CHAPTER V. THE SAINT

I. The moon had already set, and in the wind of late evening the

Anio discoursed, now noisily, now softly, as one who in animated

conversation, from time to time, reminds his interlocutor of something

which others must not hear. Perhaps the only person who, in all the

lovely shell in which Subiaco lies, was listening to this discourse,

was Giovanni Selva. Seated on the terrace, near the parapet, on which

he rested his elbows, he was gazing silently into the sounding darkness.

Maria and Noemi, who had also come out to enjoy the freshness and

the wild odours of the night wind, stood at a little distance. Maria

whispered a word in her sister’s ear, and Noemi withdrew. When she was

alone, Maria approached her husband very softly, and dropped a kiss upon

his hair.

“Giovanni,” said she. How often, oppressed by the intensity of her

love, had she not given him her soul, her whole being, in that one word,

spoken under her breath, all others seeming to her inadequate, or worn

by too many lips! Giovanni answered sadly, wearily:

“Maria.”

No longer feeling her face on his hair he feared he had spoken coldly to

her.

“Dearest!” he said.

She was silent for a moment, then placing both hands on his head, began,

caressing it slowly, saying:

“Blessed are they who suffer for Truth’s sake.”

He turned round, smiling, with a thrill of affection. Having assured

himself by a glance that Noemi was no longer present, he raised his arm

and drew the dear face down to his lips.

“I need you so much,” he said. “I need your strength!”

“That is why I am yours,” Maria answered. “I am strong only because you

love me.”

He took her hand and kissed it reverently.

“Do you understand?” he presently exclaimed, raising his head. “Perhaps

you do not know how deep my suffering really is, for it is a dark point

even to me, who am old, and yet do not know myself. I was thinking of

this just now. I reflected that when we suffer from a wound the cause of

our suffering is visible, but when we suffer from a fever the cause is

hidden, as in this case, and we never succeed in becoming thoroughly

acquainted with it.”

A month had not yet elapsed since the meeting at which a league among

progressive Catholics had been talked of. No league had sprung from

it, but to nothing else could the origin of a series of strange and

unpleasant events be attributed. Professor Dane had been recalled to

Ireland by his Archbishop. He had immediately called upon an English

Cardinal attached to the Papal Court, in order to acquaint him with the

unsatisfactory condition of his health, and to solicit his support of a

petition to the Archbishop for an extension of his leave. His Eminence

had opened Dane’s eyes. The blow had come from Rome, where he was looked

upon with the greatest disapproval. Only out of consideration for the

Cardinal himself, who was known to be his friend, and above all out of

consideration for the English Government, had the authorities refrained

from satisfying those who wished to see his writings placed on the

Index, and Dane himself constrained to resign his professorship. The

Cardinal advised him to leave Rome, where the heat was beginning to be

unpleasant, and to become a little more seriously ill at Montecatini

or Salsomaggiore, where he would be left in peace. Don Clemente had not

again appeared. Giovanni had sought him out at Santa Scolastica, where

the monk had signified to him, with tears in his eyes, that their

friendship must be buried like a treasure in times of war. Upon Don

Paolo Faré, who had been giving a course of religious instruction for

adults at Pavia, silence had been enjoined. Young di Leynì had been

reached through his family. His excellent and pious mother had besought

him with tears and in the name of his dead father, to break with those

dangerous acquaintances, the Selvas; and he believed that this step had

been suggested by her confessor. He had resisted, but at the cost of

his domestic peace. Finally, a clerical periodical had published three

articles on Giovanni’s complete works, summing up some partial and

grudging praise, and some equally partial and biting censure in a very

severe judgment on the character of the works themselves, which the

critic pronounced rationalistic, and on the intolerable audacity of the

author, who, equipped solely with worldly learning, had dared to publish

writings in which the lack of theological knowledge was painfully

evident. In substance these three articles were a terrible and

prohibitive condemnation of the very book Giovanni was then engaged

upon, dealing with the rational foundations of Christian morality, and,

in the opinion of the initiated, it predicted the Index for his other

works.

“Are you in doubt concerning your own views?” Maria asked.

The question was insincere. Notwithstanding her great love for him, she

had a deep and clear knowledge of her husband’s soul. She believed he

was, in his heart, suffering from the presentiment of an ecclesiastical

condemnation. Giovanni might speak lightly of certain sentences passed

by the Congregation of the Index, but his conscience, more respectful

towards the authorities than he himself realised, was troubled, so Maria

thought, more deeply than he wished it to be by the threatened blow.

And Maria, fearing to wound him by the question, “Are you afraid?”

had insinuated this other doubt, in order to prepare the way for a

spontaneous confession of the truth. Giovanni’s answer astonished her.

“Yes,” said he. “I doubt myself. Not, however, in the way you suppose.

I fear I am a purely intellectual being, and that I exaggerate the

importance my views may have in the sight of God. I fear I do not live

up to my views. I fear my indignation is too great against those who do

not share them, against my persecutors, against that Swiss Abbé who came

here with Dane, and probably talked of what was then said in our midst

as he should not have done, and in places where he should have kept

silent. I fear my life is one of too great inactivity, of too great

ease, of too much pleasure, for to me study is a delight. I even doubt

my love of God, because I feel too lightly the love of my neighbour. I

am often reminded that the mystic pleasures may lull my conscience on

this point. You, Maria, you live your faith; you visit the sick, work

for the poor, you comfort, you instruct. I do nothing.”

“I am one with you,” Maria whispered. “You made me what I am. Besides,

you distribute the alms of the intellect.”

“No, no! Those words applied to me are presumptuous!” Maria knew that

the loving sense of human fraternity was not strong in Glovanni.

She felt--and she was loath to confess it even to herself--that this

deficiency incapacitated her husband for the successful fulfilment of

that great religious apostolate which should have resulted from his

intellectual powers, and that deep and enlightened faith, which in him

was more the fruit of genius, of study, of love of the divine, than of

tradition or habit. She reproached herself for having sometimes rejoiced

at Giovanni’s coldness towards his fellows, for it lent a precious

flavour to the treasures of affection he lavished upon herself.

Nevertheless he was conscious of the fraternal obligations, and she had

never known him turn a deaf ear to an appeal, or seen him insensible to

the grief of others. He did not feel, and therefore did not love God in

man, which is the most sublime flame of charity; he felt and loved man

in God, which is a cold love, as would be the love of one who was kind

to his brother solely to please their father. But this last is the

temper common to even the best of human hearts. Giovanni’s heart was

tempered thus; he could not give out that sublime charity of which he

humbly and sadly acknowledged himself to be void. Maria, caressing his

hair with infinite tenderness, dreamed that sweet, divine, indulgence

flowed out upon that head through her heart and her hands.

“Listen,” said she. “I am going to propose to you at once an act of

charity in which there is much merit. Noemi has received a letter from

her friend Jeanne Dessalle, and says she is in need of your help.”

“Call her,” said he.

Noemi came. A slight cloud had gathered that day between Giovanni and

herself. As rarely happened, they had conversed on religion. Noemi clung

blindly to her own religion, and disliked discussions. Notwithstanding

her tenderness for Maria, and her affectionate respect for Giovanni,

she feared she should lean more towards the scepticism of Jeanne than

towards the liberal and progressive Catholicism of the Selvas, if

she stopped to examine the reasons and nature of her own belief. This

Catholicism appeared to her a hybrid thing, and she had perhaps learned

from Jeanne to consider it such; for Jeanne, in moments of nervous

irritability, defended her own scepticism with acrimony against that

faith which, because it shone with spirituality and truth, might prove

formidable to her. Noemi was always suspicious, not of her sister, but

of Giovanni, fearing he would attempt to convert her, and her suspicion

had that day been apparent when, discussing the confessional, she had

several times answered him very sharply. Then Giovanni had reminded her,

gently and gravely, that error harboured unconsciously, in the sincere

and pure desire of truth, is innocent in the eyes of God, but that if

a sentiment foreign to that desire have any part in the repulsion of

truth, then sin alone is the outcome. This argument wounded Noemi more

deeply still. She had been on the point of asking her brother-in-law by

what right he was acting as vice-divine judge. She controlled herself,

however, and let the discussion drop.

Upon thinking it over afterwards, she regretted her sullen silence, not

so much because Giovanni’s words had affected her views, as because she

was aware of the sorrow the religious opinions he professed brought him,

and because she saw how depressed his spirits were. This was one reason

why--when she was called to him, and entreated by her sister to show him

much affection--she resolved, for once, to be unfaithful to Jeanne. Of

what Jeanne had written to her under the seal of secrecy she had told

Maria only as much as was absolutely necessary. Jeanne, still suffering

both physically and mentally, had heard of the “Saint of Jenne,” who was

healing bodies and souls, and she besought Noemi to go to Jenne and see

this Saint, and then to write to her about him. Now Noemi could not

go to Jenne alone, she must ask Giovanni to accompany her. Her first

confidence had stopped here. Now she broke all the seals of secrecy her

friend had imposed, and spoke freely.

Poor Jeanne Dessalle was more unhappy than ever. During her short visit

at Subiaco she had met her former lover. An exclamation from Giovanni!

Then it was Don Clemente, after all? No, it was the man who came to the

villa with the Padre the night of Jeanne’s arrival, the under-gardener

from Santa Scolastica--he who was no longer at the monastery--of whom

all the valley of the Anio was talking, and who was known, even at Rome,

as the “Saint of Jenne.” Noemi begged them to forgive her for not having

told them at the time. Woe to her if Jeanne had discovered her breach

of confidence, after her many admonitions. Besides it would have done no

good. Giovanni took his wife’s hand almost stealthily, and raised it to

his lips, Maria understood, and smiled. Then both assailed Noemi with

questions.

Yes, Jeanne had recognised him the night of their arrival, and now

Maria and Giovanni could understand the reason of the faintness she had

experienced. Their meeting had taken place the following day at Sacro

Speco. Concerning the meeting Noemi knew only this much, that Jeanne’s

hopes had been dashed to the ground, that he was clad as a monk, and

had spoken as one who has given himself to God for ever; that she had

promised him to dedicate her life to good works, and that no direct

correspondence between them was any longer possible.

Jeanne now wrote from Villa Diedo, the home in the Veneto where she had

gone with her brother from Rome, two days after leaving Subiaco. She

wrote in a moment of most bitter despondency. Her brother, surprised at

her devoting so much time to the poor, was irritated by this innovation

in her mode of thought and of life. She might give money, if she

pleased, and as much as she pleased, but to bring a string of beggars

into the house, to visit them in their hovels, that he would not allow!

It was foolish, it was a bore, it was ridiculous, it was eccentric, it

was clerical. There were other difficulties, She would have liked to

join the women’s charitable associations of the town, but they drew

back, shrinking into themselves like sensitive plants at the touch of

this woman, who had been the subject of so much gossip on account of

Maironi, and who, though she did sometimes go to church of a Sunday, did

not fulfil her Easter duties. And finally her habits, which were those

of a woman of leisure, were reforming their ranks after the first

defeat, and delaying her progress on the new road, ever more

successfully as the road became more difficult. She felt she must

succumb if no word of counsel reached her, no help from him. She could

not see him, she dared not write, for certainly he had intended to

forbid that also; and she would rather die than do anything to displease

him, if she could avoid it. She had read an article in the _Corriére_ on

the “Saint of Jenne,” in which it was stated that the Saint was young,

and had been a day-labourer in the kitchen-garden at Santa Scolastica.

Therefore it must be he! She entreated Noemi to go to Jenne, and beg a

word of comfort for her, for the sake of charity! Noemi was determined

to go. Would Giovanni accompany her? In the humble tone in which she

asked this favour, Giovanni heard a tacit petition for forgiveness and

peace; he held out his hand:

“With all my heart,” he said.

Maria offered to join them, and they decided to go the following

morning, starting on foot, at five o’ clock, in order to avoid the

blazing sun on the slope of Jenne. Then they spoke of the Saint.

The whole valley was talking about him. The article Jeanne had seen said

that a great number of people were flocking to Jenne to see and hear the

Saint; that miraculous cures were being announced as his work; that the

Benedictines told with admiration of the life of penance and of prayer

he had led for three years at Santa Scolastica, working in the garden.

