On his way down from the villa to the gate, Don Clemente asked himself
with secret anxiety: “Did he recognise her, or not? And if he did, what
impression did she make?” On reaching the gate he turned to him he had
called Benedetto, and scrutinised his face closely--a fleshless, pallid,
intellectual face, in which he read no sign of agitation. The eyes met
his wonderingly, almost as if questioning: “Why do you look at me thus?”
The monk said to himself: “Probably he did not recognise her, or he
supposes me to be unaware of her arrival.” He passed his arm through
his companion’s, holding him close, and in silence turned to the left
towards the dark and noisy gorge of the Anio. When they had walked on
a few paces under the trees which border the road, he said: “Do you not
wish to question me about the meeting?” There was more tenderness in his
tone than the commonplace words demanded. His companion answered:
“Yes, tell me about it.”
The voice was husky and devoid of interest. Don Clemente said to
himself: “He certainly recognised her!” Then he talked of the meeting,
but as one preoccupied with other thoughts, without warmth, without
details; nor did his companion once interrupt him with questions or
comments.
“We separated,” he said, “without having come to any conclusion; this
was partly owing to the arrival of some foreigners. So I was not able
to arrange with Signor Giovanni about you. But I think some of us,
at least, will meet again tomorrow. And you yourself,” he added
hesitatingly, “do you, or do you not feel inclined to return?”
Benedetto, walking steadily on, answered in the same submissive tone as
before: “Are the foreign ladies I saw going to remain?”
Don Clemente pressed his arm very hard.
“I do not know,” he said, adding, much moved, and with another pressure
of the arm: “If I had only known--!”
Benedetto opened his lips to speak, but checked himself. They proceeded
thus in silence towards the two black cliffs in the noisy ravine, and
leaving the main road, which turns to cross the Anio by the Ponte di San
Mauro, took the mule-path leading to the convents, which winds up to
the cliff on the left. The enormous, slanting mass of rock before them
seemed to Don Clemente at that moment the symbol of a demoniacal power
standing in Benedetto’s way; so, too, the gathering darkness seemed to
him symbolically threatening, and threatening also the ever-increasing,
ever-deepening roar of the lonely river.
Beyond the oratory of San Mauro, where the mule-path to the convents
turns to the left, running along the side of the hill towards the
Madonnina dell’ Oro, and another mule-path leads straight into the
ravine, past the ruins of the Baths of Nero, Benedetto disengaged
himself gently from the monk’s arm, and stopped.
“Listen, Padre,” said he; “I must speak with you; perhaps at some
length.”
“Yes, my friend, but it is late; let us go into the monastery.”
Benedetto lived at the Ospizio for pilgrims, the farmhouse, which is
reached from a courtyard communicating by a great gate with the public
way and by a small gate with the corridor of the monastery, leading from
the public way to the church and to the second of the three cloisters.
“I had rather not return to the monastery tonight, Padre,” said he.
“You had rather not return?”
On other occasions during the three years he had spent in the free
service of the monastery, Benedetto had obtained permission from Don
Clemente to spend the night in prayer, out among the hills. Therefore
the master at once concluded that his disciple was passing through one
of those periods of terrible inward struggle, which forced him to flee
from his poor couch and from the shadows of his room, accomplices,
these, of the evil one, in tormenting his imagination,
“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, grassy
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 assailed 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 pass. 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 grass--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 Mass, 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
passed 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 passed 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 Rancé, 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 God 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 fagots 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
space. My thought was: ‘If we meet alone, I will speak to her as to a
sister, I will beg her forgiveness; perhaps God 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 God 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 grassy 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 God 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
anchored 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 passed the great gate of
the monastery, and having turned the other corner of the inclosure, and
traversed the long, dark passage 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
passed 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 God 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, passionately 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 noble birth. He had come from Parma, and had
assumed 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 assure 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 God, 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, wishing first to quell the anger burning within
him by an act of mental forgiveness. At last he assured 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.
