It was already growing dark when a private carriage stopped at the door
of a house in Via della Vite in Rome. Two ladies alighted, and quickly
disappeared within the gloomy entrance, while the carriage drove away.
Presently another carriage arrived, deposited two more ladies before the
same gloomy door, and in its turn rolled away. Thus, within a quarter of
an hour, five carriages drove up, and no less than twelve female figures
were engulfed by the dark portal. The narrow street then relapsed into
its usual quiet. In about half an hour groups of men began to appear,
coming from the Corso. They paused before the same door, read the number
by the light of a neighbouring street-lamp, and then entered. In this
manner about forty persons more were engulfed by the gloomy portal The
last arrivals were two priests. The one who tried to read the number
was near-sighted, and could not make it out. His companion said to him,
laughing:
“Go in, go in! There is an odour of Luther in the air; it must be here!”
The first priest entered the evil-smelling darkness. By a black and
dirty stair they mounted up, up, towards a small oil lamp, burning on
the fourth floor. On reaching the third floor they struck a match to
read the names upon the door-plates. A voice called out from above:
“Here, gentlemen, here!”
An affable young man in a dark morning suit came down to meet them. He
showed them great deference, said the others were waiting for them, and
conducted them through an ante-room and a passage almost as dark as the
stairway itself, to a large room, full of people, and dimly lighted by
four candles and two old oil lamps. The young man apologised for the
darkness, saying his parents would tolerate neither the electric light,
nor gas, nor petroleum. All the men who had arrived in groups were
assembled here. Three or four wore clerical dress. The others, with the
exception of an old man with a red face and a white beard, seemed to be
students. There were no women present. All were standing save the old
man, who was evidently an important personage. Conversation was being
carried on in low tones. The room was full of whisperings, like the
murmur of tiny rivulets and falling drops in a cave. When the two
priests had entered the young host said:
“We are ready!”
Those forming, the central group fell back in a circle, and Benedetto
appeared in their midst. A small table with two candles upon it, and a
chair, had been prepared for his use. He begged that the candles might
be removed. Then he was dissatisfied with the table. Saying he was
weary, he asked to be allowed to speak seated on the sofa, beside the
old man with the flushed face and the white beard. Benedetto was dressed
in black, and was paler and thinner than at Jenne. His hair had receded
from his forehead, which had acquired something of the solemn aspect of
the brow of Don Giuseppe Flores. His eyes had become a still brighter
blue. Many of the faces turned eagerly towards him seemed more
fascinated by those eyes and that brow than anxious to hear his words.
Making no gestures, his hands resting on his knees, be began speaking as
follows:
“I must first state to whom I speak, for not all here present are of one
mind concerning Christ and the Church. I do not address my remarks to
the ecclesiastics; I believe and hope they are not in need of my words.
Neither do I speak to this gentleman seated beside me, for I know he
does not need my words. I speak to no one who is firmly grounded in the
Catholic faith. I address myself solely to those young men who wrote to
me in the following terms.”
He took out a letter and read:
“‘We were educated in the Catholic faith, and on attaining manhood
we--by an act of our own free will--accepted its most arduous mysteries;
we have laboured in the faith, both in the administrative and social
field; but now another mystery rises in our way, and our faith falters
before it. The Catholic Church, calling herself the fountain of truth,
to-day opposes the research of truth, when her foundations, the sacred
books, the formulae of her dogmas, her alleged infallibility, become
objects of research. To us this signifies that she no longer has faith
in herself. The Catholic Church, which proclaims herself the channel of
life, to-day chains and stifles all that lives youthfully within her,
to-day seeks to prop all that is tottering and aged within her, To us
these things mean death, distant, but inevitable death. The Catholic
Church, claiming to wish to renew all things through Christ, is hostile
to us, who strive to wrest the direction of social progress from the
enemies of Christ. This fact, with many others, signifies to us, that
she has Christ on her lips but not in her heart. Such is the Catholic
Church to-day. Can God desire our obedience to her to continue? We come
to you with this question. What shall we do? You who profess to be a
Catholic, who preach Catholicism, who have the reputation----’”
Here Benedetto broke off, saying;
“Only some unimportant words follow.”
And he continued his discourse.
“I answer those who wrote to me, thus: Tell me, why have you appealed to
me who profess to be a Catholic? Do you perhaps think me a superior of
the superiors in the Church? Will you, perhaps for that reason, rest in
peace upon my word, if my word be different from what you call the word
of the Church? Listen to this allegory. Thirsty pilgrims draw near to a
famous fountain. They find its basin full of stagnant water, disgusting
to the taste. The living spring is at the bottom of the basin; they
do not find it. Sadly they turn for aid to a quarryman, working in
a neighbouring quarry. The quarryman offers them living water. They
inquire the name of the spring. ‘It is the same as the water in the
basin,’ he replies. ‘Underground it is all one and the same stream. He
who digs will find it.’ You are the thirsty pilgrims, I am the humble
quarryman, and Catholic truth is the hidden, underground current. The
basin is not the Church; the Church is the whole field through which the
living waters flow. You have appealed to me because you unconsciously
recognise that the Church is not the hierarchy alone, but the universal
assemblage of all the faithful, _gens sancta;_ that from the bottom of
any Christian heart the living waters of the spring itself, of truth
itself, may rush forth. Unconscious recognition, for were it not
unconscious you would not say, the Church opposes this, the Church
stifles that, the Church is growing old, the Church has Christ on her
lips and not in her heart.
“Understand me well. I do not pass judgment upon the hierarchy; I
respect the authority of the hierarchy; I simply say that the Church
does not consist of the hierarchy alone. Listen to another example.
In the thoughts of every man there is a species of hierarchy. Take
the upright man. With him certain ideas, certain aims, are dominant
thoughts, and control his actions. They are these: to fulfil his
religious, moral, and civil duties. To these various duties he gives
the traditional interpretations which have been taught him. Yet this
hierarchy of firmly grounded opinions does not constitute the whole man.
Below it there are in him a multitude of other thoughts, a multitude
of other ideas, which are continually being changed and modified by the
impressions and experiences of life. And below these thoughts there is
another region of the soul, there is the subconsciousness, where occult
faculties work at an occult task, where the mysterious contact with God
comes to pass. The dominant ideas exercise authority over the will
of the upright man, but all that other world of thought is of vast
importance as well, because it is continually deriving truth from the
experience of what is real externally, and from the experience of what
is Divine internally, and therefore seems to rectify the superior ideas,
the dominant ideas, in that in which their traditional element is not in
perfect harmony with truth. And to them, it is a perennial fountain of
fresh life which renews them, a source of legitimate authority, derived
rather from the nature of things, from the true value of ideas, than
from the decrees of men. The Church is the whole man, not one separate
group of exalted and dominant ideas; the Church is the hierarchy, with
its traditional views, and the laity, with its continual derivations
from reality, its continual reaction upon tradition; the Church is
official theology, and she is the inexhaustible treasure of Divine
Truth, which reacts upon official theology; the Church does not die; the
Church does not grow old; the Church has the living Christ in her heart
rather than on her lips; the Church is a laboratory of truth, which is
in continual action, and God commands you to remain in the Church, to
become the Church fountains of living water.”
Like a gust of wind, a feeling of emotion and of admiration swept over
the audience. Benedetto, whose voice had been growing louder and louder,
rose to his feet.