At Subiaco still more wonderful reports were circulating. A certain

forester called Torquato, a most worthy man and a relative of the

Selvas’ servant, told her he had been to Jenne with a stranger, a sort

of poet, who had come all the way from Rome to talk with the Saint. On

the way there and back, they had met perhaps fifty people--real ladies

and gentlemen they were, too; and on the hillside of Jenne they had met

a procession of women singing the litanies. At Jenne he had heard the

whole story. One night the parish priest had dreamed that a globe of

fire rested on the great cross planted on the summit of the hill; this

blazing globe had set the cross itself on fire, and it was burning and

glowing without being consumed, while all the mountains and the valley

were illumined by it. The next day there had appeared before him a young

man, in the habit of a Benedictine lay-brother, who was the bearer of a

letter to him. This letter was from the Abbot of Santa Scolastica, and

said: “I send you an angel whose fire burns clear, through whom Jenne

will become renowned throughout the universe!” It was also written that

this young man was, by birth, a mighty prince, of royal blood, but

that in order to serve God, in all humility he had laboured as

kitchen-gardener at Santa Scolastica for three years. The parish priest

had gone half crazy from the emotion caused by the fire seen in his

dream, and the fire that had come to him, and had been seized by a

raging fever. The next day was a _festa_--a holy-day--and of the two

other priests who live at Jenne, one was ill, and the other had gone

to Filettino two days before to see his sick mother. In the village

the priest’s servant had told all about this Benedictine, all about

the dream, had told, in fact, the whole story. The villagers flocked to

church, to hear the Benedictine say Mass; for they had seen him enter,

and would not believe he was not going to officiate. They demanded that

he should preach, at least, although he assured them he had no right to

preach in church; and, keeping him in their midst, they pressed him so

hard, that he finally signed to them with his hand to leave the church,

promising those nearest him to speak outside. And he had spoken outside!

What he had really said the servant could not tell Maria, nor

could Maria herself gather much from Torquatof; but by dint of much

questioning, and with the aid of her own imagination, she succeeded in

reconstructing his discourse somewhat as follows:

Are you fit to enter the church? Are you at peace with your neighbour?

Do you know what the Lord Jesus means, when He says to you that no man

may approach the altar if he be not at peace with his neighbour? Do

you know that you may not enter the church if you have sinned against

charity or justice, and have not made amends, or have not repented when

it was impossible to make amends? Do you know that you may not enter the

church, not only if you bear ill-will against your neighbour, but

also if you have injured him in any manner whatsoever, either in your

dealings with him, or in his honour, if you have slandered him, or

harbour in your heart wicked desires against his body or his soul? Do

you know that all the Masses, all the Benedictions, all the Rosaries,

and all the Litanies, count for less than nothing, if you do not first

purify your hearts, according to the word of Jesus? Are you unclean with

hatred, or with any impurity whatsoever? Then go! Jesus will not

have you in the church! “_Ma che_!” said Torquato, “The discourse was

nothing, it was the face, the voice, the eyes!”

The worthy man spoke as if he himself had been present, telling how the

crowd had thrown themselves upon their knees and wept, and how certain

women, who were enemies, had embraced each other. In fact there had been

only women and old men present, for the men of Jenne are all shepherds

at Nettuno and Anzio, and do not return to the hills before the end of

June. The Saint seeing them so penitent, had said: “Enter and kneel. God

is within you. Worship Him in silence.” Then the crowd had entered, a

perfect multitude! They had fallen upon their knees, all of them, and

for a quarter of an hour--according to Torquato--you could have heard

a fly winging in the great church. The Saint had then intoned the “Our

Father” in a loud voice, and, the crowd lifting their voices and joining

in, he had gone through it, stopping at each verse. Torquato told how

the parish priest, having heard all this, kissed his guest, and as

he kissed him he was cured of his fever! Then the people came to the

canonica--the priest’s house--bringing the sick, that the Saint might

bless and heal them. He would not do this, but all those who succeeded

in touching his habit, even by stealth were healed. And many had come to

him for advice. Then there had been a great miracle concerning a mule,

which turned ugly on the steep path down the slope, and which was about

to throw its rider upon the rocks. The Saint, who was present, being on

his way up from the Infernillo with water, had stretched out his hand,

and the mule had become quiet on the instant!

Maria told the story as she had heard it from the forester.

“I wonder if it is all as true as the part about the prince of royal

blood!” said Noemi.

“To-morrow we shall know,” Giovanni answered, rising.

II. They started at about six o’clock; the sky was cloudy; and a cool breeze

was blowing, fragrant with the odours of the woods and the hills, alive

with the tiny, gay voices of birds, purifying to the soul itself. At the

Baths of Nero they took the mule-path which leads into the narrow, green

ravine, winding upwards on the right of the Anio. High up on the left

they saw Santa Scolastica, the Sacro Speco, and the House of the Blessed

Lawrence, all white below the rocks, which are the colour of iron. They

left the bridge of the Scalilla on the right--only a log, thrown across

to the wild left bank of the turbulent little torrent. On the way they

talked much of the strange Saint. Giovanni wondered that Don Clemente

had never in the past told him anything of the character of this

under-gardener. He approved of the little sermon in the open air. He

had once mentioned the subject of it to Don Clemente, pointing out to

Mm that those words of Christ are neither properly observed, nor

taught; even the best of Christians apply them only to the use of

the sacraments. If the faithful realised that they must not enter the

church, bringing an impure heart, the Christian peoples would indeed

become examples to the world, and no one would then dare affirm that

morality is much the same everywhere, and has nothing to do with

religious beliefs.

He also highly approved of thus reciting “Our Father” in church, but he

did not approve of the miracles. He suspected weakness in a man who did

not know how to break resolutely with popular superstition when it was

flattering to himself.

What could Noemi say about this man’s character? What opinion had she

formed of him from Jeanne’s confidences? Noemi was embarrassed. All that

Jeanne had told her about him convinced her that Maironi had behaved

very badly to her friend, that he had never really loved her and at the

same time awoke in Noemi an intellectual curiosity, which, though she

struggled against it, was always returning--a curiosity to know if that

man would have loved her better than Jeanne. She replied that Maironi’s

character was an enigma to her. And his intellect? His culture? She

could say nothing concerning either his intellect or his culture, but

if such a woman as Jeanne Dessalle had loved him so devotedly, he must

certainly be both intelligent and cultured. And his former religious

views? To this last question Noemi’s answer was that from some facts

Jeanne had mentioned, from the decisive influence which the religious

traditions of his family had had upon him at a crisis in their love,

she judged him to have been a Catholic of the old school, not a Catholic

like--Here Noemi broke off blushing and smiling. Giovanni smiled also,

but Maria looked slightly annoyed. The subject was at once dropped.

They proceeded for some time in silence, exchanging only now and then a

word of greeting with some mountaineer on his way down to the mills at

Subiaco, mounted on his mule, laden with grain.

They stopped to rest in the field of San Giovanni, which divides the

territory of Subiaco from that of Jenne. The Blessed Lawrence, now left

far behind, all white under the rocks which are the colour of iron,

looked down upon them from on high. Rays of sunshine, breaking through

the clouds, gilded the hills, and the little party, remembering the arid

hillside of Jenne, had just started forward again, when they met the

doctor from Jenne, who recognised Maria, having seen her some time

before at the house of his colleague at Subiaco. He bowed, and smiling,

reined in his mule.

“You are on the way to Jenne? Are you going to see the Saint? You will

find many people there to-day.” Many people! This was disappointing to

Noemi, who feared she would not be able to speak quietly with Maironi.

The Selvas were curious to know all about it. Why so many people?

Because they want the Saint at Filettino, they want him at Vallepietra,

they want him at Trevi, and the women of Jenne intend to keep him for

themselves.

“And all to give me a rest!” the doctor added. “And to give the chemist

a rest also, for now the Benedictine is the doctor, and his tunic is the

chemist!”

He told them that to-day people were coming from Filettino, from

Vallepietra, and from Trevi, to treat with Jenne concerning some means

of dividing the Saint among all those towns, “Who knows but what they

may come to blows!” At any rate the _carabinieri_ were already stationed

at Jenne.

“You call him ‘the Saint’ also?” said Maria.

“Oh, yes!” the doctor answered, laughing. “They all call him that, all

save those who call him ‘the Devil,’ for at Jenne some do so already!”

How astonishing! This was news to them! Who called him “the Devil,” and

why?

“Ah!” and the doctor put on the knowing look of one who is well

informed, but does not intend to tell all he knows. “Well,” said he,

“there are two priests from Rome staying at Jenne for a holiday, two

priests, two priests--! They are very clever! They have not told me what

they think of the Saint, but, at any rate, the parish priest’s ardour

has cooled considerably, and it has been the same with others. Those

priests are workers. You do not see it, but they are at work all the

time. They are insects--I say it without intending to speak ill of them,

indeed in this case their action may even be praiseworthy! They are

insects, which, when they wish to kill a plant, do not touch the fruit,

the flowers, the leaves, or the roots I may even say, for there a

poisonous draught might reach them, or a spade reveal their presence,

and they do not wish to be reached, do not wish to be seen. They bore

into the marrow. These two have already reached the marrow. Perhaps it

may not be for a month, perhaps not for two months; but the plant is

doomed to wither, and wither it must!”

“But what do you yourself think about it?” Maria inquired. “Does this

man really pretend to be a saint? Is he pleased that these superstitious

people quarrel about him in this way? Is it true he has healed the

sick?”

The doctor continued to laugh while she was speaking.

“I laugh,” he answered. “It is a ease of contagious, mystic psychopathy!

But you must excuse me now, for I am due at Subiaco at eight o’clock. I

hope you will enjoy yourselves. May your visit divert you,”

With this malicious thrust, he shook the reins on the mule’s neck, and

rode on, fearing he might be obliged to give proofs of what he asserted.

Noemi, who was the most agitated of the party at the prospect of seeing

the man Jeanne loved, began to feel weary. They halted a second time

at the foot of the slope of Jenne, on the gravel across which shallow

rivulets streak, flowing down to the river from the grotto of the

Infernillo. Someone was approaching them from behind. What a surprise!

What a pleasure! Don Clemente! The Padre’s fine face lit up also. He

loved and respected Giovanni for a true Christian, and sometimes had to

struggle against the temptation to judge his superior, the Abbot, who

had forbidden him to visit Giovanni, to struggle against the temptation

to appeal to Someone greater than abbots, greater than pontiffs, in his

own soul. This Someone was saying to him now: “The meeting is My gift!”

and so the monk joined his friends joyfully. Maria presented him to

Noemi, and he blushed again on recognising the woman he had mistaken for

Benedetto’s temptress.

“And your friend?” he inquired, trembling lest he be informed of her

presence there. Upon being reassured a look of relief flashed across

his face. Noemi smiled at this, and he, noticing her smile, was greatly

embarrassed. The others smiled also, but no one spoke. Giovanni was the

first to break the silence. Surely Don Clemente was, like themselves,

on his way to Jenne? Perhaps he was going there for the same purpose,

to see the same person, the gardener, eh? the gardener of that famous

evening? Ah! Don Clemente, Don Clemente! Yes, Don Clemente was also

going to Jenne, was going to see Benedetto. And as to the gardener,

there had been no deception, only a desire to bring the two

souls together in the most natural way, without violence, without

recommendations and previous explanations.

They started up the hill together, talking of Benedetto.

Noemi, forgetting her weariness, hung upon the Padre’s lips, and the

Padre, precisely on this account, said so little and was so circumspect

that she trembled with impatience, and presently felt tired again.

She took Maria’s arm, and allowed Don Clemente to go on with her

brother-in-law. Then Don Clemente confided to Giovanni that his mission

at Jenne was of a painful nature. It seemed some one at Jenne had

written to Rome, speaking in hostile language of Benedetto, accusing

him of preaching what was not perfectly orthodox, of pretending to be

a miracle worker, and of wearing a religious habit to which he had no

right: this greatly enhancing the gravity of the scandal. Certainly they

had written to the Abbot from Rome, for he had ordered Don Clemente to

go to Jenne, and demand of Benedetto the restitution of the habit. Don

Clemente had tried in vain to dissuade the old abbot, who had waved the

matter aside with a jest. “Read the Gospel--the Passion according to St.

Mark. He who follows Christ after all others have forsaken Him must part

with his cloak. It is a mark of holiness.” Therefore, as some one must

carry this message to Jenne, Don Clemente preferred to do it himself.

He had, moreover, received a strange letter from the parish priest of

Jenne. This priest, a good man, but timid, had written that Benedetto

was, to his mind, a most pious Christian, but that he talked too much of

religion to the people, and that his discourses sometimes had a flavour

of quietism and of rationalism, that there were those who accused him

of employing a demoniacal power for the furtherance of his not

over-orthodox views, that this accusation was certainly false, but that,

nevertheless, prudence forbade the writer to keep Benedetto with him

any longer. Perhaps the wisest course for him would be to retire to some

town where he was not known, and to live quietly there.

Their conversation was here interrupted by a call from Maria.

Noemi, overpowered by the heat of the burning sun, and seized with

palpitations, must rest again. The sisters had seated themselves in the

shadow of a rock.