“Well, the grandmother would not hear of this ill-assorted marriage. The
young couple therefore were guests in the house of the bride’s uncle,
she being also an orphan. He, Don Franco, enlisted in 1859, and died
of the wounds he received. His wife died soon after. The little boy was
cared for by the grandmother, Marchesa Maironi, and, after her death,
by certain Venetian relations of hers, of the name of Scremin. The
grandmother left him very wealthy. He married a daughter of these
Scremins,’ who, unfortunately, went mad soon after her marriage, I
believe. Piero felt this affliction keenly, and led a life of retirement
until he had the misfortune to come in contact with a woman separated
from her husband. Then a period of transgression set in; he transgressed
morally and in matters of faith. At last (it seems like a miracle
performed by the Lord Himself) the wife in her dying moments recovered
her reason, summoned her husband, spoke with him, and then died the
death of a saint. This death turned Piero’s heart towards God; he left
the woman, renounced his rights, left everything, and fled from his home
in the night, telling no one whither he was going. Having met me once at
Brescia, where I had gone to visit my sick father, and knowing I was
at Subiaco, he came here. He was, moreover, fond of our Order, and
cherished certain memories connected with our poor Praglia. He told
me his story, entreating me to help him lead a life of expiation. I
supposed he aspired to enter the Order. But he told me that, on the
contrary, he did not feel himself worthy; that he had not as yet been
able to ascertain the Divine Will on this point; that he wished, in
the meantime, to do penance, to labour with his hands, to earn his
bread--only a crust of bread. He told me other things; he spoke of
certain incidents of a supernatural character which had happened to him.
I at once told the late Father Abbot about him, and we decided to lodge
him in the _Ospizio_, to let him work within the inclosure, helping the
kitchen-gardener, and to provide him with the frugal fare he craved. In
three years he has never once tasted coffee, wine, milk, or eggs. He
has touched nothing save bread, _polenta_, fruit, herbs, oil, and pure
water, He has led the life of a saint, all can assure you of that. Still
he believes himself the greatest sinner on earth!”
“Hm!” the Abott ejaculated thoughtfully, “Hm! I see! But why does he not
join the Order? Then, another thing: I know he has passed several nights
outside the inclosure.”
Don Clemente felt his face once more aflame. “In prayer,” he said.
“That may be, but perhaps some may not believe it. You know what Dante
says:
Ad ogni ver che ha faccia di menzogna
Dee l’uom chiuder la bocca quant’ei puote,
Però che senza colpa fa vergogna.”
[Footnote:Aye to that truth which has the face of falsehood
A man should close his lips as far as may be,
Because without his fault it causes shame.
--Longfellow’s _Translation of the “Inferno.”_]
“Oh!” Don Clemente exclaimed, blushing, in his modest dignity, for those
who were capable of harbouring vile suspicions.
“Forgive me, my son!” said the Abbot. “He is not accused, the
appearances alone are criticised. Do not vex yourself. It is wiser to
pray in the house! And these incidents of a supernatural character--pray
tell me about them.”
Don Clemente said they were visions--voices heard in the air.
“Hm! Hm!” ejaculated the Abbot, with a complicated play of wrinkled
forehead, eyebrows, and lips, as if he were swallowing a mouthful of
vinegar.
“You said his name was--? His real name?”
“Piero, but when he came here he wished to part with that name, and
begged me to give him another. I chose ‘Benedetto’--it seemed the most
appropriate.” At this point the Abbot expressed a wish to see Signor
Benedetto, and desired Don Clemente to send him to him on the following
morning after the office in the choir. At this Don Clemente was somewhat
embarrassed, and had to confess that he could not promise to do so,
because, as it happened, the young man had gone out among the hills to
pass the night in prayer, and he did not know precisely at what hour
he would return. The Abbot was greatly annoyed, and mumbled a series of
reproaches and caustic remarks. Don Clemente therefore decided to tell
him of the meeting with Signora Dessalle, the former mistress; of what
had followed on the way home, of his determination to send Benedetto to
Jenne, and to oblige him to remain there until the woman had gone. The
Father Superior kept up a continuous, low grumbling, and heard him with
knitted brows.
“Here,” he exclaimed at last, “you are going back to the days of St.
Benedict! to the wiles of shameless women! Let your Benedetto go, let
him go, let him go! To Jenne and farther still! And you were not going
to tell me this? Did it seem a matter of slight consequence? Was it of
no consequence that intrigues of this sort should be carried on round
the monastery? Now go; go, I say!”
