I.
The rumbling of the thunder roused Noemi shortly after two o’clock;
she had fallen asleep only a short time before. Her room was next
to Jeanne’s, and the door between them had been left open. Jeanne
immediately called out to her. They had talked until two o’clock,
when Noemi, quite exhausted, and after many vain efforts, had finally
succeeded in persuading her indefatigable friend to leave her in peace.
Now she pretended not to hear. Jeanne called again.
“Noemi! The thunder-storm! I am so frightened!”
“You are not a bit frightened!” Noemi answered irritably. “Be quiet! Go
to sleep!”
“I am frightened! I am coming into your room.”
“I forbid it!”
“Then you must come in here!”
Noemi’s “Will you be quiet?” sounded so resolute that the other was
silent.
Only for a moment, however; then the tearful, childish voice, that Noemi
knew so well, began again:
“Have you not slept long enough? Can you not talk now? You must have
slept three hours!”
Noemi struck a match and looked at her watch, holding which she had
previously begged for silence.
“Twenty-two minutes!” she announced. “Be quiet!”
Jeanne was still for a moment, then she uttered those little
hm!--hm!--hms!--which are always the prelude to tears in a spoilt child.
And the complaining voice went on:
“You do not love me at all! Hm! Hm! For pity’s sake let us talk a
little! Hm! Hm! Hm!”
In her mother tongue, Noemi sighed:
“_Oh_! _mon Dieu_!”
With another sigh she resigned herself to the inevitable:
“Well, go ahead! But what can you say to me that you have not already
said in the last four hours?”
The thunder roared, but Jeanne no longer noticed it.
“To-morrow morning we will go to the monastery,” said she.
“Why yes, of course!”
“Only we two alone?”
“Yes, certainly, that is already settled.”
The tearful voice was silent a moment, and then went on: “You have not
yet promised not to tell anything here in the house.”
“I’ve promised at least ten times!”
“You know what you are to say--do you not--if you are questioned about
my fainting last night?”
“I know.”
“You must say that the Padre was not _he_; that I was disappointed, and
that was why I fainted.”
“Gracious, Jeanne! This is the twentieth time you have said that!”
“How cruel you are, Noemi! How little you care for me!”
Silence.
Jeanne’s voice began again:
“Tell me what you think. Do you really believe he has forgotten me?”
“I will not answer that again!”
“Oh! please answer! Just one word, then I will let you go to sleep!”
Noemi reflected a moment and then answered drily, hoping to silence
Jeanne:
“Well, I think he has. I do not believe he ever loved you.”
“You say that because I myself have said so to you!” Jeanne retorted
violently, no longer in a tearful voice.
“You are no judge of that!”
“_Bon ça_!” Noemi grumbled. “_C’est elle qui me l’a dit, et je ne dois
pas le savoir_!” Silence again.
The tearful voice once more:
“Noemi!”
No answer.
“Noemi, listen!”
Still no answer. Jeanne began to cry, and Noemi yielded.
“For heaven’s sake! what Is it now?”
“Piero cannot know that my husband is dead.”
“Well, and what of that?”
“Then he cannot know that I am free,”
“Well? How stupid you are! You make me angry!”
Silence. Jeanne knew the nature of her anger very well. Her friend’s
convictions were too much like her own, and she longed to have her
painful presentiment contradicted, longed for a word of hope.
She laughed a low, forced laugh:
“Noemi, now you are pretending to be offended on purpose not to have to
talk.”
Silence.
Jeanne began again, very sweetly:
“Listen. Don’t you believe he suffers temptations?”
Silence.
Jeanne, this time ignoring the fact that Noemi did not answer,
exclaimed:
“It _would_ be nice if he had just now stopped suffering from
temptations!”
Her sarcasm is so comic, that--although she is greatly shocked--Noemi
cannot help laughing; and Jeanne laughs with her. In spite of her mirth,
Noemi reproaches Jeanne for saying such intensely foolish things without
stopping to reflect. For Noemi knows her friend, and knows that the
Jeanne of this hour is not the true Jeanne, self-possessed and mistress
of herself; or rather perhaps it is the true Jeanne, but certainly not
she who will stand before Piero Maironi, if, by any chance, they meet.
The thunder has ceased, and Jeanne would like to see what the weather
is, but she dreads to leave her bed, fearing to feel ill again, fearing
to discover she will not be able to go up to the monastery a few hours
hence. She also fears the opposition of her hosts, should the weather
prove too unpleasant. She is therefore anxious to see how the sky looks.
Get up must Noemi, the slave whose acts of rebellion very seldom ended
in victory. Noemi rises, opens the window, and examines the darkness,
her hand extended. Tiny, frequent drops tickle her palm. The darkness
grows less impenetrable as her eyes become accustomed to it. She
distinguishes, down below, Santa Maria della Febbre, grey, against a
black background. The mass of heavy mist grows lighter, and the arms of
the oak towering on the right show black against it. The tiny, frequent
drops continue to tickle her outstretched hand, which she finally
withdraws. Jeanne questions.
“Well?” “It is raining.”
She sighs “What a bother,” as if it were going to rain for ever. And the
tiny drops acquire a louder voice, fill the room with soft murmurs, and
then are hushed once more. Jeanne does not understand the soft murmurs,
does not understand that the man of whom her heart is full is lying
unconscious, on the lonely, rocky, hillside, down which the rain washes.
Late on the following morning Signora Selva, somewhat anxious because
neither of her guests had as yet appeared, entered her sister’s room
quietly. Noemi was nearly dressed, and signed to her to be silent.
Jeanne had fallen asleep at last. The two sisters left the room together
and went to the study where Giovanni was waiting for them. Well? Was Don
Clemente really the man? The husband and wife were anxious to know in
order to regulate their conduct accordingly. Giovanni no longer doubted,
but his wife was not sure even now. Noemi! Noemi must know! Giovanni
closed the door, while Maria, interpreting her sister’s silence as
confirmation, insisted: “Then it is really he, really he?”
Noemi was silent. She would perhaps have betrayed her friend’s secret
in order to conspire with the Selvas for Jeanne’s happiness, had she not
been deterred by a doubt of their agreeing with her, and by a sense of
wavering in her own mind. Probably, as Catholics, the Selvas would
not wish this man who had fled from the world to return to it. She, a
Protestant, could not feel thus; at least she _should_ not feel thus.
She should rather believe that God is better served out in the world
and in the married state. She did feel this, but she could not hide
from herself that should Signor Maironi marry Jeanne now, she could
feel little respect for him. At any rate it would be wiser to hide the
strange truth.
“Well, what is it you think?” said she. “That the priest who was here
last night, and who passed in front of us, after all that by-play of
yours, was really the former lover? Is he your Don Clemente? Very well
then, he is not the man.”
“Ah! Really not?” Giovanni exclaimed, between surprise and incredulity.
His wife triumphed.
“There!” said she.
But Giovanni would not yield. He asked Noemi if she were quite sure of
what she said, and how she explained Signora Dessalle’s fainting? Noemi
answered that there was nothing to explain. Jeanne suffered from anæmia,
and was subject to attacks of terrible weakness. Giovanni was silent,
but he was not convinced. If this were really so, how could Noemi assert
so positively that Don Clemente was not the man? In his sister-in-law’s
words, in her manner, in her face, Giovanni perceived something that was
not natural. Maria asked how they had passed the night. How had Signora
Dessalle rested? She had been uneasy? In what way uneasy?
“She was uneasy! What more can I say?” Noemi exclaimed rather irritably,
and went to the open window as if to ascertain the intention of the
clouds. Giovanni took a step towards her, determined to conquer her
reticence. She had a presentiment of this, and, as an expedient, she
asked what his predictions concerning the weather were.
The sky was completely overcast; low, heavy clouds rolled down from the
crests of Monte Calvo upon the Cappuccini and the Rocca. The air was
warm, the roar of the Anio loud. Far below, the road to Subiaco, like
a winding ribbon and almost black with mud, was visible through the
foliage of the olives. Giovanni answered;
“Rain.”
