towards him to check the indignant words.

“Gently, gently, gently!” said he. “Allow me. I find this most
entertaining.”

The Under-Secretary of State was short and round, and full of respect
for his own secretaryship, like an egg in the conscious possession of
a sacred chick. As a man he was far inferior to the Minister, and very
unlike him. He had none of the intellectual curiosity of his superior,
and had consented to be present at this interview simply to please him.
His superior, possessed of a keen wit, was in the habit of throwing his
own light now on one, now on another of the persons who revolved around
him, and, at such moments, lie was apt to believe that they shone of
themselves, as perhaps the sun may believe is the case with the orbs
that pay their court to it. The Under-Secretary of State reflected
light upon the Minister, and the Minister reflected admiration upon the
Under-Secretary of State. The Minister had desired his presence at this
interview, not comprehending that this little Mercury of his planetary
system, having resolved in his youth to free himself from the
supernatural, which hampered the most spontaneous movements of his
selfish nature, had come to hate the supernatural with much the same
hatred which the sick conceive for the man who, they know, has gloomily
diagnosed their illness. As these unfortunates seek to persuade
themselves that the prophet is not worthy of faith, and, whilst his
prophecy is gradually being fulfilled, become more and more impatient,
and struggle ever harder to overthrow that threatening authority,
so this man, the more he felt his youthful vigour declining, felt
materialistic dogmas losing credit, and from time to time perceived in
his heart certain stabbing apprehensions of a formidable truth which,
wakened by degrees, became the more embittered in his hatred hidden
beneath careless irony.

“Look here, my good sir,” said he, when he had, by his words and
gesture, made room for himself in the conversation. “You talk a great
deal about false and true gods. I don’t know whether yours be false or
true. He may be true, but He is certainly unreasonable. A God who made
the world as he chose, in such a way that it must wag as it does,
and then comes and tells us that we must make it wag in a different
way--well now, you know! He is certainly not a reasonable God! You have
taken the liberty to empty out a whole bagful of abuse, a bagful of
accusations against statesmen; they are calumnies, especially if you
apply them to that gentleman over there, or to me; but I am willing to
admit that politics are not a suitable business for saints. He who made
the world did not intend that they should be! He is to blame for that.
Nevertheless, some one must attend to politics. At present we are doing
this, and if we ourselves be not saints, at least you see how patiently
we deal with saints. And listen,”

The Under-Secretary looked at his watch.

“It is getting late,” he said, “and saintliness may encounter some
dangers, at such a late hour, in the streets of Rome. You had better go,
now.”

He stretched out his hand towards the electric bell, meaning to summon
the usher.

“_Signor Ministro!_” Benedetto exclaimed, with such vehemence that the
Under-Secretary remained motionless, his arm extended, as though frozen
in the act. “You fear for the State, for the Monarchy, for liberty,
you fear the socialists and the anarchists, but you should be far more
afraid of your colleagues, who scoff at God! for socialism and anarchism
are merely fevers, while scoffing is even as gangrene! As for you,” he
added, turning to the Under-Secretary, “you deride One who is silent.
Fear His silence!”

Before either of the two potentates could speak a word, or move,
Benedetto had left the room.

       *       *       *       *       *

He descended the great stairway, all quivering with the reflex action of
the words which had burst from his heart, and with the feverish fire
in his blood. His legs shook and bent under him. He was once or twice
obliged to seize the banisters and stop. On reaching the last column,
he leaned his throbbing forehead against it, seeking its coolness. But
immediately he drew away, with a feeling of repugnance for the very
stones of this palace, as if they were infected by treason, were
accomplices of the atrociously vile bargain which had been struck there
between ministers of Christ and ministers of the State. He sat down on
one of the lower steps, quite exhausted, without noticing the lighted
lamps of a carriage which was waiting close to him, doubtless the
Minister’s carriage, and not caring who might see him. He breathed more
freely; his indignation was beginning to cool down and turn to sorrow,
and a desire to weep for the sad blindness of the world. Then he began
to feel so lonely, so bitterly lonely. Only she, the partner of his past
errors, had watched, had discovered, had acted. Only through her had
he been able to hold his own with the Minister, knowing what manner of
language to use with him. His other friends, the friends devoted to his
religious ideas, had slept, and were still sleeping. The bitter thought
that they no longer cared for him was pleasing to him. It was pleasant
to give himself up, for once at least, to pity for his own fate, for
once to drain the cup to the dregs, to picture his fate even more
painful and bitter than it really was. All were against him, all were
in league against him! Alone, alone, alone! And was he really strong
at heart? That man up there, that Minister who possessed genius
and personal kindliness--what if he were right, after all? What if
Catholicism were really past healing? Lo! the Lord Himself, the Lord
he had served, the Lord who had struck down his body, and delivered him
into the power of his enemies, now was abandoning his soul. Anguish,
mortal anguish! He longed to die on that very spot and to be at peace.

Above him he heard the voices of the Minister and the Under-Secretary,
who were coming down. Benedetto rose with an effort, and dragged himself
into the street. On the left, a few paces beyond the door, he saw
another carriage waiting. A servant in livery stood on the sidewalk
talking with the coachman. When Benedetto appeared the servant hastened
towards him. In the gaslight, Benedetto recognised the old Roman from
Villa Diedo, the footman of the Dessalles. It suddenly flashed across
his troubled brain that Jeanne was there in the carriage, waiting for
him, and he started back a step.

“No,” said he. Meanwhile the carriage had moved forward; Benedetto
imagined he saw Jeanne, that he was being forced to get into the
carriage with her, and that he had not the strength to resist. Seized
with giddiness he staggered back again, and would have fallen had the
footman not caught him in his arms. He found himself in the carriage
without knowing how he had got there, with an unpleasant bright light
opposite to him, and a loud buzzing in his ears. Little by little he
understood. He was alone; an acetylene lamp was shining in his face. The
door on his right was open and the footman was speaking to him. What was
he saying? Where should they drive? To Villa Mayda? Yes, certainly, to
Villa Mayda. Could not that light be extinguished? The servant put it
out, and spoke of a paper. What paper? A paper the Signora had placed
in the inside pocket of the _coupé_, ordering him to give it to the
gentleman. Benedetto did not understand, or see. The footman took the
paper and slipped it into Benedetto’s pocket. Then he inquired about the
gentleman’s health, as his masters--this time he said ‘his masters’--had
ordered him to do. If he had seen him lying dead this scrupulous
individual would have carried out the order just the same. Instead of
answering, Benedetto begged that a little water might be brought to him.
The footman fetched some from a neighbouring _café_ and Benedetto drank
it eagerly, experiencing great relief. As he took the empty cup from
him, the footman thought it best to complete his message:

“The Signora ordered me to tell you, if you inquired, that they sent the
carriage because they knew you were not well, and they thought that in
this place and at this hour it would be impossible for you to find one.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The _coupé_ had excellent springs and rubber tires. What a rest it
was for Benedetto to roll along thus, silently, alone in a dark soft
carriage, in the heart of the night! From time to time vistas of bright
streets loomed on the right and on the left, and this was painful
to him, as if those long rows of lights had been his enemies. But
immediately there came back the darkness of the narrow streets and the
flight, on footpaths and houses, of the unsteady lights of the _coupé_.
The coachman set the horse to a walking pace, and Benedetto looked out
into the darkness. It seemed to him they had just begun to ascend the
Aventine Hill. He felt better; the fever, intensified by the physical
and moral strain of that night of strife, was now rapidly decreasing.
Then, for the first time, he perceived the subtle perfume of the
_coupé_, the perfume Jeanne always used, and there rushed upon him the
vivid memory of the return from Praglia with her, of the moment when,
having left her at the foot of the hill leading to Villa Diedo, he had
gone on alone in the victoria which was still filled with her warmth and
her perfume, alone, and intoxicated with his love secret. Terrified at
the vividness of these memories he pressed his arms to his breast, and
strove to withdraw himself from his senses and his memory, into the very
centre of his being. He gasped, with parted lips, unable to banish
that image from his inner vision. And others flashed through his mind,
leaving his unyielding will unconquered, but causing it to tremble like
a tightly drawn rope. Now it was the idea that only Jeanne really loved
him, that only Jeanne suffered through his suffering. Now it was her
voice, complaining that her love was not returned, her voice asking for
love, in the tones of a little song by Saint-Saens, so sweet, so sad,
and familiar to them both, and concerning which he had once said to her
at Villa Diedo that he could never refuse anything to one who prayed
thus. Now it was the idea of fleeing far, far away and for ever, from
this pagan and pharisaical Rome. Again it was a vision of peace and pure
converse with the woman whom he would win over to the faith at last. It
was an ardent desire to say to the Lord:--“The world is too sad, let me
adore Thee thus.” Then there came the thought that in all this there was
no sin, there was no sin in abandoning his mission in the presence of
so many enemies. He began to doubt whether he really had any mission
at all, whether he had not rather yielded to deceitful suggestions,
believed in the reality of phantoms, and been deceived by chance
appearances. He saw the spiritual and moral features of his friends
and disciples, deformed as in a convex mirror; he felt a disheartening
certainty that all he had hoped of them was vain. Then again that sad,
tender little song returned, no longer beseeching but full of pity, of
a pity comprehending all his bitter struggle, the sorrowing pity of
some unknown spirit that was also suffering and complaining of God, but
humbly, gently, pleading for all that suffers and loves in the world.

The carriage stopped at a cross-way, and the footman got down from
the box and approached the window. It seemed that neither he nor the
coachman knew exactly where this Villa Mayda was. On the right, a narrow
lane sloped down between two walls. Behind the higher one, on the left,
huge black trees rustled loudly in the west wind, which had torn the
clouds asunder. In the background, the Janiculum and St. Peter’s loomed
black in the pale starlight. It was a narrow footpath. Was that where
the Signore must get out to go to Villa Mayda? No, but the Signore was
determined to get out at any cost, to quit that poisoned carriage. He
dragged himself as far as Sant’ Anselmo, struggling with his poor weak
body and with the wind. Exhausted once more, he thought of asking the
monks for hospitality, but did not do so. He went down, skirting the
great silent refuge of peace belonging to the Benedictines, passed,
sighing, before the closed door, which said in vain _quieti et amicis_,
and at last reached the gate of Villa Mayda.

The gardener came, half dressed, to open the gate, and was greatly
astonished to see him. He said he had believed he was in prison, because
a _delegato_ and a policeman had been there to look for him at about
nine o’clock. Indeed the _Signora_, the Professor’s daughter-in-law, had
at once ordered the servants not to admit him if he returned, but the
order had been angrily countermanded by the Professor himself, to the
great joy of the gardener, who was as fond of Benedetto and of the
master as he was averse to the _Signora_. Upon hearing this Benedetto
would have departed at once had his strength allowed him. But he was not
in a condition to go a hundred paces.

“It will be for this one night only,” he said.

He occupied a small room in the gardener’s little house. He had hoped,
on entering it, to find the peace of the heart, but it was not to be.
They were driving him away even from here: that was what he said in his
heart to his poor little bed, to the poor furniture, to the few books,
to the smoky tallow-candle. Fixing his eyes on the Crucifix, which hung
above a footstool at the side of the bed, he groaned, with an effort of
his will: “How can I complain so bitterly of my crosses, Lord?”

In vain; his spirit had no living sense either of Christ or of the
Cross. He sat down in despair, not wishing to go to bed in this mood,
waiting for a drop of sweetness, which did not come. A gust of wind made
him turn his head towards the window, which had burst open. He saw a
great planet tip there in the brilliant sky, above the black battlements
of Porta San Paolo, and the black summit of the pyramid of Cestio,
above the tops of the cypresses which surround the tomb of Shelley. The
wind howled around the little house. Oh! that night in the asylum, where
his wife was dying, and the shrieks of the violent patients, and the
great planet!

Bending his head, heavy with grief, he happened to notice the paper
which the footman had placed in his pocket. It was a large black-edged
envelope. He opened it, and read the name and titles of his poor old
mother-in-law, the Marchesa Nene Seremin, and the simple words that
followed:

  “IN PEACE.”

He was as one turned to stone, holding the open, sheet in his hand, his
eyes fixed on the words. Then his hands began to tremble, and from his
hands trembling rose to his breast, growing more and more violent till a
storm of tears burst from his eyes.

He wept as many memories came to his mind, some sad, some sweet, brought
back to him by the poor dead woman. He wept with his eyes fixed upon the
crucifix, upon Christ, to whom in her last moments she surely yielded
herself up with the fullest confidence, like that other dear one, like
his Elisa; he wept in gratitude to her, who even from that unknown world
was kind to him, and softened his heart. He recalled the last words he
had heard her speak: “Then shall we never meet again?” In his prophetic
soul he smiled, turned to the open window, and gazed upon the great
planet.



CHAPTER VIII. JEANNE

A small band of workmen was coming towards Via della Marmorata, It
was about noon, and they had been at work on a house in course of
construction in Via Galvani. Seeing little groups of people standing
under the trees, other little groups at the doors, and people also at
the windows of the two last houses on the right and left, a workman, who
was following the others at a short distance, called out in a loud voice
to his companions:

“What a lot of fools for one knave!”

A big, bearded man, who was standing on the threshold of a small shop,
heard this, and, coming forward, accosted him threateningly.

“What’s that you say?”

The other stopped and stared at him, answering mockingly:

“Get out! Just what I please!”