“But what manner of faith is yours!” he exclaimed excitedly, “if you
talk of deserting the Church because you are displeased with certain
antiquated doctrines of her rulers, with certain decrees of the Roman
congregations, with certain tendencies in the government of a Pontiff?
What manner of sons are you who talk of denying your mother because her
dress is not to your taste? Can a dress change the maternal bosom? When
resting there, you tearfully confess your infirmities to Christ, and
Christ heals you, do you speculate concerning the authenticity of a
passage in St. John, the true author of the Fourth Gospel, or the two
Isaiahs? When, gathered there, you unite yourselves to Christ in the
sacrament, are you disturbed by the decrees of the Index, or of the Holy
Office? When, lying there, you pass into the shadows of death, is the
peace it sheds about you any less sweet because a Pope is opposed to
Christian Democracy?
“My friends, you say ‘We have rested in the shade of this tree, but now
its bark is splitting, is being dried up, the tree will die; let us seek
another tree.’ The tree will not die. If you had ears you would hear the
movement of the new bark which is forming, which will have its span of
life, which will crack, will be dried up in its turn only to be replaced
by another coat of bark. The tree does not perish, the tree grows.”
Benedetto sat down, exhausted, and was silent. There was a movement
among the audience like the shuddering of waves surging towards him.
Raising his hands, he stopped them.
“Friends,” he said, in a weary, sweet voice, “listen to me once more.
Scribes and Pharisees, elders and princes among priests, have striven in
all times against innovations, as they strive to-day. It is not for me
to speak to you of them; God will judge them. We pray for all those who
know not what they do. But perhaps those of the other Catholic camp, the
militant camp, are not entirely without sin. In the other camp they
are intoxicated with the idea of modernity. Modernity is good, but the
eternal is better. I fear that there they do not esteem the eternal at
its just value. It is expected that the Church of Christ will
derive much strength from united Catholic action in the fields of
administration and politics, action resulting in strife, through which
the Father will suffer insult at the hands of men, while not enough
reliance is placed on the strength to be derived from the light shed
by the good deeds of each individual Christian, through which light the
Father is glorified. The supreme object of humanity is to glorify the
Father. Now men glorify the Father of such as possess the spirit of
charity, of peace, of wisdom, of purity, of fortitude, who give their
vital strength for the good of others. One such just man, who professes
and practises Catholicism, contributes more largely to the glory of the
Father, of Christ, of the Church, than many congresses, many clubs, many
Catholic victories in politics.
“A moment ago I heard some one murmur: ‘And what about the social
action?’ The social action, my friends, is certainly salutary, as a work
of justice, of fraternisation; but like the Socialists, some Catholics
put upon it the seal of their own religious and political opinions, and
refuse to admit well-intentioned men, if they do not accept that seal;
they repulse the good Samaritan, and this is an abomination in the
eyes of God. They also set the seal of Catholicism upon works which are
instruments of gain, and this again is an abomination in the eyes of
God. They preach the just distribution of riches, and that is well; but
they too often forget to preach also poverty of the heart, and if they
are deterred from doing this by mercenary motives, then this is
another abomination in the eyes of God. Purge your actions of these
abominations. Call all well-intentioned men to help, especially in works
of justice and of love, satisfied yourselves to have initiated these
labours. By your words and by your example preach poverty of the heart
to rich and poor alike.”
The audience swayed confusedly, drawn in different directions. Benedetto
covered his face with his hands, while he collected his thoughts.
“You ask me what you are to do?” he said uncovering his face.
He reflected a moment longer and then continued:
“I see, In the future, Catholic laymen striving zealously for Christ
and for truth, and finding a means of instituting unions different from
those of the present. They will one day take arms as knights of the Holy
Spirit, banding together for the united defence of God and of Christian
morality in the scientific, artistic, civil, and social fields; for the
united defence of legitimate liberty in the religious field. They
shall be under certain special obligations, not however of community of
living, or of celibacy, integrating the office of the Catholic clergy,
to which they will not belong as an Order but only as persons, in the
individual practice of Catholicism. Pray that God’s will may be made
manifest concerning this work in the souls of those who contemplate it.
Pray that these souls may willingly strip themselves of all pride
in having conceived this work, and of all hope of witnessing its
completion, should God manifest disapproval of it. If God manifest His
approval of it, then pray that men may be taught to organise its every
detail to His greater glory, and to the greater glory of the Church.
Amen!”
He had finished, but no one moved. All eyes were fixed upon him, anxious
and eager for other words to follow these last, unexpected ones, which
had sounded so mysterious and grand. Many would have liked to break
the silence, but no one ventured to do so. When Benedetto rose, and all
gathered round him in a respectful circle, the old gentleman with the
red face and the white hair rose also, and said, his voice shaking with
emotion.
“You will suffer insult and blows; you will be crowned with thorns
and given gall to drink; you will be derided by the Pharisees and the
heathen; you will not see the future you long for, but the future is
yours; the disciples of your disciples will see it!”
He embraced Benedetto and kissed him on the brow. Two or three of those
nearest him clapped their hands timidly, and then a burst of applause
swept through the room. Benedetto, greatly agitated, signed to a
fair-haired young man, who had come to the house with him, and who now
hastened to his side, his face radiant with emotion and joy. Some one
whispered:
“A disciple!”
Some one else added, softly:
“Yes, and the favourite!”
The master of the house almost prostrated himself before Benedetto,
pouring out words of deference and gratitude. Then one of the priests
ventured to come forward, and said in a tremulous voice:
“Master, have you no word of counsel for us?”
“Do not call me master!” Benedetto replied, still much agitated. “Pray
that light may be shed upon these young men, upon our shepherds, and
also upon me!”
When he had left the room, a crackle of voices arose, some resonant,
others short and hoarse, for astonishment still held these agitated
minds in check. Presently, here and there, the intense excitement burst
forth, and spread in every direction. Exclamations of admiration broke
from all lips, some praising this or that expression the speaker had
used, this or that thought he had uttered, while others remarked upon
his glance, his accent, or marvelled at the spirit of holiness which
shone in his face, and which seemed to emanate from his very hands.
Soon, however, the master of the house dismissed the guests, and though
his apologies were profuse, and his words very gracious, still his
haste was such as to be almost discourteous. As soon as he was alone he
unlocked the door, and, pushing it open, stood bowing on the threshold.
“Ladies!” said he, and threw the door wide open.
A swarm of ladies fluttered into the empty hall. A middle-aged spinster
literally flung herself towards the young man, and, clasping her hands,
exclaimed:
“Oh! how grateful we are to you! Oh! what a saint! I don’t know what
prevented us from rushing in and embracing him!”
“_Cara!_ My good creature!” said another with the quiet irony of the
Venetian, her fine large eyes sparkling. “It was probably because the
door was locked, fortunately for him!”
The ladies were twelve in number. The master of the house, Professor
Guarnacci, son of the general-agent of one of them--the Marchesa Fermi,
a Roman--had spoken to her about the meeting which was to take place
at his house, and had mentioned the discourse to be pronounced by that
strange personage about whom all Rome was already talking, knowing him
as an enthusiastic religious agitator and miracle worker, most popular
in the Testaccio district. The Marchesa was determined to hear him
without being seen. She had arranged everything with Guarnacci, and had
admitted three or four friends into the conspiracy, each in her turn
obtaining permission to introduce others. They appeared a strangely
assorted company. Many were in evening _toilettes_, two were dressed
precisely like Friends, while only one lady wore black.