Noemi at once asked how far it was from the little villa to the
convents. It took twenty minutes to go to Santa Scolastica. But why did
she ask? Upon hearing that Jeanne intended going there with Noemi that
very morning, Maria protested. In such weather? You are obliged to walk
the last part of the way. Could they not postpone their visit until
to-morrow or the next day?
“When did she tell you?” Giovanni asked, almost sharply. Noemi hesitated
before answering:
“In the night.”
As soon as she had spoken the words she realised that they would arouse
suspicion, especially after that moment of hesitation; she now awaited
an attack, undecided whether to resist or surrender.
“Noemi!” Giovanni exclaimed severely.
She looked at him, her face slightly flushed; she was silent, not even
saying, “Well, what is it?”
“Do not deny it,” her brother-in-law went on.
“This woman recognised Don Clemente. Do not deny it, rather say so at
once; it is a duty which your conscience must surely urge upon you! They
must on no account be allowed to meet!”
“What I said is true,” Noemi answered, having now decided on a line
of action. In her tone, free from all trace of irritation and almost
submissive, there lurked the implied confession that she had not told
the whole truth.
“She did not recognise him? But surely you know something more?”
“Yes, I do know something more,” Noemi replied; “but I must not tell
you what I know. I can only ask you to warn Don Clemente that Signora
Dessalle and I propose visiting the convents this morning. I will say
nothing more, and now I am going to see if Jeanne is awake.”
She left the room hastily. The Selvas looked at each other. What was
the meaning of her wish to have Don Clemente warned? Maria read in her
husband’s thoughts something which displeased her, something she did not
wish him to utter,
“You had better write the letter to Don Clemente,” she said.
But Giovanni, before writing, wished to free his mind. There seemed to
be only one explanation possible: Don Clemente was really the man. Noemi
had promised Signora Dessalle not to say so, but she nevertheless wished
to prevent a meeting. Maria exclaimed with some heat: “Oh! Noemi does
not tell lies!” and then, crimsoning and smiling, she embraced her
husband as if fearful of having offended him. For, once, she had
offended him by some thoughtless words concerning the lack of
truthfulness in Italians, and now perhaps her exclamation might have
the effect of recalling the shadow of that cloud. He was indeed annoyed,
more by the embrace than by the protest, and, remembering, he also
crimsoned and maintained that in Noemi’s place Maria herself would have
denied everything. Maria was silent, and left the study, importunate
tears welling up in her eyes. At first Giovanni was glad he had repulsed
this offensive tenderness, and he began the note to Don Clemente. Before
he had finished it, however, his irritation had turned to remorse,
and he rose and went in search of his wife. She was in the corridor,
speaking in low tones to Noemi. She turned her face towards him at once;
understanding, she smiled, her eyes still wet, and signed to him to come
nearer, and to speak softly. What was the matter? The matter was that
Jeanne wished to start for Santa Scolastica at once. Noemi explained
that she had only just awakened, and that _at once_ meant an hour and a
half at least. But they must send to Subiaco for a carriage, for Jeanne
was in no condition to walk more than was absolutely necessary--more
than the last part of the way. A ring of the bell called Noemi away.
Jeanne was waiting for her with impatience.
“What a chatterbox of a maid!” she said, half jestingly and half
irritably. “What have you been telling your sister?”
Noemi threatened to leave her. Jeanne clasped her hands in supplication,
and asked, looking her straight in the eyes, as though to read her soul:
“How shall I arrange my hair? How shall I dress?”
Noemi answered thoughtlessly:
“Why, just as you please.”
Jeanne stamped her foot angrily. Noemi understood.
“As a peasant girl,” said she.
“You silly creature!”
Noemi laughed.
Jeanne sighed out the usual reproach:
“You do not love me! You do not love me!”
Then Noemi became serious, and asked her if she really wished to entice
him back again--her precious Maironi?
“I want to be beautiful!” Jeanne exclaimed. “There!”
She really was beautiful at that moment, in her dressing-gown of a warm
yellow tint, with her streaming dark hair down to a hand’s-breadth below
her waist. She looked far lovelier and younger than the night before.
Her eyes shone with that look of intense animation which, in former
days, they had been wont to assume when Maironi entered the room, or
even when she heard his step outside.
“I wish I had the _toilette_ I wore at Praglia,” she said. “I should
like to appear before him in my green fur-lined cloak, now, in May! I
should like him to see at a glance how unchanged I am, and how much I
wish to remain unchanged! Oh! my God, my God!”
With a sudden impulse she threw her arms about Noemi’s neck, and pressed
her face against her shoulder, stifling a sob and murmuring words Noemi
could not distinguish.
“No, no, no!” she cried at last. “I am mad! I am wicked! Let us go away,
let us go away!” She raised her tearful face. “Let us go to Rome!” said
she.
“Yes, yes!” Noemi answered in great agitation, “we will go to Rome. We
will leave at once. Let me go and ask when the next train starts.”
Jeanne immediately seized upon her and held her back. No, no, it was
madness. What would her sister say? What would her brother-in-law think?
It was madness, an impossibility! And besides, besides, besides--She hid
her face, whispering behind her hands that she would be satisfied if she
could only see him for one moment; but she could not--no, no--she could
not leave without having seen him.
“Enough!” said she, uncovering her face, after a long pause. “Let us
dress! I will wear whatever you please; sackcloth, if you wish it, or
even haircloth!”
Her face had resumed the aggrieved smile she had worn before.
“Who can tell?” she said. “Perhaps it will do me good to see him in the
dress of a peasant!”
“It would cure _me_ at once!” Noemi muttered; then she blushed, for she
felt she had spoken a great untruth.
When Signora Selva knocked at the door to say the carriage was waiting,
Jeanne, with mock humility, begged Noemi to allow her to wear a certain
large Rembrandt hat of which she was very fond. The black, feather-laden
brim, drooping over her pale face, above the sombre light in her eyes,
above the tall figure wrapped in a dark cloak, seemed to partake of her
feelings, gloomy, passionate, and haughty. When she said good morning
to Maria Selva she felt the admiration she aroused. She saw it in
Giovanni’s eyes also, but it was admiration of a different sort, and not
of a sympathetic nature. As soon as she and Noemi had left him and were
on their way down to the gate, where the carriage was waiting, Jeanne
asked her if she really had not told her brother-in-law anything at all?
Upon being reassured she murmured:
“I thought you must have.”
When they had proceeded a few paces she pressed her friend’s arm
very hard and exclaimed, much pleased, and as though she had made an
unexpected discovery:
“At any rate, I am still beautiful!”
Noemi did not heed her. She was wondering if the name Dessalle had
conveyed anything to the monk. Had Maironi ever mentioned it to him? If
he had told him of this love, had he not perhaps concealed the woman’s
name? At the bottom of her heart there lurked a lively curiosity to
see this man who had awakened such a strong passion in Jeanne and had
disappeared from the world in such a strange manner. But she would have
liked to see him alone. It was terrifying to think of these two meeting
without any preparation. If she could only speak to the monk first, to
this Don Clemente, to make sure he knew, and to enlighten him if he did
not know; if she could only find out from him something of that other
man, the state of his mind, his intentions. “But enough!” she said to
herself as she entered the carriage. “Providence must provide! And may
Providence help this poor creature!” When they left the carriage where
the mule-path begins, Jeanne proposed timidly, and as one who expects a
refusal and knows it is justified, that she should go up to the convents
by herself, a small boy, who had run after the carriage all the way
from Subiaco, acting as guide. The refusal came indeed, and was most
emphatic. Such a thing was out of the question! What was she thinking
of? Then Jeanne begged at least to be left alone with him should she
find him. Noemi did not know what to answer.
“What if I went up before you?” said she. “If I asked for Padre
Clemente, and tried to find out from him what he is, what he is doing,
and what he thinks; this, your--”
Jeanne interrupted her, horrified.
“The Padre? Speak to the Padre?” she exclaimed, pressing both hands to
Noemi’s face as though to silence her words. “Woe to you if you speak to
the Padre!”
They started slowly up the rocky mule-path, Jeanne often stopping,
seized with trembling, and vibrating like a taut cord in the wind. In
silence she stretched out her hands that Noemi might feel how cold they
were, and smiled. In the sea of clouds rushing towards the hills the
pale eye of the sun appeared; the sun, too, was curious.
* * * * *
Don Clemente said Mass at about seven o’clock, spoke with the Abbot,
and then went to the Ospizio where pilgrims were sheltered. He found
Benedetto asleep, his arms crossed upon his breast, his lips slightly
parted, his face reflecting an inward vision of beatitude. Don Clemente
stroked his hair, calling him softly. The young man started, raised his
head with a dazed look, and, springing out of bed, grasped and kissed
Don Clemente’s hand. The monk withdrew it with an impulse of humility,
quickly checked by the purity of his soul, by his consciousness of the
dignity of his office.
“Well?” he said. “Did the Lord speak to you?”
“I am subject to His will,” Benedetto replied, “as a leaf in the wind, a
leaf which knows nought.”
The monk took his head between his hands, drawing him towards him, and
pressed his lips upon his hair, letting them rest there while their
souls silently communed.
“You must go to the Abbot,” he said. “Afterwards you can come to me.”
Benedetto fixed his gaze upon him, questioning him without words:
“Why this visit?” Don Clemente’s eyes were veiled in silence, and the
disciple humbled himself in a mute but visible impulse of obedience.
“At once?” he inquired.
“At once.”
“May I first go and wash in the torrent?”
The master smiled:
“Go, wash in the torrent.” Bathing in the water which sometimes, after
heavy rains, sings in the Pucceia Valley to the east of the monastery,
and cuts in rivulets across the road to the Sacro Speco, below Santa
Crocella, was the only physical pleasure in which Benedetto allowed
himself to indulge. It was still sprinkling; mist smoked slowly in the
deep valley; the trembling shallow waters complained to Benedetto as
they hastened across the road, but rested quiet and content in the
hollow of his hands; and through his forehead, his eyes, his cheeks, his
neck, they infused deep into his heart a sense of the sweet chastity of
their soul, a sense of Divine bounty. Benedetto poured the water
over his head copiously, and the spirit of the water entered into his
thoughts. He felt that the Father was sending him forth upon new paths,
but that He would carry him in His mighty hand. He reverently blessed
the creature through which so much light of grace had come to him,
the most pure water! Then he bent his steps towards the Ospizio. Don
Clemente, who was waiting for him in the courtyard, started when he
caught sight of him, so transfigured did he appear. Under his thick,
damp hair his eyes shone with quiet celestial joy, and the fleshless
face, the colour of ivory, wore that expression of occult spirituality
which flowed from the brushes of the _Quattrocento_. How could that face
harmonise with peasant’s attire? In his heart Don Clemente congratulated
himself upon a thought which he had conceived during the night, and
had already communicated to the Abbot, namely, to give Benedetto an old
lay-brother’s habit. Before consenting or refusing the Abbot wished to
see Benedetto and speak with him.
The Abbot, while waiting for Benedetto, was strumming with his knuckles
a piece of his own composition, accompanying the sound with horrible
contortions of lips, nostrils and eyebrows. Upon hearing a gentle knock
at the door, he neither answered nor stopped playing. Having finished
the piece he began it again, and played it a second time from beginning
to end. Then he stopped and listened. Another knock was heard, more
gentle than the first. The Abbot exclaimed.
“_Seccatore_! Some bore!”
After some angry chords he began playing chromatic scales. From
chromatic scales he passed to broken chords. Then he listened again for
three or four minutes. Hearing nothing more he went to open the door,
and perceived Benedetto, who fell upon his knees.
“Who are you?” he demanded roughly.
“My name is Piero Maironi,” Benedetto answered; “but here at the
monastery they call me Benedetto.”
And he made a movement to take the Abbot’s hand and kiss it.
“One moment,” said the Abbot, frowning, withdrawing and raising his
hand. “What are you doing here?”
“I work in the kitchen garden,” Benedetto replied.
“Fool!” exclaimed the Abbot. “I ask what you are doing here outside my
door?”
“I was coming to see you, Padre.”
“Who told you to come to me?”
“Don Clemente.”
The Abbot was silent, and studied the kneeling man for some time; then
he grumbled something incomprehensible, and offered him his hand to
kiss.
“Rise!” said he, still sharply. “Come in. Close the door.”
When Benedetto had entered the Abbot appeared to forget him. He put on
his glasses and began turning over the leaves of a book and glancing
through the papers on his desk. In an attitude of soldierly respect,
holding himself very erect, Benedetto stood, waiting for him to speak.
“Maironi of Brescia?” said the Abbot, in the same unfriendly tone as
before, and without turning round.
Having received an answer he continued to turn the pages and read.
Finally he removed his glasses and turned round.
“What did you come here to Santa Scolastica for?” said he.
“I was a great sinner,” Benedetto answered, “God called me to withdraw
from the world, and I withdrew from It.”
The Abbot was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed upon the young man,
and then he said with ironical gentleness:
“No, my friend!”
He took out his snuff-box, shook it, repeating “No, no, no,” rapidly and
almost under his breath; he examined the snuff, dipped his fingers into
it, raised his eyes once more to Benedetto’s face, and, emphasising each
word, said:
“That is not true!”
Grasping the pinch with his thumb, his forefinger, and his middle
finger, he raised his hand swiftly, as though about to throw the snuff
into the air, and, with his arm suspended, continued to speak.
“It is probably true enough that you were a great sinner, but it is not
true that you withdrew from the world. You are neither in it nor out of
it.”
He took his pinch of snuff with a loud noise, and went on:
“Neither in it nor out of it!”
Benedetto looked at him without answering. In those eyes there was
something so serious and so sweet, that the Abbot lowered his to the
open snuff-box, once more dipping his fingers into it and toying with
the snuff.
“I do not understand you,” he said.
“You are of the world, and still you are not of it. You are in the
monastery, and still you are not in the monastery. I fear your head
serves you no better than your great-grandfather’s, your grandfather’s,
and your father’s served them. Fine heads, those!”
Benedetto’s ivory face flushed slightly.
“They are souls with God,” he said, “better than we are, and your words
offend against one of God’s commandments.”
“Silence!” the Abbot exclaimed. “You say you have renounced the world,
and you are full of worldly pride. If you really wished to renounce the
world, you should have tried to become a novice! Why did you not attempt
this? You wished to come here _in villeggiatura_, for an outing, that is
the truth of the matter. Or perhaps you were under certain obligations
at home, there were certain troublesome matters--you know what I mean!
_Nec nominentur in nobis_. And you wished to rid yourself of these
troubles, only to get yourself into fresh ones. You tell stories to that
simple-minded Don Clemente; you usurp the place of a poor pilgrim; and
perhaps--eh?--you hoped with prayers and sacraments to throw dust in the
eyes of the monks, which is an easy matter enough, and even in the eyes
of the Almighty Himself, which is a far more difficult matter. You do
not deny this!”
The slight flush had vanished from the ivory face; the lips, which at
one moment had parted, ready to utter, words of calm severity, were now
motionless; the penetrating eyes were fixed upon the Abbot with the same
sweaty grave look as before. And this calm silence seemed to exasperate
the Abbot.
“Speak then!” said he. “Confess! Have you not also boasted of special
gifts, of visions, of miracles even, for all I know? You have been a
great sinner? Prove that you are one no longer! Exonerate yourself if
you can. Say how you have lived; explain this pretension of yours that
God has called you; justify yourself for coming here to eat the monk’s
bread for nothing; for you did not wish to become a monk, and as to
work, you have done little enough of that.”