Don Clemente took leave of them. They would meet later at Jenne. Maria

was greatly distressed about her sister, and secretly reproached herself

for having allowed her to come on foot. She and Giovanni stood silently

watching Noemi, who, though very pale, smiled at them bravely. Upon that

wilderness of mountains, devoid of beauty, upon those sun-baked rocks,

the silence hung with a mortal weight! It was a relief to all three to

hear the voices of some wayfarers who were coming up. There were six

or seven in the party, and they had two mules with them. As they toiled

upwards they sang the Rosary. When the procession had drawn nearer, a

girl and a man could be seen riding the mules; both were emaciated

and almost cadaverous in appearance. The girl opened her eyes wide on

perceiving the Selvas, but the man kept his closed. The others looked

at them with a rapt expression, continuing their prayers. The monotonous

chant and the beat of the mule’s hoofs grew fainter, and at last died

away among the heights above. Soon after this sad procession had passed,

a party of young men from the city appeared, laughing merrily, and

talking of Quirites who were on the lookout rather for Sabine women

than for saints. On perceiving Giovanni and his companions they became

silent, but when they had passed them they again began to laugh and

jest; they jested about Giovanni, who, they said, might be the Saint

between two temptresses.

A great cloud with silver edges, the first of a whole fleet, sailing

towards the west, hid the sun. Noemi, greatly refreshed, proposed that

they should take advantage of the shade, and go forward. A few steps

below the cross of which, according to Torquato, the parish priest had

dreamed, they met a _bourgeons_ dressed in black, who was coming down,

riding a mule.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, addressing the ladles and reining in his

mule, “but is either of you Her Excellency the Duchess di Civitella?”

On receiving an answer he apologised, saying that a friend of his--a,

senator--had recommended this duchess to his care; that he himself did

not know her, but that she was coming to Jenne to see the Saint.

“Indeed, perhaps you, gentlemen, have come for the same purpose!” he

said smiling. “Everyone comes for that now. Once upon a time they came

to see a pope! Certainly! There was a pope at Jenne once--Alexander IV,

You will see the inscription: ‘_Colores æstivos vitandi caussa.’_ Now

they come for a saint. He ought to be more than a pope, but I fear he

is less. Did you see the two sick people? did you see the students

from Rome? Ah! you will see other astonishing things, other astonishing

things! But, after all, I am afraid he is less than a pope! A pleasant

journey to you!”

Beyond the cross, they ascended with the open sky before them, between

the green ridges, which slope downward, forming the lonely hollow of

Jenne, which is crowned on the opposite side with that wretched herd of

poor dwellings, dominated by the campanile. Giovanni had been to Jenne

before, but it did not seem to him in any way changed because a saint

now lived there, and miracles were performed there. It impressed his

wife, who now saw it for the first time, as a spot which might inspire

religious contemplation, by that sense of altitude, not suggested by

distant views, by that deep sky behind the village, by its solitude, its

silence. Noemi was thinking with profound pity of poor far-away Jeanne.

III. The innkeeper at Jenne was a worthy, gravely courteous man, in

spectacles, who, having been to America, could be said to know the

world, but who seemed to have escaped its corrupting influences. To the

new-comers he spoke of Benedetto favourably, on the whole, but with a

certain diplomatic reserve. He did not call him “the Saint,” he called

him “Fra Benedetto.” The Selvas learned from him that Benedetto occupied

a cabin belonging to the innkeeper himself, in payment of which he

tilled a small piece of ground. Those who wished to see him must

wait until eleven o’clock. Now he was mowing the grass. His life was

regulated in the following manner: At dawn he went to hear the parish

priest say Mass, then he worked until eleven. He ate only bread, herbs,

and fruit and drank only water. In the afternoon he worked in the fields

of widows and orphans. In the evening, seated before his door, he talked

of religion.

At half-past eleven, the Selvas and Noemi accompanied by the innkeeper’s

wife--a fine, big woman, very neat, very simple, and gay in a quiet

way--went to visit Sant’ Andrea, the church of Jenne. Coming out into

the open square from the maze of narrow lanes, where stands the inn,

they found a large assemblage of women, strangers, so the hostess said.

She could distinguish them by their corselets, their fustian skirts,

their foot-gear. Those were from Trevi, those from Filettino, and those

others from Vallepietra. The hostess went into a bakehouse on the

right of the church, where several women of Jenne were having their

_stiacciati_ [1] baked, each having brought her own.

[Footnote 1: _Stiacciati_ a sort of very large, round cake, common

in all parts of Italy. It is made of cornflour, of wheatflour, or of

chestnut-flour, and in some places of vegetables. It is mixed with, oil,

and baked in a flat pan.--_Translators Note_.]

“Strangers, who wish to talk with our Saint,” she said to Maria. She did

not, like her husband, say “Fra Benedetto,” she called him “the Saint.”

“But not to his face,” she declared, crimsoning, “because it vexes him.”

“No, he does not really get angry, because he is a saint, but he begs

very earnestly not to be called thus.”

In the large, dilapidated church--which, “one Sunday or another, will

crush us all, like so many rats,” the hostess said--there were only the

two invalids and their party. The sick man and girl had been laid on the

floor exactly in the centre of the church, with two pillows under their

heads. Their companions, on their knees, were singing psalms, and,

without looking at the new-comers, continued their devotions. “Probably

they have brought them to be blessed by the Saint,” said the hostess

under her breath. “That is painful to him; he does not wish it. Perhaps

they will try to touch his habit by stealth, but even that is difficult

now.”

The poor people stopped singing, and a woman came to ask the hostess if

it had already struck eleven o’clock? Maria answered, telling her it was

only a quarter to eleven, and then inquired about the two sick ones. The

man had been ill with fever for two years, and the girl, his sister, had

heart disease. They had come from the lowlands of Arcinazzo, a journey

of several hours, to be healed by the Saint of Jenne. A woman from

Arcinazzo, who had heart disease, had been cured some days before by

simply touching his habit. Maria and Noemi spoke to the sufferers. The

girl was confident, but the man, who was shaking with fever, seemed to

have come simply to satisfy his people, to give this a trial also. He

had suffered greatly on the journey.

“These roads lead me into the next world,” he said. “I shall be healed

in that way.”

A woman, his mother perhaps, burst into tears, and besought him to

pray, to commend himself to Jesus, to Mary. The two sisters withdrew,

in obedience to a summons from Giovanni; for a quarrel had broken out in

the square, between the women and the students who had passed the

Selvas on the Jenne hillside. The students had probably jested broadly

concerning the devotion of the women to the Saint, and this had enraged

them. The women of Jenne came rushing out of the bakehouse, while the

plumes of a couple of _carabinieri_ appeared in the opposite direction.

Noemi and Maria mingled with the women, trying to pacify them. Giovanni

harangued the students, who swaggered and laughed, and might possibly do

worse. Chanting was heard in the church, muffled at first and then loud,

as the door was thrown open:

“_Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis_.”

The two sufferers appeared. The girl, supported on either side, was

walking; the man, as limp as a corpse, was being borne along, some

women carrying his shoulders, others his feet; and the bearers were also

chanting, with solemn faces:

“_Sancta Virgo virginum, ora pro nobis_.”

The women in the square all fell on their knees, the astonished

_carabinieri_ standing in their midst. The students were silent, while

a party of ladies and gentlemen, about to enter the square from the Val

d’Aniene mule-path, stopped their mules. First Maria, then Noemi, knelt,

drawn towards the earth by an impulse which made them tremble with

emotion. Giovanni hesitated. This was not his faith. It seemed to him

an offence to the Creator, the Giver of reason, to allow a sick man to

journey a long distance on a mule, that he might be miraculously healed

by an image, a relic, or a man. Still it was faith. It was--enclosed in

a rough envelope of frail ignorance--that sense denied, to proud minds,

of the hidden truth which is life; that mysterious radium within the

mass of impure ore. It was faith, it was guiltless error, it was love,

it was suffering, it was a visible something belonging to the union of

the highest mysteries of the Universe. The ground itself, the great

sad face of the church, and the small humble faces of the little houses

surrounding the square, seem to understand, to reverence it. In his

mind’s eye Giovanni saw the image of a dead woman who had been dear to

him, and who had believed thus; a cold wave flowed through his blood,

his knees bent under him. The little band with the sufferers passed on,

singing, their faces uplifted:

“_Mater Christi_.” The kneeling women answered with bowed heads:

“_Ora pro nobis_.”

Then they rose, and followed the procession, while three or four women

of Jenne said aloud:

“He does not wish it, he does not wish it!”

One of them explained to Maria that the Saint did not wish the sick

brought to him. Their words were not heeded, so they also joined the

procession, anxious to see what would happen.

Maria and Giovanni also, who, at first, had been loath to do so, started

on, following the eager Noemi. Behind them, at a proper distance to

indicate that they were spectators and not participants, came

the students. Alone, and at a much greater distance, walked the

_carabinieri_, forming the end of this winding, snake-like line of

people, which slipped into a crack between the dilapidated houses,

huddled together opposite the church, and disappeared.

It disappeared, writhing through dark lanes, with pompous names, which

lead to another side of the village, the most miserable, the most

deformed part. Here, on the steep and rocky hillside, loosely fastened

to projections, to slabs of rock, the hovels, piled one above the other,

slide downwards among the stones. The small black windows, like empty

sockets in a skull, stare into the silence of the deep and narrow

valley. The doors pour out crazy flights of stairs upon the slope, most

of them reduced to three or four splintered steps, while some of

the doors are entirely widowed of their steps. When one has, with

difficulty, succeeded in climbing in at one of these doors, one finds a

cave without light or air.

“_So mali passi, vigoli cattivi_! [Bad walking, bad lanes!]” said a

smiling old woman, standing in her doorway, as the ladies passed.

One of these caves, so difficult of access, was Benedetto’s abode. Two

streams of people--the crowd had split coming down the hill--met below

the open door. Some women came out of a neighbouring bakehouse to say

that Benedetto was not there. The crowd surged round the invalids, and

groans were heard. Anxious questions were asked, rumours were carried

up through the two streams of people, to the very end of the procession,

where the cause of those groans was not understood, and all, eager to

see, were struggling downwards. Perhaps the sufferers had become worse,

there in the blazing sun. Three students slid down among the women, and

were received with grunts and imprecations. Now a woman of the town has

spoken:

“Take the poor creatures inside.”

Yes, yes! Inside, inside! Into the Saint’s house!

The crowd already expects a miracle from the walls between which

he dwells, from the floor his foot presses, from all these objects

saturated with his holiness. On the Saint’s bed! On the Saint’s bed!

Some boards are laid upon the broken slabs of stone which lead up to

Benedetto’s door, and the two invalids are half pushed, half carried up,

by the surging crowd. There they lie, crosswise upon the Saint’s pallet.

The crowd fills the cave. All fall upon their knees in prayer.

It is indeed a cave. One whole side of it is a wall of yellowish rock,

hewn obliquely. The bare, uneven earth forms the floor. Near the couch,

raised about two spans, is a fireplace. There are no windows, but a

ray of sunshine, falling through the chimney, strikes--like a celestial

flame--on the stones of the hearth where there is no trace of ashes. A

brown blanket is spread over the couch. A cross is roughly carved on

the face of the rock, near the entrance. In one corner appear--the only

luxuries--a large pail full of water, a green basin, a bottle, and a

glass. Some books are piled on a rickety cane-seated chair; and a second

chair bears a plate of beans and some bread. The place indicates extreme

poverty, but is clean and orderly.

The feverish man complains of the cold, of the dampness, of the dark. He

says he is worse, that they have brought him here to die. They beseech

him to calm himself, to hope. But his young sister, with the diseased

heart, begins to feel relief almost as soon as they have placed her on

the bed. She proclaims this at once, announces that she is being healed.

Pressing around her they laugh and cry, and praise the Lord all at the

same moment. They kiss her garments, as if she herself had become holy;

the news is shouted to those outside. Joyous voices answer, more people

press into the den, with glowing faces, with eager eyes. But at that

moment some one who has gone farther down the hill in search of the

Saint, cries from afar: “The Saint is coming! The Saint is coming!” Then

the cave pours out a stream of people upon the slope; a din of voices

and a rush of feet flow downwards, and in a second the Selvas and the

three or four students stand alone, below the door of the cabin. Many of

the women of Jenne have gone back to their work in the bakehouse, while

others are looking on from the doorway. Maria exchanges a few words with

the latter. Are they all strangers, those who have gone down? _Eh, si_!

Not all, but most of them. People from Vallepietra, for the most part.

It would be better if water came to us from Vallepietra. And what do

they want? To take the Saint away from Jenne with them? Yes, they have

said that; they talked about doing great things. And you of Jenne? We of

Jenne know he does not wish to go. And besides--Her companions call

out something from within; the woman turns away; a quarrel is going on.

Giovanni, Maria, and the students go in to see the girl who has been

miraculously healed. Noemi remains outside. She is impatient to see

Benedetto; she trembles, without knowing why; in her heart she calls

herself a fool; but she does not move.

Two Benedictine habits are crossing the small field in the distance

below. Above the second the blade of a scythe flashes from time to time.

Hearing the hubbub of voices, and steps descending from above, Benedetto

turned to his companion with a smile:

“_Padre mio!_”

Upon reaching Jenne, Don Clemente had immediately joined Benedetto in

the small field he was mowing. He had given him the painful message,

and after a long discussion, had promised to say certain things which

Benedetto wished said, to those who called him a saint. He also heard

the hubbub of the crowd which was coming down; the cry of “The Saint!