The two Friends, who were foreigners, seemed quite beside themselves
with enthusiasm, and were highly incensed against the Marchesa, a
sceptical, very sarcastic old woman, who remarked calmly:
“Yes, yes, he spoke very well; but I should have liked to see his face
while he was speaking.”
Declaring she could judge men far better by their faces than by their
words, the old Marchesa reproached Guarnacci for not having made a hole
in the door, or at least left the key in the lock.
“You are too holy,” she said. “You do not understand women!”
Guarnacci laughed, apologising with all the consideration due to his
father’s employer, and assured her that Benedetto was as beautiful as an
angel. A rather insipid young woman who had come, “Goodness only knows
why!” the two Friends thought angrily, announced, in quiet tones, that
she had seen him twice, and that he was ugly.
“That is, of course, according to _your_ idea of beauty, signora!” one
of the Friends remarked sourly, while the other added in a low tone,
intended to enhance its sting, a poisonous _“Naturellement!”_
The insipid young woman, her colour deepening with embarrassment
and vexation, replied that he was pale and thin, and the two Friends
exchanged glances and smiles of tacit contempt. But where had she seen
him? Two other insipid young women were curious to know this.
“Why, on both occasions in my sister-in-law’s garden,” she answered.
“He is always in the garden!” the Marchesa exclaimed. “Does the angel
grow in a flower-bed or in a pot?”
The insipid young woman laughed, and the Friends shot furious glances at
the Marchesa.
Tea, which had been included in Guarnacci’s invitation, was then brought
in.
“A delightful conversation, is it not?” Signora Albacina, wife of the
Honourable Albacina, Undersecretary of the Home Office, said softly to
the lady in black, who had not once spoken. She now smiled sadly without
answering.
Tea was served by the Professor and his sister, and put an end to
conversation for a few moments. It soon burst forth again, however,
the topic being Benedetto’s discourse. There ensued such a confusion
of senseless remarks, of worthless opinions, of would-be wise sayings
devoid of wisdom that the lady in black proposed to Signora Albacina, in
whose company she had come, that they should take their departure. But
at that point the Marchesa Fermi, having discovered a small bell on the
mantel-shelf, began ringing it, to obtain silence. “I should like to
hear about this garden,” she said.
The Friends and the middle-aged spinster, engaged in a warm discussion
of Benedetto’s Catholic orthodoxy, would not have left off for ten
bells, had not the spinster’s curiosity been roused by the word
“garden.” It now burst forth unchecked! Garden indeed! The Professor
must tell them all he knew about this Father Hecker, who was an
Italian and a layman. Partly to display her knowledge, partly from
thoughtlessness, she had already bestowed this title upon Benedetto.
The insipid young woman consulted her watch. Her carriage must be at the
door. Little Signorina Guarnacci said there were already four or five
carriages at the door. The insipid young woman was anxious to reach the
Valle in time for the third act of the comedy, and two other ladies, who
had engagements, left at the same time. The Marchesa Fermi remained.
“Make haste, Professor,” she said, “for my daughter is expecting me this
evening, with those other ladies whose shoulders are on view!”
“Do make haste, then!” said the middle-aged spinster, contemptuously.
“Afterwards you can speak for the benefit of the poor creatures who do
not show their shoulders!”
A fair-haired, extremely handsome foreigner, in a very low gown, cast a
withering glance at the poor, lean, carefully covered little shoulders
of the contemptuous spinster, who, greatly vexed, grew as red as a
lobster.
“Well, then,” the Professor began, “as the Marchesa, and probably the
other ladies who are in such a hurry, already know as much as I do
myself about the Saint of Jenne, before he left Jenne, I will omit
that part of the story. A month ago, then, in October, I did not
even remember having read in the papers, in June or July, about this
Benedetto, who was preaching and performing miracles at Jenne. Well, one
day, coming out of San Marcello, I met a certain Porretti, who used to
write for the _Osservatore_, but does so no longer. This Porretti walked
on with me, and we spoke of the condemnation of Giovanni Selva’s works
which is expected from day to day, and which--by the way--has not yet
been pronounced. Porretti told me there was a friend of Selva’s in Rome
at present who would be even more talked of than Selva himself. ‘Who is
he?’ I inquired. ‘The Saint of Jenne,’ he replied, and proceeded to
tell me the following story. Two priests, well known in Rome as terrible
Pharisees, caused this man to be driven away from Jenne. He retired to
Subiaco, stayed with the Selvas, who were spending the summer there, and
fell seriously ill. Upon his recovery he came to Rome--about the middle
of July. Professor Mayda, another friend of Selva’s, engaged him
as under-gardener at the villa which he built two years ago on the
Aventine, below Sant’ Anselmo. The new under-gardener, who wished to be
called simply Benedetto, as at Jenne, soon became popular in the whole
Testaccio quarter. He distributes his bread among the poor, comforts the
sick, and, it seems, has really healed one or two by the laying on of
hands and by prayer. He has, in fact, become so popular that Professor
Mayda’s daughter-in-law, notwithstanding her faith and piety, would
gladly dismiss him, on account of the annoyance his many visitors cause.
But her father-in-law treats him with the greatest consideration. If he
allows him to rake the paths and water the flowers, it is only because
he respects his saintly ideals, and he limits the hours of work, making
them as short as possible. He wishes to leave him perfectly free to
fulfil his religious mission. Mayda himself often goes into the garden
to talk of religion with his under-gardener. To please him Benedetto has
abandoned the diet he observed at Jenne, where he ate nothing but bread
and herbs, and drank only water; he now eats meat and drinks wine.
To please Benedetto, the Professor distributes these things in large
quantities among the sick of the district. Many people laugh at
Benedetto and insult him, but the populace venerates him as did the
people of Jenne in the beginning. His deeds of charity to the soul are
even greater than his deeds of charity to the body. He has freed certain
families from moral disorders, and for this his life was threatened by
a woman of evil repute; he has persuaded some to go to church who, since
their childhood, have never set foot inside a church. The Benedictines
of Sant’ Anselmo are well aware of these things. Then, two or three
times a week, in the evening, he speaks in the Catacombs.”
The middle-aged spinister gasped!
“In the Catacombs?”
She leaned, shuddering, towards the speaker, while one of the Friends
murmured: “_Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu_!” and another voice, laden with reverent
surprise, said:
“How terrifying!”
“Well,” the young man continued, smiling, “Porretti said ‘in the
Catacombs,’ but he meant in a secret place, known to few. At present I
myself know its whereabouts.”
“Ah!” ejaculated the spinister. “You know? Where is it?”
Guarnacci did not answer, and, perceiving her indiscretion, she added
hastily.
“I beg your pardon! I beg your pardon!”
“We shall find out, we shall find out!” said the Marchesa. “But tell me,
my dear boy, is not this saint of yours, who preaches in secret, a kind
of heresiarch? What do the priests say to him?”
“To-night you might have seen three or four here who went away perfectly
satisfied.”
“They must be very unpriestly priests, badly baked priests, counterfeit
priests. But what do the others say? Mark my words, sooner or later, the
others will apply the _torcibudella_, the ‘entrail twister,’ to him.”
With this pleasing prophecy the Marchesa departed, followed by all the
bare shoulders.
The middle-aged spinister and the Friends, glad to be rid of that
contemptible, mundane bevy, assailed the Professor with questions. Must
he really not tell where the modern Catacombs were? How many people met
there? Women also? What were the subjects of his discourses? What did
the monks of Sant’ Anselmo say? And was anything known concerning this
man’s previous career? The Professor parried the questions as best he
might, and simply repeated to them the words of one of the fathers at
Sant’ Anselmo: “If there were a Benedetto for every parish in Rome,
Rome would indeed become the Holy City.” But when--all the others having
left--he found himself alone with Signora Albacina and the silent lady,
who were waiting for their carriage, he intimated to the former--to whom
he was bound by ties of friendship--that he would willingly tell more,
but that he was embarrassed by the presence of a stranger, and he begged
to be presented to her. Signora Albacina had forgotten to perform this
ceremony. “Professor Guarnacci,” said she, “Signora Dessalle, a dear
friend of mine.”
The “Catacombs” meant the very hall they were in at the present moment.
At first the meetings had been held at the Selvas’ apartment, in Via
Arenula. There were several reasons why that place had not seemed quite
suitable. Guarnacci, becoming a disciple, had offered his own house.
The meetings were held there twice a week. Among those who attended them
were the Selvas, Signora Selva’s sister, a few priests, the Venetian
lady who had just left, some young men--among these he might mention a
certain Alberti, a favourite with the Master, who this evening had come
and gone with him, and a Jew, whose name was Viterbo, and who was soon
to become a Catholic; of him the Master expected great things. Besides
these a journeyman printer, several artists, and even two members of
Parliament came regularly. The object of these meetings was to acquaint
such as are drawn to Christ, but who shrink from Catholicism, with
what Catholicism really is, the vital and indestructible essence of
the Catholic religion, and to show the purely human character of those
different forms, which are what render it repugnant to many, but which
are changeable, are changing, and will continue to change, through the
elaboration of the inner, divine element, combined with the external
influences, the influences of science and of the public conscience.
Benedetto was very particular about granting admission to the meetings,
for no one was more skilled than he in the delicate task of dealing with
souls, respecting their purity, bringing himself down to the small ones,
soaring with the high ones, and using with timid souls that careful
language which instructs without troubling.
“The Marchesa,” continued the Professor, “says he must be an heresiarch,
and the priests who follow him heretics. No, With Benedetto there is no
danger of heresies or schisms. At the very last meeting he demonstrated
that schisms and heresies, besides being blameworthy in themselves, are
fatal to the Church, not only because they deprive her of souls, but
because they deprive her of elements of progress as well; for if the
innovators remained subject to the Church, their errors would perish,
and that element of truth, that element of goodness, which--in a certain
measure--is nearly always united to error would become vital in the body
of the Church.”
Signora Albacina observed that all this was very beautiful, and if that
was how matters really stood, certainly the Marchesa’s prophecy would
not be fulfilled.
“The prophecy about the _tordbudella_, the ‘entrail twister?’ Ah no!”
said the Professor, laughing. “Such things are not done now, and I do
not believe they ever were done. It is all calumny! Only the Marchesa
and certain others like her in Rome believe these things. A Roman
priest, a _priest_, you understand, dared to warn Benedetto, to advise
him to be cautious. But Benedetto let him see he must not speak to him
of caution again. Therefore it will not be the _torcibudella_--no--but
persecution it will be! Yes, indeed!--Those two Roman priests who were
at Jenne have not been asleep. I did not wish to say so before, because
the Marchesa is not the person to tell such things to, but there is
much trouble brewing. Benedetto’s every step has been watched; Professor
Mayda’s daughter-in-law has been made use of, through the confessional,
to obtain information concerning his language, and they have found out
about the meetings. The presence of Selva is enough to give them the
character these people abhor, and as they are powerless against a
layman, it seems they are trying to obtain the help of the civil law
against Benedetto; they are appealing to the police and to the judges.
You are surprised? But it is so. As yet nothing has been decided,
nothing has been done, but they are plotting. We were informed of this
by a foreign ecclesiastic, who chattered foolishly on a former occasion;
but this time he has chattered to good purpose. Materials for a penal
action are being prepared and invented.”
The silent lady shuddered, and opened her lips at last.
“How can that be possible?” she said.
“My dear lady,” said the Professor, “you little know of what some of
these _intransigenti_, these non-concessionists in priestly robes, are
capable. The secular non-concessionists are lambs compared to them. They
are going to make use of an unfortunate accident which took place at
Jenne. Now, however, we are greatly encouraged by a fresh incident, of
which it would not be wise to speak to many, without discriminating, but
which is most important.”
The Professor paused a moment, enjoying the lively curiosity he had
awakened, and which, though they did not speak, shone in the eager eyes
of the two ladies.
“The other day,” he continued, “Cardinal----‘s secretary, a young German
priest, went to Sant’ Anselmo to confer with the monks. In consequence
of this visit Benedetto was summoned to Sant’ Anselmo, where the
Benedictines hold him in great affection and esteem. He was asked if he
did not intend to pay homage to His Holiness, and beg for an audience.
He replied that he had come to Rome with this desire in his heart; that
he had waited for a sign from Divine Providence, and that now the sign
had come. Then he was informed that His Holiness would certainly receive
him most willingly, and he asked for an audience. This was disclosed to
Giovanni Selva by a German Benedictine.”
“And when is he to go?” Signora Albacina asked.
“The day after to-morrow in the evening.”
The Professor added that the Vatican was maintaining the strictest
secrecy in regard to this matter, that Benedetto had been forbidden to
mention it to any one, and that nothing would have transpired had it not
been for the German monk’s indiscretion. Benedetto’s friends hoped much
good would come of this visit. Signora Albacina asked what Benedetto
intended to say to the Pontiff. The Professor smiled. Benedetto had not
taken any one into his confidence, and no one had ventured to question
him. The Professor fancied he would speak in favour of Selva, would beg
that his books might not be placed on the Index.
“That would be very little,” said Signora Albacina in a low tone.
Jeanne uttered a low murmur of assent.
“Very little indeed!” she exclaimed, almost as if the Professor were to
blame. He appeared much surprised at this sudden outburst, after such a
long silence. He apologised, saying he had not intended to assert that
Benedetto would not speak to the Pope of other matters. He had simply
meant to say that he believed he would certainly mention that subject.
Signora Albacina could not understand this desire of the Pope’s to see
Benedetto. How did his friends explain it? What did Selva think about
it? Ah! no one could explain it, neither Selva nor any one else.
“I can explain it!” said Jeanne eagerly, pleased to be able to
understand what puzzled all others. “Was not the Pope once Bishop of
Brescia?”
Guarnacci’s smile was half admiring, half ironical, as he answered. Ah!
the Signora was well informed concerning Benedetto’s past. The Signora
knew certain things to be facts, things which were whispered in Rome,
but which nevertheless, were doubted by many. Of one fact, however, she
was ignorant. The Pope had never been Bishop of Brescia. He had occupied
two episcopal chairs in the south. Jeanne did not answer; she was vexed
with herself, and mortified at having so nearly betrayed her secret.
Signora Albacina wished to know what opinion Benedetto had of the Pope.
“Oh, in the Pope he sees and venerates the office alone,” said the
Professor. “At least, I believe so. I have never heard him speak of the
man, but I have heard him speak of the office. He made it the subject
of a magnificent discourse one evening, comparing Catholicism and
Protestantism, and exposing his ideal of the government of the Church:
a principality and just liberty. As to the new Pope, little is known of
him as yet. He is said to be saintly, intelligent, sickly, and weak.”
While accompanying the ladies down the dark stairs to their carriage,
the Professor remarked:
“What is greatly feared is that Benedetto will not live. Mayda at least
fears this.”
Signora Albacina, who was descending the stairs leaning on the
Professor’s arm, exclaimed, without pausing:
“Oh! poor fellow! What is the matter with him?” “_Ma_! Who can say?”
the Professor replied. “Some incurable disease, it would seem, the
consequence of typhoid fever, which he had at Subiaco, but above all, of
the life of hardship he led, a life of penance and fasting.”
And they continued their long descent in silence.
It was only on reaching the foot of the stairs that they perceived their
companion had remained behind. The Professor hastily retraced his
steps, and found Jeanne standing on the second landing, clinging to
the banisters. At first she neither spoke nor moved; but presently she
murmured:
“I cannot see!”
Guarnacci, not knowing, did not notice that moment of silence, or the
low and uncertain tone of her voice. He offered her his arm, and led her
down, apologising for the darkness, and explaining that the proprietor’s
avarice was to blame for it. Jeanne entered Signora Albacina’s carriage,
which was to take her to the Grand Hôtel. On the way Signora Albacina
spoke with regret of what Guarnacci had just told her. Jeanne did not
open her lips. Her silence troubled her friend.
“Were you not pleased with the discourse?” she said. She was in complete
ignorance of Jeanne’s religious opinions.
“Yes,” her companion answered. “Why?”
“Oh, nothing! I thought you seemed dissatisfied. Then you are not sorry
you came?”
Signora Albacina was greatly astonished when Jeanne seized her hand and
replied: “I am so grateful to you!”
The voice was low and quiet, the pressure of the hand almost violent.
“Indeed! indeed!” thought Signora Albacina. “This is one of the future
‘Ladies of the Holy Spirit’!”
“For my part,” she said aloud, “I am sure I shall keep to my old
religion, the religion of the non-concessionists. They may be Pharisees
or anything else you like, but I fear that if this old religion is
subjected to so much retouching and restoring, it will tumble down, and
nothing will be left standing. Besides, if we followed these Benedettos,
too many things would have to be changed. No, no! However, the man
interests me extremely. Now we must try to see him. We must see him!
Especially as he seems doomed to speedy death. Don’t you think so? How
can we manage it? Let us think!”
“I have no wish to see him,” Jeanne said hastily.
“Really?” her friend exclaimed. “But how is that? Explain this riddle!”
“It is quite simple. I have no desire to see him.”
“Curious!” thought Signora Albacina. The carriage drew up before the
entrance to the Grand Hôtel.
In the hall Jeanne met Noemi and her brother-in-law, who were coming
out. “At last!” said Noemi. “Run, make haste, Your brother is furious
with this Jeanne, who stays away so long! We have just left him, because
the doctor has arrived.”
The Dessalles had been in Rome a fortnight. Cold, damp weather at the
beginning of October, a projected essay on Bernini, which had succeeded
the projected novel, had persuaded Carlino to satisfy Signora Albacina
sooner than he had intended, by leaving Villa Diedo before winter set in
for the milder climate of Rome. This to the great joy of his sister. Two
or three days after his arrival he had a slight attack of bronchitis.
He declared he was in consumption, shut himself up in his room, with the
intention of remaining there all winter, wished to see the doctor twice
a day, and tyrannised over Jeanne with merciless egotism, even numbering
her moments of freedom. She made herself his slave; she seemed to
delight in this unreasonable extra burden, of sacrifice which overflowed
the measure of her sisterly affection. In her heart she offered it, with
sweet eagerness, to Benedetto. She often saw the Selvas and Noemi;
not at their home, but at the Grand Hôtel. The Selvas themselves were
captivated by the fascination of this woman, so superior, so beautiful,
so gentle and sad. All she had heard from Guarnacci concerning Benedetto
she had already heard from Noemi. But she had not been aware of
Professor Mayda’s sad opinion. Partly from kindness, but partly also
that her own emotion might not be revealed, Noemi had hidden it from
her,
* * * * *
Carlino received her unkindly. The doctor, who had found his pulse
rather frequent, concluded at once that it was an angry pulse. He jested
a few minutes about the serious nature of the illness, and then took his
departure. Carlino inquired roughly where Jeanne had been, so long,
and she did not hesitate to tell him. She did not, however, mention
Benedetto’s real name.
“Were you not ashamed,” said he, “to be eavesdropping like that?”
Without giving her time to answer, he began protesting against the new
tendencies he had discovered in her.
“Tomorrow you will be going to confession, and the day after you will be
reciting the rosary!”
Underneath his usually tolerant and courteous language, and the liking
he displayed for not a few priests, lurked a real anti-religious mania.
The idea that his sister might, some day, draw near to the priests, to
faith, to acts of piety, nearly drove him out of his senses.
Jeanne did not answer, but meekly asked if she should read to him, as
she was in the habit of doing in the evening. Carlino declared shortly
that he did not wish to be read to, and, pretending to feel draughts,
kept her for at least a quarter of an hour, inspecting the doors, the
windows, the walls, and the floor itself, with a lighted candle in her
hand. Then he sent her to bed.
But when Jeanne reached her own room she thought neither of sleeping nor
of undressing. She put out the light, and sat down on the bed.
Carriages rumbled in the street, steps sounded, and women’s dresses
rustled in the corridor; sitting motionless there in the dark she did
not hear. She had put out the light that she might think, that she might
see only her own thoughts, only that idea which had taken possession
of her while coming down-stairs at Casa Guarnacci leaning on the
Professor’s arm, after she had heard those terrible words: “We fear he
will not live!” and had almost lost consciousness. In the carriage with
Signora Albacina, in the room with her brother, even while obliged
to talk with one or the other, to pay attention to so many different
things, this idea, this proposal, which the burning heart was making to
the will, had been continually flashing within her. Now it flashed no
longer. Jeanne contemplated it lying quiet within her. In that
figure sitting motionless on the bed, in the darkness, two souls were
confronting each other in silence. A humble Jeanne, passionate, sure of
being able to sacrifice all to love, was measuring her strength against
a Jeanne unconsciously haughty, and sure of possessing a hard and cold
truth. The rumbling of the carriages was dying out in the street; the
steps and the rustlings were less frequent in the corridor. Suddenly the
two Jeannes seemed to mingle once more and become one, who thought:
“When they announce his death to me, I shall be able to say to myself:
At least, you did that!”
She rose, turned on the light, seated herself at the writing-table,
chose a sheet of paper, and wrote:
“To Piero Maironi, the night of October 29,----
“I believe.
“JEANNE DESSALLE.”
When she had written, she gazed a long, long time at the solemn words.
The longer she gazed, the farther the two Jeannes seemed to draw apart.
The unconsciously proud Jeanne overpowered and crushed the other almost
without a struggle. Filled with a mortal bitterness, she tore the sheet,
stained with the word it was impossible to maintain, impossible even
to write honestly. The light once more extinguished, she accused the
Almighty--if, indeed, He existed--of cruelty, and wept in this darkness
of her own making, wept unrestrainedly.
