“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“Lamiracolata, 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 calleddella 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 forme, for me alone.”
“What word?”
“You were with theSignor 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; he did not fear for himself, but dreaded scandal of a conflict with the authorities.
[Footnote: Don Abbondio-a priest in Mazzoni’s workI 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 knowPadre 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 FRANCOIN GODHIS 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: