The Saint Part 9

"Listen to me, Padre!" said Benedetto.

His tone was so firm, so laden with the gravity of coming words, that Don Clemente judged it wiser not to insist upon the lateness of the hour. Hearing the beat of hoofs above them, and knowing the riders were coming in their direction, the two stepped aside on to the small, gra.s.sy plateau, upon which still remain humble remnants of Neronian grandeur, which, with some arches hidden in the thick grove of hornbeams on the opposite bank, once formed part of the same _Terme_, but are now divided by the complaining of the Anio far below. Above those arches once dwelt the priest of Satan, and the shameless women, who a.s.sailed the sons of St. Benedict with their wiles. The monk thought of Jeanne Dessalle.

There, at the end of the ravine, high up above the hills of Preclaro and of Jenne Vecchio, shone the two stars which had bean spoken of on the Selvas' terrace as "holy lights."

They waited for the riders to pa.s.s. When they had done so, Benedetto, in silence, fell upon his master's neck. Don Clemente, full of wonder and noticing that he trembled and was shaken by convulsive starts, concluded that the sight of that woman had caused this emotion, and, kept repeating to him:

"Courage, dear friend, courage; this is a trial sent by the Lord!"

Benedetto whispered to him:

"It is not what you think."

Having controlled his feelings, he begged the master to sit down upon a ruined wall, against which he himself--kneeling on the gra.s.s--rested his folded arms.

"Since this morning," said he, "I have been warned by certain signs that the Lord's will concerning me is changed; but I have not been able to understand in what way. You know what happened to me three years ago in that little church where I was praying, while my poor wife lay dying?"

"You allude to your vision?"

"No; before the vision--having closed my eyes--I read on my eyelids the words of Martha: '_Magister adest et vocat te!_' This morning, while you were saying Ma.s.s, I saw the same words within me. I believed this to be an automatic revulsion of memory. After the communion I had a moment of anxiety, for it seemed to me Christ was saying in my soul: 'Dost thou not understand, dost thou not understand, dost thou not understand?' I pa.s.sed the day in a state of continual agitation, although I strove to tire myself more than usual in the garden. In the afternoon I sat reading a short time under the ilex tree, where the Fathers congregate.

I had St. Augustine's _De Opere Monachorum_. Some people pa.s.sed on the upper road, talking in loud voices. I raised my head mechanically. Then, I cannot tell why, but instead of resuming my reading, I closed the book and fell to thinking. I thought of what St. Augustine says about manual labour for monks, I thought of the order of St. Benedict, of Rance, and of how the Benedictine order might again return to manual labour. Then, in a moment of weariness, but with my heart still full of the immense grandeur of St. Augustine, I believed I heard a voice from the upper world crying: '_Magister adest et vocat te!_' Perhaps it was only an hallucination, only because of St. Augustine, only some unconscious memory of the '_Tolle, lege_'; I do not deny this, but, nevertheless, I trembled, trembled like a leaf. And I asked myself fearfully, Does the Lord wish me to become a monk? You know, _Padre mio_--I have repeated it to you on two or three occasions--that in one particular, at least, this would correspond with the end of my vision. But when you counselled me, as did also Don Giuseppe Flores, not to put faith in this vision, I told you that, to me, another reason for not putting faith in it was that I do not feel myself worthy to be a priest, and, furthermore, that the idea of joining any religious order is strangely repugnant to me. But what if G.o.d should enjoin it upon me! What if this great repugnance be but a trial! I wished to speak to you when we were on our way to the Selvas', but you were in haste to be there, and so it was not possible.