Don Clemente was about to answer that he had not known of any intrigue,
nor if the woman had recognised his disciple; that at any rate he had
already informed Benedetto of his intention of sending him away; but he
silenced this useless self-justification and, kneeling, took leave of
the Abbot.
Don Clemente took up again the tiny lantern, which he had left in the
corridor, but did not go to his cell. Slowly, very slowly, he walked to
the end of the corridor; slowly, very slowly, and not without frequent
pauses, he descended by a little winding stair to the other passage
leading to the chapter-hall. The thought of his beloved disciple
wandering amidst the darkness on the mountains; the anticipation of
the resolutions he might form, after communing with his God; the covert
hostility of his brother monks; the Abbot’s frowns and doubts; the fear
that he would oblige Benedetto to choose between leaving the convent
and taking the monastic vows, all weighed heavily upon his heart.
Benedetto’s mystic fervour, his great and unconscious humility, his
progress in comprehending the Faith according to the ideas originating
with Signor Giovanni, a new lucidity of thought which flashed from him
in conversation, the growing strength of their mutual affection, had
awakened in him hopes of a revelation of Divine Grace, of Divine Truth,
of Divine Power for the saving of souls, to be made, at no distant
period, through this outcast of the world. They had said at the meeting
at Signor Selva’s house, “A saint is needed.” The first to affirm this
had been the Swiss Abbé. Others had said that the saint should be a
layman. This was moreover his own opinion, and Benedetto’s repugnance
to a monastic life seemed to him providential. The coming of the woman
seemed almost providential also, forcing him as it did to leave the
convent. But what was happening out on the hills? What words was God
uttering in his heart? And if--
This unexpected, formidable _if_ flashing into his mind stopped the
ponderer in his slow walk. _“Magister adest et vocat te!”_ Perhaps the
Divine Master Himself was even now calling Benedetto to serve Him in the
habit of a monk.
He ceased thinking, terrified, and, having set the tiny lantern down,
passed from the chapter-hall into the church, directing his steps
towards the chapel of the Sacrament. With that dignity of which no
internal storm could rob his refined bearing and the lofty beauty of his
face, he sank upon his knees at the desk which stands in the centre of
the chapel, between the four columns, under the lamp, raising his eyes
to the tabernacle.
The Teacher of the Way, of Truth, of Life, the Beloved of the soul, was
there, and sleeping, as He had slept on that stormy night on the Lake
of Gennesaret, between Gadara and Galilee, in the bark which other
wave-tossed barks followed through the roaring darkness. He was there,
praying as on that other night, alone, on the hillside. He was there,
saying with His sweet eternal voice: “Come unto Me all ye who suffer,
all ye who are heavy laden, come unto Me.” He was there and speaking,
the living Christ: “Believe in Me, for I am with you; I am your
strength, and I am peace. I the Humble, son of the Almighty; I the Meek,
son of the Terrible; I who prepare hearts for the kingdom of justice,
for the future union of all with Me in My Father.” He, the Merciful, was
there in the tabernacle, breathing the ineffable invitation: “Come, open
thy heart; give thyself up to Me!”
And Clemente gave himself up, confiding to Him what he had never
confessed even to himself. He felt that everything in the ancient
monastery was dying, save Christ in the tabernacle. As the germ-cell
of ecclesiastical organism, the centre from which Christian warmth
irradiates upon the world, the monastery was becoming ossified by the
action of inexorable age. Within its walls noble fires of faith
and piety, enclosed--like the flames of the candles burning on the
altars--in traditional forms, were consuming their human envelope, their
invisible vapours rising towards heaven, but sending no wave of heat or
of light to vibrate beyond the ancient walls. Currents of living air no
longer swept through the monastery, and the monks no longer, as in the
first centuries, went out in search of them, labouring in the woods and
in the fields, co-operating with the vital energies of nature while
they praised God in song. His talks with Giovanni Selva had brought him
indirectly, and little by little, to feel thus regarding the monastic
life in its present form, although he was convinced that it has
indestructible roots in the human soul. But now, perhaps for the first
time, he looked his belief squarely in the face. For a long time his
wish and his hope had been that Benedetto might become a great gospel
labourer; not an ordinary labourer, a preacher, a confessor, but an
extraordinary labourer; not a soldier of the regular army, hampered
by uniform and discipline, but a free champion of the Holy Spirit. The
monastic laws had never before appeared to him in such fierce antagonism
with his ideal of a modern saint. And now, what if the Divine Will
concerning Benedetto should reveal itself contrary to his desires?
