The Saint Part 22

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 G.o.d. 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 viatic.u.m, 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 G.o.d!"

"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 G.o.d, 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 viatic.u.m," 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 G.o.d!"

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 ma.s.s 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 s.h.i.+vered! 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 pa.s.sage 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 G.o.d without really being an atheist or deserving eternal death, if that G.o.d, 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, las.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d! 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 pa.s.s. 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 viatic.u.m 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sionate 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 sa?_ 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 G.o.d 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 viatic.u.m?"

The viatic.u.m? Alas, the man was dead; they had thought of the viatic.u.m 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 d.u.c.h.ess di Civitella. The d.u.c.h.ess had arrived shortly after, with two other ladies and several gentlemen, among them a journalist, and the young man of the eye-gla.s.s. 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 s.h.i.+ne, 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d!' And now--"