There, seated on the bundle of f.a.gots under the acacias, I received the last blow. I was weary, very weary, and for five minutes allowed myself to be overcome by sleep, I dreamt that I was walking with Don Giuseppe Flores under the arches of the courtyard at Praglia. I said to him weeping: 'Here, it was here!' And Don Giuseppe answered with great tenderness: 'Yes, but do not think of that, think rather that the Lord calls you.' And I replied: 'But whither, whither does He call me?' My anguish was so great that I awoke. I heard a voice calling from the top of the house, and some one answered in French from the bottom of the garden. I saw a lady leave the villa, running. I heard the greetings she exchanged with the new-comers; I distinguished _her_ voice! At first I was not sure of it, but presently, the voices coming nearer, I could no longer doubt. It was she! For a second I was dazed, but only for a second. Then a great light shone out in my mind."

Benedetto raised his head and his clasped hands. His voice rang with mystic ardour. "_Magister adest_," said he. "Do you understand? The divine Master was with me, I had naught to fear, _Padre mio!_ And I feared naught, neither her, nor myself. I saw her coming up to the open s.p.a.ce. My thought was: 'If we meet alone, I will speak to her as to a sister, I will beg her forgiveness; perhaps G.o.d will give me a word of truth for her. I will show her that I have hopes for her soul, and that I do not fear for my own." Don Clemente could not refrain from interrupting him.

"No, no, no, my son!" he exclaimed, greatly alarmed; and while he held the young man's face imprisoned between his hands, he was casting about in his mind for a means of preventing such a meeting, and of getting Benedetto away. The Selvas, the Selvas! they must be warned!

"I can understand why you speak thus to me," Benedetto resumed, breathlessly; "but if I meet her, must I not seek to give her of the good that is in me, as I once sought to give her of the evil? And have not you yourself taught me that placing the saving of our own souls above all things is incompatible with the love of G.o.d above all things?

That when we love truly we do not think of ourselves? That we strive only to do the will of the person beloved, and desire that others do the same? That thus we are sure of salvation, and that he who constantly has in mind the saving of his own soul risks losing it?"

"That is very true, very true, my dear friend," answered the Padre, stroking his hair. "But nevertheless to-morrow you must go to Jenne, and remain there until I send for you. I will give you a letter to the parish priest, who is a most worthy man, and you can stay with him. Do you understand? And now we will go to the monastery, for it is late!"

He rose and obliged Benedetto to do the same. Above their heads the clock of Santa Scolastica was ringing the hour. Was it ten o'clock, or was it eleven? Don Clemente had not counted the strokes from the beginning, and feared the worst; for with all these conflicting emotions he had lost account of time. What was going to happen? Who could have foreseen? And what would take place now? They left the gra.s.sy plateau and started up the steep and rocky mule-path, Don Clemente in front, and Benedetto following close behind; both silent and with stormy souls, while the deep voice of the Anio answered their thoughts. At a bend of the path they see the lights of distant Subiaco. Only a few, however, so it is probably eleven o'clock! Presently a dark corner of the inclosure of Santa Scolastica looms before the wayfarers. Benedetto is thinking by what a mysterious way G.o.d has led him from the _logge_ at Praglia, where Jeanne tempted and conquered him, to this toilsome ascent amidst the gloom towards another holy spot, with Jeanne near, and his heart anch.o.r.ed in Christ.

In the meantime, the reasons for practical prudence which pressed upon Don Clemente at this time of distress, and the reasons for ideal holiness which in calmer moments he had taught his beloved disciple, were contending for supremacy over Benedetto's will, no longer so steadfast as in the beginning; the first striving at close quarters, and with imperious violence; the second, from a distance and by means only of their stern and sad beauty. It seemed to him the two "holy lights"

high above the dark angle of the inclosure were watching him sternly and sadly. Oh! unholy earth, he thought; oh! sad earth! And, perhaps, unholy prudence, sad prudence--earthly prudence!

Upon reaching the corner, the two wayfarers turned to the left, leaving the deep roar of the Anio behind them. They pa.s.sed the great gate of the monastery, and having turned the other corner of the inclosure, and traversed the long, dark pa.s.sage which runs beneath the library, reached a low door. Don Clemente rang the bell. They would be obliged to wait some time, for at nine o'clock, or shortly after, all the keys of the monastery were taken to the Abbot.