Ah! was he not already almost on the verge of committing mortal sin?
Had he not been about to judge the ways of God, he presumptuous dust?
Prostrate upon the kneeling-stool, he sought to merge himself in
the Almighty, praying silently for forgiveness, for a revelation to
Benedetto of the Divine Will, and ready to worship it, whatever it
might be, from this time forth. As he rose, with a natural ebbing of the
mystic wave from his heart, his eyes still turned towards the altar, but
no longer fixed upon the tabernacle, he could not refrain from thinking
of Jeanne Dessalle and of what Benedetto had said. The very indifferent
picture above the altar represented the martyr Anatolia offering,
from Paradise, the symbolical palms to Audax, the young pagan who had
attempted to seduce her, but whom, instead, she had led to Christ.
Jeanne Dessalle had seduced Benedetto; of this Don Clemente had no
doubts, notwithstanding Benedetto’s attempt to exonerate her and accuse
himself. What if she should now be converted through him? Was it perhaps
right that he should try? Was Benedetto’s impulse really more Christian
than his own fears and the Abbot’s scruples? As he crossed the
church with bowed head, Don Clemente’s mind was struggling with these
questions. Anatolia and Audax! He remembered that a sceptical foreigner,
upon hearing the explanation of the picture from him, had said: “Yes,
but what if neither of them had been put to death? And what if Audax had
been a married man?”
These jesting words had seemed to him an unworthy profanation. He
thought of them again now, and, sighing, took up the little lantern he
had left on the floor in the chapter-hall.
Instead of going towards his cell he turned into the second cloister
to look at the ridge of the Colle Lungo, where, perhaps, Benedetto was
praying. Some stars were shining above the rocky, grey ridge, spotted
with black, and their dim light revealed the square of the cloister, the
scattered shrubs, the mighty tower of Abate Umberto, the arcades, the
old walls, which had stood for nine centuries, and the double row of
little stone friars ascending in procession upon the arch of the great
gate where Don Clemente stood, lost in contemplation. The cloister and
the tower stood out majestic and strong against the darkness. Was
it indeed true that they were dying? In the starlight the monastery
appeared more alive than in the sunlight, aggrandised by its mystic
religious communing with the stars. It was alive, it was big with many
different spiritual currents, all confused in one single being, like the
different wrought and sculptured stones, which, united, formed its
body; like different thoughts and sentiments in a human conscience.
The ancient stones, inclosing souls which love had mingled with them,
saturated with holy longings and holy sorrows, with groans and prayers,
radiated a dim something which penetrated the subconsciousness. They
had the power of infusing strength into those of God’s labourers who, in
arid moments, withdrew from the world, seeking brief repose among them,
as a spring of water infuses strength into the reaper on the lonely
hills. But in order that the life of the stones might continue, a
ceaseless living stream must flow through them, a stream of adoring and
contemplating spirits. Don Clemente felt something akin to remorse for
the thoughts he had harboured in the church about the decrepitude of
the monastery; thoughts which had sprung from his own personal judgment,
pleasing to his self-esteem, and therefore tainted by that arrogance
of the spirit which his beloved mystics had taught him to discern and
abhor. Clasping his hands, he fixed his gaze on the wild ridge of the
hill, picturing to himself Benedetto praying there, and, in an act of
silent renunciation, he humbly relinquished his own desires concerning
the young man’s future. He praised God should He choose to let him
remain a layman; he praised God should He choose to make him a monk,
should He reveal His will, or should it remain hidden. “_Si vis me
esse in luce sis benedictus, si vis me esse in tenebris sis iterum
benedictus._” And then he sought his cell.