The big man struck him a blow, and then the other workmen fell upon
the big man in defence of their comrade. Cries, oaths, the flashing of
knives, the shrieks of women from the windows, people rushing up from
the avenue, policemen and guards hurrying to the spot; in an instant the
whole street was in a black ferment, while the surging, howling mob was
pitching from right to left and from left to right, as if the street
were a ship in an angry sea. Two yards from the spot where the guards
and the workmen were struggling, it would have been difficult to
ascertain what had happened. The crowd was blind in its fury against
those who had insulted the Saint. Who these were they did not know; a
hundred discordant voices called for the blood of the big man, of the
workmen, of the guards, of one who had laughed, of one who had tried to
make peace, and of one who was using his elbows to work his way forward,
as well as of one who was trying to elbow his way out. The driver of
a tram on the San Paolo line, passing Via Galvani, saw the tumult,
and amused himself by calling out to a group of women, a hundred yards
beyond, that the Saint of Jenne had been discovered in Via Galvani. The
rumour ran along the avenues, full of chattering groups and isolated
onlookers, as fire along a trail of powder. The groups broke up, the
people rushed towards Via Galvani, questioning one another as they
ran. The isolated onlookers followed more slowly, more cautiously, and
presently saw many vexed faces returning. The Saint indeed! It was only
one of the usual false alarms. Some one saw people coming down in haste
from Sant’ Anselmo. Another report went round: they are from Villa
Mayda, they are sure to know! And people come from right and left, all
hastening towards the mouth of Via di Santa Sabina, as pigeons hasten
towards a handful of corn. The isolated onlookers follow, more slowly,
more cautiously. _Che_! Nonsense! At Villa Mayda nothing is known, and
they will not even answer any more questions, for they are exasperated
by the procession of people ringing the bell. A squad of _carabinieri_
comes upon the scene, and charges down Via Galvani in serried ranks.
Hisses are heard, and angry cries: “They know! They took him away!” “No”
 shouts a woman who sells fruit, and who was one of a group on the corner
of Via Alessandro Volta. “It was a _delegato_! It was the police!”
 The members of that group are less enraged with the _delegato_ and the
policemen than with the stupid bystanders, who might easily have thrown
_delegato_, policemen, cab, horse and driver into the river, and,
instead, had allowed themselves to be dispersed by a few words and a few
drops of water! The little old woman who had brought Benedetto to the
unfrocked monk was there also. They stop her as she is coming out of the
bakers’ shop, and now she is telling for the hundredth time the story of
the arrest, and crying, also for the hundredth time, as she tells of the
roses, of the pious words, and describes how very ill the Saint looked.
Her audience is moved also, and mumbles praises of the Saint. One
relates a miraculous cure he has effected, another tells of a second
cure; one mentions his way of speaking, which goes to the heart; another
praises his face, which is as good as a sermon; one speaks of his
poverty, and another tells of his charities, which are many, in spite of
his poverty. There they come from Via Galvani, _carabinieri_, policemen,
prisoners, and the crowd. One of the solitary onlookers, moved by
curiosity, approaches another spectator, and inquired what has occurred
in the district. The other is in complete ignorance. The two join
company, and question a citizen, who appears to have had enough of it;
to be about to leave. The citizen replies that up there at a villa near
Sant’ Anselmo lives a holy man, who is adored by the whole quarter,
because he visits the sick, healing many, and talking of religion better
than the priests themselves: so they call him “the Saint”; or rather,
“the Saint of Jenne,” because he performed many miracles in a town in
the hills, called Jenne. Why, even the newspapers talked of him! Last
night, while he was ministering to a poor sick man, the police carried
him off, no one knows why. It was reported that he had been set free
again, and had returned to the villa, where he was gardener, but at the
villa they deny that he is still there, and will give no explanation.
The people are excited, they want----

A tram was approaching. Some of the passengers made signs to the people,
who shouted and rushed towards the next stopping-place. The citizen
forsook his two questioners and also ran towards the spot, where a
crowd was rapidly gathering round the tram. The slow train of curious
spectators moved forward in the wake of the crowd; the two learned
that the tram had brought six citizens of the district, who--_motu
proprio_--had been to see the Chief of Police. The six alighted among
the crowd, which was impatient to hear, to know. They did not seem
happy, and answered the storm of questions by recommending the people to
be calm. They promised to speak presently, to tell all, but not there in
the open street. Many were already protesting, insults trembled on many
lips. He who appeared to be the leader of the six--a tobacconist--had
himself raised on the shoulders of his colleagues, and briefly harangued
the crowd.

“We have brought news,” he said. “We can assure you at once that the
Saint is not in prison.”

Applause burst forth, and cries of _viva_ and _bravo_.

“But we do not know exactly where he is,” the orator continued.

Howls and hisses! The orator was much dismayed, and, after a weak
attempt to speak, bent before the storm, and slid down from his living
rostrum. But another of the six, braver and more daring, climbed up and
retorted with violence. Then the howls and invectives were redoubled,
“They have fooled you!” the people shouted. “Idiots that you are! They
have put him in prison! In prison!” The cry spread; those at a distance
heard it, who had heard nothing else, and those who could hear neither
the cry nor anything else felt the dark, magnetic waves of wrath pierce
their breasts. Many howled “_Abbasso_! Down with him!” without knowing
whose fall they desired. And here are the _carabinieri’s_ big hats
again, and the policemen. In vain the six protest, shouting themselves
hoarse; the yells of “Down with him!” and “Death to him!” drown their
voices. A _delegato_ orders the bugler to sound the “disperse.” At the
third blast there is a general stampede. The deputation, led by the
tobacconist, flees also; but each member manages to drag after him in
his flight one or other of the less violent citizens, promising further
information, impossible to give in the open street, when they shall
have reached a fitting place. They take refuge in a yard, where building
material is stored, and which is surrounded by a wooden fence. Several
people follow them, filtering, one by one, through the opening in the
fence. Then the tobacconist, conscious that he hides in his breast
things fit to cause the downfall of the world, speaks, in the presence
of the pyramid of Caio Cestio, rising there indifferent, and waiting
for silence, for ruin, for the coming of the wild forests, when the
centuries shall have rolled away. The tobacconist speaks in measured
tones, surrounded by some thirty eager faces. He says the Saint of Jenne
Is certainly not in prison, that they do not know where he is, but that
they do, alas! know other things! Then he relates the other things! If
he had told them to the mob on leaving the tram, they would have torn
him to pieces. At the police-station they laugh at the Saint, and at
those who believe in him. They say he has a mistress, a very wealthy
lady; that he was examined by the Director-General of Police during the
night on some not over-pleasant matters, and that after the interview he
drove away from the ministry with his mistress, who was waiting for him
in a carriage.

“I would not believe this,” the tobacconist concluded, “but then--well,
now let him tell Ms story!”

One of the six, a man who kept a tavern at Santa Sabina, immediately
began to relate that his wife had heard a carriage stop near the tavern,
in the middle of the night; she had gone to the window, and had seen a
private carriage, with coachman and footman in tall hats. The footman,
standing at the carriage door, was helping some one to alight. The
person who got out had then walked past the window, going towards
Sant’ Anselmo, and she had recognised in him the Saint of Jenne. The
tavern-keeper added that he had not believed she had really recognised
him, for there was no moon, and it had rained until after eleven
o’clock, so the night must have been quite dark; therefore he had not
spoken. But when he had heard this story at the police-station, he had
been convinced. Besides, his wife could tell something more. She had
risen at six. Between seven and eight a cab had passed, going in the
direction of Sant’ Anselmo. Shortly afterwards the cab had returned, and
this time his wife had seen the Saint of Jenne inside it. She was ready
to swear to this.

At this point several of those present slipped out of the enclosure,
and hastened to whisper the news in the district. Thus it happened that
while the tobacconist, the tavern-keeper, and their friends were still
in the enclosure, people began to gather on the road to Santa Sabina,
and a large group started in the direction of the tavern, two policemen
following.

They entered the courtyard. The hostess was gossiping with a client,
under the pergola. They questioned her, and she related the story she
had told her husband. They cross-examined her, wishing to know this and
that, with many details. The woman ended by saying she did not remember
anything more. She would go and fetch something to drink, something to
refresh their throats and her memory. _Che_! Nonsense! They had not come
to drink, and they told her so, rudely. Two railway men, sitting at
a table under the neighbouring pergola, were annoyed by this
cross-examination. One of them called the hostess, and said to her, in a
loud voice:

“What is it they want to know? I myself saw the man they are after. He
left this morning at eight o’clock, with a girl, by the Pisa line.”

The crowd turned to him, questioning him now, and he swore, angrily,
that he was telling the truth. Their Saint had started at eight o’clock,
in a second-class carriage, with a handsome fair girl, who was very well
known! Then the people slowly slunk away. When they were all gone, a
policeman in plain clothes approached the railway man, and, in his turn,
asked him if he were quite sure of what he had said.

“I?” the man replied. “Sure? Curse them! I know nothing about it, but I
have quieted them, anyway; and they may go to the devil for all I care,
the silly fools! Now they will run as far as Civitavecchia at least, and
may the sea swallow them and their Saint too!”

“But then, where has he gone?” the hostess exclaimed.

“Go and look for him in the cellar,” the man answered. “The flask is
empty, and we are still thirsty.”

II. “If you go on like this,” Carlino exclaimed, hearing Jeanne order her
maid to bring her hat, gloves, and fur, “if you leave me alone all day
long, I swear to you we will return to Villa Diedo. There, at least, you
will not know where to go.” “I have arranged to send Chieco to you,” she
said. “To-day at two he is to play for the Queen, and then he will come
to you. Good-bye.”

And she went out without giving her brother time to reply. Her
_coupé_ was waiting for her. She gave the footman the address of the
Under-Secretary of the Interior, and entered the carriage.

It was Saturday. For several days Jeanne had not slept and had eaten
little. On Tuesday evening she had learned from Signora Albacina of the
plot against Piero, and how her husband, the Under-Secretary of State,
had been invited by the Minister to join him at the Ministry of the
Interior, where an interview was to take place with this man so
greatly feared and hated at the court of the Sovereign Pontiff, by
that non-concessionist faction which wished to rule at the Vatican. She
hastened to Noemi, got her to write the letter, and then telephoned to
a young secretary, her friend and admirer, begging him to come to the
Grand Hôtel. She charged him to find some one to deliver the letter, for
it was probably too late to send it to Villa Mayda. She knew also, for
Noemi had told her so, that Piero was feverish. She determined to
send her carriage to wait for him at the door of the Ministry of the
Interior, with the footman who had known Maironi at Villa Diedo. It was
imprudent, but what did it matter? Nothing mattered save that dear life.
The announcement of the death of Marchesa Nene had reached her that very
evening by the last post. She wished Piero to have it immediately,
that he might at once pray for the poor dead woman. It was strange, but
nevertheless true, that she could merge herself in him, forget herself,
her own incredulity, could feel that which he with his faith must feel
and desire. That same night the footman gave her an account of his
errand. He described Maironi as a ghost, a corpse. She was in
despair. She knew of the conflict between Professor Mayda and his
daughter-in-law, knew the Professor was often called away from Rome;
she considered him a great surgeon, but not a great doctor; she believed
that daring these absences the young lady would take no care of the sick
man, would show him no attentions. And she also knew about the three
days the Director-General had allowed him. Oh! it was not possible to
leave Piero at Villa Mayda! He must be removed! A hiding-place must be
found, where neither the police nor the _carabinieri_ would be able to
unearth him; where he would be well nursed, have every attention, and be
in the hands of a skilful physician.

She did not think of consulting the Selvas. Neither did she communicate
to Noemi her intention of sending the carriage to the Ministry of the
Interior. It did occur to her to propose that they take Piero to their
house, but the idea did not please her; the terms upon which Piero and
Giovanni Selva stood were too well known for his house to be a safe
hiding-place. Within this prudent consideration lurked a secret jealousy
of Noemi, a jealousy of a special nature, neither violent nor burning,
for Noemi did not love Piero with a love like hers, but perhaps--for
this very reason--even more painful, because she understood that Piero
might accept Noemi’s mystic sentiment; because she herself was incapable
of such a sentiment, and because she had no just cause of complaint
against her friend, no reason to reproach her, to give way to this
feeling.

Another possible hiding-place occurred to her, the house of an elderly
senator with whom she was acquainted, and who had been an intimate
friend of her father’s. He was very religious, and full of affectionate
admiration for Maironi. She held fast to this idea. But if she intended
appealing to the Senator, asking of him no less a favour than to take
into his house a sick man threatened with arrest, she must at least
offer some explanation of her zeal. She did not figure among Piero’s
disciples, and the Senator was in complete ignorance of the past. But he
knew Noemi, for he was the old gentleman with the white hair and the red
face who had been present at the meeting in Via della Vite, and Noemi
and he often met in the “Catacombs.” Jeanne wrote to him at once,
stating that she did so in the name of her friend Noemi, who did not
dare to come forward. She described the state of Maironi’s health,
and the circumstances which, for this reason, rendered it advisable to
remove him from Villa Mayda; she did not, however, allude to the danger
of arrest. She explained her friend’s request to him, and added that the
invalid’s condition rendered the matter most urgent. Should the Senator
consent, she begged him to give the bearer of her note his card, with a
word or two of invitation for Maironi. She ended by asking him to
grant her an interview at the Senate sometime during the day, and by
requesting him, in the meantime, not to mention the matter to any one.
Then she wrote to Noemi, informing her of what she had done in her name,
and charging her to persuade her brother-in-law--in case the Senator
sent his card--to take a carriage and carry the invitation to Villa
Mayda at once. He must persuade Maironi to accept the offer, and the
Professor to allow him to go, laying before them the political reasons
for taking this step. When she had written these two letters she had an
attack of prostration, with symptoms of such a serious nature that the
maid was alarmed. She did not, however, call Carlino, for Jeanne found
strength to forbid this absolutely, but she sent for the doctor without
telling her mistress she had done so. The doctor himself was alarmed.
During his visits to Carlino he had noticed that she was highly strung,
but he had never before seen her in such a condition. She was livid,
perfectly stiff, and unable to speak. The attack lasted until six
o’clock in the morning, the first sign of improvement being when
Jeanne inquired what time it was. The maid, accustomed to these attacks
whispered to the doctor: “It is passing,” and then said aloud:

“Six o’clock, Signora.”