The Saint!” And when Benedetto said to him, smiling: “_Padre mio!_” his

face paled, but he made a gesture of acquiescence, and stepped forward.

Benedetto dropped his scythe and went a few steps away from the path.

He sat down behind a rock and a great apple tree covered with blossoms,

which hid him from those who were approaching. Don Clemente faced the

crowd alone.

On perceiving him they stopped. Several voices said. “It is not he!”

Other voices answered “He is behind!” While others in the rear-guard

called out “Press forward!” The column moved on.

Then Don Clemente raised his hand and said:

“Listen!”

This man who could not speak to two strangers without blushing was

now very pale. His soft, sweet voice hardly made itself heard, but

the gesture was seen. The beautiful, peaceful face, the tall figure,

inspired reverence.

“You seek Benedetto,” said he. “You call him a saint. By this you cause

him great grief. Since the day of his arrival at Jenne he has repeatedly

stated that he was a great sinner, brought by the grace of God to

repentance. Now he wishes me to confirm this to you. I do confirm it; it

is the truth. He was a great sinner. To-morrow he may fall again. If he

believed you, for one moment only, when you call him a saint, God would

depart from him. Do not again call him thus, and above all do not ask

him to perform miracles.”

“Padre!” Coming forward, his arms spread wide, an old man, tall, thin,

toothless, with the profile of the eagle, interrupted him in a solemn

voice. “Padre, we do not ask for a miracle, the miracle is already

performed. The woman was healed when she touched the man’s dwelling, and

we say to you that the man is saintly, and that if there are those in

Jenne who speak differently, they are worthy to burn in the very bottom

of hell! _Padre_, we kiss your hands, but we say this.”

“There is another to be healed, another to be healed!” ten, twenty

voices cried. “Let the Saint come!”

Among the students forming the rear-guard voices shouted: “Bring the

Saint forward! Let the Saint speak!”

“What actions are these?” the old man exclaimed, turning round with

the indignation of the popular orator who finds himself deposed. “What

actions are these?”

A rumble of angry voices drowned his words, and the students continued

to shout louder than ever:

“The Saint! Let the Saint speak! Away with the priest! Away with him!”

The women turned threateningly:

“Away with you, yourselves! Away with you!”

Up above, among the hovels perched on the hillside, the plumes of the

_carabinieri_ appeared. Then Benedetto rose, and came out into the open.

As soon as the people perceived him, they greeted him with a great,

joyous clamour. The Selvas went to the door of the cave and looked down.

Noemi ran swiftly down the hill. In a second Benedetto found himself

surrounded by people kissing his habit, and pouring out blessings upon

him. Many were weeping, on their knees. Noemi, who had rushed down alone

behind the students, pressed forward, and saw the man, at last!

Jeanne had shown her several photographs of him, telling her at the same

time that no one of them was entirely satisfactory. In Piero Maironi’s

winning face Noemi had noticed a shade of sadness; Benedetto’s face

shone with extraordinary vivacity. Two days before he had had his

hair and beard shaved, because he had heard a woman murmur: “He is as

beautiful as Jesus Himself!” The expression of the dominating soul in

him had become more marked; the nose had grown more prominent through

his increased fleshlessness, there were great dark rings under his eyes.

The eyes had an ineffable fascination. They still wore an expression of

sadness, but of sweet sadness, full of vigour, of peace, and of mystic

devotion. Standing there, under the little white cloud of the flowering

apple tree, in the midst of the prostrate crowd, surrounded by sunshine

and moving shadows he seemed an apparition such as visited the old

masters. Noemi stood as if turned to stone, a great sob in her throat.

Near her, several women were weeping for the joy of having seen him,

and influenced by reciprocal hypnotism. One, who was ill and weary,

had seated herself on the edge of the path, where she could not see the

Saint, and was weeping from excitement, without knowing why. Some late

arrivals came forward, an old man and three women from Vallepietra. The

three women immediately mistook Don Clemente for Benedetto, and burst

out sobbing and exclaiming: “How beautiful he is, how beautiful!”

In the meantime Benedetto, standing under the little white cloud of

the flowering apple tree, had succeeded, with words of sorrow, of

supplication, of reproach, in repulsing the assault of the adoring

throng, and in bringing the people to their feet. A cry went up from the

group of students: “Speak!” Just at that moment the bells of Jenne, far

up above them, solemnly announced the hour of noon to the village, to

the solitudes, to Monte Leo, to Monte Sant’ Antonio, to Monte Altuino,

and to the clouds, sailing westwards. Benedetto laid his finger on his

lips, the bells alone spoke. He glanced at Don Clemente, and his look

seemed to convey a tacit invitation. Don Clemente bared his head,

and began to recite the _Angelus Domini_. Benedetto, erect, his hands

clasped, said it with him, and, as long as the bells continued to ring,

kept his gaze fixed on the young man who had shouted to him to speak;

his eyes were full of sadness, of mystic sweetness. That ineffable look,

the pealing of the solemn-voiced bells, the trembling of the grass, the

gentle waving in the breeze of the flowery branches, the rapt expression

of so many tearful faces, all turned towards this one face, were blended

for Noemi into a single word, which thrilled her while it evaded her,

as the soul is tormented by the longing for that occult word which

underlies a tragic procession of harmonious chords. The bells ceased,

and Benedetto said gently to those nearest him:

“Who are you, and what has happened that you come to me as if I were

that which I am not?”

Several voices answered at once; he was informed of the miracle, and of

how he was wanted in this village and in that.

“You exalt me,” said he, “because you are blind. If this girl is healed,

not I have healed her, but her faith has made her whole. This power

of faith, which has caused her to rise up and walk, is in God’s world,

everywhere and always, like the power of terror, which causes us to

tremble and fall down. It is a power in the soul, like the powers which

are in water, and in fire. Therefore, if the girl is healed, it is

because God has put this great power into His world; praise God for it,

and not me. And now listen! You offend God by believing His strength

and bounty to be greater in miracles. His strength and bounty are

everywhere, and always infinite. It is difficult to understand how faith

can heal, but it is impossible to understand how these flowers can grow.

The Lord would be no less powerful, no less good, if this girl had

not been healed. It is well to pray for health, but pray still more

fervently to understand this great thing of which I have just told you;

pray to be able to adore the Lord’s will, when it gives you death, as

when it gives you life. There are men in the world who think they do not

believe in God, and when sickness comes to their homes they say: ‘It

is the law, it is nature, it is the economy of the Universe; we bow our

heads, we accept without a murmur, we march on in the path of duty.’

Have a care that such men do not pass before you in the kingdom of

Heaven! And reflect also on the manner of miracles you demand. You come

to be healed of the ills of the body, and for this you wish me to

visit your villages. Have faith, and you will be healed without me. But

remember that your faith may be used to better purpose, according to the

will of God. Are you, all of you, perfectly healthy in your souls? No,

you are not; and what can it profit you that the skin be whole, if

the wine be spoiled? You love yourselves and your families better than

truth, better than justice, better than divine law. You are always

dwelling upon what is due to you and yours, and you seldom dwell upon

what is due to others. You believe your souls will be saved by the great

number of your prayers, and you do not even know how to pray. You pray

in the same manner to the saints, who are the servants, and to God, who

is the Master; when you do not do still worse! You do not reflect that

the Master cares little for many words. He desires rather that you serve

Him faithfully in silence, your minds fixed always on His will. And you

do not understand the nature of your own ills; you are like the dying

man who says: ‘I am well!’ Perhaps some one of you is thinking at this

moment. ‘If I do not understand that I am doing wrong, then God will not

condemn me.’ But the Lord does not judge as do the judges of this world.

He who takes poison unwittingly must fall, as he who takes it wittingly

must fall. He who is without the white robe may not come to the Lord’s

supper, though he be not aware the robe is necessary. He who loves

himself above all things, be he ignorant of conscious of his sin, cannot

pass through the gate of the kingdom of Heaven; as the bride’s finger,

if it be doubled up, cannot pass through the ring the bridegroom offers.

Know the infirmities of your souls, and pray with faith to be freed from

them. In the name of Christ, I say to you, that you will be freed from

them. The healing of your body is good for you, for your family, for the

animals and plants you tend; but the healing of your soul--believe this,

though you do not understand it!--the healing of your soul is good for

all the poor souls of the living, which are being tossed between good

and evil, is good for all the poor souls of the dead, which by toil and

suffering are being purified, as the victory of a soldier is good for

the whole nation. It is also good for the angels, who, Jesus has told

us, feel immense joy at the healing of a soul. Joy enhances their power;

and do you think their power is for the darkness or for the light, for

death or for life? Ask with faith, first for the healing of the soul,

and then for the healing of the body!” From the steep hillside a sea of

faces looked down on him; those highest up, where only the sound of his

voice could be heard, were eager, and tear-stained. Of those nearest

him, some were astonished, some enthusiastic, some doubtful. The tears

were pouring down Noemi’s pale face also. The students had put off their

air of raillery. When Benedetto ceased, one of them came forward to

speak, resolute and serious. At the same moment the old man exclaimed:

“Heal our souls, heal our souls!”

Other voices repeated anxiously:

“Heal our souls, heal our souls!”

In an instant the contagion had spread throughout the vanguard; they

flung themselves on their knees, stretching out imploring arms:

“Heal our souls, heal our souls!”

Benedetto sprang forward, his hands clenched in his hair, exclaiming:

“What are you doing again? What are you doing again?”

A shout rang out from above: _“La miracolata!_ The girl who is healed!”

The girl who had felt health returning to her, as she lay on Benedetto’s

bed, was coming down in search of him, leaning on the arm of an elder

sister. He heeded neither the cry nor the movement among those up above,

who parted, allowing the two women to pass. Being unable to persuade

the crowd to rise, he himself fell upon his knees. Then those around

him rose, and the excited movement and the cry of _“La_ _miracolata, la

miracolata!”_ having reached them, they forced him to rise also; he did

not seem to have heard. _“La miracolata!”_ each one repeated to

him. _“La miracolata!”_ And they searched his face for a trace of

satisfaction at the miracle, with eyes that called out “She is coming

to you! You have healed her!” They acted as if he had not spoken to them

only a few minutes before.

The young girl was coming down, as pale and sallow as the stony,

sun-baked path, her gentle, sad, little face, resting against her

sister’s arm. And the sister looked sad also. The crowd parted before

them, and Benedetto, stepping aside sought refuge behind Don Clemente;

an involuntary action, which however, seemed premeditated. Every one was

trembling and smiling, in the anticipation of another miracle. The two

women were not deceived; they passed Don Clemente without so much as a

glance, turned to Benedetto, and the elder said firmly:

“Holy man of God! You have healed this one, now heal the other also!”

Benedetto replied, almost under his breath, trembling violently:

“I am not a holy man; I did not heal this one, and for the other one of

whom you speak, I can only pray.”

When they had told him that the sick man was their brother, that he was

in the hut, stretched on the bed, and suffering greatly, Benedetto said

to Don Clemente: “Let us go and care for him!”

And he started forward with his master. Behind them the divided stream

of people flowed together again, noisily. Benedetto turned, and forbade

them to follow him; he ordered the women to attend to the young girl,

who must not climb the steep hill on foot, under the burning rays of the

sun. He ordered them to take her to the inn, put her to bed and refresh

her with food and wine. Those who were following stopped, and the others

stepped aside, allowing him to pass. The student who had once before

asked to speak, approached him respectfully, and inquired if he and some

of his friends might speak a few words with him alone, later on.

“Oh yes!” Benedetto answered, consenting with manly warmth and

eagerness. Noemi, who was standing near, took heart.

“I also must ask for five minutes,” she said in French, blushing; and

then it immediately occurred to her she had thus shown that she knew

him to be a man of culture; her face was aflame, as she repeated her

petition in Italian.

Almost involuntarily Don Clemente pressed Benedetto’s arm gently.

Benedetto replied courteously, but somewhat drily:

“Do you wish to do a kind action? Care for that poor girl.”

And he passed on.

He and Don Clemente entered the hovel alone. No one had followed them.

An old woman, the sick man’s mother, seeing him enter, threw herself

weeping at his feet, repeating her daughter’s words:

“Are you the holy man? Are you he? You have healed one of my children,

now heal this one also.”

At first, coming from the sunlight into that darkness, Benedetto could

not distinguish anything, but presently he saw the man stretched on the

bed; he was breathing hard, groaning and crying, and cursing the Saints,

women, the village of Jenne, and his own unhappy fate. On her knees

beside the bed, Maria Selva was wiping the sweat from his brow with

a handkerchief. There was no one else in the cave. Near the luminous

entrance the great cross, carved unevenly on the wall of yellowish

stone, was repeating at that moment a dark and solemn word.

“Hope in God!” Benedetto answered the old woman gently. He went to the

bed, bent over the sick man and felt his pulse. The old woman stopped

crying, the sufferer stopped cursing and groaning. The buzzing of flies

in the light fireplace could be heard.