As he passed the Abbot’s door in the broad corridor where the two dim
lamps were still burning, he thought of the talk he had had with the old
man, of those maxims of his concerning the ills affecting the Church,
and the wisdom of struggling against them. He remembered something
Signor Giovanni had said about the words “_Fiat voluntas tua_,” which
the majority of the faithful understand only as an act of resignation,
and which really point out the duty of working with all our strength for
the triumph of Divine Law in the field of human liberty. Signor Giovanni
had made his heart beat faster, and the Abbot had made it beat more
slowly: which had spoken the word of life and of truth?
His cell was the last one on the right, near the balcony which overlooks
Subiaco, the Sabine Hills, and the shell-shaped tract watered by the
Anio. Before entering his cell Don Clemente stopped to look at the
distant lights of Subiaco; he thought of the little red villa, nearer
but not discernible; he thought of the woman. Intrigues, the Abbot had
said. Did she still love Piero Maironi? Had she discovered, did she know
that he had sought refuge at Santa Scolastica? Had she recognised him?
If so, what did she propose to do? Probably she was not staying in the
Selvas’ very small lodging, but was at some hotel in Subiaco. Were those
distant lights fires in an enemy’s camp? He made the sign of the cross,
and entered his narrow cell, for a short rest until two o’clock, the
hour of assembly in the choir.
Benedetto took the road to the Sacro Speco. Beyond the further corner
of the monastery he crossed the dry bed of a small torrent, reached the
very ancient oratory of Santa Crocella on the right, and climbed the
rocky slope which tumbles its stones down towards the rumbling Anio and
faces the hornbeams of the Francolano, rising, straight and black, to
the star-crowned cross on its summit. Before reaching the arch which
stands at the entrance to the grove of the Sacro Speco, he left the
road, and climbed up towards the left, in search of the scene of his
last vigil, high above the square roofs and the squat tower of Santa
Scolastica. The search for the stone where he had knelt in prayer on
another night of sorrow distracted his thoughts from the mystic fire
which had enveloped him, and cooled its ardour. He soon perceived this
and was seized with a heavy sense of regret, with impatience to rekindle
the flame, enhanced by the fear of not succeeding in the attempt, by
the feeling that it had been his own fault, and by the memory of other
barren moments. He was growing colder, ever colder. He fell upon his
knees, calling upon God in an outburst of prayer. Like a small flame
applied in vain to a bundle of green sticks, this effort of his will
gradually weakened without having moved the sluggish heart, and left him
at last in vague contemplation of the even roar of the Anio. His senses
returned to him with a rush of terror! Perhaps the whole night would
pass thus; perhaps this barren coldness would be followed by burning
temptation! He silenced the clamour of his fervid imagination, and
concentrated his thoughts on his determination not to lose courage. He
now became firmly convinced that hostile spirits had seized upon him. He
would not have felt more sure of this had he seen fiendish eyes
flashing in the crevices of the neighbouring rocks. He felt conscious
of poisonous vapours within him; he felt the absence of all love, the
absence of all sorrow; he felt weariness, a great weight, the advance of
a mortal drowsiness. Once more he fell into stupid contemplation of the
noise of the river, and fixed his unseeing eyes upon the dark woods of
the Francolano. Before his mental vision passed slowly, automatically,
the image of the evil priest, who had lived there with his court of
harlots. He felt weary from kneeling, and let himself sink to the
ground. Again he was the slow automaton. With a painful effort he rose
to a sitting posture, and dropped his hand upon the tufts of soft,
sweet-smelling grass, pushing up between the stones. He closed his eyes
in enjoyment of the sweetness of that soft touch, of the wild odour,
of rest, and he saw Jeanne, pale under the drooping brim of her black,
plumed hat, smiling at him, her eyes wet with tears. His heart beat
fast, fast, ever faster; a thread, only a thread of will-power held him
back on the downward slope leading him to answer the invitation of
that face. With wide eyes, his arms extended, his hands spread open,
he uttered a long groan. Then, suddenly fearing some nocturnal wayfarer
might have heard him, he held his breath, listening. Silence: silence in
all things save the river. His heart was growing more calm. “My God! my
God!” he murmured, horrified at the he had been in, at the abyss he had
crossed. He clung with his eyes, with his soul, to the great, sacred,
cube-shaped Santa Scolastica, down below with its squat, friendly tower,
which he loved. In spirit he passed through the shadows and the roofs;
he had a vision of the church, of the lighted lamp, of the tabernacle,
of the Sacrament, at which he gazed hungrily. With an effort he pictured
to himself the cloisters, the cells, the great crosses near the monks’
couches, the seraphic face of his sleeping master. He continued in this
effort as long as possible, checking in anguish of soul frequent flashes
of the drooping plumed hat and of the pale face, until these flashes
grew fainter, and were finally lost in the unconscious depths of his
soul. Then he rose wearily to his feet, and slowly, as though his
movements were controlled by a consciousness of great majesty, he
clasped his hands and rested his chin upon them. He concentrated his
thoughts on the prayer from the _Imitation: “Domine, dummodo
voluntas mea recta et firma ad te permaneat, fac de me quid-quid tibi
placuerit.”_ He was no longer inwardly agitated; it seemed to him that
the evil spirits had fled, but no angels had as yet entered into him.