“Padre,” Benedetto replied (and the severe tone of his voice, the
austere dignity of his face, accorded ill with the humble gentleness
of his words), “this is good for me, a sinner, who for three years have
lived the life of the spirit, in ease and delights, in peace, in the
affection of saintly men, in an atmosphere full of God Himself. Your
words are good, and sweet unto my soul, they are a blessing from the
Lord; their sting has made me feel how much pride there is in me still,
of which I was ignorant, for it was a joy to me to despise myself. But
as a servant of holy Truth, I say to you that harshness is not good,
even when used towards one who deceives, because gentleness might
perhaps bring him to repent of his deceit; and I say also, Padre, that
in your words there is not the spirit of our true and; only Father, to
whom be all glory!”
At the words “to whom be all glory” Benedetto fell upon his knees, his
face glowing with intense fervour.
“Is it for you, miserable sinner, to play the part of teacher?” the
Abbot exclaimed.
“You are right, you are right!” Benedetto replied impulsively, with
laboured breath and clasped hands. “Now I will confess my sin to you. I
desired illicit love; I was happy in the passion of a woman who was not
free, as I myself was not free, and I accepted this passion. I abandoned
all religious practices and heeded not the scandal I gave. This woman
did not believe in God, and I dishonoured God in her company, my faith
being dead, and showing myself sensual, selfish, weak, and false. God
called me back with the voices of my dead, the voices of my father and
mother. Then I left the woman who loved me, but I was without strength
of purpose, wavering in my heart between good and evil. Soon I returned
to her, all aflame with sin, knowing I should lose myself, even
determined to lose myself. There was no longer an atom of grace in my
soul when a dying hand, dear and saintly, seized me and saved me.”
“Look me in the eyes,” said the Abbot, without allowing him to rise.
“Have you ever let any one know you were here?”
“I have never let any one know.” The Abbot answered drily:
“I do not believe you!”
Benedetto did not flinch.
“You know why I do not believe you?” the Abbot continued.
“I can imagine why,” Benedetto answered, dropping his eyes. “_Peccatum
meum contra me est semper_.”
“Rise!” the Abbot commanded, still inflexible. “I expel you from the
monastery. You will now go and take leave of Don Clemente, in his cell,
and then you will depart, never to return. Do you understand?”
Benedetto bowed his head in assent, and was about to bend his knee to
pay homage in the usual way, when the Abbot stopped him with a gesture.
“Wait,” said he.
Putting on his glasses he took a sheet of paper, upon which he traced
some words, standing the while,
“What will you do, when you have left?” he asked still writing.
Benedetto answered softly:
“Does the sleeping child that his father lifts in his arms know what his
father will do with him?”
The Abbot made no answer; his writing finished, he placed the paper in
an envelope, closed it, and without turning his head, held it out to
Benedetto, who was standing behind him.
“Take this to Don Clemente,” he said. Benedetto begged permission to
kiss his hand.
“No, no, go away, go away!”
The Abbot’s voice trembled with anger. Benedetto obeyed. Hardly had
he reached the corridor when he heard the angry man thundering on the
piano.
* * * * *
Before entering Don Clemente’s little cell, Benedetto stopped before the
great window at the end of the corridor. Here, a few hours earlier, the
master himself had lingered, contemplating the lights of Subiaco, and
thinking of the enemy, the creature of beauty, of genius, of natural
kindliness, who was perhaps come to strive with him for possession of
his spiritual son, to strive with God Himself. Now the spiritual son
felt a mysterious certainty that the woman he had loved so ill, during
the time of his blind and ardent leaning towards inferior things, had
discovered his presence in the monastery, and would come in search of
him. Seeking deep in his own heart for the Spirit which dwelt there,
he gained from it a pious sense of the Divine, which was surely in her
also, hidden even from herself; and he felt a mystic hope that, by some
dark way, she also would one day reach the sea of eternal truth and
love, which awaits so many poor wandering souls.
Don Clemente had heard him coming, and had set his door ajar. Benedetto
entered, and offered him the Abbot’s letter. “I must leave the
monastery,” he said, very calmly. “At once, and for ever.”
Don Clemente did not answer, but opened the letter. When he had read
it he observed, smiling, that Benedetto’s departure for Jenne had been
decided upon the night before. True, but the Abbot had said never to
return, Don Clemente’s eyes were full of tears, but he still smiled.
“You are glad?” said Benedetto, almost plaintively,
Oh, glad! How could the master explain what he felt? His beloved
disciple was leaving him, leaving him for ever, after three years of
spiritual union; but then the hidden Will had made itself manifest; God
was taking him from the monastery, setting his feet in other ways. Glad!
Yes; afflicted and glad, but he could not communicate the cause of his
gladness to Benedetto, The Divine Word would have no value for Benedetto
did he not interpret it for himself.
“Not glad,” he said, “but at peace. We understand each other, do we not?
And now prepare yourself to listen to my last words, which I hope you
will cherish.”
Don Clemente’s whole face flushed as he spoke thus, in low tones.
Benedetto bowed his head, and Don Clemente laid his hands upon it with
gentle dignity.
“Do you desire to surrender your whole being to Supreme Truth, to His
Church, visible and invisible?” said the low, manly voice.
As though he had expected both the action and the question, Benedetto
answered at once, and in a firm voice:
“Yes.”
The low voice:
“Do you promise, as from man to man, to remain unwed and poor, until I
shall absolve you from your promise?”
The firm voice
“Yes.”
The low voice:
“Do you promise to be obedient always to the authority of the Holy
Church, administered according to her laws?”
The firm voice:
“Yes.”
Don Clemente drew his disciple’s head towards him, and said, his lips
almost touching Benedetto’s forehead:
“I asked the Abbot to allow me to give you the habit of a lay-brother,
that on leaving here you might, at least, carry with you the sign of
a humble religious office. The Abbot wished to speak with you before
deciding.”
Here Don Clemente kissed his disciple on the forehead, thus intimating
what the Abbot’s decision had been after their meeting; and into the
kiss he put silent words of praise which his fatherly character and the
humility of his disciple would not permit him to utter.
He did not notice that the disciple was trembling from head to foot.
“Here is what the Abbot wrote after talking with you,” said he.
He showed Benedetto the sheet of paper, upon which the Abbot had
written:
“I consent. Send him away at once, that I may not be tempted to detain
him!”
Benedetto embraced his master impulsively, and rested his forehead
against his shoulder without speaking. Don Clemente murmured: “Are you
glad? Now it is I who ask you!”
He repeated his question twice without obtaining an answer. At last he
heard a whisper:
“May I be allowed not to answer? May I pray a moment?”
“Yes, _caro_, yes!”
Beside the monk’s narrow bed, and high above the kneeling-desk, a great
bare cross proclaimed: “Christ is risen; now nail thy soul to me!” In
fact some one, perhaps Don Clemente, perhaps one of his predecessors,
had written, below it: “_Omnes superbiae motus ligno crucis affigat_.”
Benedetto prostrated himself on the floor, and placed his forehead where
the knees should rest. Through the open window of the cell, the pale
light of the rainy sky fell obliquely upon the backs of the prostrate
man and of the man standing erect, his face raised towards the great
cross. The murmur of the rain, the rumble of the deep Anio, would have
meant to Jeanne the distressed lament of all that lives and loves in the
world; to Don Clemente they meant the pious union of inferior creatures
with the creature supplicating the common Father. Benedetto himself did
not notice them.
He rose, his face composed, and, in obedience to his master’s gesture,
put on the robe of a lay-brother, which was spread out upon the bed,
and fastened the leathern girdle. When he was dressed he opened wide his
arms and displayed himself, smiling to his master, who was gratified to
see how dignified, how spiritually beautiful he was in that habit.
“You did not understand?” said Benedetto. “You were not reminded of
something?”
No, Don Clemente had thought that Benedetto’s intense emotion had been
caused by his humility. Now he understood that he should have recalled
something; but what?
“Ah!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Was it perhaps your vision?”