"Then you will allow me to remain outside?" Benedetto asked.

On other occasions when the master had granted him this permission, he had climbed the bare heights of Colle Lungo above the monastery, and pa.s.sed the night in prayer, either there, or on the heights of Taleo, or on the rocky hillside which is crossed in going from the oratory of Santa Crocella to the grove of the Sacro Speco. The master hesitated a moment; he had not thought of this wish of Benedetto's again. And precisely to-day his disciple had looked to him more emaciated, more bloodless, than usual; he feared for his health, which was much impaired by the fatigues of labour in the fields, by penance, and by a life devoid of comfort. This the master told him.

"Do not consider my body," the young man pleaded humbly and ardently.

"My body is infinitely remote from me! Fear rather that I may not do all that is possible to ascertain the Divine Will!"

He added that he would also pray for light concerning this meeting, and that he had never felt G.o.d so near as when praying on the hills. The master took his face between his hands, and kissed him on the forehead.

"Go," said he.

"And you will pray for me?"

"Yes, _nunc et semper_."

Steps in the corridor. A key turns in the lock. Benedetto vanishes like a shadow.

Good old Fra Antonio, the doorkeeper of the monastery, did not betray the fact that he had expected to see Benedetto also, and, with that dignified respect in which were blended the humility of an inferior and the pride of an old and honest retainer, he told Don Clemente that the Father Abbot was waiting for him in his private apartment. Don Clemente, carrying a tiny lantern, went up to the great corridor, out of which the Abbot's rooms and his own opened.

The Abbot, Padre Omobono Ravasio of Bergamo, was waiting for him in a small salon dimly lighted by a poor little petroleum lamp. The _salottino_, in its severe, ecclesiastical simplicity, held nothing of interest, save a canvas by Morone--the fine portrait of a man; two small panels with angels' heads, in the style of Luini; and a grand piano, loaded with music. The Abbot, pa.s.sionately fond of pictures, music, and snuff, dedicated to Mozart and Haydn a great part of the scant leisure he enjoyed after the performance of his duties as priest and ruler. He was intelligent, somewhat eccentric, and possessed of a certain amount of literary, philosophical, and religious learning which, however, stopped short with the year 1850, he having a profound contempt for all learning subsequent to that date. Short and grey-haired, he had a clever face. A certain curtness of manner, and his rough familiarity, had astonished the monks, accustomed to the exquisitely refined manners of his predecessor, a Roman of n.o.ble birth. He had come from Parma, and had a.s.sumed his duties only three days previously.

Don Clemente knelt before him and kissed his hand.

"You have strange ways here at Subiaco," said the Abbot. "Is ten o'clock the same as eleven o'clock to you?"

Don Clemente apologised. He had been detained by a duty of charity. The Abbot invited him to be seated,

"My son," said he, "are you sleepy?" Don Clemente smiled without answering.

"Well," the Father Abbot continued, "you have wasted an hour of sleep, and now I have my reasons for robbing you of a little more. I intend to speak to you about two matters. You asked my permission, to visit a certain Selva and his wife. Have you been there? Yes? Can you a.s.sure me that your conscience is at rest?"

Don Clemente answered unhesitatingly, but with a movement of surprise:

"Yes, most certainly."

"Well, well, well," said the Abbot, and took a large pinch of snuff with evident satisfaction. "I do not know these Selvas, but there are people in Rome who do know them, or, at least, think they do. Signor Selva is an author, is he not? Has he not written on religion? I fancy he is a Rosminian, judging by the people who are opposed to him; people unworthy to tie Rosmini's shoe-strings; but let us discriminate! True Rosminians are those at Domodossola, and not those who have wives, eh? Very well then, this evening after supper I received a letter from Rome. They write me--and you must know my correspondent is one of the mighty--that precisely to-night a conventicle was to be held at the house of this false Catholic, Selva, who had summoned to it other malignant insects like himself; that probably you would wish to be present, and that I was to prevent your going. I do not know what I should have done, for when the Holy Father speaks I obey; if the Holy Father does not speak, I reflect. But, fortunately for you, you had already started. There are really some good people who will ferret out heretics in Paradise itself!