His weary mind rested upon external things: vague forms, the flakes of
white among the shadows, the distant hoot of an owl among the hornbeams,
the faint scent of the grass which still clung to his clasped hands upon
the grass, before Jeanne’s sad smile had appeared to him. Impetuously
he unclasped his hands and turned his hungry eyes towards the monastery.
No, no, God would not allow him to be conquered! God had chosen him to
do His own work. Then from the depths of his soul, and independently of
his will, arose images, which, in obedience to his master’s counsels, he
had not allowed himself to evoke since his arrival at Santa Scolastica;
images of the vision, a written description of which he had confided to
Don Giuseppe Flores.
He saw himself in Rome at night, on his knees in Piazza San Pietro,
between the obelisk and the front of the immense temple, illumined by
the moon. The square was deserted; the noise of the Anio seemed to him
the noise of the fountains. A group of men clad in red, in violet and
in black, issued forth from the door of the temple and stopped on the
steps. They fixed their gaze upon him, pointing with their forefingers
towards Castel Sant’ Angelo, as if commanding him to leave the sacred
spot. But now it was no longer the vision, this was a new imagining.
He was standing, straight and bold, before the hostile band. Suddenly
behind him he heard the rumbling of hastening multitudes pouring into
the square in streams from all the adjacent streets. A human wave swept
him along, and, proclaiming him the reformer of the Church, the true
Vicar of Christ, set him upon the threshold of the temple. Here he faced
about, as if ready to affirm his world-wide authority. At that moment
there flashed across his mind the thought of Satan offering the kingdoms
of the world to Christ. He fell upon the ground, stretching himself
face downward on the rock, groaning in spirit: “Jesus, Jesus, I am
not worthy, not worthy to be tempted as Thou wast!” And he pressed his
tightly closed lips to the stone, seeking God in the dumb creature. God!
God! the desire, the life, the ardent peace of the soul! A breath of
wind blew over him, and moved the grass about him.
“Is it Thou?” he groaned. “Is it Thou, is it Thou?”
The wind was silent.
Benedetto pressed his clenched hands to his cheeks, raised his head,
and, resting his elbows on the rock, listened, for what he knew not.
Sighing he rose to a sitting posture. God will not speak to him. His
weary soul is silent, barren of thought. Time creeps slowly on. To
refresh itself, the weary soul makes an effort to recall the last part
of the vision, its soaring flight through a stormy nocturnal sky to meet
descending angels. And he reflects dimly: “If this fate awaits me,
why should I repine? Though I be tempted I shall not be conquered, and
though I be conquered still God will raise me up again. Neither is it
necessary to ask what His will is concerning me. Why not go down, and
sleep?”
Benedetto rose, his head heavy with leaden weariness. The sky was hidden
by thick clouds as far as the hills of Jenne, where the valley of the
upper Anio turns. Benedetto could hardly distinguish the black shadow
of the Francolano opposite, or the livid, rocky slope at his feet. He
started down, but stopped after a few steps. His legs would not support
him, a rush of blood set his face aflame. He had scarcely broken his
fast for thirty hours, having eaten only a crust of bread at noon. He
felt millions of pins pricking him, felt the violent beating of his
heart, felt his mind becoming clouded. What was that tangle of serpents
winding themselves about his feet, in the disguise of innocent grasses?