Yes, surely. Benedetto had seen himself dying on the bare ground, in the
shade of a great tree, and wearing the habit of the Benedictines; and
one argument against believing in the vision--in accordance with the
advice of Don Giuseppe Flores and of Don Clemente--had been the seeming
contradiction between this detail and his repugnance to the monastic
vows, which had been ever increasing since his withdrawal from the
world. Now this contradiction seemed to be vanishing, and therefore the
credibility of the prophetic nature of the vision was reappearing. Don
Clemente was aware of this part of the vision, and should have been able
to read in Benedetto’s heart, his awe at being once more confronted with
a mysterious, divine purpose concerning him, and his fear of falling
into the sin of pride. Of this, he had not thought.
“Do not you think of it, either,” said he, and he hastened to change the
subject. He gave Benedetto some books and a letter for the parish-priest
at Jenne, whose guest he would be for the present. Whether or no he
should remain at Jenne, and in case he did not, whether he should return
to Subiaco or go elsewhere, that Divine Providence must point out to
him.
“_Padre mio_,” Benedetto said, “truly I do not think of what may happen
to me to-morrow. I think only of the words: _‘Magister adest et vocat
me!’_ but not as being spoken by a supernatural voice. I was wrong not
to understand that the Master is always present, and always calling me,
you, every one! If only our soul be hushed, we may hear His voice!”
A faint ray of sunshine glinted into the cell. Don Clemente reflected
at once that should the rain cease, Signora Dessalle would very probably
come to visit the monastery. He said nothing, but his inward anxiety
betrayed itself by a slight shudder, by a glance at the sky which told
Benedetto it was time to leave. He begged the privilege of praying,
first in the Church of Santa Scolastica, and then at the Sacro Speco.
The sun disappeared, and it began to rain again. Master and disciple
descended to the church together, and there, kneeling side by side,
they lingered in prayer. That was their only farewell. At nine o’clock
Benedetto took the road to the Sacro Speco. He left the monastery
unobserved, while Fra Antonio was confabulating with Giovanni Selva’s
messenger. At that moment the rays of the returning sun suddenly lit
up the old walls, the road, the hill itself; shrill cries of gladness,
swift wings of tiny birds broke through the green on all sides, and to
his lips the words rose spontaneously:
“I am coming!”
III.
Jeanne and Noemi reached the monastery at ten o’clock. A few paces from
the gate Jeanne was seized with a violent palpitation. She would have
liked to visit the garden before the convent, the urchin from
Subiaco having told her that the monks of Santa Scolastica had a fine
kitchen-garden, and that some people belonging to them worked in it--an
old man from Subiaco and a young stranger. Now, it was out of the
question. Pale, exhausted, and leaning on Noemi’s arm, she, with
difficulty, dragged herself as far as the door, where a beggar stood,
waiting for his bowl of soup. Fortunately Fra Antonio opened the door
before Noemi had time to ring, and she entreated him to bring a chair
and a glass of water for her friend, who was feeling unwell. Frightened
at the sight of Jeanne, so deathly pale, and drooping against her
companion’s shoulder, the humble old lay-brother placed the bowl of soup
he had brought for the beggar in Noemi’s hands, and hastened away in
search of the chair and the water. Thanks partly to the droll spectacle
the astonished Noemi presented, as she stood holding the bowl of
soup, partly to the rest--the water, the sight of the ancient cloister
sleeping so peacefully, and the reassertion of her own will--a few
minutes sufficed to restore Jeanne sufficiently. Fra Antonio went to
call the _Padre foresterario_, to act as guide to the visitors.
“Tell him we are the two ladies staying at Signor Selva’s house,” said
Noemi.
Don Clemente appeared, blushing in the virginal purity of his soul
because Jeanne was unaware that he knew her story, as he might have
blushed had he been committing some fraud. He mistook Noemi, who came
forward first, for Signora Dessalle. Tall, slim, and elegant, Noemi
might well pass for a siren; she did not, however, look a day over five
and twenty, and therefore could not be the woman of whose adventures
Benedetto had told him. But the Benedictine was incapable of such
calculations, and Noemi was anxious to satisfy herself that Fra Antonio
had fulfilled his mission faithfully.
“Good morning, Padre,” she said in her pretty voice, to which the
foreign accent lent additional charm. “We met last night. You were just
leaving Signor Selva’s house.”
Don Clemente bent his head slightly. Noemi had really hardly had a
glimpse of him, but she had been struck by his beauty, and had reflected
that if he were Signor Maironi she could understand Jeanne’s passion.
Conscious of her fresh and youthful appearance, it never entered
her head that her twenty-five years could be mistaken for Jeanne’s
thirty-two. Jeanne, in the meantime, was wondering how she could turn
her dilemma to the best account.
“You were not expected last night,” said Don Clemente to Noemi. “You
come from the Veneto, I believe?”
“The Veneto?” Noemi seemed surprised.
“The Selvas told me you lived in the Veneto,” the Padre added.
Then Noemi understood. She smiled, and murmured a monosyllable which was
neither “yes” nor “no”; she also was determined to take advantage of
her position, and, thanks to this misunderstanding, obtain a private
interview with Don Clemente, and warn him if necessary. It was moreover
most amusing to talk to this handsome monk, who believed her to be
Jeanne. By a look she cautioned Jeanne, who, much embarrassed, was
glancing from her to the monk, doubtful whether to speak or remain
silent.
“Of course my friend knows Santa Scolastica already,” she said, “but I
have never been here before.”
She turned to Jeanne.
“If the Padre will be kind enough to accompany me, it seems to me you
might remain here, as you are not feeling well,” she said.
Jeanne consented so readily that Noemi suspected she had some secret
plan, and wondered if she had not made a mistake in proposing this.
However, it was too late now. Don Clemente, not over-pleased at having
to accompany one lady alone, suggested they should wait; perhaps her
friend would feel stronger presently. Jeanne protested. No, they must
not wait; she was glad to remain there.
While passing from the first to the second cloister, Noemi once more
reminded the Padre of their meeting on the previous night.
“You had a companion?” she said, and immediately felt ashamed of her
deceit, and of not having cleared up the mistake under which the monk
was labouring. Don Clemente answered almost under his breath:
“Yes, signora, a kitchen-gardener from the monastery.”
Both their faces were crimson, but they did not look at one another, and
each was conscious only of his and her own blush.
“Do you know who we are?” Noemi continued.
Don Clemente replied that he believed he knew. They must be the two
ladies Signora Selva expected. He thought she had mentioned her sister
and Signora Dessalle.
“Oh! you heard of us from my sister?”
At Noemi’s words Don Clemente could not refrain from exclaiming:
“Then you are not Signora Dessalle?”
Noemi saw that the man knew. Therefore he had surely taken precautions,
and an unexpected meeting was not possible. She breathed freely again,
and in her feminine heart curiosity took the place of the anxiety of
which she was now relieved.
Don Clemente spoke to her of the tower, of the ancient arcades, of the
frescoes near the door of the church, while she wondered how he could be
brought to speak of Maironi. When he was showing her the procession of
little stone monks, she interrupted him thoughtlessly, to ask if souls,
tired of the world, disappointed and desirous of giving themselves to
God, often came to the monastery.
“I am a Protestant,” she said. “This interests me greatly.”
In his heart Don Clemente thought that if this really interested her
greatly, it was not on account of her Protestantism, but on account of
her friendship for Signora Dessalle.
“Not often,” he answered; “sometimes. Such souls usually prefer other
Orders. So you are a Protestant? But you will have no objection to
entering our church? I do not mean the Catholic Church,” he added,
smiling and blushing, “I mean the church of our monastery.”
And he told her about a Protestant Englishman, who was in love with
St. Benedict, and made long stays at Subiaco, frequently visiting Santa
Scolastica and the Sacro Speco.
“He has a most beautiful soul,” he said.
