The Saint Part 32

"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, pus.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 pa.s.sed 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, gla.s.s, 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--G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+ning, 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 accomplis.h.!.+ 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 G.o.d 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d 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 ma.n.u.script," 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 cl.u.s.ter of roses lying loose between them, on the flannel s.h.i.+rt 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 a.s.sent.

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 a.s.sist 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!"