“Have you sent for the doctor?” Benedetto whispered.

The old woman began to sob again,

“You heal him! You heal him! in the name of Jesus and Mary!”

Again the sick man’s groans were heard. Maria Selva said softly to

Benedetto:

“The doctor is in Subiaco. Signor Selva, whom you perhaps know, has gone

to the chemist’s. I am his wife.”

At this point Giovanni returned, out of breath and worried. The

chemist’s shop was closed, the chemist absent. The parish priest had

given him some Marsala, and some tourists from Rome, who had brought

plenty of provisions, had given him brandy and coffee. Benedetto

beckoned Don Clemente to his side, and whispered to him to bring the

parish priest, for the man was dying. He would go for him himself, but

it seemed cruel to the poor mother to leave them. Don Clemente went out

without a word. A few steps from the hut, the party of smart people

who had come from Rome out of curiosity about the Saint of Jenne, were

holding a consultation; the party consisted of three ladies and four

gentlemen, and was under the guidance of the citizen of Jenne, whom the

Selvas had met on the hillside. On perceiving the Benedictine they spoke

together rapidly, in an undertone, and then one of their number, a very

fashionably dressed young man, screwed his eyeglass into his eye,

and came towards Don Clemente, at whom the ladies were looking with

admiration, and also with disappointment, their guide having informed

them that he was not the Saint.

These people also wished for an interview with Benedetto. The ladies

were especially anxious to speak with him. The young man added, with a

derisive smile, that for his part, he did not consider himself worthy,

Don Clemente answered very shortly, that for the present it was

impossible to speak with Benedetto and he walked away. The young man

informed the ladies that the Saint was in the tabernacle, under lock and

key!

In the meantime Benedetto--although the distracted mother implored

him not to use medicines, but to perform a miracle--was comforting the

prostrate man with a few mouthfuls of the cordial Giovanni Selva had

brought, but still more comforting were his gentle caresses, and the

promise of other saving words, which would soon be brought to him. And

the pitying voice, tender and grave, worked a miracle of peace. The sick

man breathed with great difficulty, and still groaned, but he no longer

cursed. The mother, wild with hope, murmured tearfully, with clasped

hands.

“The miracle, the miracle, the miracle!”

“_Caro_ [dear one],” Benedetto said, “you are in God’s hand, and

you feel its might. Give yourself up to Him, and you will feel its

gentleness. Let His hand place you once more in the ocean of life, or

place you in heaven, or place you where it will, but give yourself up,

do not think of that. When you were a little child your mother carried

you, and you asked neither how, nor when, nor why; you were in her

arms, you were in her love, you asked nothing more. It is the same now,

_caro_. I, who speak to you, have done much evil in my life, perhaps

you also have done a little evil; perhaps you remember it. Weep, weep,

resting thus on the bosom of the Father who is calling you, who longs to

pardon, who longs to forget it all. Presently the priest will come, and

you will tell him everything, all the evil you have done, just as you

remember it, without anguish. And then, do you know who will come to you

in the great mystery? Do you know, _caro_, what love, what pity, what

joy, what life will come?”

Struggling in the shadow of death, his glassy eyes fixed on Benedetto,

eyes which shone with an intense longing, and with the fear of

being unable to express it, the poor young man who had misunderstood

Benedetto’s words, and thought he must confess to him, began telling

him of his sins. The mother, who, while Benedetto had been speaking, had

flung herself on her knees in front of the wall of rock, and kept her

lips pressed to the cross expecting a miracle, started up at the strange

ring in that voice, sprang to the bedside and--understanding--gave a

cry of despair, flinging her hands towards heaven, while Benedetto,

terrified, exclaimed: “No, _caro_, not to me, not to me!” But the sick

man did not hear; he put his arm round Benedetto’s neck, drawing him to

him, and continued his sorrowful confession, Benedetto repeating over

and over again “My God, my God!” and making a mighty effort not to

hear, but lacking the courage to tear himself away from the dying man’s

embrace. And, in fact, he did not hear, nor would it have been easy to

do so, for the words came so slowly, so brokenly, so confusedly. Still

the parish priest did not appear, and Don Clemente did not return.

Subdued voices and steps could be heard outside, and, sometimes a

curious face peered in at the door, but no one entered. The dying man’s

words lost themselves in a confusion of weak sounds, and at last he was

silent.

“Is there any one outside?” Benedetto inquired. “Let some one go to the

parish priest, and bid him hasten.”

Giovanni and Maria were attending to the mother, who, quite beside

herself, was tossed between grief and anger. After having believed in

the miracle, she would not now believe that her son had been reduced to

this desperate condition by natural causes; at one moment she wept

for him, and at the next cursed the medicines Benedetto had given him,

although the Selvas assured her they were not medicines. Maria had put

her arms round her, partly to comfort her and partly to hold her. She

signed to Giovanni to go for the priest and Giovanni hurried away. The

glistening eyes of the dying man were full of supplication. Benedetto

said to him:

“My son, do you long for Christ?”

With an indescribable groan, he bowed his head feebly in assent.

Benedetto kissed him and kissed him again, tenderly.

“Christ tells me that your sins are forgiven, and that you may depart in

peace.”

The glistening eyes lighted up with joy. Benedetto called the mother,

who, escaping from Maria’s open arms, threw herself upon her son. At

that moment Don Clemente entered, looking exhausted; Giovanni and the

parish priest were with him.

* * * * *

At the priest’s house Don Clemente had found an ecclesiastic whom he did

not know, arguing with the parish priest. According to what he said, a

crowd of fanatics were about to carry the girl who had been healed by a

miracle to the church of Sant’ Andrea, to return thanks to God. It was

the priest’s duty to prevent such a scandal. If the healing of this

girl were not an imposture, neither was it a fact. The would-be

miracle-worker had also preached much rank heresy concerning miracles

and eternal salvation. He had spoken of faith as being a natural virtue;

he had even criticised Christ, who healed the sick. At present he was

preparing another miracle with a second unfortunate victim. A stop must

be put to this! Put a stop to it, indeed! The poor priest who already

perceived the odour of the Holy Office, reflected that it was easy

enough to say “put a stop to it,” but how was it to be accomplished? Don

Clemente’s arrival at that point gave him a moment of relief. “Now,” he

told himself, “he will help me.” But, on the contrary, things were worse

than ever. When he had heard Don Clemente’s sad message the strange

priest exclaimed:

“You see! That is how these miracles end. You must not enter that

heretic’s house with the holy viaticum, unless he has first left it, and

left it never to return.”

Don Clemente’s face flushed.

“He is not a heretic,” said he. “He is a man of God!”

“You say so!” the other retorted.

“And you, consider well!” he added, turning to the parish priest. “But,

after all, you are free to act as you please. It is none of my business.

_A rivederla_!”

Having bowed to Don Clemente, he slipped out of the room, without

another word.

“And now? And now?” groaned the unhappy priest, pressing his hands

to his temples. “That is a terrible man, but I must not betray the

Almighty! Tell me what to do! Tell me what to do!”

Indeed the parish priest had a holy fear of God, but he was also not

without a certain fear (half holy, half human), of Don Clemente, of the

austere conscience which would judge him. At that decisive moment the

wisest course to pursue became suddenly clear to Don Clemente.

“Arrange for the viaticum,” said he, “and come with me at once, to hear

this poor young man’s confession. Benedetto will show whether he be a

heretic or a man of God!”

The servant came to say a gentleman begged the priest to make haste, for

the sick man was dying.

Don Clemente, much exhausted, entered the hut, with Giovanni and the

parish priest. He called Benedetto to him, standing near the door and

spoke to him in an undertone. The rattling had begun in the sick man’s

throat. Benedetto listened with bowed head to the painful words which

demanded of him a saintly humiliation; he knelt, without answering,

before the cross he had carved on the rock and kissed it eagerly at the

point where the tragic arms meet, as if to draw into himself from the

furrow in the stone, the symbol of sacrifice, its love, its blessedness,

its strength its life and then, rising, he went forth for ever.

* * * * *

The sun was disappearing in a whirling mass of smoke-like clouds rising,

in the north, behind the village. The places which, only a short time

before, had been astir with people, were now colourless and deserted.

From the turnings of stony lanes, from behind half-open doors, round the

corners of poor houses, women were peering. When Benedetto came in sight

they all withdrew. He felt that Jenne knew of the agony of the sick

man who had come to him in search of health, he felt that the hour of

triumph had come for his adversaries. Don Clemente, the Master, the

friend, had first asked him to lay aside his habit, and now asked him to

go forth from his house, to go forth from Jenne. It is true he had asked

in grief and love, still he had asked. Partly because of the bitterness

of it all, partly because of his long fast, he had not been able to eat

his mid-day meal of beans and bread--he felt ready to faint, and his

sight was troubled. He sank down on the decayed threshold of a small,

closed door, at the entrance to the little lane called _della Corte_. A

long peal of thunder sounded above his head.

Little by little, as he rested, he recovered. He thought of the man who

was dying in the desire of Christ, and a wave of sweetness swept

his soul. He was filled with remorse that he had, for a few moments

forgotten the Lord’s great gift; that he had ceased to love the cross,

as soon as he had drawn life and joy from it. He hid his face in his

hands and wept silently. A slight noise above of a shutter being opened;

something soft fell upon his head. With a start, he removed his hands

from his eyes; at his feet lay a tiny wild rose. He shivered! For

several days--either on returning to his hut at night, or on leaving

it in the morning--he had found flowers on his threshold. He had never

removed them. He simply placed them on one side upon a stone, that they

might not be stepped on, that was all. Neither had he ever tried to

discover what hand laid them there. Surely this tiny wild rose had

fallen from the same hand. He did not raise his head, but he understood

that even if he did not lift the rose, or make any movement towards it,

he must, nevertheless, leave the spot. He tried to rise, but his limbs

could, as yet, hardly support him, and he tarried a moment before moving

away. The thunder rumbled again louder and longer. A small door was

pushed open, and a young girl, dressed in black, looked out. She was

fair, and as white as wax; her blue eyes were full of despair and

of tears. Benedetto could not help turning his face towards her. He

recognised the village schoolmistress, whom he had once seen for

a moment at the priest’s house. He was already moving away without

greeting her, when she moaned softly: “Hear me!” Stepping back into the

passage she fell upon her knees, stretched out beseeching hands to him,

and dropped her head upon her breast.

Benedetto stopped. He hesitated a moment and then said, with dignified

gravity:

“What do you want of me?”

It had become almost dark. The lightning flashed, the noise of the

thunder filled the miserable little lane, and prevented the two from

hearing each other. Benedetto approached the door.

“I have been told,” the young girl answered, without raising her head,

and pausing when the thunder crashed forth, “that you will perhaps be

obliged to leave Jenne. A word spoken by you has given me life, but your

departure will kill me. Repeat that word to me; say it for _me_, for me

alone.”

“What word?”

“You were with the _Signor Arciprete_, the parish priest, I was in the

next room with the servant, and the door was open. You said that a

man may deny the existence of God without really being an atheist or

deserving eternal death, if that God, whose existence he denies, be

placed before him in a shape repugnant to his intellect, and if he love

Truth, Virtue, and his fellow-men, and by his life give proof of his

love.”

Benedetto was silent. Yes, he had said this, but to a priest, and not

knowing another person (perhaps one not capable of understanding) was

listening. She guessed the cause of his silence.

“I am not the person in question,” she said. “I believe; I am a

Catholic. It was my father, who lived and died thus; and--only think of

it--they have persuaded even my mother that he cannot be saved.”

While she was speaking, amidst the lightning and the thunder, large,

slow drops began to beat upon the road, making great spots in the dust,

hissing through the air, lashing against the walls. But Benedetto did

not seek shelter inside the door, nor did she invite him to do so; and

this was the only confession on her part, of the profound sentiment,

which covered itself with a cloak of mysticism and filial piety.

“Tell me, tell me!” she begged, raising her eyes at last. “Say that my

father is saved, that I shall meet him in Paradise!”

Benedetto answered:

“Pray!”

“My God! Only that?”

“Do we pray for the pardon of such as may not be pardoned? Pray!”

“Oh! Thank you!--Are you ill?” These last words were whispered so softly

that it was possible Benedetto did not hear them. He made a gesture of

farewell, and started on, in the driving rain, that lashed and pushed

the little dead, wild rose away, into the mud.

Either from a window, or from the door of the inn, where she was, with

the sick girl of Arcinazzo, Noemi saw him pass. She borrowed an umbrella

from the innkeeper, and followed him, braving the wind and the rain.

She followed him, distressed at seeing him bareheaded and without an

umbrella, and reflecting that if he were not a Saint, one would think

him insane. On entering the square where the church stands, she saw a

door on the right open a little way; a tall, thin priest looked out. She

believed the priest would invite Benedetto to come in, but, to Noemi’s

great vexation, when Benedetto was quite near him, the priest closed the

door noisily. Benedetto entered the church of Sant’ Andrea; she went in

also. He approached the high altar and knelt down, while she remained

near the door. The sacristan, who was dozing, seated on the steps of

an altar, heard them enter, and, rising, went towards Benedetto. But

he belonged to the Roman priest’s party, and, recognising the heretic,

turned back, and asked the foreign signorina if she could tell him

anything about the sick man from Arcinazzo, who had been brought to

the church that morning, when the sacristan had also seen her there.