The clock of St. Peter’s struck eight. Benedetto left a little group of
people at the corner of Via di Porta Angelica, and turned, alone, into
Bernini’s colonnade, his steps directed towards the bronze portal. He
paused to listen to the roar of the fountains, to gaze at the clustered
lights of the four candelabra round the obelisk, and--tremulous, opaque
against the moon’s face--the mighty jet of the fountain on the left. In
five minutes, or, perhaps, in fifteen minutes, he would find himself in
the presence of the Pope. His mind was concentrated on this culminating
point, and vibrated there as did the sparkling, ever-rising water at the
apex of the mighty jet. The square was empty. No one would see him enter
the Vatican save that spectral diadem of saints standing rigid over
there on the summit of the opposite colonnade. The saints and the
fountains were saying to him with one voice, that he believed he was
passing through a solemn hour, but that this atom of time, he himself
and the Pontiff, would soon pass away, would be lost for ever in the
kingdom of forgetfulness, while the fountains continued their monotonous
lament, and the saints their silent contemplation. But he, on the
contrary, felt that the word of truth is the word of eternal life, and,
concentrating his thoughts once more within himself, he closed his eyes
and prayed with intense fervour, as for two days he had prayed that the
Spirit might awaken this word in his breast, might bring it to his lips
when he should stand before the Pope.
He had expected some one between eight o’clock and a quarter past. The
quarter had already struck, and no one had appeared. He turned and gazed
at the bronze portal. Only one wing of it was open, and he could see
lights beyond. From time to time small groups of dwarfish figures passed
into it, as tiny, heedless moths might fly into the yawning jaws of a
lion. At last a priest approached the portal from within and beckoned.
Benedetto drew near. The priest said:
“You have come about Sant’ Anselmo?”
That was the question which had been agreed upon. When Benedetto had
assented, the priest signed to him to enter.
“Please come this way,” said he.
Benedetto followed him. They passed between the pontifical guards, who
gave the priest the military salute. Turning to the right they mounted
the Scala Pia. At the entrance to the courtyard of San Damaso there were
other guards, other salutes, and an order given by the priest in a low
tone; Benedetto did not hear it. They crossed the courtyard, leaving
the entrance to the library on their left and on their right the door
by which the Pope’s apartments are reached. High above them the glass of
the Logge shone in the moonlight. Benedetto, recalling an audience the
late Pontiff had granted him, was astonished at being conducted by this
strange way. Having crossed the courtyard in a straight line, the priest
entered the narrow passage leading to the small stairway called “dei
Mosaici,” and stopped before the door opening on the right, where the
stairway called “del Triangolo” descends. “Are you acquainted with the
Vatican?” he inquired.
“I am acquainted with the Museums and the Logge,” Benedetto replied.
“The predecessor of the present Pontiff once received me in his private
apartment; but I am not acquainted with any other parts.”
“You have never been here?”
“Never.”
The priest preceded him up the stair, which was dimly illuminated
by small electric lights. Suddenly, where the first flight reaches a
landing, the lights went out. Benedetto, pausing with one foot on the
landing, heard his guide run rapidly up some stairs on the right. Then
all was silence. He supposed the light had gone out by accident, and
that the priest had gone to turn it on again. He waited. No light, no
footfall, no voice. He stepped on to the landing; stretching out his
hands in the darkness, he touched a wall on the left; he went forward
towards the right, feeling his way. By touching them with his foot he
became aware of two flights of stairs which branched from the landing.
He waited again, never doubting the priest would return.
Five minutes, ten minutes passed and the priest did not come. What could
have happened. Had they wished to deceive him, to make sport of him? But
why? Benedetto would not allow himself to dwell upon a suspicion about
which it was useless to speculate. He reflected rather upon what it was
best to do. It did not seem reasonable to wait any longer. Had he better
turn back? Had he better go up still higher? In that case, which stair
should he choose? He looked into himself, questioning the Ever-Present
One.
No, he would not turn back. The idea was displeasing to him. He
started up one of the flights, without choosing--the one leading to
the servants’ rooms. It was short; presently Benedetto found himself on
another landing. Now, he had heard the priest run up many stairs rapidly
and without stopping, and the noise of his steps had been lost far, far
above. He came down again, and tried the other flight. It was longer.
The priest must have mounted this one. He decided to follow the priest.
On reaching the top he passed through a low door, and found himself upon
the Loggia, illumined by the moon. He looked about him. Near at hand,
on the right, a gateway divided this Loggia from another one, the two
meeting there and forming a right angle. Far away, on the left, the
Loggia terminated at a closed door. The full moon shone through the
great, glazed spaces, upon the pavement; showed the sides of the
courtyard of San Damaso: and in the background, between the two enormous
black wings of the Palace, humble roofs, the trees of Villa Cesi and the
lights of Sant’ Onofrio were visible. Both the door on the left, and the
gateway on the right appeared to be closed. Again and again Benedetto
looked from right to left. Little by little he began to recall former
impressions. Yes, he had been in that Loggia before, he had seen that
gateway when on his way to visit the Gallery of Inscriptions--the Via
Appia of the Vatican--with an acquaintance of his, a reader in the
“Vaticana.” Yes, now he remembered quite well. The door on the left
at the end of the Loggia, must lead to the apartments of the Cardinal
Secretary of State. The Loggia beyond the gateway was that of Giovanni
da Udine; the great barred windows opening on to it were the windows of
the Borgia apartment, and the entrance to the Gallery of Inscriptions
must be precisely in the angle. On that former occasion a Swiss guard
had stood by the gate. Now there was no one there. The place was quite
deserted; on the right and on the left silence reigned.
To try the door of the Cardinal Secretary of State’s apartment was not
to be thought of. Benedetto pushed the gate. It was open. He paused,
finding himself before the entrance to the Gallery of Inscriptions.
Again he listened. Profound silence. An inward voice seemed to say to
him: “Mount the steps. Enter!” Fearlessly he mounted the five steps.
The Via Appia of the Vatican, as broad, perhaps, as the ancient way,
contained not a single lamp. At regular intervals pale streaks of light
lay across the pavement, falling through the windows, which, from among
the tombstones, the cippi, and the pagan sarcophagi, look down upon
Rome. No light fell through the windows of the Christian wall, which
overlook the courtyard of the Belvedere. The distant end of the Gallery,
towards the Chiaramonti Museum, was shrouded in complete darkness.
Then, realising that he was in the very heart of the immense Vatican,
Benedetto was seized with a terror mingled with awe. He approached
a great window, from whence he could see Castel Sant’ Angelo and the
innumerable tiny lights dotted over the lower city, while higher up, and
more brilliant, those of the Quirinal shone against the horizon. Not
the sight of illumined Rome, but the sight of a low and narrow bench,
running along below the cippi and the sarcophagi, calmed his spirit.
Then, in the dim light, he distinguished a canopy, which was already
half demolished. What could it mean? Along the opposite wall ran a
second bench, exactly like the first. Proceeding, he stumbled against
something which proved to be a large armchair. Now terror had given
place to a fixed purpose. The imperious, inward voice, which had already
commanded him to enter, said to him, “Go forward!” The voice was so
clear, so loud, that a sudden flash illumined his memory.
He smote his forehead. In the Vision he had seen himself in conversation
with the Pope. This he had never been able to forget. But he had
forgotten--and now the memory of it had flashed back to him--that a
spirit had led him through the Vatican to the Pope. He moved along the
left-hand wall, near which he had stumbled against the great chair. He
was convinced that at the end of the Gallery he should find an exit, and
light at last. He did remember that, at the end, was the gateway leading
to the Chiaramonti Museum. He went on, often pressing his hand against
the wall, against the tombstones. Suddenly he became aware that what he
was touching was neither marble nor stone. Gently, he beat upon the wall
with his fist. It was wood--a door! Involuntarily he stopped and waited.