But Noemi wished to return to the first subject; to know if--urged by
a spirit of penitence--any one ever came from the world to serve in
the cloister without wearing the habit. She received no answer, for
Don Clemente, seeing a colossal monk enter the cloister, begged to be
excused one minute, and went to speak to him, returning presently with
his majestic companion, whom he introduced as Don Leone, a guide
far superior to himself, both as to the amount and the depths of his
knowledge. Then, to her great chagrin, he himself withdrew.
When she was alone Jeanne had another attack of violent palpitation.
_Dio!_ how the past came back to her! How Praglia came back! And
to think that he came and went through that entrance, through those
cloisters, who knows how many times a day; that he must often think
of Praglia, of that hour fixed by fate, of that water spilled, of the
ecstasy, the tightly clasped hands, under cover of the fur cloak, on the
way home. To think he was now free, and she also was free! How feverish
she felt, how feverish!
Fra Antonio, who had at first been terrified at finding this breathless
woman left there on his hands, was presently amazed by the rapid words
and questions with which she suddenly assailed him.--Was there not a
kitchen-garden near the monastery?--Yes, very near, on the west side;
there was only a narrow lane intervening.--And who cultivated it?--A
kitchen-gardener.--Young? Old? From Subiaco? A stranger?--Old. From
Subiaco.--And no one else?--Yes, Benedetto.--Benedetto? Who was
Benedetto?--A young man from the _Padre foresterario’s_
native town.--And what was the _Padre foresterario’s_ native
town?--Brescia.--And this young man was called Benedetto?--Every one
called him Benedetto, but Fra Antonio could not say if that was his real
name.--But what sort of man was he?--Ah! that Fra Antonio could say.
He was almost more holy than the monks themselves. You could see by his
face that he came of a good family, yet he was housed like a dog; he ate
only bread, fruit, and herbs; he spent whole nights, in prayer probably,
out on the mountains. He tilled the soil, and he also studied in the
library with the _Padre foresterario_. And such a heart! Such a great
heart! Many times he had given the scanty dole of food he received
from the monastery to the poor.--And where could one find him at this
hour?--Oh! surely in the garden; Fra Antonio fancied he would be busy
sprinkling the grape vines with sulphate of copper.
Jeanne’s heart beats so violently that her sight becomes dim. She sits
silent and motionless. Fra Antonio thinks she has forgotten Benedetto.
“Ah! signora,” he says, “Santa Scolastica is a fine monastery, but you
should see Praglia!” For Fra Antonio passed several years at Praglia in
his youth, before the abbey was suppressed, and he speaks of it as of a
venerable mother. “Ah! the church at Praglia! The cloisters! The
hanging cloister, the refectory!” At these unexpected words Jeanne grows
excited. They seem to say to her: “Go, go, go at once!” She starts from
her chair.
“And this garden? In which direction is it?”
Fra Antonio, somewhat astonished, answered that it might be reached
through the monastery, or by skirting the outside. Jeanne went out;
absorbed in her burning thoughts she passed the gate, turned to the
right, entered the gallery below the library, where she paused a moment,
pressing her hands to her heart, and walked on again.
The herder belonging to the convent, standing at the entrance to the
courtyard where the Ospizio, which shelters pilgrims, is located,
pointed out the door of the garden on the opposite side of the narrow
lane, running between two walls. She asked him if she would find a
certain Benedetto in the garden. In spite of her efforts to control
herself, her voice trembled in anticipation of an affirmative answer.
The herder replied that he did not know, and offered to go and see.
Knocking several times, he called: “Benedè! Benedè!”
A step at last! Jeanne was leaning against the door-post to keep herself
from falling. O God! if it be Piero, what shall she say to him? The door
opens; it is not Piero but an old man. Jeanne breathes freely again,
glad for the moment. The old man looks at her, astonished, and says to
the herder:
“Benedetto is not here.”
Her gladness had already vanished; she felt icy cold; the two men looked
at her curiously, in silence.
“Is this the lady who is looking for Benedetto?” said the old man.
Jeanne did not reply; the herder answered for her, and then he told how
Benedetto had spent the night out of doors; that he had found him at
daybreak, in the grove of the Sacro Speco, wet to the skin. He had
offered him some milk and Benedetto had drunk like a dying man to whom
life is returning.
“Listen, Giovacchino,” the herder added, growing suddenly grave. “When
he had drunk he embraced me like this. I was feeling ill; I had not
slept, my head ached, all my bones ached. Well, as he held me in his
arms slight shivers seemed to come from them and creep over me, and then
I felt a sort of comforting heat; and I was content, and as comfortable
all over as if I had had two mouthfuls of the very best spirits in
my stomach! The headache was gone, the pains in the bones were gone,
everything was gone. Then I said to myself: ‘By St. Catherine, this man
is a saint!’ And a saint he certainly is!”
While he was speaking a poor cripple passed, a beggar from Subiaco.
Seeing a lady, he stopped and held out his hat. Jeanne, completely
absorbed in what the herder was saying, did not notice him, nor did she
hear him when--the herder having ceased speaking--he begged for alms,
for the love of God. She asked the gardener where this Benedetto was to
be found. The man scratched his head, doubtful how to answer. Then the
beggar groaned out in a mournful voice:
“You are seeking Benedetto? He is at the Sacro Speco.”
Jeanne turned eagerly towards him.
“At the Sacro Speco?” said she; and the gardener asked the beggar if he
himself had seen him there.
The cripple, more tearful than ever, told how more than an hour ago he
had been on the road to the Sacro Speco, beyond the grove of evergreen
oaks, only a few steps from the convent. He was carrying a bundle of
fagots, and had fallen badly, and could not rise again with his burden.
“God and St. Benedict sent a monk that way,” he continued. “This monk
lifted me up, comforted me, gave me his arm, and took me to the convent,
where the other monks restored me. Then I came away, but the monk stayed
at the Sacro Speco.”
“And what has all this to do with it?” the gardener exclaimed.
“Simply this, that dressed as he was I did not at once know him; but
afterwards I did. It was he.”
“Whom do you mean by _he_?”
“Benedetto.”
“Who was Benedetto?”
“The monk.”
“You are mad! You idiot!” the two men exclaimed together.
Jeanne gave the cripple a silver piece.
“Think well,” she said. “Tell the truth!”
The cripple overflowed with benedictions, mingling with them such humble
expressions as: “Just as you please, just as you please! I may have
been mistaken, I may have been mistaken,” and with his string of pious
mumblings he took himself off. Jeanne again questioned the herder
and the gardener. Was it possible that Benedetto had taken the
habit?--Impossible! The beggar was only a poor fool.
Presently the herder left, and Jeanne, entering the kitchen-garden, sat
down tinder an olive tree, reflecting that Noemi could easily learn from
the door-keeper where to find her. The old gardener, whose curiosity
was aroused, asked, with many apologies, if she was a relative of
Benedetto’s,
“For it is known that he is a gentleman, a rich man!” said he.
Jeanne did not answer his question. She wished rather to find out why
this belief in Piero’s riches prevailed.--Well, you could see by his
manners and by his face; he really had the face of a gentleman.--And
he had not become a monk?--Well, no.--And why had he not become a
monk?--That was not known for a certainty, There were many tales told.
It was even said he had a wife, and that his wife had played him what
the gardener called “a mean trick.” Jeanne was silent, and it suddenly
struck the gardener that she might be the wife, the woman who had played
the “mean trick.” She had perhaps repented, and was come to ask his
forgiveness.
“If this story about the wife is true,” he added, “I don’t say she may
not have had her reasons; but as far as goodness goes, she surely did
not find a better man. You see, signora, these fathers are holy men,
that is undeniable; but there is no one so holy as he, either at Santa
Scolastica or at the Sacro Speco. That I will swear to! Not even Don
Clemente, who is most holy! Still he is not equal to Benedetto. No, no!”
The beggar’s words suddenly sounded in Jeanne’s heart. Benedetto a monk!
But why? It was discouraging to have them thus return, without a reason,
to her heart. Had not the two men said it was nonsense; that the cripple
was a fool? Yes, nonsense, she could see that herself; yes, a fool, he
had impressed her as such; but still the stupid words beat and throbbed
in her heart, as gruesome as masqueraders in comic masks would be should
they knock at your door at any other time save during Carnival!