He added that his reason for inquiring was, that he had been ordered to

wait for the parish priest, who was going to carry the viaticum to the

man. Noemi knew that the young man from Arcinazzo was dying, but that

was all.

“I see,” said the sacristan, raising his voice intentionally. “He

probably does not wish for Christ. These are their fine miracles! Thank

God for the thunder and lightning, for had it not been for the storm,

they would have brought the girl here!”

Then he went back to rest and doze on the steps.

Noemi could not turn her eyes away from Benedetto. It was not a

fascination in the true sense of the word, nor was it the passionate

sentiment of the young schoolmistress. She saw him sway, rest his hands

on the steps and then turn with difficulty and sit down; and she did

not ask herself if he were suffering. She gazed at him, but was more

absorbed in herself than in him, absorbed in a gradual change which was

taking place within her, and which was making her different, making her

irrecognisable to herself; a still confused and blind sense of immense

truth, which was being borne in upon her, in mysterious ways, and

which strained painfully at the innermost fibres of her heart. Her

brother-in-law’s religious arguments might have troubled her mind, but

they had never touched her heart. Why was it touched now? And how? What

had that pale, emaciated man said, after all? Ah I but the look, the

voice, the-what else? Something it was impossible to grasp. Perhaps a

presentiment--But of what? _Ma! Chi sá?_ Who knows? A presentiment of

some future bond between this man and herself. She had followed him, had

entered the church that she might not lose the opportunity of speaking

to him, and now she was almost afraid of him. And then to talk to him of

Jeanne! Had Jeanne understood him? How had Jeanne, loving him, been able

to resist the current of higher thought which was in him, which perhaps,

at that time, was latent, but which a Jeanne should have felt? What had

she loved? The lower man? If she, Noemi, spoke with him, she would speak

not only of Jeanne, but of religion also. She would ask him what his

own religion really was. And then what if he should answer something

foolish, something commonplace? For this reason she was almost afraid to

speak to him.

A dash of rain splashed through a broken window upon the pavement.

It seemed to Noemi she could never forget that hour, that great empty

church, that dark sky, that dash of rain like falling tears, that

world’s outcast on the steps of the high altar, absorbed in what sublime

thoughts God alone knew, and the sacristan, his enemy, who had gone

to sleep on the steps of another altar, with the easy familiarity of a

colleague of the Almighty. Some time elapsed, perhaps an hour, perhaps

more. The church grew lighter; the rain seemed to be stopping. It struck

four o’clock. Don Clemente entered the church, followed by Maria and

Giovanni who were glad to find Noemi there, for they had not known where

she was. The sacristan, who knew Don Clemente, came forward.

“_Dunque_? The viaticum?”

The viaticum? Alas, the man was dead; they had thought of the viaticum

too late! The Padre inquired for Benedetto, and Noemi pointed to where

he sat. They spoke of the interview which Noemi desired. Don Clemente

blushed and hesitated, but could not refuse to ask for it, and he went

to join Benedetto.

While the two conversed, Giovanni and Maria related to Noemi all that

had taken place. After the arrival of the parish priest, the sick man

had not spoken again. Confession had not been possible. Meanwhile the

storm had burst with such violence as to render it impossible for the

priest to go for the holy oil. They had thought the sick man would live

some hours longer, but at three o’clock he had expired. As soon as the

torrents of rain would permit, Don Clemente and the priest had gone out,

but Giovanni and Maria had remained with the mother until the arrival

of the dead man’s elder sister; the mother seemed to have quite lost her

senses. Then they also had left, to go in search of Noemi. Not finding

her at the inn, they had started for the church. In the square they had

met the Padre, coming out of one of the best houses. They did not

know what errand had taken him there. Maria spoke enthusiastically of

Benedetto, of his spiritual ministrations to the dying man. She and her

husband were very indignant at the war which had been waged against him

by people who would now find no difficulty in turning the whole town

against him. They censured the parish priest’s weakness, and were not

satisfied with Don Clemente himself. He should not have aided in driving

his disciple away. Why had he been the one to tell him to leave, when

the parish priest came? His first mistake had been in bringing the

Abbot’s message. Noemi knew nothing of this message. When she heard that

Benedetto was to be deprived of his habit her indignation burst forth:

Benedetto must not obey.

Meanwhile the Padre and his disciple were approaching the door.

Benedetto stood apart while the Padre came to tell the Selvas and Noemi

that as several persons wished to speak with Benedetto, he had arranged

that they should see him at the house of a gentleman of the town. He

must now take Benedetto there, but in a few minutes he would return to

the church for them.

* * * * *

The gentleman was the same person the Selvas had met on the hillside of

Jenne, where he was awaiting the Duchess di Civitella. The Duchess had

arrived shortly after, with two other ladies and several gentlemen,

among them a journalist, and the young man of the eye-glass. The

citizen, of Jenne was beside himself with satisfaction; on that day he

was in a truly ducal state of graciousness and magnificence! Therefore,

when Don Clemente--following the parish priest’s advice--appealed to

him, he had no difficulty in obtaining from him the promise of an

old suit of black, a black tie, and a broad brimmed black hat, for

Benedetto.

In the room where the secular clothes were spread out, the disciple,

having removed his habit, began to put them on in silence, and his

master, who was standing at the window, could not repress a sob.

Presently Benedetto called softly to him.

“_Padre mio_,” said he, “look at me!”

Arrayed in the new clothes, which were too long and too large for

him, he smiled, showing himself at peace. The Padre seized his hand,

intending to kiss it, but Benedetto caught it hastily away, and opening

his arms, pressed to his breast the man who now seemed the younger, the

son, the penitent instrument of shameful human persecutions, which,

upon that heart, beating with divine fire, turned to dust, to ashes, and

vanished! They stood a long time thus, locked in a silent embrace.

“I did it, for your sake,” Don Clemente murmured at last. “I myself

brought the humiliating message, that I might see the grace of the Lord

shine, in this humble dress, even brighter than in the habit.”

Benedetto interrupted him. “No, no!” said he. “Do not tempt me, do

not tempt me! Let us rather thank God, who is chastening me for that

presumptuous joy I experienced at Santa Scolastica, when you offered

me the Benedictine habit, and I reflected that in my vision, I had seen

myself dying in that dress. My heart was uplifted as if crying out: ‘I

am beloved indeed of God!’ And now--”

“Ah! but--!” the Padre exclaimed, and then stopped suddenly, his face

suffused with colour. Benedetto believed he understood what was in his

mind: “It is not said that you may not sometime resume the habit you

have just laid aside! It is not said that the vision may not yet come

true!” He had not wished to utter this thought, either from prudence, or

in order not to allude to Benedetto’s death. He smiled and embraced his

master. The Padre hastened to speak of other things; he apologised for

the parish priest, who was much grieved by what was happening, and would

not have sent Benedetto away, had he not feared his superiors. He was

not a Don Abbondio [1]; he did not fear for himself, but dreaded scandal

of a conflict with the authorities.

[Footnote: Don Abbondio-a priest in Mazzoni’s work _I Promessi Sposi_.

(Translator’s Note.)]

“I forgive him,” said Benedetto, “and I pray God to forgive him, but

this lack of moral courage is a great evil in the Church. Many, rather

than contend against their superiors, will contend against God Himself.

And they rid themselves of all responsibility by substituting their

superiors’ conscience to their own wherein God speaks. They do not

comprehend that by striving against what is good, or by refraining from

striving against what is evil, in obedience to superiors, they give

scandal to the world, they stain the Christian character in the eyes of

the world. They do not comprehend that both their duty toward God and

their duty toward their superiors may be fulfilled, by never striving

against what is good, by never refraining from striving against what

is evil, by never judging their superiors, by obeying them with perfect

obedience in everything that is neither opposed to what is good nor in

favour of what is evil, by laying even life itself at their feet,

but not their conscience; their conscience, never! Thus the Inferior,

stripped of everything save conscience and just obedience, becomes a

pure grain of the salt of the earth, and where many such grains are

united, that to which they adhere will be saved from corruption, and

that to which they do not adhere, will rot and fall to pieces!”

As he talked Benedetto became transfigured. With the last words he rose

to his feet. His eyes flashed, his brow shone with the august light of

the spirit of Truth. He placed his hands on Don Clemente’s shoulders.

“Dear Master,” he said, his face softening, “I am leaving the roof, the

bread, the habit which were offered me, but while I have life, I will

not cease telling of Christ, who is the Truth! I go forth, but not to

remain silent. Do you remember giving me the letter to read, that St.

Peter Damian wrote to a layman, who preached? That man preached in the

church. I will not preach in the church, but if Christ wish me to speak

in the dwellings of the poor, I will speak in the dwellings of the poor;

if He wish me to speak in the palace, I will speak in the palace; if He

wish me to speak in the cubicles, I will speak in the cubicles; if He

wish me to speak on the housetops, I will speak on the housetops. Think

of the man who laboured in Christ’s name, and was forbidden to do so by

the disciples. Christ said: ‘Forbid him not.’ Shall we obey the disciple

or shall we obey Christ?”

“You are right about the man in the Gospel, _caro_,” Don Clemente

replied, “but remember that one may mistake what is really Christ’s

will.”

Don Clemente’s heart did not speak precisely thus, but the heart’s

imprudent, undisciplined words were not allowed to pass his lips.

“After all, _Padre mio_,” Benedetto continued, “believe me, I am not

banished because I preached the Gospel to the people. There are two

things you must know. The first is this. A proposal was made to me here

in Jenne by a person whom I never saw again after that interview, to

take holy orders, that I might become a missionary. I replied that I did

not feel called to that work. The second incident is this. On one of the

first days after my arrival at Jenne, while talking religion with the

parish priest, I spoke of the eternal vitality of Catholic doctrine, of

the power which the soul of Catholic doctrine possesses, of continually

transforming its own body, increasing its strength and beauty

unlimitedly. You know _Padre mio_, from whom--through you--these

thoughts came to me. The parish priest must have repeated my words,

which pleased him. The next day he asked me whether I had met Selva at

Subiaco, and had read his books. He said he had not read them himself,

but he knew they were to be avoided. _Padre mio_, you will understand

now. It is on account of Signor Selva, and of your friendship for him,

that I am leaving Jenne thus. I have never loved you as I love you now.

I do not know whither I shall wander, but wherever the Lord may send me,

be it far or near, do not let your soul forsake me!”

As he spoke these words, his voice shaking with sorrow and love,

Benedetto again threw himself into the arms of his master, who--himself

torn by a tempest of conflicting emotions--knew not whether to ask his

forgiveness, or promise him glory, the true glory, and could only say,

with laboured breath:

“You do not know it, but I, too, have need that your soul should not

forsake me!”

Touching it with careful, reverent hands; Don Clemente made the habit

his disciple had laid aside into a bundle. When it was folded he

told Benedetto that he could not offer him the hospitality of Santa

Scolastica; he had intended asking Signor Selva to take him in, but he

now doubted if it would be opportune and in the interests of his mission

for Benedetto to put himself so openly under the protection of Signor

Giovanni.

Benedetto smiled.

“Oh! certainly not!” said he. “Shall we fear the darkness more than we

love the light? But I must pray God to make His will known to me, if it

be possible. Perhaps He desires that, perhaps something else. And now

will you send me some food and a little wine? And then let those come

in, who wish to speak with me.”

Don Clemente was secretly astonished that Benedetto should ask him for

wine, but he did not allow his astonishment to appear. He said he would

also send him the young girl who was with the Selvas. Benedetto looked

at him questioningly. He remembered that when the girl, whom he had

seen later in the church, had asked for an interview, Don Clemente had

pressed his arm, as if silently warning him to be on his guard. Don

Clemente grew very red while he explained his action. He had seen the

young girl at Santa Scolastica with another person. His movement had

been involuntary. The other person was now far away. “We shall not

meet again,” said he, “because as soon as I have sent you the food, and

spoken to these people, I must start for Santa Scolastica.”

In speaking of going to Subiaco or elsewhere, Benedetto had said

“perhaps that, perhaps something else,” with an accent so full of

meaning that, when Don Clemente bade him farewell, he murmured:

“Are you thinking of Rome?”

Instead of answering, Benedetto gently took from his hands the bundle

containing the poor tunic, which had been bestowed and then withdrawn,

and with trembling hands raised it to his lips, pressing them to it; he

let them rest there a long time.

Was it regret for the days of peace, of labour, of prayer, of gospel

words? Was it the anticipation of a luminous hour in the future?

He gave the bundle back into his master’s hands.

“Farewell!” said he.

Don Clemente hastened away.