And what sinister demon was that, waiting for him down there, crouching
on all fours on a rock, disguised as a bush and ready to jump upon him?
Were not the demons waiting for him at the monastery also? Did they not
nest in the openings of the great tower? Was there not a black flame
flashing in those openings? No, no, not now; now they were staring at
him like half-closed and mocking eyes. Was this the rumbling of the
Anio? No, rather the roaring of the triumphant abyss. He did not
entirely credit all he saw and heard, but he trembled, trembled like a
reed in the wind, and the millions of pins were moving over his whole
body. He tried to free his feet from the tangle of serpents, and did not
succeed. From terror he passed to anger: “I _must_ be able to do it!”
he exclaimed aloud. From the gloomy gorge of Jenne, the dull rumble of
thunder answered him. He glanced in that direction. A flash of lightning
rent the clouds and disappeared above the blackness of Monte Preclaro.
Benedetto tried again to free his feet from the serpents, and again the
leonine voice of the thunder threatened him.
“What am I doing?” he asked himself, trying to understand. “Why do I
wish to go down?” He no longer knew, and was obliged to make a mental
effort to recall the reason. That was it! He had decided to go down and
sleep, because one sure of the kingdom of heaven has no need of prayer.
Then, like the lightning flashing round him, came a flash within him:
“I am tempting God!”
The serpents pressed him tighter; the demon crept towards him on all
fours, up the rocky slope, all hellishly alive with fierce spirits; the
black flames burst forth in the openings of the great tower, the abyss
the while howling, triumphant! Then the sovereign roar of the thunder
rumbled through the clouds: “Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God!”
Benedetto raised his face and his clasped hands towards heaven,
worshipping as best he might with the last glimmer of clouded
consciousness. He swayed, spread wide his arms, clutching the air.
Slowly he bent backwards, fell prostrate upon his back on the hillside,
and then lay motionless.
* * * * *
His body, motionless midst the rush of the thunderstorm, lay like an
uprooted trunk, among the straining gorse and the waving grass. His soul
must have been sealed by the central contact with the Being without time
and without space, for when Benedetto first regained consciousness he
had lost all sense of place and of time. His limbs felt strangely light;
he experienced a pleasant sensation of physical exhaustion, and his
heart was flooded with infinite sweetness. First upon his face, then
upon his hands, he felt innumerable slight touches, as though loving,
animate atoms of the air were gently tickling him; he heard a faint
murmur of timid voices round what seemed to be his bed. He sat up and
looked about him, dazed, but at peace; forgetful of the where and the
when, but perfectly at peace and filled with content by the quiet, inner
spring of vague love, which flowed through all his being, and overflowed
upon surrounding things, upon the sweet little lives about him, that
thus came to love him in turn. Smiling at his own bewilderment, he
recognised the where and the how. The when he could not recognise, nor
did he desire to do so. Neither did he question whether hours or minutes
had passed since his fall, so content was he in the blessed present. The
storm had rolled down towards Rome. In the murmur of the rain falling
softly, without wind; in the great voice of the Anio, in the restored
majesty of the mountains, in the wild odour of the damp rocky slope, in
his own heart, Benedetto felt something of the Divine mingling with the
creature, a hidden essence of Paradise. He felt that he was mingling
with the souls of things, as a small voice mingles with an immense
choir, felt that he was one with the sweet-smelling hill, one with the
blessed air. And thus submerged in a sea of heavenly sweetness, his
hands resting in his lap, his eyes half closed, soothed by the soft,
soft rain, he gave himself up to enjoyment, not however, without a vague
wish that those who do not believe, those who do not love, might also
know such sweetness. As his ecstasy diminished his mind once more
recalled the reason of his presence on the lonely hill, in the darkness
of night; recalled the uncertainties of the morrow, and Jeanne, and
his exile from the monastery. But now his soul anchored in God, was
indifferent to uncertainties and doubts, as the motionless Francolano
was indifferent to the quiverings of its cloak of leaves. Uncertainties,
doubts, memories of the mystic vision, departed from him in his profound
self-abandonment to the Divine Will, which might deal with him as it
would. The image of Jeanne, which he seemed to contemplate from the
summit of an inaccessible tower, awakened only a desire to labour
fraternally for her good. Calm reason having fully resumed its sway,
he perceived that the rain had drenched his clothes and that it still
continued to fall softly, softly. What should he do? He could not go
back to the _Ospizio_ for pilgrims, for the herder would be asleep,
and he would not wake him to get in, nor would this, indeed, be easy to
accomplish. He determined to seek shelter under the evergreen oaks of
the Sacro Speco. He rose wearily, and was seized with dizziness. He
waited a short time, and then crept down very, very slowly, towards the
path which leads from Santa Scolastica to the arch at the entrance to
the grove. Exhausted he let himself sink upon the ground there, in the
dark shadow of the great evergreen oaks, bent and spreading upon the
hillside, their arms flung wide; there between the dim light on the
slope beyond the arch to the right, and the dim light on the slope in
front of the grove to the left.
He longed for a little food, but dared not ask it of God, for it would
be like asking for a miracle. He was prepared to wait for the dawn. The
air was warm, the ground hardly damp; a few great drops fell, here and
there, from the leaves of the evergreen oaks. Benedetto sank into a
sleep so light that it hardly made him unconscious of his sensations,
which it transformed into a dream. He fancied he was in a safe refuge
of prayer and peace, in the shadow of holy arms extended above his head;
and it seemed to him he must leave this refuge for reasons of which the
necessity was evident to him, although he was unaware of their nature.
He could go by a door opening on to the road which leads down to the
world, or he could go by the opposite door, taking a path which rose
towards sacred solitudes. He hesitated, undecided. The falling of a
great drop near him made him open his eyes. After the first moment of
numbness he recognised the arch on the right, where the road begins
which leads down to Santa Scolastica, to Subiaco, to Rome; and on
the left the path which rises toward the Sacro Speco. He noticed with
astonishment that on both sides, beyond the evergreen oaks, the bare
rocks looked much whiter than before; that many little streaks of light
were glinting through the foliage above his head. Dawn? Was it dawn?
Benedetto had thought it was little past midnight. The hour struck at
Santa Scolastica--one, two, three, four. It was indeed morning, and it
would be lighter still--for it no longer rained-were the sky not one
heavy cloud from the hills of Subiaco to the hills of Jenne. A step in
the distance; some one coming up towards the arch.
It was the herder of Santa Scolastica who, for special reasons, was
carrying the milk to the Sacro Speco at that unusually early hour.
Benedetto greeted him. The man started violently at the sound of his
voice, and nearly let the jug of milk fall.
“Oh, Benedé!” he exclaimed, recognising Benedetto, “are you here?”
Benedetto begged for a drink of milk, for the love of God!
“You can explain to the monks,” said he. “You can say I was exhausted,
and asked for a little milk, for the love of God.”
“Yes, yes! It is all right! Take it! Drink!” the man exclaimed, for he
believed Benedetto to be a saint. “And have you passed the night out
here? You were out in all that rain? Good Lord! how wet you are! You are
soaked through like a sponge!” Benedetto drank.
“I thank God,” he said, “for your Madness and for the blessing of the
milk.”
He embraced the man, and years afterwards the herder, Nazzareno Mercuri,
used to tell that while Benedetto held him in his arms, he, Nazzareno
did not seem to be himself; that his blood first turned to ice and then
to fire; that his heart beat hard, very hard, as it did the first time
he received Christ in the Sacrament; that a terrible headache which
had tormented him for two days suddenly disappeared; that then he had
realised he was in the arms of a saint, a worker of miracles; and that
he had fallen on his knees at his feet! In reality he did not fall on
his knees, but stood as one petrified, and Benedetto had to say twice
to him: “Now go, Nazzareno; go, my dear son.” Having despatched him thus
lovingly on his way to the Sacro Speco, he himself started towards Santa
Scholastica.
In the light of day the rocky slope held no spirits either good or evil.
The mountains, the clouds, even the dark walls of the monastery, and the
tower itself looked heavy with sleep in the pale dawn. Benedetto entered
the Ospizio, and stretching himself on his poor couch, without removing
his wet garments, he crossed his arms on his breast, and sank into a
deep sleep.