“If you will wait, signora, in less than half an hour he is sure to be
here. _Che_! What am I saying? In a quarter of an hour. Perhaps he is in
the library studying with Don Clemente, or perhaps he is in the church.”
The library, which runs across the narrow lane, communicates directly
with the kitchen-garden.
“There he is now!” the old man exclaimed.
Jeanne started to her feet. The door leading from the library to the
garden opened slowly. Instead of Piero, Noemi appeared, followed by
the big monk. Noemi perceived her friend among the olives, and stopped
suddenly, greatly surprised. Jeanne in the garden? Was it possible
that--? No, the old man beside her could not be Maironi, and there was
no one else with her. She smiled and shook her finger at her. Don Leone
took leave of Noemi upon learning that this was the friend who--as she
had told him during the visit to the monastery--had remained at the
door-keeper’s lodge. Of course the ladies would go up to the other
convent, and his great size was no longer adapted to the climb to the
Sacro Speco.
It was nearly eleven o’clock; they had ordered the carriage to meet them
where they had left it at half-past twelve, for dinner was at one at the
Selvas’; if Jeanne wished to see the Sacro Speco there was no time to
lose, provided her indisposition had disappeared, as would seem to be
the case. Noemi encouraged her going, and did not stop to ask, in the
presence of the gardener, why she had left Fra Antonio to run off and
explore the garden. She merely whispered: “You were making believe, eh?”
Jeanne said that Noemi must certainly start for the Sacro Speco at
once, but that she herself intended to wait for her in the garden. Noemi
suspected another plot.
“No, no!” she exclaimed, “either you come to the Sacro Speco or--if you
do not feel well enough--we will go down to Subiaco at once.”
Jeanne objected that it would be useless to go down now, for they would
not find the carriage; but Noemi was determined not to yield. They
could walk down very slowly, and be ready for the carriage as soon as it
arrived. Jeanne refused again, more emphatically than before, having
no other argument to set forth. Then Noemi looked searchingly into her
eyes, silently trying to read her hidden purpose there. In that moment
of silence Jeanne’s heart was again assailed by the beggar’s words.
Impulsively she seized her friend’s arm.
“You wish me to go to the Sacro Speco?” she said. “Very well, let us go
then. You believe something and you do not know! Let Fate decide!”
But before moving a step she dropped her friend’s arm, and while Noemi,
completely bewildered, stood watching her she wrote in her notebook: “I
am at the Sacro Speco. For the sake of Don Giuseppe Flores wait for me!”
She did not sign her name, but tearing out the tiny page gave it to
the gardener. “For that man, should he return.” Then once more taking
Noemi’s arm, she exclaimed:
“Let us go!”
The sun’s burning rays, smiting the steaming, rocky hillside, brought
out damp odours of herbs and of stone, silvered the puffs of mist
creeping along the sides of the narrow, wild valley, as far as the
enormous mass resting there, in the background, like a cap on the
heights of Jenne, while the mighty voice of the Anio filled the
solitude. Jeanne climbed upwards in silence, without replying to Noemi’s
questions. Noemi was becoming more and more alarmed by her silence, by
her pallor, by the nervous twitching of her arm, by the sight of her
lips pressed tightly together, to keep back her sobs. Why was she thus
moved? During the night and, indeed, until they had reached the entrance
to Santa Scolastica, the poor creature had wavered between fear and
hope, in a fever of expectancy. Now her fever was of a different nature;
at least it seemed so to Noemi. She thought Jeanne must have heard
something there in the garden, something of which she did not wish to
speak, something painful, frightful! What could it be? The tragic lament
of the invisible water, the silent trembling of the blades of grass on
the rocky slope, even the burning heat, made the heart shrink. A few
paces from the arch which, standing rigid there, holds in check the
black crowd of evergreen oaks, Noemi was relieved to hear human voices.
They belonged to Dane on horseback and to Marinier and the Abbot on
foot, who were coming down together from the Sacro Speco,
Dane showed great pleasure at this meeting; he stopped his horse,
presented the ladies to the Abbot, and spoke of the Sacro Speco in
enthusiastic language. Jeanne, after exchanging a few words with the
Abbot, asked him if any one had recently pronounced the solemn vows or
perhaps taken the habit. The Abbot replied that he had been at Santa
Scolastica only a few days, and was not, at that moment, in a position
to answer her question; but he did not believe any one had made the
solemn profession or assumed the habit of a novice at Santa Scolastica
for at least a year. Jeanne was radiant with joy. Now she understood;
she had been a fool to believe it possible, even for a single moment,
that in twelve hours Piero the peasant had become Piero the monk. She
longed to return at once to the garden at Santa Scolastica; but how
could she manage it? what pretext could she invent? She pressed forward,
anxious to be done with the Sacro Speco as soon as possible. Noemi
proposed resting a few minutes in the shade of the evergreen oaks,
which, there on the path of those souls agitated by Divine Love,
themselves seem twisted by an inward ascetic fury, by a frantic effort
to tear themselves from the earth, and to dart their arms into the sky.
Jeanne refused impatiently. The colour had returned to her face, and
the light to her eyes. She started rapidly up the narrow stair where the
short walk comes to an end, and in spite of the protests of Noemi (who
could not understand the cause of this change) would not stop to
take breath at the head of the stairs where, suddenly, the dark, deep
spectacle of the valley reveals itself. High up on the left looms the
terrible crag, dear to falcons and crows, bulging out above the dreary
walls, pierced by unadorned openings which are incrusted upon the bare
slope, running crosswise along its face, and form the monastery of the
Sacro Speco. In the depths below the convent hangs the rose garden of
St. Benedict, and below the rose garden hang the kitchen-garden and the
olive groves, sloping to the open bed of the roaring Anio. The mass of
cloud which had rested on the heights of Jenne was rising and invading
the sky. A wave of shadow passed over the enormous crag, over the
monastery, over the parapet upon which Noemi had rested her elbows, lost
in contemplation.
“This is magnificent!” she said. “Let us stop here a few seconds at
least, now that it is shady,”
But at that moment the little door of the monastery, not two steps from
them, opened and a party of visitors, men and women, came out. The monk
who had acted as guide, seeing Noemi and Jeanne, held the door open,
expecting them to enter. Jeanne hastened to do so, and Noemi, much
against her will, followed her,
“Thirteenth century frescoes,” said the Benedictine, in the dark
entrance-hall, in an indifferent tone, as he passed on. Noemi stopped,
curiously regarding the ancient paintings. Jeanne followed the
Benedictine, looking neither to right nor left, distracted, tormented by
a doubt. What if the Abbot had been mistaken, if the beggar had told
the truth? She recalled in fancy the happy meeting in the courtyard at
Praglia, the intense pallor of his face, the “Thank you!” which had made
her tremble with joy. A shiver ran through her blood, and, as though
with a sudden pull at the reins of her imagination, she turned to Noemi:
“Come!” she said.
She followed the monk, hearing nothing that he said, observing
nothing that he pointed out. Noemi found it difficult to hide her own
uneasiness, for she had a presentiment of evil on their return. The
dangerous point was the garden at Santa Scolastica, which, judging by
what she had said to the old gardener, Jeanne intended to revisit. She
no longer wished to see this famous Maironi; she longed only to get
Jeanne safely back to the Selvas’, without any meetings, and she
intended to tarry as long as possible at the Sacro Speco, that they
might not have time to stop at Santa Scolastica. She therefore pretended
to take a lively interest in the precious interior of this monastery,
which has such a bare and dreary exterior, while all the while her
one wish was to revisit it more peacefully with her sister or her
brother-in-law.