The words seemed to have a miraculous effect. Jeanne, whom they had
placed on the bed without undressing her, sat up, rather dazed it is
true, but quite mistress of her limbs and her voice. She inquired for
Carlino immediately and anxiously. Carlino was asleep; he had not heard
anything, and knew nothing of the attack. She breathed more freely, and
said to the doctor, with a smile:

“Now I shall drive you away.”

She was not satisfied until the doctor had departed. Then the maid
prepared to undress her, whereupon Jeanne first called her a stupid, and
then apologised almost tearfully.

“Oh!” said the girl. “You wish to send off those letters first! Yes,
yes, do send them off, those horrid letters which did you so much harm!”

Jeanne gave her a kiss. The girl adored her, and she herself was fond of
her, treating her sometimes like a dear, silly little sister.

She sealed the two letters, sent the maid to call the footman, and gave
him his instructions. He was to take a cab and drive to senator----‘s
house, 40 Via della Polveriera, present the letter addressed to the
Senator, and wait for an answer. If they told him there was no answer he
was to return to the Grand Hôtel and report; but if the Senator gave him
a note, he was to take it to Casa Selva, in Via Arenula, with the other
letter. An hour later the servant returned, and reported that he had
executed the orders. Two hours later a note from the Senator announced
to Jeanne that Benedetto was already at his house. Later on in the
forenoon Noemi came. Jeanne was sleeping at last. Noemi waited for her
to awake, and then told her that her brother-in-law had gone to Villa
Mayda without delay. He had not found the Professor, who had left for
Naples the night before at half-past twelve. Maironi had accepted the
Senator’s invitation at once. Knowing her temperament, Giovanni had
judged it wiser not to let young Signora Mayda know what was going on.
He had found Maironi very weak, not feverish, however, so he felt sure
the drive from the Aventine to Via della Polveriera had not harmed him.
Besides, that kind gardener, his eyes full of tears, had wrapped him up
warmly in a heavy blanket. Perhaps Jeanne was mistaken, but it seemed
to her that although Noemi displayed much interest in speaking of Piero,
much consideration for Jeanne’s feelings, she spoke to her in a tone
differing from her former tone; as a friend who has not changed her
language, but whose heart has become estranged. Had she perhaps wished
Piero to go to Casa Selva? Probably.

Ever since that Wednesday morning she had been constantly rushing about.
At Palazza Madama they smiled at a certain much respected colleague with
white hair and a red face, who received daily visits in the _sala dei
telegrammi_ from a lady, both handsome and fashionable. From the Senate
Jeanne would rush to the Grand Hôtel to give Carlino his medicine; from
the Grand Hôtel she would hasten to Via Arenula to give or receive news,
or to Via Tre Pile to see the Senator’s doctor, who was attending Piero.
Errands in the daytime, and tears at night! Tears of anguish for him who
was being wasted by a hidden incurable disease, and again consumed by
fever after four-and-twenty hours of perfect freedom from it. Other
tears also, other bitter tears for the accusations which had been spread
among Piero’s friends and disciples, and which not all of them had
rejected. Noemi told her these things. The accusations concerning the
presumed love affairs of Piero at Jenne were not credited, but on the
other hand there were many who believed he had secret relations with a
married woman in Rome, with whose name, however, no one was acquainted.
It was not believed that these relations were of the guilty nature
implied by the slanderers. The most faithful--and they were few in
number, did not even credit the existence of an ideal bond. Once
when Noemi was relating to Jeanne certain defections, certain acts of
coldness, she suddenly burst into tears. Jeanne shuddered and frowned;
but presently she saw in her friend’s eyes a look so full of despair, of
supplication, that, passing from angry jealousy to an impulse of unheard
of affection, she opened her arms to her, and clasped her to her heart.
This had happened on the Friday evening the last of the three days by
the end of which Maironi was to leave Rome. Towards noon on Saturday
Jeanne received a note from Signora Albacina. The wife of the
Under-Secretary of State was expecting Jeanne at her own home at two
o’clock. It was in consequence of this invitation that Jeanne drove away
shortly before two, regardless of Carlino’s protests.

As soon as the carriage had started Jeanne raised her veil and took the
note from her muff, bending her lovely pale face over it, gazing at it,
but not reading it or studying the sense, clear and simple enough, of
the words it contained. She was wondering what Signora Albacina could
have to tell her; imagining all sorts of impossible things. Had they
decided to leave Maironi alone? Or had the police discovered his
dwelling-place and were they about to arrest him?

“It will surely be the worst!” Jeanne said to herself. “_Ah, Dio!_”

And, forgetting herself for a moment, she raised her muff to her face,
and pressed it to her forehead. Ah, perhaps not! Perhaps not! Raising
her head quickly she looked out to see if any one had noticed her. The
carriage was moving rapidly, silently, on its rubber tires. She returned
to her conjectures, losing herself in them to such an extent that she
did not notice that the carriage had stopped until the footman opened the
door.

Signora Albacina met her on the stairs, ready to go out. Jeanne must
come with her at once. At once? And where were they to go? Yes, at once,
at once, and in Jeanne’s carriage, because Signora Albacina could not
have her own at the present moment. She herself gave the address to
the coachman, an address with which Jeanne was not familiar. She would
explain on the way. The carriage started off once more.

Ah! Signora Albacina had forgotten her visiting-cards! She stopped the
carriage, but, looking at her watch, saw they would lose too much time.
Drive on! Jeanne was trembling with impatience. Well? Well? Where
were they going? _Ecco!_ They were going to see Cardinal----! Jeanne
shuddered. To see Cardinal----? This Cardinal had the reputation of
being one of the fiercest non-concessionists. Signora Albacina really
must see him, and a quarter of an hour later she might not find him.
Ah, what a complicated affair! She could not explain everything in a
few words. The object of the visit was, of course, still that for which
Donna Rosetta Albacina had laboured for three days, her ostensible
reason for so doing being the interest she took in the ideas and the
person of the Saint of Jenne; her real reason being the pleasure she
took in managing an intrigue, without scruples of conscience. She had
taken a fancy to Jeanne at Vena di Fonte Alta, but knew nothing of her
past. She suspected her of being in love with the Saint, but believed
hers to be a mystic love, born on hearing him speak in the “Catacombs”
 of Via della Vite. She was convinced that Jeanne had had a hand in his
disappearance from Villa Mayda, that she knew his hiding-place, and did
not wish to disclose it, having promised secrecy to his friends. But
Jeanne had little confidence in the lady, who seemed to her frivolous,
and who was--this she could not forget--the wife of a powerful enemy,
and she had repeatedly assured her that she did not know. Jeanne’s want
of confidence offended her a little because really she, Donna Rosetta,
wife of an Excellency, was risking much; but after all her vanity was
staked on this game, in which the winnings were the permanent freedom of
the Saint of Jenne in Rome, and she was determined to go on with it.

A truly complicated affair then! In the meantime, up to Friday night
the police had not discovered the Saint’s place of refuge. Ah, yes! they
believed he was in Rome. Here Donna Rosetta paused, hoping Jeanne would
speak. Not a word. She admitted, continuing her discourse, that
her husband might have some suspicion of the intrigue which she was
concealing from him, that, perhaps, he was not perfectly sincere with
her. This, however, was not likely. When her husband was not speaking
quite sincerely to her, she, Donna Rosetta, could feel it in the air.
As to that, she understood the others also. Donna Rosetta was for once
mistaken concerning her husband. Ever since Wednesday night they had
known at Palazzo Braschi where Maironi was, but he would not tell her
so, for the Under-Secretary of State had still less confidence in his
wife than Jeanne herself.

But the most important news came from the Vatican. The Pope had been
informed of what had taken place in Via della Marmorata, and His
Holiness was much irritated against the Government, for they had given
him to understand that the Government had lent itself, in this matter,
to the hatred of the Freemasons against a man esteemed by the Pope
himself. There was disunion among those about the Pope. The more
fanatical of the non-concessionists, opponents of the Cardinal Secretary
of State, warmly supported the nomination to the archepiscopal see of
Turin, so displeasing to the Quirinal, and disapproved of the secret
intrigues with the Italian Government. According to their leader, who
was the very eminent personage Donna Rosetta now proposed calling upon,
other measures should be adopted to liberate the Holy Father from the
pestiferous influence of a rationalist varnished over with mysticism.
These things Donna Rosetta had learned from the Abbé Marinier, who
smiled knowingly about them in her salon. It was inconceivable how
many poisonous accusations were being sown broadcast with the greatest
cunning by the non-concessionists all united against this poor devil
of a mystical rationalist, at whom the Abbé smiled no less than at his
enemies!

There was news also from the Ministry of the Interior. What news? Donna
Rosetta was about to answer when the carriage stopped before a large
convent, The Cardinal lived here. Donna Rosetta alighted alone. Jeanne’s
presence was not necessary at this interview; indeed, it would be
inopportune. It would be necessary somewhere else. Jeanne waited in the
carriage, distressed at not having as yet discovered the object of this
visit, in spite of Donna Rosetta’s flow of words. Five minutes, ten
minutes, passed. Jeanne drew herself up out of the corner where she
had leaned, absorbed in her thoughts. She watched the entrance to the
convent to see if Donna Rosetta were not coming. Rare wayfarers, passing
slowly along the quiet street, looked into the carriage. It seemed to
Jeanne almost an offence that there were people who could be so calm.
Ah, God! The doctor had promised to send her a bulletin to the Grand
Hôtel at seven o’clock. It was not yet three. More than four hours to
wait. And what would the bulletin say? She bit her lips, stifling a sob
in her throat. Ah! here is Donna Rosetta at last. The footman opens the
door, she gives him an order:

“Palazzo Braschi!” As she enters the carriage she casts a little book
at her feet, and, instead of speaking, rubs her lips vehemently with her
perfumed handkerchief. Finally she says, with a shudder, that she was
obliged to kiss the Cardinal’s hand, and that it was anything but clean.
But at any rate the visit was successful. Ah, if her husband only knew!
She had played a really horrible part. The Cardinal was the very one
who had once met Giovanni Selva in the library of Santa Scolastica at
Subiaco, and had assailed him, telling him he was a profaner of the
sacred walls, and promising him that he would most certainly go to hell,
or even further down! Donna Rosetta had fanned his fire, in order to
break up the secret accord between the Vatican and Palazzo Braschi. She
had told him that the religious _haute_ of Turin much desired the
man chosen by the Vatican, and obnoxious to the Quirinal. The wily
Cardinal--whom she had once met in the salon of a French prelate--had
at first answered only, with that accent of his, neither French nor
Italian:

_“C’est vous qui me dites ça? C’est vous qui me dites ça?”_

In fact, Donna Rosetta had replied, laughing:

_“Oh c’est énorme, je le sais!”_

It was a speech which might cost her husband his title of Excellency.
But then “the most eminent one” had as good as promised her that the
desires of the Turin _haute_ should be satisfied.

_“Ce sera lui, ce sera lui!”_ Finally he had said to her:

_“Comment donc, madame, avez-vous épousé un francmaçon? Un des pires,
aussi! Un des pires! Faites lui lire cela!”_

And he had given her a little book on the doctrines of hell and the
inevitable damnation of Freemasons. It was this little book she had cast
at her feet on entering the carriage.

“Fancy my husband reading that rubbish!” she said.

But what was all this to Jeanne? Jeanne was impatient to hear the news
from the Ministry of the Interior. And now, whom were they going to see?
The Minister, or the Under-Secretary of State?

They were going to see the Under-Secretary of State, going to see Donna
Rosetta’s husband. Up to the present moment Donna Rosetta had kept
silent concerning the purpose and object of this visit, in order that
Jeanne might not have time to draw back or to prepare herself too
carefully. The Right Honourable Albacina was aware of his wife’s
friendship for Signora Dessalle as well as of Signora Dessalle’s
friendship for the Selvas, who in their turn were so devoted to Maironi.
He had told his wife that he wished to speak with this lady, for reasons
of his own, which he did not intend to reveal. He should expect her at
the Ministry of the Interior soon after three o’clock. She, his wife,
might come with her if she liked, but she could not be present at the
interview. Jeanne’s first movement on hearing this was an exclamation of
refusal. Donna Rosetta, however, had little difficulty in persuading her
to change her mind. She could not tell what projects her husband had in
his mind, she did not know; but in her opinion it would be madness not
to go, not to listen, because there could be no danger, and Jeanne need
not commit herself in any way. Jeanne yielded, although the silence
Signora Albacina had maintained up to the last moment in a matter of
such importance made her tremble. She felt like an invalid to whom after
much frivolous talk the visit of a celebrated surgeon is announced, who
is coming to examine the patient.

“I would not advise you to go alone,” Signora Albacina concluded,
smiling. “The ushers saw many things in the times of certain ministers
and their deputies! But I am going with you, and I am well known at the
Ministry of the Interior! Besides, the things that used to happen do not
happen now!”

The Right Honourable Albacina was with the Minister. A deputy, who had
just been requested to enter, recognised Donna Rosetta, and offered to
announce her to her husband. He had only a word or two to say, and would
come out at once. Indeed, in about five minutes the deputy reappeared
with Albacina, who begged Jeanne to enter the Minister’s room with
him. The two ladies had not expected this, and Donna Rosetta asked her
husband if it were not he himself who wished to speak with Jeanne.
His Excellency did not allow himself to be disturbed for so little; he
dismissed his wife in a summary manner, and hurried Signora Dessalle,
taken by surprise, into the Minister’s presence. When he presented her
to his superior, she was embarrassed and almost angry.