He heard a step behind the door; a key turned in the lock; a blade of
light slanted across the Gallery and broadened; a black figure appeared;
the priest who had abandoned Benedetto on the stairs! He came out,
moving rapidly, closed the door behind him, and said to Benedetto, as if
nothing strange had taken place:
“You are about to find yourself in the presence of His Holiness.”
He signed to Benedetto to enter, and again closed the door, he himself
remaining outside.
On entering, Benedetto could distinguish only a small table, a little
lamp with a green shade, and a white figure seated behind the table,
and, facing him. He sank upon his knees.
The white figure stretched out its arm, and said: “Rise. How did you
come?”
The singularly sweet face, framed in grey hair, wore an expression of
astonishment. The voice, with its southern ring, betrayed emotion:
Benedetto rose, and answered:
“From the bronze portal as far as a spot which I cannot locate, I was
accompanied by the priest who was here with Your Holiness; from thence I
came alone.”
“Were you familiar with the Vatican? Did they tell you, you would find
me here?”
When Benedetto had answered that, years ago, he had paid a single
visit to the museums of the Vatican, the Logge, and the Gallery of
Inscriptions; that on that occasion he had not reached the Logge from
the courtyard of San Damaso; that he had had no idea where he should
find the Sovereign Pontiff, the Pope was silent for a moment; absorbed
in thought. Presently he said, tenderly, affectionately, pointing to a
chair opposite him:
“Be seated, my son.”
Had Benedetto not been absorbed in contemplation of the Pope’s ascetic
and gentle face, he would have looked about him not without surprise,
while his august interlocutor was engaged in gathering together some
papers which were scattered upon the little table. This was indeed a
strange reception-room, a dusty chaos of old pictures, old books, old
furniture. One would have pronounced it the ante-room of some library,
of some museum, which was being rearranged. But he was lost in
contemplation of the Pope’s face, that thin, waxen face, which wore an
ineffable expression of purity and of kindliness. He drew nearer, bent
his knee, and kissed the hand which the Holy Father extended to him,
saying, with sweet dignity:
“_Non mihi, sed Petro._”
Then Benedetto sat down. The Pope passed him a sheet of paper, and
pushed the little lamp nearer to him.
“Look,” said he. “Do you know that writing?”
Benedetto looked and shuddered, and could not check an exclamation of
reverent sorrow.
“Yes,” he replied. “It is the writing of a holy priest, whom I dearly
loved, who is dead, and whose name was Don Giuseppe Flores.”
His Holiness continued:
“Now read. Read aloud.”
Benedetto read:
“Monsignore,--
“I entrust to my Bishop the sealed packet enclosed, with this note,
in an envelope bearing your address. It was left with me, to be opened
after his death, by Signor Piero Maironi, who was well known to you
before his disappearance from the world. I know not if he be still
alive or if he no longer be among the living, and I have no means of
ascertaining. I believe the packet contains an account of a vision of a
supernatural nature which visited Maironi when he returned to God out of
the fire of a sinful passion. I hoped at that time that the Almighty had
chosen him as the instrument of some special work of His own. I hoped
that the holiness of the work would be confirmed, after Maironi’s death,
by the perusal of this document, which might come to be looked upon in
the light of a prophecy. I hoped this, although I was at great pains to
prudently hide my secret hopes from Maironi.
“Two years have elapsed since the day of his disappearance, and nothing
has since been heard of him. Monsignore, when you read these words, I
also shall have disappeared. I beg you to take my place in this pious
stewardship. You will act as your conscience may dictate, as you may
deem best.
“And pray for the soul of
Your poor
DON GIUSEPPE FLORES.”
Benedetto laid the paper down, and gazed into the Pontiff’s face,
waiting.
“Are you Piero Maironi?” he said.
“Yes, your Holiness.”
The Pontiff smiled pleasantly.
“First of all, I am glad you are alive,” he said. “That Bishop believed
you were dead; he opened the packet, and deemed it his duty to entrust
it to the Vicar of Christ. This happened about six months ago, while
my saintly predecessor was still living. He mentioned it to several
cardinals and to me also. Then it was discovered that you were still
alive, and we knew where you lived and how. Now I must ask you a few
questions, and I exhort you to answer with perfect truth.”
The Pontiff looked with serious eyes into Benedetto’s eyes; Benedetto
bowed his head slightly. “You have written here,” the Pontiff began,
“that when you were in that little church in the Veneto, you had a
vision of yourself in the Vatican, conversing with the Pope. What can
you recall concerning that part of your vision?”
“My vision,” Benedetto answered, “grew more and more indistinct in
my memory during the time I spent at Santa Scolastica--about three
years--partly because my spiritual director there, as well as poor Don
Giuseppe Flores, always counselled me not to dwell upon it. Certain
parts remained clear to me, others became indistinct. The fact that I
had seen myself in the Vatican, face to face with the Sovereign Pontiff,
remained fixed in my mind; but only the bare fact. A few moments ago,
however, there in the dark gallery from whence I entered this room, I
suddenly remembered that in the vision I was guided to the Pontiff by a
spirit. I recalled this when I found myself alone in the night, in the
darkness, in a place unknown to me, or practically unknown, for I had
been there only once, many years before, when, having no idea what
direction to take, I was about to retrace my steps, and an inward voice,
very clear, very loud, commanded me to press forward.”
“And when you knocked at the door,” the Pope inquired, “did you know you
would find me here? Did you know you were knocking at the door of the
library?”
“No, Your Holiness. I did not even intend to knock. I was in the dark; I
could see nothing, I was simply touching, the wall with my hand.”
The Pope was silent for some time, lost in thought; then he remarked
that the manuscript contained the words: “At first a man dressed in
black guided me.” Benedetto did not remember this.
“You know,” the Pope continued, “that prophecy alone is not sufficient
proof of saintliness. You know there are such things (such cases have
been met with) as prophetic visions which were the work of-well, perhaps
not of malign spirits, we know too little of these matters to assert
that--but of occult powers, of powers innate in human nature, or of
powers superior to human nature, but which most certainly have nothing
to do with holiness. Can you describe to me the state of your soul when
you had the vision?”
“I was feeling most bitter sorrow at having drawn away from God, at
having been deaf to His calls, an infinite gratitude for His patient
kindness, and an infinite desire of Christ. In my mind I had just seen,
really seen, shining clear and white against a dark background, those
words of the Gospel, which long ago, in the time of goodness had been
so dear to me: _‘Magister adest et vocat te.’_ Don Giuseppe Flores was
officiating, and Mass was nearly over, when, as I prayed, my face buried
in my hands, the vision came to me. It was instantaneous; like a flash!”
Benedetto’s chest heaved, so violent was this revulsion of memory.
“It may have been a delusion,” he said; “but it was not the work of
malign spirits.”
“The evil spirits,” the Pontiff said, “do sometimes masquerade as angels
of light. Perhaps, at that time, they were striving against the spirit
of goodness which was within you. Did you take pride in this vision,
later on?”
Benedetto bowed his head, and reflected for some time.
“Perhaps--on one occasion,” said he, “for one moment, at Santa
Scolastica, when my master, in the Abbot’s name, offered me the habit of
a lay-brother, that habit which was afterwards taken from me at Jenne.
Then I thought for a moment that this unexpected offer confirmed the
last part of my vision, and I felt a wave of satisfaction, deeming
myself the object of divine favour. I immediately entreated God to
pardon me, as I now entreat Your Holiness to pardon me.”