Now you tell me that your conscience is quiet. Am I not then to believe what the letter says?"

Don Clemente replied that there had certainly been neither heretics nor schismatics at Signor Selva's house. They had talked of the Church, of her ills, and of possible remedies, but in the same spirit in which the Abbot himself might speak.

"No, my son," the Abbot answered. "It is not for me to reflect upon the ills of the Church, or upon possible remedies. Or rather, I may reflect upon these matters, but I must speak of them only to G.o.d, that He Himself may then speak of them to the proper persons. And do you do the same. Bear this in mind, my son! The ills exist, and perhaps the remedies also exist, but--who knows?--these remedies may be poisons, and we must let the Great Healer apply them. We, for our part, must pray. If we did not believe in the communion of saints, what would, there be to do in the monasteries? So for the sake of our peace of mind, my son, do not return to that house. Do not again ask permission to go there."

The Abbot had ended in a paternal tone, and now laid an affectionate hand upon his monk's shoulder. Don Clemente was much grieved at the thought of not seeing his good friends again, and especially not to be able to confer with Signor Giovanni the next day, to warn him of Benedetto's danger, and to consult with him concerning a means of defence.

"They are Christians of gold," he said sadly, and in submissive tones.

"I believe you," replied the Abbot. "They are probably far better than the zealots who write these letters. You see I speak my mind. You come from Brescia, eh? Well, I come from Bergamo. In either place they would be called _piaghe_--festers! They are indeed festers of the Church. I shall answer in a fitting tone. My monks take no part in meetings of heretics. But, nevertheless, you will not revisit the Selvas."

Don Clemente kissed the hand of the fatherly old man resignedly.

"And now I come to the other question," said the Abbot. "I learn that a young man whom you installed there has lived for three years at the _Ospizio_ for pilgrims, where, as a rule, only the herder should have a permanent abode. Oh, I know, of course, that my predecessor sanctioned what you did! This young man is greatly attached to you, you are his spiritual director, and you encourage him to study in the library. It is true that he also works in the kitchen-garden, true that he displays great piety, that he is a source of edification to all, still--as he does not appear to have any intention of becoming a monk--his presence at our _Ospizio_, where he has had a place for three years, Is somewhat irregular, What can you tell concerning this matter? Come, let us hear."

Don Clemente knew that some of his brother monks--and not the oldest, but precisely the youngest among them--did not approve of the hospitality the late Abbot had extended to Benedetto. Neither was the attachment existing between himself and Benedetto entirely to their taste. Don Clemente had already had trouble on this account. He now at once perceived that certain brothers had lost no time, but had already tried to influence the new Abbot. His fine face flushed hotly. He did not answer immediately, wis.h.i.+ng first to quell the anger burning within him by an act of mental forgiveness. At last he a.s.sured the Abbot that it was both, his duty and his wish to enlighten him.

"This young man," he began, "Is a certain Piero Maironi of Brescia. You must surely have heard of the family. His father, Don Franco Maironi, married a woman without birth or money. His parents were already dead at the time, and he lived with his paternal grandmother, Marchesa Maironi, an imperious and proud woman."

"Oh!" exclaimed the Abbot, "I knew her! A perfect terror! I remember her well. In Brescia they called her the 'Marchesa _Haynau_' [Footnote: In allusion to the terrible Austrian, General Haynau, who, on account of his cruelty to the Italian patriots, was surnamed the "Hyena of Brescia."--TRANSLATOR.] She had twelve cats and wore a great black wig!

I remember her well!"

"I knew her only by reputation," Don Clemente continued, smiling, while the Abbot, with a sort of guttural purr, took a generous pinch of snuff, to rid himself of the bad taste this unpleasant memory had left.