The room the master of the house had set apart for Benedetto’s use

contained a large sofa, a small square table, covered with a yellowish

cloth; over which a blue floral pattern sprawled; a few shaky chairs;

one or two armchairs, their stuffing showing through the rents in

the old and faded leather; and two portraits of bewigged ancestors in

tarnished frames. It had two windows, one almost blinded by a grey wall,

the other open to the fields, to a lovely, peaceful hill, to the sky.

Before receiving his visitors Benedetto approached this window to take a

last farewell of the fields, the hill, and the poor town itself. Seized

with sudden weakness, he leaned against the sill. It was a gentle,

pleasant weakness. He was hardly conscious of the weight of his body,

and his heart was flooded with mystic beatitude. Little by little, as

his thoughts became vague and objectless he was moved by a sense of the

quiet, innocent, external life; the drops falling from the roofs, the

air laden with odours of the hills, stirring mysteriously at that hour

and in that place. The memory of distant hours of his early youth came

back to him, of a time when he was still unmarried and had no thought of

marriage. He recalled the close of a thunder storm in the upper Valsolda

on the crest of the Pian Biscagno. How different his fate would have

been had his parents lived thirty or even twenty years longer! At least

one of them! In his mind’s eye he saw the stone in the cemetery at Oria:

TO FRANCO

IN GOD

HIS LUISA;

and his eyes filled with tears. Then came the violent reaction of his

will against this soft langour of the intellect, this temptation of

weakness.

“No, no, no!” he murmured, half aloud. A voice behind him answered:

“You do not wish to listen to us?”

Benedetto turned round, surprised. Three young men stood before him.

He had not heard them enter. The one who appeared to be the eldest, a

fine-looking young fellow, short of stature, dark, with eyes speaking

knowledge of many things, asked him boldly why he had laid aside the

clerical dress. Benedetto did not reply.

“You do not wish to say?” the other exclaimed.

“It does not matter, but listen to us. We are students from the

University of Rome, men of little faith, that I confess openly and at

once. We are enjoying and making the most of our youth, that I will also

confess at once.”

One of his companions pulled a fold of the spokesman’s coat.

“Be quiet!” said the leader. “It is true there is one among us who,

though he has no great faith in the saints, is very pure. He, however,

is not here before you. There are others missing also, who are playing

cards at the tavern. The ‘Most Pure’ would not come with us. He says he

will find a way of speaking with you alone. We are what I have told

you. We came from Rome for an excursion, and, if possible, to witness a

miracle; in fact, we came to have some fun!”

His companions interrupted him, protesting. “Yes, yes!” he repeated,

“to have some fun! Excuse me, I speak frankly. Indeed our fun came near

costing us too dear. We joked a little and they wanted to knock us down,

you know; and all to your honour and glory! But then we heard the little

speech you made to that crowd of fanatics. ‘By the Lord Harry,’

we thought, ‘this is a new style of language for a priestly or

half-priestly mouth! This is a saint who suits us better than the

others!’ Forgive my familiarity! So we at once decided to ask you for an

interview; because even if we be rather sceptical, and fond of worldly

pleasures, we are also more or less intellectual, and certain religious

truths interest us. I myself, for instance, shall perhaps very shortly

become a Neo-Buddhist.”

His companions laughed, and he turned upon them angrily.

“Yes indeed! I shall not be a practical Buddhist, but Buddhism interests

me more than Christianity!”

Then ensued an altercation among the three students, on account of

this inopportune sally, and a second spokesman, tall, thin, and wearing

spectacles, took the place of the first. This man spoke nervously,

with frequent spasmodic movements of the head and stiff forearms. His

discourse was to the following effect. He and his companions had often

discussed the question of the vitality of Catholicism. They were

all convinced that it was exhausted, and that speedy death could

be prevented only by radical reform. Some considered such a reform

possible, while others did not. They were anxious to have the opinion of

an intelligent and modern-spirited Catholic such as Benedetto had shown

himself. They had many questions to ask him.

At this point the third ambassador of the party of students, feeling

that his turn had come, poured out upon Benedetto a disordered stream of

questions.

Did he feel disposed to become the champion of a reform in the Church?

Did he believe in the infallibility of the Pope, of the Council? Did

he approve of the worship of the Virgin Mary and of the saints in

its present form? Was he a Christian Democrat? What were his views

concerning the desired reform? They had seen Giovanni Selva at Jenne.

Was Benedetto acquainted with his works? Did he approve of cardinals

being forbidden to go out on foot, and of priests not being allowed

to ride a bicycle? What was his opinion of the Bible, and what did he

believe concerning its inspiration?

Before answering, Benedetto looked steadily and severely at his young

interlocutor.

“A physician,” he began at last, “was reputed to be able to cure all

diseases. A man, who did not believe in medicine, went to him out of

curiosity, to question him about his art, his studies, his opinions. The

physician let him talk on for some time; then he took his wrist, thus.”

Benedetto took the wrist of the one who had spoken first, and continued.

“He took it, and held it a moment in silence; then he said to him, ‘My

friend, your heart is affected. I read it first in your face, and now I

feel the hammering of the carpenter who is making your coffin!”

The young man whose pulse he was pressing could not refrain from

wincing.

“I do not mean you,” said Benedetto. “The physician was speaking to the

man who does not believe in medicine. And he continued, thus: ‘Do you

come to me for health and life? I will give you both. Are you not come

for that? Then I have no time for you!’ The man, who had always believed

himself to be well, turned pale, and said. ‘Master, I place myself in

your hands; give me life!’”

The three students stood for a moment dum-founded. When they showed

signs of coming to their senses, and of wishing to answer, Benedetto

continued:

“If three blind men ask me for my lamp of truth what shall I reply? I

shall reply, ‘First go and prepare your eyes for it, because, should I

give it unto your hands now, you would receive no light from it, and you

would only break it.’”

“I hope,” said the tall, lean, bespectacled student, “that in order to

see your lamp of truth it may not be necessary to shut out the light of

the sun. But, after all, I can easily understand that you do not wish to

explain yourself to us, whom you believe to be reporters. To-day we are

not--or at least I am not--in the state of mind you desire. I may be

blind, but I do not feel inclined to ask the Pope for light, or a Luther

either. Nevertheless, if you come to Rome, you will find young men

better disposed than I am, than we are. Come, speak, let us also listen

to you! To-day it is curiosity with us, to-morrow, who knows? we may

feel the right spirit. Come to Rome!”

“Give me your name,” said Benedetto.

The other offered him his card. His name was Elia Viterbo. Benedetto

looked at him curiously.

“Yes, indeed,” he said, “I am a Jew; but these two baptised ones are no

better Christians than I am. I have, moreover, no religious prejudices.”

The interview was over. As they were leaving, the youngest of the party,

the man of the stream of questions, made a last onslaught.

“Tell us, at least, if you believe Catholics should vote on political

questions?”

Benedetto was silent. The other insisted:

“Will you not answer even that question?”

Benedetto smiled.

“_Non expedit_,” said he.

There were steps in the ante-room; two gentle taps at the door; the

Selvas entered with Noemi. Maria Selva came in first, and seeing

Benedetto dressed thus, could not restrain a movement of indignation, of

regret, and a soft laugh; then she blushed and wished to speak a word

of protest, but could not find the right one. The tears came to Noemi’s

eyes. All four were silent for a moment and understood each other. Then

Giovanni murmured:

“‘_Non fu dal vel del cuor giawmai disciolto_’”[*1*];

and pressed the hand of him who in his awkward garments still appeared

august to him.

“But you must not wear these things!” exclaimed Maria, less mystic than

her husband.

Benedetto made a gesture which said, “Let us not speak of that,”

and looked at the master of his master with eyes full of longing and

reverence.

“Are you aware,” said he, “how much truth and how much good have come to

me from you?”

Giovanni did not know how strongly he had influenced this man through

Don Clemente. He supposed he had read his books. He was moved, and

in his heart thanked God, who was thus gently showing him that he had

worked some real good in a soul.

“How happy I should have been,” Benedetto continued, “to have worked in your garden,

[FN 1: “Of the heart’s veil she never was divested.”

DANTE’S _Paradiso_, Canto iii.

(Longfellow’s translation) ] have sometimes seen you, to

have heard you speak!”

A stifled exclamation escaped Noemi when reminded of that evening full

of memories she could not express. Giovanni took this opportunity of

offering hospitality to Benedetto, Don Clemente having told him he

intended leaving Jenne that night. They could leave together, if he

wished, after the interview which he was going to grant Giovanni’s

sister-in-law. Noemi, very pale, looked fixedly at Benedetto for the

first time, awaiting his answer.

“I thank you,” said he. “If I knock at your door, you will throw it open

to me. I can say no more at present.”

Giovanni and his wife prepared to leave. Benedetto begged them to

remain. Surely the _Signorina_ had no secrets from them; at least not

from her sister, if perhaps from her brother-in-law. Even this

indirect appeal to Maria was of no avail, for Noemi remarked, with much

embarrassment, that these secrets were not her own. The Selvas withdrew.

Benedetto remained standing, and did not invite Noemi to be seated. He

was aware that a friend of Jeanne’s stood before him, and he foresaw

what was coming--a message from Jeanne.

“_Signorina_?” said he.

His manner was not discourteous, but signified clearly, “The quicker the

better.”

Noemi understood. She would have been offended had another person acted

thus; but with Benedetto she was not offended. With him she felt humble.

“I have been requested to ask you,” she began, “whether you know

anything about a person with whom you must have been intimately

acquainted, whom, I believe, you also loved very dearly? I am not sure

I pronounce the name correctly, I am not an Italian. It is Don Giuseppe

Flores.”

Benedetto started. He had not expected this.

“No!” he exclaimed anxiously, “I know nothing.”

Nomei gazed at him a moment in silence. Before continuing she would have

liked to ask his forgiveness for the pain she was about to cause him.

She said sadly and in a low tone:

“Some one has written to me to tell you that he is no longer of this

world.”

Benedetto bowed his head, and hid his face in his hands. Don Giuseppe,

dear Don Giuseppe; dear, great, pure soul; dear luminous brow, dear

eyes, full of God, dear, kind voice! Softly came two tears, which Noemi

did not see; then he heard Don Giuseppe’s voice saying within him,

“Do you not feel that I am here, that I am with you, that I am in your

heart?”

After a long silence Noemi said softly:

“Forgive me! I am sorry I was obliged to cause you so much pain.”

Benedetto raised his head.

“Pain, and still not pain,” said he. Noemi maintained a reverent

silence. Benedetto asked if she knew when this person had passed away.

Towards the end of April, she believed. She was absent from Italy at the

time. She was in Belgium, at Bruges, with a friend to whom the news had

been sent. She had understood from her friend that that person--a sense

of delicacy prevented Noemi from pronouncing the name--had died a very

holy death. She had also been asked to say that his papers had been

entrusted to the bishop of the city. Benedetto made a gesture of

approval which might also serve to close the interview. Noemi did not

move.

“I have not yet finished,” she said, and hastened to add:

“I have a Catholic friend--I myself am not a Catholic, I am a

Protestant--who has lost her faith in God. She has been advised to

devote herself to deeds of charity. She lives with her brother, who is

very hostile to all religions. This innovation, the fact that his sister

interests herself in charities, that she associates with people who

promote good works from religious principles, is most displeasing to

him. At present he is ill; he becomes irritated, excited, protests

against these virtuous bigots, does not wish his sister to visit the

poor, to protect young girls, or to provide for abandoned children. He

says all these things are clericalism, are utopianism, that the world

wags in its own way, and that it must be allowed to wag in its own way,

that all this associating with the lower classes only serves to put

false and dangerous ideas into their heads. Now, my friend has been told

that she must either leave her brother, or lie to him, by doing secretly

what she has hitherto done openly. She is in sore need of sound advice!

She writes to me to ask you for it. She has read in the newspapers that

you are helping so many here in these hills, and she hopes you will not

refuse.”

“As her brother is ill, both bodily and mentally,” Benedetto answered,

“does she not find deeds of charity to perform in her own house? Will

she arrive at a knowledge of God by becoming a bad sister? Let her

give up her works of charity and devote herself to her brother; let

her attend to his bodily ills, and to his moral ills, with all the

affection”--he was going to say “which she bears him,” but he corrected

himself, that he might not thus clearly admit a knowledge of the

person--“with all the affection of which she is capable; let her make

herself precious to him; let her win him by degrees, without sermons,

by her goodness alone. It will do her much good also, this striving to

incarnate in herself true goodness, active, untiring, patient, prudent

goodness. And she will win him, little by little, without words; she

will persuade him that all she does is well done. Then she can take up

her works of charity again, take them up alone, and she will succeed

better. Now she performs them because she has been advised to do so, and

perhaps she does not succeed very well. Then she will be prompted by the

habit of goodness, acquired with her brother, and she will have better

success.”

“I thank you!” said Noemi. “I thank you for my friend, and also for

myself, for I am much pleased with what you have said. And may I repeat

your advice, your words of encouragement, in your name?”