Upon descending into that mine of holiness, neither of them understood
what road they were following, surrounded as they were by the lifeless,
cold atmosphere, the mystic shadows, the yellowish lights falling from
above, the odours of damp stone, of smoking wicks, of musty draperies;
bewildered by visions of chapels, of grottos, of crosses at the foot of
dark stairs; losing themselves in their flight down towards the lower
caverns, keeping on a level with their own pointed vaults; of marbles
the colour of blood, the colour of the night, the colour of snow; of
stiff, pious groups with Byzantine features, crowding the walls, the
drums of the arches; of little monks and little friars, standing in the
window niches, on the pinnacles of the vaults, along the line of the
entablatures, each with his venerable aureole. The visitors did not know
what path they were following, and Jeanne hardly felt the reality of it
all.
While descending the Scala Santa--the Holy Staircase--the monk leading
and Jeanne following closely, while Noemi came last, some five or six
steps behind, Jeanne, suddenly throwing out her hands, clutched
the guide’s shoulder, and then, ashamed of her involuntary action,
immediately withdrew them, while the monk, who was greatly astonished,
stopped, and turned his head towards her.
“Pardon me!” she said. “Who is that father?”
Between two landings of the Scala, behind a projection of the left wall,
a figure, all black in the habit of the Benedictines, stood, erect and
still, in the dark corner, its forehead resting against the marble,
Jeanne had passed it by four or five steps without having perceived
it, then she had chanced to look round, and had seen it, while an
instinctive suspicion flashed through her trembling heart.
The monk answered:
“He is not a father, signora.”
He bent down to unlock the low gate of a chapel.
“What is the matter?” Noemi inquired, drawing near. “He is not a
father?” Jeanne repeated.
Noemi trembled at the strange ring in her friend’s voice. She herself
had not noticed the figure standing erect in the shadow of the wall.
“Who?” she asked.
The monk, who, in the meantime, had opened the gate, misunderstood her,
and thought she referred to something that had been said before.
“No,” he answered. “The authentic portrait of St. Francis is not here.
Lower down there is a St. Francis painted by the Cavalier Manente. You
will see it presently. Please come in.”
“What is it?” Noemi said softly to Jeanne. Her friend having answered
in a calmer voice, “Nothing,” she passed her, entering the chapel, and
listened to the monk’s explanations. Then the black figure moved away
from the wall. Jeanne saw it slowly mounting in the dim light, under the
pointed arches. On the upper landing the figure turned to the right,
and disappeared, to reappear almost immediately on an arm of the stair,
crossing the slanting background of the scene, and brilliant in the
light of an invisible window. The figure mounted slowly, almost wearily.
Before it vanished behind the enormous flank of an arch, it bent its
head and looked down. Jeanne recognised the face!
On the instant, as if in obedience to a lightning will impelling her,
as if borne along by the rush of her destiny, pale, resolute, without
knowing what she would say, what she would do, she started upwards.
Having crossed the upper landing, she was about to place her foot on
the lighter stairway, when she stumbled and fell, remaining for a moment
prostrate. Thus Noemi, on leaving the chapel, did not see her, and
concluded she had gone down in search of the portrait of St. Francis,
Jeanne rose and started forward; she was a poor creature torn by
passions, to whom the images of celestial peace, grown rigid on the
sacred walls, called in vain. All before her was silence and void. She
was following paths unknown to her, swiftly, securely, as one in an
hypnotic trance. She passed through dark and narrow places, through
light and broad places, never hesitating, never looking to right
or left, all her senses sharpened and concentrated in her hearing,
following little sounds of distant whisperings, the faint complaining
of one door, the breath of wind from another, the brushing of a robe
against the frame. Thus, through the wide-open wings of the last door
she passed rapidly, and found herself face to face with _him_.
He also had recognised her, at the last moment, on the Scala Santa. He
felt almost certain he himself had not been recognised, nevertheless he
had sought to avoid the path usually followed by visitors. Upon hearing
a swift rustle of woman’s drapery approaching that mysterious hall, he
understood all, and, facing the entrance, he waited. She perceived him
and stopped suddenly, in the very act of entering, standing as though
turned to stone, between the wings of the door; her eyes fixed on his
eyes, which no longer wore the look of Piero Maironi.
He was transfigured. His form, owing perhaps to the black habit,
appeared slighter. His pale, fleshless face, his brow, which seemed
to have become higher, expressed a dignity, a gravity, a sad sweetness
which Jeanne had never known in him. And the eyes were totally different
eyes; in them shone a something ineffable and divine, much humility,
much power, the power of a transcendent love, springing not from his
heart, but from a mystic fount within his heart; a love reaching beyond
her heart, but seeking her in the inner, mysterious regions of the soul,
regions unknown to her. Slowly, slowly she clasped her hands and sank
upon her knees.
Benedetto carried the forefinger of his left hand to his lips, while
with his other hand he pointed to the wall facing the balcony, which
opens to the hornbeams of the Francolano hill and to the roar of the
river far below. In the centre of the wall, showing black and large, was
the word
SILENTIUM.
For centuries, ever since the word had been written there, no human
voice had been heard in this place. Jeanne did not look, did not see.
That finger at Piero’s lips was enough to seal her own. But it was not
enough to check the sob in her throat. She gazed at him intently, her
lips pressed tightly together, while great, silent tears rolled down her
face. Immovable, his arms hanging close to his sides, Benedetto slightly
bent his head and closed his eyes, absorbed in prayer. The great, black,
imperious word, big with shadows and with death, triumphed over these
two human souls, while from the shining balcony the fierce souls of the
Anio and of the wind roared in protest.
Suddenly, a few seconds after Benedetto’s eyes had closed to her gaze,
she was shaken and rent from shoulder to knee by a great sob, a sob
bitter with all the bitterness of her fate. He opened his eyes and
looked tenderly at her, while she drank in his look thirstily, sobbing
twice, as in sorrowful gratitude. And because this man, her beloved,
again raised his finger to his lips she bowed her head in assent. Yes,
yes, she would be silent, she would be calm! Still in obedience to his
gesture, to his look, she rose to her feet and drew back, allowing him
to pass out through the open door; then she followed him humbly, her
hope dead in her breast, so many sweet phantoms dead in her heart, her
love turned to fear and veneration.
She followed him to the chapel which they call the upper church. There,
opposite the three small pointed arches inclosing deep shadows through
which an altar looms, and where a silver cross shines against the dark
phantoms of ancient paintings, Jeanne, upon a sign from him, knelt
on the _prie-dieu_ placed on the right side of the great arch, which
follows the line of the pointed vault, while he knelt on the one placed
on the left. On the drum of the arch a fourteenth century painter had
depicted the Great Sorrow. Through a high window on the left, the light
fell upon the Mother of Sorrows--the _Dolorosa_; Benedetto was in the
shadow.
His voice murmured in a scarcely audible tone:
“Still without faith?”
Softly, as he himself had spoken, and without turning her head, she
answered:
“Yes.”
He was silent for a time, then he continued, in the same tone:
“Do you long for it? Could you regulate your actions as if you believed
in God?”
“Yes, if I be not forced to lie.”
“Will you promise to live for the poor and the afflicted, as if each one
of these were a part of the soul that you love?”
Jeanne did not answer. She was too far-seeing, too honest to declare
that she could.
“Will you promise this,” Benedetto continued, “if I promise to call you
to my side at a certain hour in the future?”
She did not know of what solemn and not far distant hour he was
thinking, as he spoke thus. She answered, quivering:
“Yes, yes!” “In that hour I will call you,” said the voice out of the
shadow, “But until I call you, you must never seek to see me again.”
Jeanne pressed her hands to her eyes, and answered “No” in a smothered
tone. It seemed to her she was whirling in the vortex of such agonising
dreams as accompany a raging fever, Piero had ceased speaking. Two or
three minutes slipped by. She withdrew her hands from her tearful eyes,
and fixed her gaze upon the cross, which shone there in front of
her, beyond the pointed arches, against the dark phantoms of ancient
paintings. She murmured:
“Do you know that Don Giuseppe Flores is dead?”
Silence.
Jeanne turned her head. The church was empty.