The Minister received her with the most respectful courtesy, with the
manner of a stern man, who honours woman, but keeps her at a distance.
He had known the banker Dessalle, Jeanne’s father, and immediately spoke
of him:

“A man,” he said, “who had much gold in his coffers, but the purest
gold of all in his conscience!” He added that the memory of this man had
encouraged him to speak with her about a very delicate matter. When he
had spoken those words, or rather while he was speaking them, Jeanne
felt sure that this man knew the past. She could not refrain from
glancing stealthily at the Under-Secretary. She read the same knowledge
in his eyes, but the Under-Secretary’s expression troubled her and
irritated her, while the Minister’s gaze seemed to open a paternal heart
to her. The Minister introduced the topic by speaking of Giovanni Selva,
whom he freely praised. He expressed regret that he had no personal
acquaintance with him. He said he was aware that Jeanne was a friend of
the Selvas. He must beg her to persuade her friends to undertake a
most important mission to another person. And then he spoke of Maironi,
always careful to place the Selvas between Maironi and Jeanne, and
careful to avoid allusion to any possible direct communication between
them. Jeanne listened, striving to pay close attention to his words,
to prepare a prudent and pertinent answer, and ever conscious of the
discomfort the presence of this little Mephistopheles of an Albacina
caused her. The Minister’s discourse did not prove to be what she had
expected; more favourable perhaps, but more embarrassing. He told her he
was not speaking as the Minister, but as a friend; that he did not wish
to hide things from her; that certain shadows had had absolutely no
substance; that neither ministers, nor magistrates, nor police-agents,
had any right to interfere with Signor Maironi, who was perfectly free
to do as he liked, and had nothing to fear from the laws of his country.
He was, he said, convinced of the inanity of certain accusations which
had been brought against him out of religious animosity. He felt much
sympathy for Signor Maironi’s religious views, and much esteem for his
proposed apostolate, but Signor Selva must really convince him of the
wisdom of leaving Rome for some time at least, and this in the interest
of his apostolate itself; for his religious antagonists in Rome were
waging war against him so violently, dealing him such slanderous
blows, that very soon he must inevitably find himself entirely without
disciples. Here the Minister, thinking to please Jeanne, assured her
of his own interest in religion. What a tragic illusion! she thought,
bitterly. He trusted that in the near future Signor Maironi would be
able to exert his influence freely in a very high place; there were many
signs of an imminent transformation, of an imminent misfortune to befall
the non-concessionists; but, for the moment, it would be more prudent
for him to disappear. This was the friendly but pressing advice which
they desired to convey to him through his distinguished friend. Would
Signora Dessalle consent to speak to that distinguished friend?

Jeanne trembled. Could she trust him? Would she be revealing things
which perhaps these two did not know, and were trying to find out from
her? Involuntarily she glanced at the Undersecretary, and her eyes spoke
so plainly that he could not avoid taking a decisive step.

“Signora,” he said, with his habitual sarcastic smile, “I see that you
do not want rue here. My presence is not necessary, and I will go, in
obedience to your wish; it is a just wish, and one easily explained.”

Jeanne blushed, and he noticed it, and was pleased at having succeeded
in wounding her by the covert allusion contained in his last words, and,
above all, in his malicious smile.

“Nevertheless,” he added, still smiling in the same way, “I cannot leave
without assuring you, on my honour, that my wife is a most loyal friend
to you; that she has never uttered an indiscreet word to me concerning
you, as I myself have never been guilty of indiscretion when discussing
the same subject with my wife.”

Having thus taken his revenge, the little man departed, leaving Jeanne
greatly agitated. Good God! Did they really intend to oblige her to
speak to Piero? Did they suppose she saw him? Did these men also believe
that Piero’s saintliness was a lie? By an effort she composed herself,
seeking help in the Minister’s grave, sad, and respectful gaze.

“I will speak to Signor Giovanni” she said. “But I believe,” she added
hesitatingly, “that Signor Maironi is ill, and not able to travel.”

When she uttered Maironi’s name flames rushed to her face. She felt them
far hotter than they appeared, but the Minister noticed them, and came
to her aid.

“Perhaps, Signora,” he said, “you fear to compromise your friends the
Selvas. Do not fear this. I once more repeat that Signor Maironi has
nothing to fear from any quarter, and I will add that we know all about
him. We know he is in Rome, that he is staying--but only for a few hours
longer--in the house of a senator in Via della Polveriera. We know he is
ill, but that he is able to travel. You may even tell Signor Selva that,
if he desire it, I will request my colleague, the Minister of Public
Works, to place a reserved compartment at Signor Maironi’s service.”

Jeanne, trembling violently, was about to interrupt him, to exclaim,
“Only for a few hours longer?” but, controlling herself with difficulty,
she took leave of the Minister, anxious to hasten to the Senate, to
know!

As he accompanied her to the door the Minister said:

“Perhaps Signor Selva is unaware that the Senator is expecting visitors,
relations I believe, and so will not be able to keep Signor Maironi
any longer. He much regrets this. What a fine man he is! We are old
friends.”

Jeanne shuddered, fearing to have guessed the truth. They had been
scheming to oblige the Senator to send Piero away; they were indeed
pushing him out of Rome! But was it possible the Senator had allowed
himself to be persuaded? To drive out an invalid in his condition! She
entered her _coupé_ and drove to Palazza Madama, where she inquired
for the Senator. He was not there. The usher who gave her this answer
appeared rather embarrassed. Was he acting under orders? Not daring to
insist, she left her card, with a request that the Senator would call at
the Grand Hôtel before dinner. She herself started for the Grand Hôtel,
her heart quivering and groaning, the point of her shoe beating upon the
little book against Freemasonry, which Donna Rosetta had forgotten. She
would have liked the two sorrels to fly. It was a quarter to five, and
at half-past four it was daily her duty to prepare Carlino’s medicine.



III.
Half an hour before she reached the Grand Hôtel Giovanni and Maria Selva
arrived there. Young di Leynì arrived at the same time. He also had come
to inquire for Signora Dessalle, and expressed his satisfaction at this
meeting; but he was far from cheerful.

Upon learning that Signora Dessalle was out, the three visitors asked to
be allowed to wait for her in the parlour. The Selvas seemed even less
cheerful than di Leynì.

After a brief silence Maria observed that it was already a quarter past
four, therefore Jeanne would not be long, for every day at half-past
four she was engaged with her brother. Di Leynì begged that they would
present him to her on her arrival. He had a message for her, but was not
acquainted with her. The message, indeed, concerned all of Benedetto’s
friends, therefore concerned the Selvas also. Maria trembled.

“A message from him?” she asked eagerly. “A message from Benedetto?”

Di Leynì looked at her, astonished at her eagerness, and hesitated
slightly before answering. No, it was not from Benedetto, but it
concerned him. As Signora Dessalle might come in at any moment, and as
the matter was rather lengthy, rather complicated, he judged it as
well not to begin discussing it until she arrived. Then he inquired,
innocently, how this Signora Dessalle had come to take such an interest
in Benedetto’s fate. She had never been seen at the meetings in Via
della Vite, and he had never even heard her name mentioned.

“But what makes you think she does take an interest in his fate?” said
Maria.

“Because, you see,” di Leyni answered, “I have a message for her which
is about him.”

Di Leyni, whose devotion to Benedetto was boundless, had never credited
the scandalous rumours which had been spread concerning him; he had
repulsed them with passionate indignation. He would not admit that his
master could harbour either a guilty or an ideal love. In asking that
question, he could have had no idea that a relation of a shameful nature
had existed between Jeanne and Benedetto. Giovanni changed the subject
by remarking that Signora Dessalle might not come in for some time, and
that, therefore, di Leyni had better speak.

Di Leyni spoke.

He had been to see Benedetto. On reaching Via della Polveriera from San
Pietro in Vincoli, he had recognised two policemen in plain clothes,
who were walking up and down. He might have been mistaken, or this might
have happened by chance. At any rate it was something to take note of.
As soon as he entered the house the Senator had sent to beg him to come
into his study. There, speaking with much affability but with manifest
embarrassment, he had told him that he was glad to see a friend of his
dear guest’s at that special moment; that Benedetto was fortunately free
from fever, and, in his opinion, on the road to recovery. A telegram, he
said, had just announced to him that his old sister was to arrive very
shortly, that his apartment contained only one bedroom besides his own
and the one occupied by the servant; that he could not possibly send his
sister to an hotel, neither could he telegraph her to delay her visit,
for she had already started; therefore--

The Senator had allowed di Leynì to complete the sentence for himself.
Di Leynì who, with a few other faithful ones, was aware of the secret
plots against Benedetto, was amazed. What should he answer? That the
Senator alone was master in his own house? That was, perhaps, the only
answer possible. Di Leynì had ventured, with much circumspection, to
express his fear that a move might prove fatal to the sick man. The
Senator was convinced of the contrary. He believed a change of air would
greatly benefit him. He had not as yet been able to consult the doctor,
but he had no doubt of this. He suggested Sorrento. As di Leynì did
not know what to say, and did not move, the Senator had dismissed him,
begging him to go, in his name, to the Grand Hôtel, and see Signora
Dessalle, at whose request he had received Benedetto into his house,
and desire her to arrange matters, for his sister would arrive that same
evening before eleven o’clock.

Then di Leynì had gone in to see Benedetto. Good God! in what a state
he had found him! Without fever, perhaps, but with the appearance of a
dying man.

The young man’s eyes were full of tears as he told of it. Benedetto did
not know he would be obliged to leave. He had spoken of it to him as of
something not yet certain but possible. Benedetto had looked at him
in silence, as if to read in his soul, and then had questioned, with a
smile: “Must I go to prison?” Then di Leynì repented of not having at
once told the whole truth to a man so strong and serene in God, and he
repeated to him all the Senator had said.

“He took my hand,” the young man continued, his voice broken with
emotion, “and while he held it and caressed it, he said these precise
words: ‘I will not leave Rome. Do you wish me to come and die in your
house?’ I was so deeply moved that I had not the strength to answer, for
indeed I am not sure that he is not really in danger of arrest; perhaps
this incredible act of the Senator’s may be a pretext to prevent the
arrest taking place in his house. And how could he be carried to another
place of safety, with the police watching for him? I embraced him,
murmured a few meaningless words, and hastened away; hastened here to
speak to this Signora Dessalle. Perhaps she will come and persuade the
Senator.”

The Selvas had often interrupted di Leyni with exclamations of surprise
and indignation. When he had finished his recital, they were speechless
and amazed. The first to break the silence was Signora Maria.

“If Jeanne would only come!” she said softly.

She made an imperceptible sign to her husband, and proposed that they
both go and see if by any chance she had returned and they had not
been informed. While they were crossing the Jardin d’Hiver she said she
thought di Leyni should be told who Jeanne really was. Signora Dessalle
had not yet returned. Giovanni took the young man aside, and spoke to
him in a low tone. Maria, who was watching him, saw him tremble and turn
pale, his eyes dilate; saw him, in his turn, speak, asking something.
Jeanne Dessalle entered hurriedly, smiling.

The porter had given her a note from a doctor. It said:

“I do not expect to be able to come back. This morning he was without
fever. Let us hope the attack may not return.”

Jeanne saw at once that there was no question of removing the patient.
She embraced Maria and shook hands with Selva, who presented di Leyni.
Then she apologised to them all because she was obliged to leave them
for five minutes. Her brother was waiting for her. As soon as she had
left the room, promising to return at once, di Leynì drew Selva aside
once more. Maria saw the look of anxiety he had worn before reappear on
his face, saw that he was asking many questions, and that her husband’s
answers seemed to be calming him. At last she saw her husband place
his hands on the young man’s shoulders, and say something to him,
she believed she knew what; it was something secret, not yet known to
Jeanne. She saw emotion and profound reverence in the young man’s eyes.

A waiter came to say that Signora Dessalle was waiting for them in her
apartment. There was much movement in the hotel. The rustling of long
skirts, the muffled beat of footsteps mingled on the carpets of the
corridors; subdued foreign voices, gay, plaintive, flattering or
indifferent, came and went; the lifts were being taken by storm. Each
member of the little silent group experienced the same bitter sense
of all this indifferent worldliness. Jeanne was in her salon next to
Carlino’s room, where he was accompanying Chieco’s violoncello on the
piano. She came forward to meet her friends with a smile that, combined
with the music--antique Italian music, simple and peaceful--made their
hearts ache. She seemed rather surprised to see di Leynì, from whom she
had not expected a visit. She had really asked them to come up stairs
that they might speak more freely, but she told them she had wished to
offer them a little of Chieco’s music, and now he would not allow the
door to remain open. However, one could hear very well with the door
closed. Giovanni at once informed her that the Cavaliere di Leynì had a
message for her from, the Senator.

“While you are speaking together we will listen to the music,” he said.

He and his wife stepped aside from Jeanne, who had turned pale, and who,
in spite of her violent effort to do so, could not entirely conceal her
impatience to hear this message. Di Leynì sat down beside her, and began
to speak in a low tone.

The violoncello and the piano were jesting together on a pastoral theme,
full of caresses and of simple and lively tenderness. Maria could not
refrain from murmuring, “_Dio!_ Poor woman!” and her husband could
not refrain from following, on Jeanne’s face, the painful words her
companion was speaking to the sound of this tender and lively music.
He watched the young man’s face also, who, while speaking to the lady,
often looked towards him as if to express his grief and to ask for
advice. Jeanne listened to him, her eyes fixed on the ground. When he
had finished she raised to the Selvas those great eyes of hers, so full
of pitiful distress. She looked from one to the other saying mutely,
involuntarily, “You know?” The sad eyes of both husband and wife
replied, “Yes, we know!” There came a loud outburst of joyous music.
Maria took advantage of this to murmur to her husband:

“Do you think he told her what he said about wishing to die in Rome?”

Her husband answered that it would be best for her to know, that he
hoped he had told her. Jeanne let her gaze rest on the door whence came
the sound of the music. She waited a moment, and then signed to the
Selvas to approach. She said, her voice quite firm, that she felt the
Senator should have informed them, that she did not understand why he
had appealed to her. They must now arrange what was to be done.

The music ceased. They could hear Carlino and Chieco talking. Di Leynì,
who occupied bachelor’s quarters on the Sant’ Onofrio hillside, offered
them eagerly. But what about the warrant? What if they were only waiting
to serve it until Benedetto should have left the Senator’s house?