The Pontiff did not speak, but he raised his hand with wide-spread
fingers, and lowered it again, in an act of absolution.
Then he began to examine the different papers lying on the little table,
seeming to consult more than one attentively, as he turned them over.
He laid them down, arranged them in a packet, which he pushed aside, and
once more broke the silence:
“My son,” he said, “I must ask you other questions. You have mentioned
Jenne. I was not even aware of the existence of this Jenne. It has been
described to me. To tell the truth, I cannot understand why you ever
went to Jenne.”
Benedetto smiled quietly, but did not attempt to justify himself, not
wishing to interrupt the Pope, who continued:
“It was an unfortunate idea, for who can say what is really going on at
Jenne? Do you know there are those up there, who look on you with little
favour?”
In reply Benedetto only prayed His Holiness not to oblige him to answer.
“I understand,” the Pope said, “and, I must confess, your prayer is most
Christian. You need not speak; but I cannot hide the fact that you have
been accused of many things. Are you aware of this?”
Benedetto was aware of, or rather suspected, one accusation only. The
Pope seemed the more embarrassed. He himself was calm.
“You are accused of having pretended at Jenne to be a miracle-worker,
and by this boasting of yours, to have caused the death in your own
house of an unfortunate man. They even assert that he died of certain
drinks you gave him. You are accused of having preached to the people
more as a Protestant than as a Catholic, and also----”
The Holy Father hesitated. His virginal purity recoiled from alluding to
certain things.
“Of having been over-intimate with the village schoolmistress. What can
you answer, my son?”
“Holy Father,” Benedetto said calmly, “the Spirit is answering for me in
your heart.”
The Pontiff fixed his eyes on him, in great astonishment; but he was not
only astonished, he was also much troubled; for it was as if Benedetto
had read in his soul. A slight flush coloured his face.
“Explain your meaning,” he said.
“God has allowed me to read in your heart that you do not believe any of
these accusations.”
At these words of Benedetto’s, the Pope knit his brows slightly.
“Now Your Holiness is thinking that I arrogate to myself a miraculous
clairvoyance. No. It I is something which I see in your face, which I
hear in your voice; poor, common, man that I am!”
“Perhaps you know who has recently visited me?” the Pope exclaimed.
He had summoned to Rome the parish priest of Jenne, and had questioned
him concerning Benedetto. The priest, finding a Pope to his liking, a
Pope who differed vastly from those two zealots who had intimidated him
at Jenne, had seized the opportunity of thus easily making his peace
with his own conscience, and had shown his remorse by praising and
re-praising. Benedetto knew naught of this.
“No,” he answered, “I do not know.”
The Pontiff was silent; but his face, his hands, his whole person
betrayed lively anxiety. Presently he leaned back in his great chair,
let his head sink upon his breast, stretched out his arms, and rested
his hands, side by side, on the little table. He was reflecting.
While he reflected, sitting motionless there, his eyes staring into
space, the flame of the tiny petroleum lamp rose, red and smoky, in the
tube. He did not notice it at once. When he did, he regulated it, and
then broke the silence.
“Do you believe,” said he, “that you really have a mission?”
Benedetto answered with, an expression of humble fervour.
“Yes, I do believe it.”
“And why do you believe it?”
“Holy Father, because every one comes into the world with a mission
written in his nature. Had I never had this vision, or received other
extraordinary signs, my nature, which is eminently religious, would
still have made religious action incumbent upon me. How can I say it?
But I will say it”--here Benedetto’s voice trembled with emotion--“as I
have said it to no one else, I believe, I know that God is the Father of
us all; but I feel His paternity in my nature. Mine is hardly a sense of
duty, it is a sense of sonship.”
“And do you believe it is your duty to exercise the religious action
here and now?”
Benedetto clasped his hands, as if already imploring attention.
“Yes,” said he, “here also, and now.”
When he had spoken he fell upon his knees, his hands still clasped.
“Rise,” said the Holy Father. “Utter freely what the Spirit shall
dictate.”
Benedetto did not rise.
“Forgive me,” he said, “my message is to the Pontiff alone, and here I
am not heard by the Pontiff only.”
The Pope started, and gave him a questioning glance, full of severity.
Benedetto, looking towards a door behind the Pope, raised his eyebrows,
and slightly lifted his chin.
His Holiness seized a silver bell which stood on the table, commanded
Benedetto by a gesture to rise, and then rang the bell. The same priest
as before appeared at the door of the Gallery. The Pope ordered him to
summon Don Teofilo to the Gallery; Don Teofilo was the faithful valet
whom he had brought with him from his archbishopric in the South. Upon
his arrival the priest himself was to await His Holiness in the halls
of the Library. “You will pass through this room, on your way back,” he
said.
Several minutes elapsed. They awaited the priest’s return in silence.
The Pontiff, lost in thought, never raised his eyes from the little
table. Benedetto, standing, kept his eyes closed. He opened them when
the priest reappeared. When he had passed out through the suspicious
door, the Pope made a sign with his hand, and Benedetto spoke in a low
voice. The Pontiff listened, grasping the arms of his chair, his body
bent forward, his head bowed.
“Holy Father,” Benedetto said, “the Church is diseased. Four evil
spirits have entered into her body, to wage war against the Holy
Spirit. One is the spirit of falsehood. And the spirit of falsehood
has transformed itself into an angel of light, and many shepherds, many
teachers in the Church, many pious and virtuous ones among the faithful,
listen devoutly to this spirit of falsehood, believing they are
listening to an angel. Christ said: ‘I am the Truth.’ But many in the
Church, even good and pious souls, separate truth in their hearts, have
no reverence for that truth which they do not call ‘religious,’ fear
that truth will destroy truth; they oppose God to God, prefer darkness
to light, and thus also do they train men. They call themselves the
faithful, and do not understand how weak, how cowardly is their faith,
how foreign to them is the spirit of the apostle, which probes all
things. Worshippers of the letter, they wish to force grown men to exist
upon a diet fit for infants, which diet grown men refuse. They do
not understand that though God be infinite and unchangeable, man’s
conception, of Him grows ever grander from century to century, and that
the same may be said of all Divine Truth. They are responsible for a
fatal perversion of the Faith which corrupts the entire religious life;
for the Christian, who by an effort, has bent his will to accept what
they accept, to refuse what they refuse, believes he has accomplished
the greatest thing in God’s service, whereas he has I accomplished less
than nothing, and it remains for him to live his faith in the word
of Christ, in the teachings of Christ; it remains for him to live the
_‘fiat voluntas tua’_ which is everything. Holy Father, to-day few
Christians know that religion does not consist chiefly in the clinging
of the intellect to formulas of truth, but rather in actions, and a
manner of life in conformity with this truth, and that the fulfilment
of negative religious duties, and the recognition of obligations towards
the ecclesiastical authority, do not alone correspond to true Faith. And
those who know this, those who do not separate truth in their hearts,
those who worship the God of truth, who are on fire with a fearless
faith in Christ, in the Church and in truth--I know such men, Holy
Father--those are striven against with acrimony, are branded as
heretics, are forced to remain silent, and all this is the work of
the spirit of falsehood, which for centuries has been weaving, in the
Church, a web of traditional deceit, by means of which those who to-day
are its servants believe they are serving God, as did those who first
persecuted the Christians. Your Holiness--”
Here Benedetto sank upon one knee. The Pope did not move. His head
seemed to have drooped still lower. The white skull-cap was almost
entirely within the radius of the little lamp.