The Saint Part 14

"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 gla.s.ses and began turning over the leaves of a book and glancing through the papers on his desk. In an att.i.tude 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 gla.s.ses and turned round.

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

"I was a great sinner," Benedetto answered, "G.o.d 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 G.o.d," he said, "better than we are, and your words offend against one of G.o.d'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 n.o.bis_. 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sion of a woman who was not free, as I myself was not free, and I accepted this pa.s.sion. I abandoned all religious practices and heeded not the scandal I gave. This woman did not believe in G.o.d, and I dishonoured G.o.d in her company, my faith being dead, and showing myself sensual, selfish, weak, and false. G.o.d 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 a.s.sent, 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 gla.s.ses 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.