Jeanne calmly denied the possibility of an arrest. The Selvas looked at
her, full of admiration for that forced calm. For some time past Jeanne
had suspected that they were acquainted with Benedetto’s real name.
Was it then possible that Noemi (though, indeed, she had admonished her
often enough) should never have allowed a word to escape her? A moment
before, when they had exchanged those silent and sorrowful glances, the
Selvas and Jeanne had understood one another, Giovanni and his wife saw
that if Jeanne were thus heroically controlling herself it was not on
their account, but on di Leynì’s account. And now, after Giovanni’s
words, di Leynì himself knew everything! It seemed to them they had
almost been guilty of treason.

They were convinced that Jeanne must have reasons of which they were
ignorant for saying she did not believe in the possibility of an
arrest. They remarked that Benedetto might now accept their proffered
hospitality. Jeanne was quick to remind them that Benedetto himself had
expressed a desire, and that the Sant’ Onofrio hillside would seem more
suitable than the Via Arenula as the residence of an invalid who needed
quiet. Nevertheless, it was her opinion that they could not possibly
allow him to be moved without the doctor’s express permission. All were
of one mind on this point. The Selvas charged di Leynì to inform the
Senator that Benedetto’s friends would find him another place of refuge,
but only on condition that the physician in attendance gave a written
permission to remove him. While Giovanni was talking, a noisy _allegro_
burst from the piano in the next room, an _allegro_ all sobs and cries.
He ceased speaking, not wishing to raise his voice too high, and let
the rush of sad music pass. And sad was the word which his eyes and the
young man’s eyes uttered to each other, while their lips were silent.

Di Leynì had no time to lose, and so took his leave. He disliked going
alone; he could have wished to appear before the Senator with some one
of Benedetto’s friends whose presence would intimidate him a little, for
his conduct was inexplicable.

Giovanni muttered something about the vice-presidency of the Senate,
to which that old man aspired, and which he would not obtain. It is
a bitter grief to discover such sordid motives where they are least
expected! Maria rose and offered to accompany di Leynì.

“You will stay?” Jeanne asked Giovanni anxiously. Her tone said, “You
must stay!” Selva said that he had, indeed, intended to remain, and the
expression of his voice, of his face, was such as to acquaint Jeanne
with the fact that sad words, not yet spoken, were weighing on his
heart. Oh! thought Jeanne, what if Chieco should leave now, and Carlino
call? Then it would not be possible for us to speak together! For she
also had something to say to Selva. She must repeat the Minister’s
discourse to him. The two musicians had once more ceased playing, and
were talking. Jeanne knocked softly on the door, and blew a few gay
words against it:

“_Bravi!_ Have you finished already?”

“No, pretty one,” Chieco answered from the other side. “So much the
worse for you if you are bored!”

He sent forth a fiendish whistle, fit to pierce a hole in the door.
Jeanne clapped her hands. The piano and the violoncello attacked a
solemn _andante_.

She turned to Selva, who was coming in again after having accompanied
his wife into the corridor, in order to tell her to telegraph to Don
Clemente. She went towards him with clasped hands, her eyes full of
tears.

“Selva,” she murmured in a stifled voice, “you know everything now. I
cannot hide my feelings from you. Is there something worse? Tell me the
truth.”

Selva took her hands and pressed them in silence, while the violoncello
answered for him, bitterly and sadly: “Weep, weep, for there is no fate
like thy fate of love and of grief.” He pressed the poor icy hands,
unable to speak. He saw clearly di Leynì had not dared to repeat the
terrible words to her--“I will come and die in your house.” It was his
lot to deal her the first blow.

“My dear,” he said, gently and paternally, “did he not tell you at the
Sacro Speco that he would call you to him in a solemn hour? The hour is
come, he calls you.”

Jeanne started violently. She did not believe she had heard aright.

“Oh, how is this? No!” she exclaimed.

Then, as Selva continued silent, with the same pity in his eyes, a flash
shot through her heart. “Ah!” she cried, and her whole being went out in
mute and agonized questioning. Selva pressed her hands still harder, his
tightly closed lips twitched, and a suppressed sob wrung his breast. She
said never a word, but would have fallen had not his hands upheld her.
He supported her, and then led her to a seat,

“At once?” she said. “At once? Is it imminent?”

“No. No. He wishes to see you to-morrow. He believes it will be
to-morrow, but he may be mistaken. Let us hope he is mistaken,”

“My God, Selva! But the doctor writes that he has no fever!”

Selva made the gesture of one who is obliged to admit the presence of a
misfortune without understanding it. The music was silent, he spoke in
subdued tones. Benedetto had written to him. The doctor had found him
free from fever, but he himself foresaw a fresh attack, after which
the end would come. God was granting him the blessing of a sweet and
peaceful respite. He had a favour to ask of Selva. He was aware that
Signora Dessalle, a friend of Signorina Noemi’s, was in Rome. He had
promised this lady, before an alter at the Sacro Speco, to call her to
him before his death, that they might speak together. Probably Signorina
Noemi would be able to explain the reason of this to him.

Selva paused; he had the letter in his pocket, and began searching for
it. Jeanne saw his movement, and was seized with convulsive shuddering.
“No, no,” said he. “I repeat he may be mistaken.”

He waited for her to become calm, and then, instead of taking the letter
from his pocket, he repeated the last part of it by heart:

“The attack will return this evening or in the night; to-morrow night,
or the day after to-morrow in the morning, the end will come. I wish to
see Signora Dessalle to-morrow, to speak a word to her in the name of
the Lord, to whom I am going. I asked the Senator, a few moments ago,
to arrange this meeting for me, but he found excuses for not doing so.
Therefore I appeal to you.”

Jeanne had covered her face with her hands and was speechless. Selva
thought it best to say something hopeful. Perhaps the attack would not
return; perhaps the fever was checked. She shook her head violently, and
he did not dare to insist. Suddenly she fancied she heard Chieco saying
good-bye. She shuddered, and removed her hands from her face, which was
ghostly, under her disordered hair. But, instead, the first gay notes of
the _Curricolo Napoletano_ burst forth; that was the piece Chieco
always played last. She started to her feet, and spoke convulsively,
tearlessly.

“Selva, I know Piero is dying, I know he is not mistaken. If possible
make him stay where he is. Bring his friends to him--swear to me that
you will bring his friends to him, that he may have that comfort! Tell
them about me, all about me; tell them the truth. Tell them how pure,
how holy Piero really is! I will wait here, I will not stir. When he
calls me I will come, as you shall direct me. I am strong. See, I am no
longer crying! Telegraph to Don Clemente that his disciple is dying, and
that he must come. Let us do all we can. It is late. Go now. You, in one
way or another, will see Piero to-night. Tell him----”

At this point a spasm of grief checked her words. Chieco came in,
whistling, and beating one hand against the other in his own peculiar
fashion, Selva slipped out through the door. Jeanne ran after him into
the dark corridor. She seized one of his hands and pressed a wild kiss
upon it.

       *       *       *       *       *

A few hours later, towards ten o’clock, Jeanne was reading the Figaro to
Carlino, who was--buried in an easy-chair, his legs enveloped in a rug,
a large cup of milk, which he was holding with both hands, resting
upon his knee. Jeanne read so badly, was so heedless of commas and of
full-stops, that her brother was continually interrupting her, and was
growing impatient. She had been reading about five minutes when her maid
entered and announced that Signorina Noemi was there. Jeanne threw
the paper aside, and was out of the room in a flash. Noemi related
hurriedly, standing the while--for she was anxious to leave again on
account of the lateness of the hour--that while Giovanni and Maria were
at the Grand Hôtel, Professor Mayda, just back from Naples, had come
to their house, perfectly furious, and demanding an explanation
of Benedetto’s disappearance from his house. Then she had told him
everything, and Mayda had gone directly to Via della Polveriera. There
he had found Maria, di Leynì, the Senator, and the doctor, whose opinion
was that Benedetto could be moved. A discussion had arisen between Mayda
and the doctor on this point, to which Mayda had finally put an end by
saying: “Well, rather than leave him here, I will carry him away again
myself!” In an hour’s time he was back again with a carriage full of
pillows and rugs, and had indeed carried him off. It seemed the journey
had been accomplished successfully.

When she had heard the story, Jeanne embraced her friend in silence,
clasping her close. And her friend, trembling and full of tears,
whispered to her:

“Listen, Jeanne! Will you pray for tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Jeanne replied.

She was silent, struggling against a rising tempest of tears. When she
had conquered it she went on, in a low tone:

“I do not know how to pray to God. Do you know to whom I pray? To Don
Giuseppe Flores.”

Noemi buried her face on Jeanne’s shoulder, and said in a stifled voice:
“How I wish that, afterwards, he might see us working together for his
faith.”

Jeanne did not answer, and Noemi went away.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jeanne returned to Carlino to continue the reading, but he received her
roughly. He declared he was tired of this sort of life, and that she was
to prepare to leave with him to-morrow for Naples, Jeanne replied that
this was folly, and that she would not leave. Then Carlino fired up,
caught, her wrists, and shook her so that he really hurt her. She must
absolutely go! Now that she tried to resist, the moment had come to
tell her that he was acquainted with the reasons of her windings and
twistings, of her mysteries, her red eyes, her bad reading, and also of
her not wishing to leave Rome. He had been informed of these things by
anonymous letters. Woe to her if she did not break with that madman! Woe
to her if she sacrificed her convictions to him, if she allowed herself
to be won over to superstition, to bigotry, to the religion of the
priests! He would never look on her face again. He would disown her as
a sister, he who wished to live and die a free-thinker. No, no, she
must break, break! They would go to Naples, to Palermo, to Africa if
necessary!

“A free-thinker? Certainly. And what about my liberty?” Jeanne said
without anger, simply reminding him of a right, but without the
intention of taking advantage of it. Carlino thought, on the contrary,
that she intended taking advantage of it in the way he feared, and lost
his head completely. Jeanne grew faint as she listened to the abuse
which this man poured forth with so much bitterness, this man whom she
had known to be nervous, but had believed to be good and kind. She spoke
no word in reply, but withdrew to her own room, trembling violently. She
wrote him a few lines telling him that her dignity would not permit her
to remain with him unless he apologised for his insults; that she was
going away, and that if he wished to send her a word, he would find
her at Casa Selva. She took only a small bag with her, and, leaving the
letter on the writing-desk, went out accompanied by her maid.

She could not see any cabs near the hotel, so she started towards the
Esedro intending to take the tram there. The west wind was blowing. The
evergreen oaks along the avenue were writhing and groaning. It was dark,
and hard walking on the uneven soil. The frightened maid exclaimed:

_“Gesummaria, Signora! Where are we going?”_

Jeanne, her head aflame, her heart and her pulse in a tumult, went on
without answering. It seemed to her she was being borne through the
darkness towards him, on the tide of an unknown sea.

Towards him, towards him. Towards his God also? The mighty wind confused
her, roaring above and around her. Noemi’s words, Carlino’s words were
rending her soul in a violent struggle. Towards his God also? Ah! how
could she tell? In the meantime, towards him!



CHAPTER IX. IN THE WHIRLWIND OF GOD

I. At two o’clock on the following day Jeanne, with Maria and Noemi, was
waiting at Casa Selva for news from Villa Mayda, her thoughts dwelling,
from time to time, on the persistent silence at the Grand Hôtel.
Giovanni had gone to Villa Mayda before seven o’clock. He had returned
at nine. He had not been able to see Benedetto. Professor Mayda would
not allow him or any one else to enter. He knew that the sick man had
received the Sacraments, but more as an act of devotion than because
he was in immediate danger. However, in the night a trace of fever
had reappeared. It was hoped the attack might be conquered or checked.
Perhaps, in making this report to Jeanne, Giovanni had slightly coloured
it with optimism. Benedetto was in the Professor’s own room. Giovanni
said it would not be possible to describe how full of exquisite, womanly
tenderness were the attentions lavished upon him by this terrible Mayda,
who was believed by many to be harsh and proud. Giovanni had gone back
again after lunch about mid-day. From Carlino nothing had come, neither
a written word, nor a message. Notwithstanding her other great sorrow,
Jeanne could not help thinking of him also. What if his grief, his
anger, had really made him ill? Her friends reassured her. Either
the maid or the footman would have come to tell her. She had little
confidence in the intelligence of these servants. What was to be done?
Jeanne was about to beg that some one might be sent to inquire, when, at
a quarter-past two, hurried steps were heard in the hall, and Giovanni
entered, in his great-coat, his hat in his hand. Jeanne glanced at his
face, and understood that the moment was come. She rose, as white
as death. Silently and immediately Maria and Noemi rose also, Maria
watching Jeanne, while Noemi gazed at her brother-in-law, who,
confronted by Jeanne’s ghostly face, could find no words. Five or six
terrible seconds passed, but not more. Then Maria said, in a hushed
voice:

“Are we to go?”

Her husband answered:

“We had better go.”

Nothing more was said.

The three ladies went to put on their cloaks and hats, Jeanne into
one room, Maria and Noemi into another. Giovanni followed his wife
and Noemi. Well? The fever had greatly increased, and the Professor no
longer hoped. Noemi, hearing this, put on her hat quickly, and went to
the other room, where Jeanne was dressing. She turned, saw that Noemi
was coming to kiss her, and checked her, with a gesture placing her
finger on her lips. Noemi understood. It was a time for fortitude;
Jeanne would have neither kisses, nor words, nor tears. She did not ask
for particulars, asked no questions. They all met presently, and Maria
told her husband, in a low tone, to send for two closed cabs, for the
sky had become overcast, and one of the thunderstorms of the Roman
winter was threatening. No cabs would be necessary, for Giovanni had
come in the landau, belonging to Casa Mayda. They entered the landau,
which was closed. Then Jeanne noticed that her companions had on
dark dresses, while she was wearing a gray dress, too light and
too fashionable. She started slightly, and the others looked at her
questioningly. She hesitated a moment, but reflected that she had
neither the time nor the means to make a change, and answered:

“It is nothing.”

The carriage moved on. No one spoke again.

