The Saint Part 40

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 a.s.sailed 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 beat.i.tude for his soul to be able, in such moments, to a.s.sociate 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 Verita.

The Professor, who had gone to rest for an hour, came to rea.s.sure 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, pa.s.sed 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 bal.u.s.trades, which shone white in the moonlight. Up there, behind the bal.u.s.trades, a dense forest swayed in the wind. Six flights of stairs, these also flanked by bal.u.s.trades, 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 bal.u.s.trades 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 s.h.i.+ning silver goblets. Then, at the same moment, all withdrew from the bal.u.s.trade, 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 s.h.i.+ning goblets, from the lovely, grave faces bending over them. He strove to close his eyes, and could not; strove to cry out to G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.saults 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 Verita."

"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 Verita, 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 pa.s.sing 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, p.r.o.nounced in the name of the G.o.d of Justice, impelled by the G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed. 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 Leyn 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 Leyn 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 Leyn 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 G.o.d 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 Leyn 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 pa.s.s 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 Viatic.u.m, his one prayer had been to be able to speak with his favourite disciples, and that G.o.d would give him words of truth, with the strength to p.r.o.nounce 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, pa.s.sed 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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.