The question seemed superfluous, because the words of encouragement and

advice had been spoken by Benedetto in direct answer to the friend. But

Benedetto was troubled. It was an explicit message which Noemi asked of

him for Jeanne.

“Who am I?” he said. “What authority do I possess? Tell her I will

pray!”

Noemi was trembling inwardly. It would have been so easy now to speak

to him of religion! And she did not dare. Ah! but to lose such an

opportunity! No, she must speak; but she could not reflect a quarter

of an hour upon what she should say. She said the first thing that came

into her head.

“I beg your pardon, but as you speak of praying, I should like to ask

you if you really approve of all my brother-in-law’s religious views?”

As soon as she had uttered the question, it seemed to her so

impertinent, so awkward, that she was ashamed. She hastened to

add, conscious she was saying something still more foolish, but,

nevertheless, feeling impelled to say it. “Because my brother-in-law

is a Catholic, and I am a Protestant, and I should like to know what to

believe.”

“_Signorina,_” Benedetto answered, “the day will come when all shall

worship the Father in spirit and in truth, upon the hilltops; to-day it

is best to worship Him in the shadows, in figures, from deep Valleys.

Many there are who can rise, some higher than others, towards the spirit

and the truth; but many cannot. There are plants which bear no fruit

above a certain altitude, and if carried still higher, they die. It

would be folly to remove them from the climate which suits them. I do

not know you, and I cannot say if your brother-in-law’s religious views,

planted without preparation in you, would bear good fruit. But I advise

you to study Catholicism carefully, with Signor Selva’s help; for there

is not one conscientious Protestant who knows it well.”

“You will not come to Subiaco?” Noemi inquired timidly.

A note of hidden melancholy rang in her voice, and aroused in

Benedetto’s heart a sense of sweet pain, which at once turned to fear,

so new was it.

“No,” said he, “I think not.”

Noemi wished, and still did not wish to say she was sorry. She

pronounced some confused words.

They heard some one in the ante-room. Noemi bowed, and Benedetto doing

the same, the interview came to an end, without any further leave

taking.

The Duchess also was anxious to speak with Benedetto. She brought her

companions, both male and female, with her. No longer young, but still

frivolous, half superstitious, half sceptical, egotistical but not

heartless, she was devoted to the consumptive daughter of her old

coachman, Having heard of the Saint of Jenne and his miracles, she had

arranged this excursion, partly for amusement, partly to satisfy her

curiosity, and she wished to ascertain if it would be wiser to have

the Saint come to Rome, or to send the girl to him. At the house of a

cardinal, her cousin, she had become acquainted with one of the priests

now staying at Jenne, This man, having met her, had given her his own

opinion of the Saint, announcing the downfall of his reputation. But, as

the Duchess had little confidence in any priest, and was curious to

know a man to whom such a romantic past was attributed, and as her

companions--one woman in particular--shared her curiosity she resolved,

at any cost, to find a means of approaching him.

An elderly, English gentlewoman was of her party; a lady famous for her

wealth and her peculiar _toilettes_, for her theosophic and Christian

mysticism, metaphysically in love with the Pope and also with the

Duchess who laughed at her friends. These friends, on beholding

Benedetto in that strange outfit, exchanged glances and smiles which

very nearly became giggles; but the elderly Englishwoman forestalling

them all constituted herself their spokeswoman. She said, in bad French,

that she was aware she was speaking to a man of culture, that she, with

her friends, of both sexes and of all nationalities, was working to

unite all Christian Churches under the Pope, reforming Catholicism

in certain particulars which were really too absurd, and which no

one honestly believed were of any further use, such particulars as

ecclesiastical celibacy and the dogma of hell. She needed a saint to

accomplish these reforms. Benedetto would be that saint, because a

spirit (she herself was not a spiritualist, but a friend of hers was),

the Spirit of the Countess Blavatzky herself, had revealed this fact.

It was therefore necessary that he should come to Rome, and there his

saintly gifts would also enable him to render a service to the Duchess

di Civitella, here present. She ended her discourse thus:

_“Nous vous attendons absolument, monsieur! Quittez ce vilain trou!

Quittez-le bientôt! Bientôt!”_

Having let his stern gaze wander rapidly round the circle of mocking

or stolid faces, from the Duchess’s _lorgnon_ to the journalist’s

eye-glass, Benedetto replied:

_“À l’instant, madame!”_

And he left the room.

He left the room and the house, crossed the square, walking awkwardly in

his ill-fitting clothes, and, without looking to right or left, took the

road leading down the slope, impelled by his spirit rather than by the

weakened powers of his body. He intended to pass the night under some

tree, and, on the morrow, go to Subiaco; from there, with Don Clemente’s

aid, he would go to Tivoli, where he knew a good old priest, who was in

the habit of coming to Santa Scolastica from time to time. He no longer

thought of accepting the Selvas’ hospitality, which would have been

precious to him. His heart was pure and at peace, but he could not

forget that the young foreign girl’s sweet voice, and the tone of

sadness in which she had said “You will not come to Subiaco?” had

awakened strange echoes within him, and that in that one second the

thought had flashed across his mind: “Had Jeanne been like this, I

should not have left her!” The mystics were right; penance and fasting

were of no avail. But it had all disappeared now. Only the humiliating

sense of a frailty essentially human remained, which, though it may have

come forth triumphant from hard trials, may also reappear unexpectedly,

and be overthrown by a breath. The little town was deserted. The storm

over, the people from Trevi, Filettino, and Vallepietra had started

homeward, discussing the events of the morning, the case of doubtful

healing, and that in which the healing had not been effected, the

warnings which had been swiftly sown by hidden hands against the

corrupter of the people, the false Catholic. On leaving the town

Benedetto was seen by two or three women of Jenne. The secular garments

filled them with amazement; they concluded he had been excommunicated

and allowed him to pass in silence.

A few steps beyond, some one who was running overtook him. It was a

slender, fair lad, with blue eyes full of intelligence.

“Are you going to Rome, Signor Maironi?” he said.

“I beg you not to call me by that name!” Benedetto answered, ill-pleased

to find that his name, who knows by what means, had been revealed. “I do

not yet know whether I go to Rome.”

“I shall follow you,” the young man said, impulsively.

“You will follow me? But why should you follow me?”

In reply the young man took his hand, and, in spite of Benedetto’s

resistance and protests, raised it to his lips.

“Why?” said he. “Because I am sick of the world, and could not find

God, and to-day it Seems to me that, through you, I have been born to

happiness! Please, please, let me follow you!

“_Caro_ [dear one];” Benedetto replied, greatly moved, “I myself do not

know whither I shall go!”

The young man entreated him to say, at least, when he should see him

again, and exclaimed, seeing Benedetto really did not know what to

answer:

“Oh! I shall see you in Rome! You will surely go to Rome!”

Benedetto smiled:

“In Rome? And how will you find me there?”

The lad answered that he would certainly be talked of in Rome, that

every one would know where to find him.

“If it be God’s will!” said Benedetto, with an affectionate gesture of

farewell.

The lad detained him a moment, holding his hand.

“I am a Lombard also,” said he. “I am Alberti, from Milan. Do not forget

me!”

And his intense gaze followed Benedetto until he disappeared at a bend

of the mule-path.

* * * * *

At sight of the cross with its great arms, rising on the brow of the

hill, Benedetto suddenly shuddered with emotion, and was obliged to

stop. When he once more started forward he was seized with giddiness.

Swaying, he stepped aside a few yards, leaving the way free for

passers-by, and sank upon the grass, In a hollow of the field. Then,

closing his eyes, he realised that this was no passing disturbance, but

something far more serious. He did not become entirely unconscious, but

he lost the sense of hearing and of touch, his memory, and all account

of time. When he first recovered his senses, the feeling on the backs of

his hands, of the coarse cloth, different from that of his usual habit,

filled him with a curiosity, rather amused than troubled, concerning his

own identity. He felt his breast, the buttons, the button-holes, without

understanding. He thought. A boy from Jenne, who passed near him in the

field, ran to the town and reported excitedly that the Saint was lying

dead on the grass, near the cross.

Benedetto reflected, with that shade of cloudy reason which governs us

when we sleep and when we first awake. These were not his clothes. They

were Piero Maironi’s clothes. He was still Piero Maironi. This thought

terrified him, and he recovered his senses completely. He rose to a

sitting posture, looked at himself, looked about him at the field and

the hills, veiled in the shades of evening. At sight of the great cross,

his mind regained its composure. He felt ill, very ill. He tried to

rise to his feet, but found it difficult to do so. Directing his

steps towards the mulepath, he asked himself what he should do in that

condition. Some one coming swiftly down the path from Jenne stopped

before him; he heard the exclamation: “Oh! my God! it is you!” He

recognised the voice of the woman who had spoken so passionately to

him while the storm was raging. She alone of all those at Jenne who

had heard the boy’s story had come to him. The others had either not

believed or not wished to believe. She had come running, and mad with

grief. Now she had stopped suddenly, and stood speechless, not two steps

from him. He, not suspecting she had come on his account, wished her

good-night and passed on. She did not return his salutation, for, after

the first moment of joy, she was distressed to see him walk with such

difficulty, and she did not dare to follow him. She saw him stop and

speak to a man riding a mule, who was coming up. She rushed forward to

hear what was said. The man was a muleteer, sent by the Selvas to look

for Benedetto. The Selvas, with two mules for the ladies, had left Jenne

soon after him, thinking to overtake him on the hillside. Reaching the

Anio without having seen him, they questioned a passer-by coming from

Sublaco. He could give them no news of Benedetto. Noemi, who was to

take the last train for Tivoli, went on with Giovanni, hiding her

disappointment. The muleteer had been sent back to Jenne to look for

Benedetto, and to fetch a parasol which had been forgotten at the inn.

Maria was awaiting his return among the rocks of the Infernillo. The

young school-mistress heard Benedetto ask the muleteer to bring him a

little water from Jenne, for the sake of charity. The two men were still

talking, but she sped away, without waiting to hear more.

After a brief consultation with the muleteer, Benedetto had consented

to ride down to where Signora Selva was waiting. Left alone, he seated

himself near the cross, and waited for the man to return with the water

and the parasol. The crescent moon was rising, gilding the bright sky,

above the hills of Arcinazzo; the evening was warm and breathless.

Benedetto felt his temples throb and burn; his breath came quick and

short, but he suffered no pain. The sweet-scented grass of the field,

the scattered trees, the great shadowy hills, all, to him, was alive,

was filled with religion; all was sweet with a mystery of adoring love

which bent even the crescent moon towards the heights in the opalescent

sky. Don Giuseppe Flores whispered in his heart that it would be sweet

to die thus with the day, praying in unison with the innocent things.

Hurried steps were heard in the direction of Jenne. They stopped a short

distance from him. A little girl came towards Benedetto, timidly offered

him a bottle of water and a glass, and then turned and fled. Benedetto,

astonished, called her to him. She came slowly, shyly, and did not

answer when he asked her name, her parents’ name. A voice said:

“She is the innkeeper’s child.”

Benedetto recognised the voice and the person also, though the moonlight

was pale; she had remained at a distance, prompted by the same sense of

delicacy which had moved her to bring the child with her.

“I thank you,” said he. She came a little nearer, holding the child by

the hand, and asked softly:

“Do you know the priests have been talking to the dead man’s mother? Do

you know the woman now accuses you of killing her son?”

Benedetto replied with some severity in his tone:

“Why do you tell me this?”

She saw she had displeased him by repeating this accusation, and

exclaimed in distress;

“Oh! forgive me!”

Presently she added:

“May I ask you a question?”

“Speak.”

“Shall you never return to Jenne?”

“Never.”

The woman was silent. They could hear steps approaching in the distance;

it was the muleteer and his mule. She said in a lower tone:

“For pity’s sake, one word more! How do you picture to yourself the

future life? Do you believe we shall meet those we have known in this

life?”

If the moonlight had not been so pale, Benedetto would have seen two

great tears rolling down the young girl’s face.

“I believe,” he replied, “that until the death of our planet, our future

life will be one of labour upon it, and that all those minds which

aspire to truth, to unity, will meet there, and labour together.” The

muleteer’s hobnailed shoes, which grated among the pebbles, could be

heard very near them. The woman said:

“_Addio_! Farewell!”

The tears sounded in her voice now. Benedetto answered:

“_A Dio_! God be with you!”

Mounted on the mule, he goes down into the shadows of the valley. He is

burning with fever. He is going to Casa Selva, after all. He knows, for

the muleteer has told him, that he will not see Noemi there; but that

is indifferent to him, he does not fear her, does not even remember the

moment of gentle emotion. Another feverish thought is stirring in his

soul. There is a whirl of words spoken by Don Clemente, by the lad

Alberti, by the elderly Englishwoman, while fragments of the Vision

flash like pictures before his mind’s eye. Yes, he will go to Casa

Selva, but only for a short time. As he ascends, the mighty voice of the

Anio roars louder, ever louder, out of the depths:

“Rome! Rome! Rome!”