Upon turning into Via del Pianto the carriage was stopped by an
obstruction. It had grown darker still and was thundering. The horses
were frightened, and Maria looked anxiously out of the window. Jeanne,
seated opposite Giovanni, asked him in a low tone if he had telegraphed
to Don Clemente. Giovanni answered that Don Clemente had been at Villa
Mayda ever since half-past ten. The carriage started forward. When they
reached Piazza Montanara it began to rain. The horses were trotting
rapidly. When at last the coachman brought them down to a walk Maria
looked at her husband--Is not this the Aventine? We must be near. This
was said with the eyes, not with the lips. Jeanne had never passed that
way, but she also felt that they would soon reach their destination.
Holding herself very straight, she stared at the wall, which passed
before her eyes. She stared at it attentively, as if striving to count
the chinks between the stones. The horses broke into a trot. Beyond
Sant’ Anselmo the road leads downwards. People standing on the right
and on the left looked into the carriage. Involuntarily Giovanni Selva
murmured:

“Here we are.”

Then Jeanne started violently, and covered her face with her hands.
Maria, who sat next to her, put her arm round her neck, and, bending
close to her, whispered:

“Courage!”

But Jeanne drew back, avoiding her as much as possible, while Noemi
shook her head, signing to her sister not to insist. Maria sighed, and
the carriage, turning to the left, between two dense lines of people,
passed through a gateway. The wheels grated on the gravel and then
stopped. A servant came to the door. The Professor desired them to come
into the villa. Not until then did Giovanni Selva tell his companions
that Benedetto was no longer in the villa, that he had begged to be
carried to his little old room in the gardener’s house. The carriage
moved forward a few yards, and the four friends alighted before a
flight of white marble steps, between two groups of palms. It was still
raining, but not heavily, and no one thought about it, neither the
populace crowding round the gate, nor a group of people who were
watching the new arrivals, from the avenue bordered by orange trees,
which ran parallel with the inclosing wall down to the gardener’s little
house. Some one left the group. It was di Leynì, who mounted the marble
steps behind Selva, and, stopping him under the arch of the Pompeian
vestibule, spoke to him in a low tone, without so much as a glance at
the magnificent scene which was spread out before them between the two
groups of palms: the river of begonias, tumbling down the slope of
the Aventine, between two banks of _musae_; the black and stormy sky,
striped with white down above the battlements of Porta San Paolo, above
the pyramid of Caio Cestio, and above the little grove of cypress which
springs from the heart of Shelley.

       *       *       *       *       *

Selva entered the vestibule, and reappeared a moment later with
his wife. They went down the steps with di Leynì, and turned in the
direction of the people, who seemed to be expecting them in the avenue
of orange-trees. At that moment a volley of angry voices rang out at the
gate. The road was full of people. They had been waiting for hours, ever
since the rumour spread in the Testaccio quarter that the Saint of Jenne
had returned to Villa Mayda, but was ill. So far they had asked only for
news. Now they demanded that a deputation be allowed to enter, and to
see him. The servants refused to take the message, and an exchange of
angry words was the result, which, however, suddenly stopped as
the tall, dark figure of Professor Mayda appeared, coming from the
orange-grove. The men took off their hats. He ordered the gate to be
opened, told the people that all should see Benedetto later, but not
now. In the meantime they might come into the garden. “Of course, poor
things!”

And the people entered, slowly, respectfully, some gathering around the
Professor and asking, with tears in their eyes:

“Is it true, _Signor Professore_? Is it true he is dying? Tell us!”

And behind them others pressed, anxiously awaiting the answer. The
answer was only:

“Alas! What can I say to you?”

But the sad, manly face said more than the words and the crowd moved
away mournfully, along the green slopes, which had taken on a livid hue
under the black sky streaked with white and formed a mystic symbol of
death, of the dark passage from terrestrial shadows to the upper regions
of infinite brightness.



II.
Benedetto loved Professor Mayda. When, at the Senator’s house, he heard
that the Professor had decided to carry him away to Villa Mayda, he
showed great pleasure, He loved this man, who was perhaps, as yet,
incapable of faith, but was profoundly convinced that there are enigmas
which science cannot solve; who was generous, haughty with the great,
but gentle with the humble. He loved the garden also, the trees, the
flowers, and the grass, whose friend and servant he had been, as he had
been the friend and servant of the Professor. Everything in this garden
was full of sweet, innocent souls, in whose company he had adored God
in certain moments of spiritual ecstasy, placing his lips on the
tiny beings, on a flower, on a leaf, on a stem, in a breath of green
coolness. He was happy in the thought of dying amidst them. Sometimes,
under one of those pine-trees, its canopy, full of wind and of sound,
turned towards the Coelian Hill, he had thought of the last scene in his
vision, and had imagined himself stretched there on the grass, in the
Benedictine habit, pale and calm, and surrounded by mournful faces,
while the pine-tree above him sang the mysterious song of Heaven. Each
time he had stifled in his heart this sense of pleasure, which was not
unmixed with selfish, human vanity, and not entirely controlled and
suppressed in submission to the Divine Will. But he had not been able
to tear out its roots. Therefore he stretched out his arms gratefully
to the Professor. But immediately he was assailed by scruples.
His intelligence and his Christian sentiment were in a state of
contradiction. He was aware that he was not liked by the lady who had
married the Professor’s son, a naval officer, now in the East; he saw
that his return to Villa Mayda would be displeasing to her, and a source
of discord between her father-in-law and herself. But how could he say
so now, without implying a want of justice and of charity in a person
whom, from the very fact that she was his enemy, he was especially bound
to love? He entreated the Professor to let him go to Sant’ Onofrio.
The change was so sudden that it surprised Mayda. He thought a moment,
understood, and then said, knitting his brows:

“Do you wish me never to forgive some one for something?”

Benedetto offered no further opposition. Only when that night the moment
came to go down to the carriage, and he realised that he could not stand
alone, he said to the Professor, smiling, and placing his hand on his
friend’s arm:

“You know that, if I continue thus, you will have a dead man in your
house to-morrow or the day after?”

The Professor replied that he would not lie to him, that this was
possible, but not certain.

“You know,” Benedetto continued, no longer smiling, “that first you will
have--”

“I understand what you mean,” the Professor interrupted him. “Come in
peace, dear friend. I am not a believer, as you are, but I wish I were;
and I will throw my doors open respectfully to all whom you may wish me
to see. Meanwhile shall we not take this with us?”

From the wall he took the Crucifix which Benedetto had brought with him,
and then lifted the sick man in his powerful arms.

The journey was accomplished without accident. Stretched across the
landau, upon a bank of cushions, Benedetto, who seemed to have shrunk in
stature, answered the Professor’s frequent questions more often with
a smile than with his feeble voice. The Professor kept his finger
continually on Benedetto’s pulse, and from time to time gave him a
cordial. At the entrance to the villa, either from emotion or from
fatigue, the sick man’s poor, fleshless face blanched, and was covered
with sweat, and he closed his great, shining eyes. Mayda carried him
to his own bed, and thus it happened that when Benedetto regained
consciousness he was quite bewildered.

In his state of extreme weakness he did not regain consciousness without
passing through shadows of vain imaginings. He thought he was dead,
and lying on the ever-dark face of the moon, in the centre of a funnel,
formed by the solar rays, which streaked away to the infinite; and at
the dark bottom of this funnel he saw the flaming eyes of the stars.
Little by little be realised he was on an enormous bed which stood in
darkness, but was surrounded by a pale light, so dim that the walls were
hardly visible. Great shadows were moving about him. Opposite him was
a blue, open space, all strewn with specks of light. His heart beat
faster. Were they not, indeed, stars? He was obliged to remind himself
of the feeling of the bed, and that he was alive, in order to convince
himself that they were stars, but that he was not lying on the moon.
Where was he, then? He gave himself up to a sense of sweetness which was
coming over him, the sweetness of hardly feeling his body any longer,
but of feeling God in his soul, so near, so tender, so warm. He was
where God wished him to be.

A hand was laid on his forehead, an electric light dazzled his eyes, and
an affectionate, strong voice said:

“Well, how do you feel?”

He recognised Mayda. Then he asked him where he was, why he was not in
his little old room? Before the Professor could answer, Benedetto was
assailed by a painful doubt. The Crucifix? The dear Crucifix? Had it
been left at the Senator’s house? The Crucifix was standing on the table
by his side. The Professor showed it to him.

“Do you not remember,” he said, using the affectionate “thou”, “that we
brought it with us?”

Benedetto looked at him, pleased at the new word of affection, and
stretched out his hand in search of Mayda’s; the Professor took it
tenderly between his own.

At the same time he felt humiliated by his own forgetfulness. Was he
about to lose his reason? All the previous day he had thought about the
words he should speak to his friends, and to the person who had made
her invisible presence so keenly felt. But if he lost his reason?
The Professor began to saturate him with quinine. At first Benedetto
accepted these painful injections and bitter doses willingly, in his
desire to grow a little stronger, and thus to ward off the darkening of
his spirit, and also because he wished to suffer. Oh yes! to suffer, to
suffer! During the preceding days he had suffered greatly, not from
any local pain, not from any acute pain, but his was an inexpressible
suffering, which extended from the roots of his hair to the soles of his
feet. It had been a beatitude for his soul to be able, in such moments,
to associate his own will with the Divine Will, to accept from this Love
all the pain which he was destined to suffer, without revealing to him
the mysterious reason, a reason hidden in the designs of the Universe,
certainly a reason bringing good; bringing good not only to him who
suffered, but universal good; a good radiating from his poor body,
and without known limits, like the movement of a vibrating atom of the
world. Oh! to suffer great things, like Christ, humbly, to continue the
redemption, as a sinner may, making amends by his own pain for the ills
of others. There on that lonely path leading to the Sacro Speco, In
the roaring of the Anio, among the everlasting hills, Don Clemente had
spoken thus to him.

And now that mortal suffering was past. When the quinine began to ring
in his head, he felt discouraged. These remedies were stupefying him.
He called the Professor; a sister answered him. He begged that a priest
might be sent for from Bocca della Verità.

The Professor, who had gone to rest for an hour, came to reassure
him, and judged it best to tell him what he had before concealed. Don
Clemente had telegraphed to Selva that he would reach Rome the next
morning at ten o’clock. This was a great joy to Benedetto.

“But will it not be too late?” he said. “Will it not be too late?”

No, it would not be too late. At present he was not in immediate danger.
It would be a question of life and death if the fever should return,
but even in the worst event many hours would elapse. Mayda feared he had
spoken too plainly, and whispered to him.

“But you will recover.”

He left the room. Benedetto, thinking of Don Clemente, passed from the
quiet of his contentment into a light sleep, into dreams, whither the
spirits of evil descended, and conjured up for him a deceitful vision,
suggested by the Professor’s last words. He saw himself confronted by a
colossal marble wall, crowned with rich balustrades, which shone white
in the moonlight. Up there, behind the balustrades, a dense forest
swayed in the wind. Six flights of stairs, these also flanked by
balustrades, slanted down, across the face of the great wall, three
on the left, and three on the right, and terminated upon six landings,
jutting out from the wall. The upper balustrades were divided by small
pilasters, supporting urns. And now, between the urns, six beautiful
maidens appeared; they seemed to be dancing and all came forward at
the same time, with the same graceful motion of the head. They were all
dressed alike, in pale blue robes, which left their shoulders bare. With
the same harmonious movement of their bare arms, bending their bodies
forward, they offered him from their elevation, six shining silver
goblets. Then, at the same moment, all withdrew from the balustrade, to
reappear again simultaneously, on the six flights of stairs, down which
they came with uniform swiftness, and reaching the landings they again
offered him the six shining goblets, bending their bodies forward
gracefully, and gazing at him with a strange gravity. No word fell from
their lips, but nevertheless he knew that the six maidens were offering
him, in those six silver goblets, an elixir of life, of health, of
pleasure.

He felt a distressing, mortal fear of them; still he could not remove
his glance from the shining goblets, from the lovely, grave faces
bending over them. He strove to close his eyes, and could not; strove
to cry out to God, and could not. At last the six dancing-girls inclined
the goblets towards him, and six flowing ribbons of liquor streamed
through the air. “Just as I did, at Praglia!” the sleeper thought,
confusing persons in his clouded, mind. Then everything disappeared, and
he saw Jeanne before him. Holding herself erect, wrapped in her green
cloak lined with fur, her face shadowed by the great black hat, she
gazed at him as she had done at Praglia, at the moment of their first
meeting. But this time the sleeper perceived a resemblance between the
gravity of that look and the gravity of the dancing-girls’ faces. In his
spirit he read the silent word of the seven souls: Unhappy man, you now
recognise your grievous error; you now know that God is not! The gravity
of the glances was only the sadness of pity. The goblets of life, of
health, of pleasure, were offered him discreetly, and without joy, as to
one in mourning, who has lost all he held dearest; offered as the only
poor comfort left him. Thus Jeanne offered her love. And the sleeper was
filled with what seemed to him fresh evidence that God is not! It was,
indeed, a real physical sensation, a chill creeping over all his limbs,
moving slowly to the heart. He began to tremble violently, and awoke.
Mayda was bending over him, the thermometer in his hand. Benedetto
murmured, with straining eyes: “Father!--Father!--Father!” The sister
suggested, “Our Father who art in Heaven,” and would have gone on in
her unfortunately colourless voice, had not the Professor checked her
sharply. He applied the thermometer to Benedetto, who hardly noticed
what was being done. He was absorbed in the effort to detach from
his innermost self the images of those tempting figures, and of their
horrible words; in the effort to cast himself, soul and conscience,
upon the Father’s breast, to cling to Him with his whole being, to
lose himself in the Father. Slowly the images began to give way, their
assaults becoming each time more brief, less violent. His face was so
transfigured in this mystic tension of the soul, that Mayda, watching
him, was as one turned to stone, and forgot to look at his watch, until
the features, which had been contracted in that anxious prayer, finally
began to relax into a peaceful composure. Then he remembered, and
removed the thermometer. The sister, standing behind him, held up the
electric lamp, trying to see also. He could not at first distinguish the
points, and during those few seconds of fixed attention neither of them
noticed that the invalid had turned upon his side, and was looking
at the Professor. At last Mayda gave the instrument a shake. How many
points had it marked? The sister did not dare to inquire, and the
Professor’s face was impenetrable. Without his noticing the motion, the
sick man stretched out his hand and touched him gently on the arm, Mayda
turned towards him, and read in his smiling eyes the question, “Well?”
 He did not speak, but answered with that undulating movement of open
hands which meant neither good, nor bad. Then he sat down beside the
bed, still silent, impenetrable, looking at Benedetto, who had sunk upon
his back once more, and no longer looked at him, but was gazing at the
specks of light in the immense expanse of blue.

“Professor,” he said, “what time is it?”

“Three o’clock.”

“At five you must send for the priest from Bocca della Verità.”

“Very well.”

“Will it be too late?”

This last question the Professor answered with a loud and ringing “No.”
 After a moment of silence he added, in a lower tone, another “no” as
if in answer to his own thoughts. The thermometer had gone up to
thirty-seven point five; more than one degree since the evening before.
Should the fever increase, should there be danger of delirium, he would
send at once, to Bocca della Verità, even before five o’clock. It
did not seem probable the fever would increase rapidly, although that
thirty-seven point five had a black look.

He asked the invalid if the electric light troubled him. Benedetto
replied that materially it did not trouble him, but that spiritually
it did, because it prevented his seeing the sky, the starry night.
“_Illuminatio mea,_” said he, softly.

The Professor did not understand, and made him repeat the words. Then he
asked him what his light was, and the feeble voice murmured,

_“Nox.”_

Mayda was not familiar with the Psalms, with the profound word of
that ancient Hebrew, to whom our little sun seemed dark, the sun which
conceals the higher world. He understood, without understanding. He
remained reverently silent.

Benedetto sought the stars with his eyes. His own conscience was passing
in those stars, which gazed upon him so austerely, knowing he was about
to review--before the threatening hour of death--the whole moral history
of his life, to tell it in words which would be a first judgment,
pronounced in the name of the God of Justice, impelled by the God of
Love; in words that would not be lost, because no movement is lost;
which would appear--who knows how, who knows where, who knows when?--to
the glory of Christ, as the supreme testimony of a spirit to moral
Truth, directed against itself. Thus the silent stars spoke to him,
animated by his own thoughts. And his life was pictured in his mind from
beginning to end, the external, salient outline less strongly marked
than the inner moral substance. He saw all the first part of it
dominated by a religious conception in which egotism prevailed, and so
ordered as to make the love of God and the love of man converge into an
individual well-being, the aim being personal perfection, and reward. He
was grieved that he had thus obeyed in words only the law which places
the love of God before the love of self; and it was a gentle grief,
not because it was easy to find excuses for this error, to impute it
to teachers, but because it was sweet to feel his own minuteness in the
wave of grace which enveloped him. And he felt his own minuteness in
that past, spoiled by imperfect beliefs, influenced by the uprising of
the senses, in the central depression of his life, which had been one
vast tissue of sensuality, of weakness, of contradictions, of lies. He
felt his own minuteness in his life after his conversion, the impulse
and work of an inner Will, which had prevailed against his own will, and
during this last period it seemed to him, he himself had weighted the
scales against the good impulse. He longed to drop off this “self” which
held him back like a heavy garment. He saw that the affection for the
Vision was part of this burdensome “self.” He aspired to Divine Truth in
all its mystery, whatever it might be, and gave himself to Divine
Truth with such violence of desire that the spasm of it nearly rent him
asunder. And the stars shone forth upon him such a lively sense of the
immeasurable vastness of Divine Truth as compared with his own and his
friends’ religious conceptions, and at the same time such a firm faith
that he was travelling towards that vastness, that he suddenly raised
his head from the pillow exclaiming:

“Ah!”

The sister was dozing, not so the Professor.

“What is it?” said he. “Do you see something?”

Benedetto did not reply immediately. The Professor raised the lamp, and
bent over him. Then Benedetto turned his face and looked at Mayda with
an expression of intense desire, and after gazing at him a long time,
sighed:

“Ah, Professor! Indeed you must come where I am going!”

“But do you know where you are going?” Mayda said.

“I know,” Benedetto replied, “that I am parting with all that is
corruptible, all that is burdensome.”

He then inquired if some one had gone to the parish church. Not yet:
only a quarter of an hour had passed. He apologised. It had seemed a
century to him. He entreated the Professor to retire, to take some rest,
and once more he fell to watching the celestial lights. Then he closed
his eyes, longing for Jesus, for two human arms which should lift him
up, should encircle him; longed for a human breast, incarnate of the
Divine, in which to hide his head, as he entered the vast mystery.

At six o’clock he received the Sacraments. The thermometer had risen a
few points. At nine Benedetto asked for Giovanni Selva, He learned
that he had been there, and had gone away again, but that di Leynì was
waiting. He insisted upon seeing him, notwithstanding the Professor’s
opposition. He told him he wished to greet at least some of his friends
of the Catacombs. Di Leynì knew of this desire, for Selva had mentioned
it to him. He could announce to Benedetto that they were to meet at
Villa Mayda about one o’clock. The nursing sister who had come shortly
before to relieve her companion indiscreetly remarked that many of
the common people were asking for news. Benedetto said nothing at
the moment, but when di Leynì was gone he sent for the Professor. The
Professor was not in, he had been obliged to go to the University. The
sister’s words had made Benedetto form a definite resolution, which he
had been thinking about ever since the first light of day had shown
him the walls of the room, decorated with mythological subjects, in the
style of the House of Livia. He longed with an intense longing for his
little old room. There he would see his friends, the common people, who
wished to visit him, and that other person, if she came. He begged to
speak with the gardener, with the servants, and he told them of his
wish. When they refused to move him, he besought them for the love of
God to do so, and he so worked upon their feelings that they finally
consented, at the risk of being dismissed from service. “These are
indeed the ideas of a Saint!” thought the sister. Benedetto made the
journey in the arms of the gardener and of one of the men-servants; he
was wrapped in blankets, and held the Crucifix in his hands. His delight
at once more finding himself in his poor little room was so great that
all thought he was improving. But still the thermometer rose.

After one o’clock the thermometer registered thirty-nine. Don Clemente
had arrived at half-past ten.



III.
The Selvas and di Leyni joined the group of people who were waiting for
them in the avenue of orange-trees. They were all laymen save one, a
young priest from the Abruzzo. He was short, with skin of an olive hue,
and his black eyes were deep, and fiery. The student Elia Viterbo was
also there. He was a Christian now, and had been baptized by the young
priest. There was the fair-haired Lombard youth, the master’s favourite.
There was a very handsome young workman, with the face of an apostle,
who was also from the Abruzzo, and was a friend of the priest’s. There
was that same Andrea Minucci, who had been at the religious meeting at
Subiaco. There were, also, a naval officer, who had a post in the Naval
Department, a painter, and some others. All of them were men who would
have sacrificed any earthly affection to their affection for Benedetto.
Not one of them had believed any of the slanderous reports which
had been spread concerning him. They had defended him with fierce
indignation, against their more diffident companions. It may be said of
them, one day, that they were put to the proof by Providence, and then
appointed to carry on the master’s work, Di Leynì belonged to their
ranks. In Giovanni Selva they admired and respected the man admired and
respected by their master, but they stood in awe of him. They had now
been waiting some time in the avenue of orange-trees, expecting him, for
they were ready to go to the master’s room, as soon as Signor Giovanni
should arrive. The eyes of many of them were full of tears. As the
Selvas approached, all took off their hats in silence. Giovanni started
towards the small house, followed by the whole group. His wife came
last. One of the young men motioned to her to pass on in front, but she
would not, and he did not insist. It was neither the place nor the
hour for ceremony. Maria felt that these men were called before her, to
continue Benedetto’s work, after his death. They walked in silence, and
with bare heads, although it was raining; Selva as the others. Mayda
received them on the threshold. On his return from the University he
had heard the news of Benedetto’s removal to the small house, with an
outburst of wrath. He would not admit it to the sister, to the gardener,
or to the servants, but when he looked at the list of temperatures,
taken every half-hour, he was bound to admit, in his heart that this act
of folly had had no sensible effect upon the course of the fever. Upon
being asked if they should stay in the room only a short time, and
endeavour to have the sick man speak as little as possible, he answered:

“Do whatever he wishes. It is the feast of a condemned man!”

He went up the wooden stairs before them.

“Your friends,” he said, entering the room. He allowed them all to come
in, and then closed the door. His hands clasped behind him, he leaned
against the doorpost, watching Benedetto, and the tall, dark figure
never moved from that spot during all the time that Benedetto kept his
followers with him.

Benedetto’s face was flushed, his eyes glittered, and his breathing was
quick. He greeted his friends with a “Thank you!” which quivered with
happy and intense excitement, and which made some one sob. Then he
lifted his hand as if begging them to be quiet. After receiving the
Viaticum, his one prayer had been to be able to speak with his favourite
disciples, and that God would give him words of truth, with the strength
to pronounce them. Now he felt that the Spirit filled his breast.

“Come near to me,” he said.

The fair-haired youth, his face stained with silent tears, passed before
the others, and knelt beside the bed. The master placed his hand on the
youth’s head, and continued:

“Remain united.”

The painful unspoken words wrung their hearts still more cruelly, but
each one felt that Benedetto was about to give forth a last flicker of
instruction, of counsel, and they all checked their sobs. Benedetto’s
voice sounded; amidst the deepest silence:

“Pray without ceasing, and teach others to pray without ceasing. This is
the fundamental principle. When a man really loves a human being, or an
idea of his own mind, his secret thoughts are ever clinging to his love,
while he is attending to the many various occupations of his life, be it
the life of a servant, or the life of a king; and this does not prevent
his attending carefully to his work, for he has no need to speak many
words to his love. Men who are of the world may carry thus in their
hearts some human being, some ideal of truth, or of beauty. Do you
always carry in your breasts the Father whom you have not seen, but whom
you have felt as a Spirit of love, breathing within you; a Spirit which
filled you with the sweetest desire to live for Him. If you will do this
your labours will be all alive with the spirit of Truth.”

He rested a moment, and looked with a smile, at Don Clemente, seated
beside the bed.

“Your words, spoken at dear Santa Scolastica,” he said, and continued:
“Be pure in your lives, for otherwise you will dishonour Christ before
the world. Be pure in your thoughts, for otherwise you will dishonour
Christ before the spirits of good, and the spirits of evil, which strive
together in the souls of all living beings.”

When he had spoken these words he encircled the head of the fair-haired
youth with his arm, almost as if to defend him from evil, and prayed, in
his soul, for him who was, perhaps, his greatest hope. Then he resumed:

“Be holy. Seek neither riches nor honours. Put your superfluous
possessions--measured by the inner voice of the Spirit--into a common
fund for your works of truth and of charity. Give friendly help to all
the human suffering you may encounter; be meek with those who offend
you, who deride you, and they will be many, even within the Church
herself; be dauntless in the presence of evil; lend yourselves to the
necessities of one another, for if you do not live thus you cannot serve
the Spirit of Truth. Live thus, that the world may recognise the Truth
by your fruits, that your brothers may recognise by your fruits that you
belong to Christ.”

Don Clemente, distressed by his laboured breathing, bent over him, and,
in a low voice, begged him to rest. Benedetto took his hand, and pressed
it, and was silent for a few seconds. Then raising his great shining
eyes to Don Clemente’s face, he said, _“Hora ruit.”_

And he resumed:

“Let each one perform his religious duties as the Church prescribes,
according to strict justice and with perfect obedience. Do not give your
union a name, or speak collectively, or draw up rules, beyond those I
have dictated! Love one another, love is enough. Communicate with one
another. Many are doing the same work in the Church for which you are
preparing yourselves, through the moral preparations I have prescribed
for you; I mean the work of purifying the faith, and imbuing life with
the purified faith. Honour them and learn from them, but do not allow
them to become members of your union unless they come to you of their
own free will, and pour their superfluity into the common fund. This
shall be the sign that they are sent unto you by God.”

Here Benedetto paused, and gently begged Giovanni Selva to come nearer.

“I wish to see you,” he said. “What I have said and, above all, what I
am going to say, was born of you.”

He stretched out his hand, and taking Don Clemente’s hand, he added:

“The Father knows it. Each should feel God’s presence within himself,
but each should feel it also in the other, and I feel it so strongly in
you. Yes,” he continued, turning to Don Clemente, as if appealing to
his authority, “this is the true foundation of human fraternity, and
therefore those who love their fellow men and believe they are cold
toward God are nearer the Kingdom than many who imagine they love God,
but who do not love their fellow-men.”

The young priest who was standing, almost timidly, behind Selva,
exclaimed, “Oh! yes, yes!” Selva bowed his head with a sigh. The tall,
dark figure leaning against the doorpost did not move, but the gaze
fixed on Benedetto became inexpressibly intense, tender and sad.

Don Clemente again bent over the invalid, entreating him to pause a
moment, and the sister also begged him to rest. Neither Mayda nor any of
the disciples spoke. Benedetto drank a little water, thanked the sister,
and began to speak once more:

“Purify the faith for grown men, who cannot thrive on the food of
infants. This part of your work is for those who are outside the Church,
whether they belong to her by name or not--for those with whom you will
be constantly mingling. Work to glorify the idea of God, worshipping
above all things, and teaching that there is no truth which is opposed
to God or to His laws. But be equally cautious that the infants do not
approach their lips to the food for grown men. Be not offended by
an impure faith, an imperfect faith, when the life is pure and the
conscience upright; for in comparison with the infinite depths of God,
there is little difference between your faith and the faith of a simple,
humble woman, and if the woman’s conscience be upright, and her life
pure, you will not pass before her in the Kingdom of Heaven. Never
publish writings concerning difficult religious questions, for sale, but
rather distribute them with prudence, and never put your name to them.

“Labour that the purified faith may penetrate into life. This labour is
for those who are in the Church,--and for those who wish to be in the
Church,--and their name is legion, they are infinite in number; for
those who really believe in the dogmas, and would gladly believe in more
dogmas; I who really believe in the miracles, and are glad to believe in
more miracles, but who do not really believe in the Beatitudes, who say
to Christ, ‘Lord, Lord!’ but who think it would be too hard to _do_ all.
His will, and who have not even zeal enough to search for Him in the
Holy Book; who do not know that religion is, above all things, action
and life. Teach such as these who pray abundantly, often idolatrously,
to practise, besides the prayers which are prescribed, the mystic prayer
as well, in which is the purest faith, the most perfect hope, the most
perfect charity, which in itself purifies the soul and purifies life. Do
I tell you to take, publicly, the place of the pastors? No; let each one
work in his own family, each one among his own friends, and those who
can, with the pen. Thus you will till the soil from which the pastors
arise. My sons, I do not promise you that you will renew the world. You
will labour in the night-time, without visible gain, like Peter and his
companions on the Sea of Galilee. But, at last, Christ will come, and
then your gain shall be great.”

He was silent, praying for his disciples, sighing in the prescience of
much suffering to come to them from many enemies of many kinds. Then he
pronounced the last words:

“Later, give me your prayers; now, your kiss.”

The disciples, with one voice, begged him to bless them. He sought to
avoid this, saying he did not feel himself worthy.

“I am only the poor blind man, whose eyes Christ has opened with clay.”

Don Clemente did not appear to have heard. He knelt down saying, “Bless
me, also!”

With humble obedience Benedetto laid his hand on Don Clemente’s head,
said the words of the ritual benediction, and kissed him. He did the
same with all the others, one by one. Each one seemed to feel the breath
of the Spirit flowing into him from that hand. When the priest’s turn
came, he murmured:

“Master, and to us?”

The dying man composed himself and replied: “Be poor, live in poverty.
Be perfect. Take no pleasure in titles nor in proud vestments, neither
in personal authority nor in collective authority. Love those who hate
you; avoid factions; make peace in God’s name; accept no civil office;
do not tyrannise over souls, nor seek to control them too much; do not
train priests artificially; pray that you may be many, but do not fear
to be few; do not think you need much human knowledge,--you need only
much respect for reason and much faith in the universal and inseparable
Truth.”

The last to come forward was Maria Selva. She knelt at a short distance
from the bed. The sick man smiled at her, and motioned to her to rise.

“I have already blessed you in your husband,” said he, “I cannot
distinguish you. You are a part of his soul. You are his courage.
Let this courage increase in the painful hours which await him. And,
together, may you be the poetry of Christian love, until the end. Stay
here a little while, both of you.”

As the disciples passed out, the room grew darker. The rumbling of
thunder was heard, and the sister went to close the window. First,
however, she glanced into the garden, and exclaimed, “Poor things!”
 Benedetto heard, and wished to know what she meant. He was told that
the garden was full of people who had come to see him, and that a heavy
shower was threatening. He begged the Selvas to wait, and the Professor
to allow the people to enter.

A heavy trampling sounded, on the narrow wooden stairs. The door was
thrown open, and several persons entered on tiptoe. In a moment the room
was full. A crowd of bare heads peered in at the door. No one spoke;
all were gazing at Benedetto, and they were reverent and respectful.
Benedetto greeted them with both hands, with widespread arms.

“I thank you,” he said. “Pray, as I have surely taught some of you to
do. And may God be with you always!”

A big, stout man answered, his face crimson:

“We will pray, but you are not going to die. Don’t believe that. But
please give us your blessing.”

“Yes, give us your blessing, give us your blessing!” was repeated by
many voices.

Meanwhile, from the narrow stairway the impatient voices could be heard
of those who wished to come up, and could not. Benedetto said something
in an undertone to Don Clemente. Don Clemente ordered those present to
file past the bed and then leave the room, that the others might do the
same.

One by one they all passed. They were poor people from the
Testaccio--workmen, clerks from shops, women who sold fruit, pedlars
and beggars. From time to time Benedetto said a word of dismissal, in a
tired voice: “_Addio_.”--“Farewell!”--“We shall meet in Paradise.”--Some
in passing silently bent the knee, others touched the bed and then made
the sign of the cross. Some begged him to pray for them or for their
dear ones, while others called down blessings upon him. One asked to be
forgiven because he had believed the slanderers, and at that a series
of “Forgive me also, me also!” sounded. The hunchback from Via della
Marmorata was there, and began telling him amidst her tears that the
old priest had confessed; and would have liked to tell him all her
gratitude, had not those behind her pushed her away, and taken her from
the sight of him for ever. Many passed thus before him for the last
time, and, weeping, went from him, forever,--many he had comforted, in
body and in mind. He recognised some, and greeted them with a gesture.
On they passed, often turning their tearful faces back towards him. The
stream that passed down brushed against the stream that passed up the
narrow stairs, and gave them their impressions of the sorrowful room
in advance:--“Ah! what a face.”--“Ah! what a voice!”--“Good God! he is
dying!”--“He is one of God’s angels!”--“You will see!”--“He has Paradise
in his eyes!” And not a few were murmuring curses against the wretches
who had slandered him; not a few spoke, with a shudder, of poison, or
murder. _Dio!_--He had been taken away by the police, and had returned
in this state. A mournful, continuous rumbling of thunder, and the loud
steady splash of the rain, drowned both the sorrowful and the angry
whisperings. When the stream of people had ceased to flow out, Mayda had
the window opened, for the air had become vitiated. Benedetto asked them
to raise his head a little. He wanted to see the great pine-tree, with
its top bending towards the Coelian Hill. The dark green crown of the
pine cleft the stormy sky. He gazed at it a long time. When his head
was resting on the pillow once more, he motioned to Dom Clemente to bend
down to him, and whispered almost into his ear:

“Do you know, when they brought me here from the villa I longed to be
laid under the pine-tree, which we see from the window, so that I might
die there. But I thought at once that this was something too strongly
desired, and that it was not good. And besides,” he added, smiling,
“after all the habit would have been missing.”

A slight movement of Don Clemente’s lips revealed to him that he had
brought the habit with him from Subiaco. Benedetto experienced a great
wave of intense inward emotion. He clasped his hands, and remained
silent as long as the inward struggle was going on, the struggle between
the desire that the vision might be fulfilled, and the consciousness
that its fulfilment could not come about naturally. He concentrated his
mind in an act of abnegation to the Divine Will.

“The Lord wishes me to die here,” he said. “But still he permits me,
at least, to have the habit on my bed, before I die.” Don Clemente bent
over him, and kissed his forehead.

Meanwhile the Selvas were waiting a little way off. Benedetto called
them to him, and told them that he would receive Signora Dessalle in
half an hour, but he begged her not to come alone. She might come
with them. Mayda went out with the Selvas. The sister was dozing. Then
Benedetto asked Don Clemente to go to the Pontiff, afterwards, and to
tell him that the end of the vision had not been fulfilled, that thus
all that had seemed miraculous in his life had vanished and that before
his death he had felt the sweetness of the Pope’s blessing.

“And tell him,” he added, “that I hope to speak in his heart again.”

His breathing was less laboured, but his voice was growing weaker, and
his strength was going with the fever. Don Clemente took his wrist and
held it for some time. Then he rose.

“Are you going for the habit?” Benedetto murmured, with a sweet smile.
The Padre’s handsome face flushed. He quickly conquered the human
sentiment which prompted him to prevaricate, and replied:

“Yes, _caro_, I think the hour is come.”

“What time is it?”

“Half-past five.”

“Do you think it will be at seven? At eight?”

“No, not so soon, but I want you to have this consolation at once.” In
a small sitting-room at the villa, Giovanni Selva, after consulting his
watch, said to his wife, “Go, now.”

It had been arranged that Maria and Noemi should accompany Jeanne to see
Benedetto. Noemi stretched out her hands to her brother-in-law.

“Giovanni,” she said, trembling, “I have some news to give him
concerning my soul. Do not be offended if I tell him first.”

Jeanne guessed the nature of the news Noemi had for the dying man: her
conversion to Catholicism, in the near future. All the strength she had
gathered in herself for the supreme moment now forsook her. She embraced
Noemi, and burst into tears. The Selvas strove to encourage her,
mistaking the cause of her tears. Between her sobs she entreated them
to go, to go; she herself could not possibly go. Only Noemi understood.
Jeanne would not come because she had guessed, because she could not
do the same. She besought her, she entreated her, and whispered to her,
holding her in an embrace: “Why will you not yield, at this moment?”

Jeanne, still sobbing, answered,

“Ah! you understand me!” And because Noemi protested that now she would
not go, it was Jeanne’s turn to entreat her to do so, to go at once; not
to delay giving him this consolation. She, herself, could not go, could
not, could not! It was impossible to move her. A servant came to call
Selva. Maria and Noemi went out. When she was alone Jeanne was tempted,
for a moment, to hasten after them, to yield, to go also, and say the
joyful word to him. She fell upon her knees, and stretched out her arms,
almost as if he were standing before her, and sobbed: “Dear one, dear
one! How could I deceive you?” She had often struggled against her
own unbelief, and always in vain. A surrender to faith through sudden
impulse would not be lasting, that she knew.

“Why will you not have me alone?” she groaned again, still on her knees.
“Why will you not have me alone? That pious consciences may not be
scandalised? That my despair may not trouble you? Why will you not have
me alone? How can I say, before them, what is within me? You who are
gentle as your Lord Jesus, why will you not have me alone? Oh!”

She started to her feet, convinced that if Piero heard her, he would
answer, “Yes, come!” She stood a moment as if turned to stone, her hands
pressed to her forehead; then she moved slowly, like one walking in her
sleep, left the room, crossed the hall and went down into the garden.

It was raining so hard, the sky, still rent from time to time by
lightning, was so dark, that although it was not yet seven o’clock, on
that February evening it seemed almost like night. Just as she was, with
bare head, Jeanne went out into the cold and streaming rain. Without
hastening her steps, she took, not the avenue of orange-trees on the
right, but the path which, on the left, leads downwards, between two
rows of great agaves, to a little grove of laurels, cypresses and
olives, to which roses cling. She passed the great pine that looks
towards the Crelian and winding down, on the right by a long curve of
paths, she reached the spring which an ancient sarcophagus receives
on the steep slope, within a belt of myrtles, a few steps below the
gardener’s little house. Here she stopped. A window in the little house
was lit up; surely that was Piero’s window. A shadow flitted across
it--perhaps that was Noemi! Jeanne sat down on the marble rim of the
basin. Would it be possible to drown in that? Would she try to die,
if it were not for Carlino? Vain speculations! She did not linger over
them. She waited, and waited in the cold rain, her eyes and her soul
fixed on the lighted window. Other shadows passed. Were they going now?
Yes, perhaps Maria and Noemi were going, but they would not leave Piero
alone. Mayda would be there; the Benedictine and the sister would be
there. Well, at least, she would try. A hurried footstep in the avenue
of orange-trees; some one was going towards the gardener’s house.
Jeanne, who had risen, sat down again. Now the unknown person
entered. More shadows at the window. Two people came out, in animated
conversation--the voices of the Professor and of Giovanni Selva. They
seemed to be speaking of some one who had come for news. Others came
out. The water from the eaves dripped on their umbrellas. It must be
Maria and Noemi. Jeanne once more rose, and started forward.

She crossed the threshold of the little house, and saw people in the
gardener’s kitchen. She asked a girl to go up-stairs and see who was
with the sick man. The girl hesitated, demurred at first, but finally
went, and came down again immediately. The priest and the sister were in
the room. Jeanne asked for a piece of paper, a pencil, and a light. She
began to write.

“Padre--I appeal--” She stopped and listened. Someone was coming down
the wooden stair. A man’s step, therefore it must be the Padre. Then she
would speak to him. She threw aside the pencil, and went to meet him on
the stairs. It was dark, and Don Clemente mistook her for Maria Selva.

“He is quiet,” the Benedictine said, before she could speak. “He seems
to be asleep. What your sister told him did him so much good! The
Professor thinks he will live through the night. Send for the other
lady. He has asked for her. I thought you had already gone for her.”

Jeanne was dumb. She stepped aside. With an “Excuse me” he passed her
without looking at her, and entered the kitchen, to ask for a little
bread and some water, for he had been fasting since the night before.
Jeanne was trembling like a leaf. He had asked for her! The words and
the opportunity thus offered made her dizzy. Noiselessly she mounted the
stairs. Noiselessly she pushed the door open. The sister saw her, and
started to rise. She signed to her, her finger on her lips, not to move,
and noiselessly approached the bed. She saw a long, black something
spread upon it, over the quilt, and stopped, horrified, not
understanding. A faint groan. The man on the bed raised his right hand
with a vague gesture, as if in search of something. The sister rose, but
Jeanne, moving more swiftly, rushed to the pillow, and bent over Piero,
who had begun to groan again and move his hand.

Jeanne questioned him anxiously, but he did not answer. He only groaned
and looked at something beside the bed. Jeanne offered him a glass of
water, but he shook his head. She was in despair because she could not
understand. Ah! the Crucifix! the Crucifix! The sister lifted the light
from the ground; Jeanne held out the Crucifix to Piero, who, pressing
his lips to it, gazed at her, gazed at her with those great glassy eyes,
from which death looked forth. The sister gave a cry and ran to call the
Padre. Piero gazed and gazed at Jeanne. With a great effort, he clasped
the Crucifix in both hands, and raised it towards her. His lips moved,
moved again, but no sound came from them. Jeanne took Piero’s hands
between her own, and pressed a passionate kiss upon the Crucifix. Then
he closed his eyes. A smile broke across his face.

His head drooped a little towards his right shoulder. He moved no more.


THE END.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Saint" ***

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